“Because of Father?” Stoker suggested. “It was his land, after all.”
“And he blocked the way to the cliffs, posted notices forbidding anyone from going there,” I replied.
Stoker’s smile was cynical. “Think of the twenty-year-old men you have known, Veronica. Forbidding them from doing something is utterly pointless. One might as well issue a formal invitation.”
I turned to Tiberius. “Was Lorenzo like that? Bullheaded and impetuous, like most young men?”
Stoker protested. “I never said—”
“Hush, my dear. Tiberius is thinking.”
Stoker subsided into glowering silence as Tiberius considered my question. “No,” he said finally. “He wouldn’t have gone out to see the fossil simply because it was forbidden. But he could be quite stubborn if he believed he was in the right.”
“Again, his own fault,” I pressed. “Not yours or anyone else’s.”
“And yet I cannot escape the conviction that somehow his death is on my conscience,” Tiberius said simply. “I have, for the better part of twenty years, pushed it aside. But no more.”
I did not blame Tiberius for failing to examine his own misgivings about Lorenzo’s death. I knew myself how easy it was to put unpleasant things firmly to the back of one’s mind, locking them away and living only in the moment.
Stoker’s thoughts must have been much the same, for he gave me a quick, sharp look as we waited for Tiberius to continue.
“As I say, the rest of us, the remaining six, have never been in the same room together since. It was as though losing Lorenzo meant the magic of our friendship was lost as well.”
“Lorenzo d’Ambrogio, Kaspar von Hochstaden, and Alexandre du Plessis are dead,” I said, nodding towards the cuttings on the table. “You are here. That leaves three unaccounted for.”
“Two,” Tiberius corrected. “Benedict Tyrell died a decade back on one of his interminable missionary expeditions. He was attempting to convert the local folk of some island or other, and they took exception to it. Decided to make an example of him.”
“One can rather see their point,” Stoker put in.
“Quite,” I agreed. I objected to missionary work on general principles. My philosophy was that any god who required the help of priggish sermonisers to spread his message was rather less than omnificent.
“Yes, well, having sat through more than one of Benedict’s interminable lectures, I can only say that I would have happily sharpened the arrows,” Tiberius added.
“And there is no question that his death was due to his missionary activities?” I enquired.
“None whatsoever,” Tiberius assured me. “He travelled with a number of unimpeachable witnesses, also missionaries. Benedict was the only one murdered, no doubt to send a message that a hospitable welcome would not be in the offing. The others fled and gave the same account—an attack by the local peoples in order to drive the Englishmen away.”
“Effective,” Stoker mused. “Kill one and leave the others alive to spread the word that such efforts would not be met with any cordiality.”
“Indeed,” Tiberius replied.
“And there is no chance at all he was secretly spirited away? Perhaps, if he felt haunted by the matter of Lorenzo’s death, he might have arranged an escape whilst a coffin was buried under his name?”
I dared not look at Stoker as I posed this question. Given our most recent adventure, it cut far too near the bone.[*]
Tiberius shook his head. “I see I have been too courteous. Let me be explicit. He engaged in extremely offensive behaviour amongst people whose penalty for such infractions is death. And afterwards, he was consumed. As I say, in front of witnesses. With special utensils.”
“Come to think of it,” Stoker said, “I believe we have a particularly nice example of a cannibal fork somewhere in the Belvedere.”
“A tale for another time,” I said firmly. The matter of Benedict Tyrell’s death being settled, I guided the brothers back to the subject of the Sinners. “So, subtracting Benedict Tyrell from the remaining Sinners, there are, as you say, two besides yourself, Tiberius. And their whereabouts are a mystery?”
“Not at all,” Tiberius said smoothly. “I know where they are and how to contact them. In fact, I have already done so.”
“You did what?” Stoker demanded.
“I have made overtures to the other survivors,” Tiberius said with a mocking smile. “Pietro Salviati, now a count, having succeeded to his father’s title, resides in New York with his American contessa, Beatrice. James MacIver—Sir James now, fourteenth baronet of that line—is a prominent MP and divides his time between London and his family seat in Glen Lyon in Scotland. His wife, the redoubtable Augusta, is a prominent society hostess, always raising large sums of money to be given away to the deserving poor and holding dinner parties for fascinating people.”
“That is extremely specific information,” Stoker observed. “You have done more than simply make overtures.”
