The response to Tiberius’ announcement was shocked silence. Merry gaped and Stoker’s brows drew together in a forbidding line whilst the countess stared in wide-eyed astonishment. Augusta’s sangfroid did not desert her. It was a point of honour for some ladies to appear unruffled at any provocation, and she did not fail to rise to the challenge. She merely looked serenely at Tiberius and waited for him to continue, while Pietro flushed angrily. The Greshams exchanged puzzled glances. Only Sir James made a noise—a grunt of annoyance.
“I told you last night this was in bad taste,” he began.
Augusta turned to her husband. “Last night?”
Sir James waved her off. “Nothing to trouble you with, my dear. Tiberius has a bee in his bonnet is all.” He turned to Tiberius with a meaningful look. “I told you, this is rubbish, and far beneath your dignity as a gentleman.”
Beatrice cut in sharply. “I don’t understand, Tiberius. What are you talking about?”
Tiberius did not look directly at her as he spoke but slowly swept his gaze around the table. “Twenty years ago, we enjoyed a house partyvery like this one. Some of the faces were different,” he said with a glance at me. “But most of you were here. Most of you knew Lorenzo d’Ambrogio and you remember his tragic end.”
He paused and Elspeth shook her head. “But you saidmurder.What did you mean by that?”
Timothy made a quelling gesture to quieten her, but Tiberius replied.
“I meant, Elspeth, that someone does not believe Lorenzo’s death was an accident,” he said pleasantly. “That someone is clearly in pursuit of vengeance, and has begun murdering the ones they hold responsible.” He paused and looked around the table. “Us.”
“But, my friend, your own father was the—what is the word for the English official?” Pietro turned questioning eyes to the rest of the table.
“Magistrate?” I suggested.
“Sì.The magistrate,” he said, labouring to pronounce the syllables distinctly. “It was the late Lord Templeton-Vane who decided it was an accident, and of course it must be so.”
“Pietro, my father, like all aristocrats, had a habit of bending justice to his will. The verdict returned was the one he insisted upon. He was involved in covering up the true cause of Lorenzo’s death.”
“Murder.” On Elspeth Gresham’s lips the word became a thrilled whisper.
“Murder,” Tiberius said, inclining his head.
“For god’s sake,” Stoker muttered. I understood his annoyance. Tiberius’ intention was clear: to set the cat amongst the pigeons by introducing the notion that Lorenzo had been murdered to the entire party, but it was a thoroughly foolish stratagem. Almost as foolish as inviting a houseful of prospective murderers to stay, I reflected. But I had encouraged the idea, and I ought to have remembered that Tiberius was very much his own man and would always do precisely as he pleased.
Augusta was pale but composed, the trembling of her earrings theonly sign that she was upset. Beatrice’s complexion had gone spectrally white, and the men seemed to be struggling with various states of outrage, anger, disbelief, and horror.
Tiberius went on. “I showed these to the gentlemen last night, but I think we do an injustice to the ladies not to include them in our discussion. You see, it isn’t just Lorenzo’s possible murder that concerns us. It is the recent deaths of Kaspar von Hochstaden and Alexandre du Plessis.”
Augusta turned in obvious puzzlement. “Kaspar? Alexandre? You mean the others who were here that summer?”
“Indeed,” Tiberius confirmed. “Both of them dead within the last few months, and—I have reason to believe—by the hand of Lorenzo’s avenger.”
Shocked silence reigned for a moment until Tiberius produced the infamous cuttings from his breast pocket. He opened them and handed each to Sir James with a motion that he should pass them around the table. Sir James flung them aside, lips working furiously in silence as Tiberius continued to speak. “Benedict Tyrell’s death, occurring as it did, many years ago and under tragic circumstances, does not concern us. His end was unfortunate, but incontrovertibly the result of his missionary activities. We need consider him no more. However, these are obituaries for Alexandre and Kaspar. Please observe the annotations in the margin. It is apparent that although Alexandre and Kaspar appeared to have died from natural causes, they were both, in fact, murdered. And the assassin wishes me to be the next.”
The cuttings made their way around the table. Having studied them at length in Bavaria, Stoker and I merely handed them on. Merry looked thoroughly distressed and could scarcely bring himself to touch them, while Timothy Gresham seemed to take a bit too much interest in handling the pages. His colour rose and his rabbity little nose twitched in anticipation of some new drama. Elspeth seemed morecomposed, although she hurried through the reading, while Augusta studied the cuttings with care, murmuring a low imprecation. Beatrice’s expression was one of horror, although I caught a flash of what may have been something sharper—interest? Excitement even? It was not pleasant to think that anyone could view the situation as intriguing, but it was easy to imagine Beatrice holding court at a dinner party in some grand Manhattan mansion, relating the entire affair to an enthralled audience. It would indeed make for scandalously good conversation, I realised, so long as one did not know the victims.
But her husband showed more delicacy. Pietro read the pages slowly, twice, before placing them carefully onto the table, his expression thoughtful.
Pietro spoke. “So you invited us here to warn us?”
“Something like that,” Tiberius said with a grim smile. “After all, if I am next, then it follows that the rest of you are in peril as well. And forewarned is forearmed. You see, my friends, I did not invite you here to celebrate the memory of those we have lost. I invited you to discover once and for all who murdered Lorenzo d’Ambrogio.”
Edwin Booth could not have managed a more dramatic delivery. Tiberius stood, elegant and exquisitely groomed, in the middle of that enormous beast, the rib cage forming gleaming red walls around us, the entire scene lit by the guttering glow of candles. If anyone had captured the image in a photograph, it would have looked like Lucifer himself had taken to entertaining.
And the expression on his face would have done justice to that fierce and princely fallen angel. He was angry, righteously so, and he did not scorn to show it.
Sir James guffawed in obvious disbelief as Augusta pursed her lips, clearly feeling the entire evening in poor taste. Beatrice said nothing, but her hand had gone to her mouth and she kept her eyes fixed upon her plate. Elspeth shook her head in silent denial.
The others were not so circumspect. Merry, clearly overcome by the pure drama of the moment, burst out laughing. Gresham began a lengthy oration on the evils of wicked talk, while the count began declaiming vehemently in Italian. Stoker and I exchanged glances. Clearly Tiberius believed his approach was the best, but it would have been helpful if he had at least given a warning that he meant to toss a bomb into the proceedings.
Tiberius held up his hands. “Be quiet. Timothy, it is not idle gossip but reasonable conjecture based upon the facts. Pietro, you would do well to remember that we have slander laws here in England. And, Merryweather, if you do not cease thatnoisethis instant, I will have Stoker sew your lips together and I cannot think it will take much persuading.”
