Under a Gilded Moon(33)
In the midst of the scaffolding, Moncrief suddenly appeared, holding a platter of hors d’oeuvres in one hand and a tray with flutes of champagne in the other. He looked like the lady holding the scales of justice—if the lady’s face had been flushed and freckled, and without the blindfold. Lilli laughed aloud, and had to stifle it into a cough.
“Astrakhan caviar,” the footman gushed. “With toast points. And Pommery Sec champagne. All the very best of the best, it is. Good gear comes in small bulk, we’d say back home.”
At his elbow, Mrs. Smythe blanched, whispering acidly, “Without the commentary about the bevvies next time.”
“More than ten thousand volumes,” Emily was announcing. “That’s what it will hold when it’s finished—and thousands more elsewhere. Is that right, George? He’s had most of them rebound to match in their literary series and groups. Things like that matter to George.” Emily added this last comment as if there were something deeply peculiar about it. Though endearing.
He seemed to take no offense. And turned to touch the spine of several books—intimately, as if they were old friends.
Lilli tried on her best look of ecstatic and awed. But this much unmoving, unspeaking paper and ink was making her feel constricted. As if someone had hauled on the strings of her corset and blocked her exit to the outdoors.
“Emily has often mentioned,” she managed, a little nauseous, “what a well-read man you are, with ex . . . with expansive tastes.” She’d nearly said expensive. Which was also true. Just not something one said aloud. “How noble to create a monument to the books you cherish.”
Their host tilted his head, considering. “Although monument would imply a static memorializing. Whereas books, once read, become fully a part of us.”
Emily shot a sympathetic look at Lilli, whose arrow had clearly missed not just the bull’s-eye but the whole target this time.
Lilli moved to inspect the carved black marble fireplace. The others pressed forward into the library’s center to study the painting on the ceiling.
“The Chariot of Aurora,” their host was saying, “by Pellegrini. It’s actually thirteen separate canvases, although as you see here, only a few have been install—”
The library door burst open.
“Forgive me, Mr. Vanderbilt.” The man at the threshold stood, breathing hard. His riding boots were covered in mud, leaves sticking to their sides.
Outside the door, the shadow of a second man shifted.
Vanderbilt addressed his guests. “Some of you met my estate manager, Mr. McNamee, yesterday.” He turned back to the newcomer. “Come in, Charles.”
McNamee hurried forward—oblivious to the mud he was tracking.
“I wouldn’t ordinarily have barged in like this, but I’ve an issue with an intruder who came onto the estate looking for work.”
“Much as I’d like to hire every last able-bodied man in the mountains . . .”
“Forgive me, but this one, a Marco Bergamini, carries with him . . .” McNamee reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small rectangular card, creased and badly stained. Lilli could spot an embellished V at its top.
She stepped to where she could peer back toward the tapestry gallery. A man stood there, broad shouldered, dark tumble of hair, square chin, not recently shaved. An olive cast to the skin. As the man glanced up, she realized with a start that she’d met him. The bandit from the forest who’d grabbed for her horse.
Behind her, McNamee was explaining, “I’d have had him hauled off except that he insisted you’d given him this yourself with an offer of a job. While you were in Italy, he insists.”
“The name Marco Bergamini does not sound familiar.”
“Then I will promptly—”
“But there’s no denying my card.” Vanderbilt peered down the tapestry gallery at the man, then smiled. “Or the story he tells. The Pensione DiGiacomo. The young Italian who added his own lines to a working sketch of the house, then chased down our cab to give us the drawing he’d thought we’d left by mistake. Extraordinary. That was years ago.”
“Ah. Well. So then he was—”
“Telling the truth. Yes, indeed.”
“I would caution, however, that we know little of him. He has a much younger brother with him. They’ve been in Pennsylvania cutting for stone.”
Madison Grant stepped forward. “As the investigation proceeds into the recent murder at the train station, I would offer that this intruder would appear to be—”
“One of the suspects,” Cabot finished for him. “Although there’s been no more evidence to point this man’s direction than there is for . . . others of us.” His gaze, pointed and hard, jabbed at Grant. “Who might do anything to preserve a reputation.”
John Cabot surely didn’t mean to imply Madison Grant ought to be considered a suspect.
One side of Grant’s mouth lifted, but his eyes narrowed. “Innocent until proven guilty, of course. This sort of . . . brutality could come from most anywhere.”
Cabot winced at the stress on that one word.
“Although,” Grant continued, “let’s not pretend that some categories of people aren’t more prone to criminality than others.”
McNamee cleared his throat. “As to the tragedy, I happen to know that the sheriff took Mr. Bergamini in for questioning early this morning. I can tell you he’s either an excellent actor, which is quite possible, or he was genuinely shocked to learn there was a death at the station. Whether or not the authorities consider him a serious suspect at this point, I couldn’t say.”