I wrote to Baldini thanking him for his assistance and reassuring him that Grenville was well, to be delivered to him whenever he returned from Trevisan’s errand. I wondered what Trevisan was having him do, but I made no mention of my curiosity in the letter. I left the note with the landlord as we set off on horseback once more.
We kept the pace slow to accommodate Brewster, and later that afternoon we reached Napoli and Grenville’s comfortable, rented house.
While I had enjoyed our scramble over Pompeii and Herculaneum, I was happy to dine in the dim coolness of the Neapolitan abode. Gautier entered the dining room as Grenville and I lingered over wine, the entire meal served competently by Matthias, who encouraged the tale of our adventures.
“A letter for you, sir.” Gautier addressed me, not Grenville.
“Oh?” My brows went up. My first thought was that something had happened to any and all members of my family, but Gautier’s expression was wooden, disapproving. Even the stiff Gautier had sympathy in him when he conveyed unwelcome news.
“From Rome, sir. From Lord Matthew Roberts. It arrived the morning after you left for the ruins.”
Lord Matthew, Grenville’s ex-patriate friend. More puzzling. “He wrote tome?”
“Yes, sir.” Gautier seemed relieved I’d finally grasped the situation. He handed me a thick sheet of paper, folded and sealed.
Mystified, I broke the seal and opened the note. As I read the words, written in a slanting hand, my jaw went slack.
“What is it?” Grenville asked in alarm.
“The conte is dead.” I said the words stiffly, my lips barely able to move.
“Trevisan?” Grenville stared in as much shock. “Good Lord.”
“No.” I shoved the letter at him. “Not Trevisan. Conte de Luca. He’s been murdered.”
Chapter12
Iknew you were interested in one of his pieces, and you ought to know that he is dead,” Grenville read. “The police pronounced it murder. I am afraid access to his collection is now restricted.” Grenville dropped the paper to the table, his eyes filled with foreboding but also some disgust. “Roberts has always been a bit of a cold fish, no matter how he behaves outwardly. He’s informing you not because we befriended Conte de Luca and would be sorry for his death, but because you might not be able to purchase the statue.”
My heart was heavy as I accepted more wine that Matthias quickly poured. I had liked de Luca, with his friendly bonhomie, and I’d looked forward to introducing him to Donata.
“I will have to write to Denis,” I said bleakly.
“Your pardon if I sound callous, but I imagine Mr. Denis already knows,” Grenville said. “His agents are everywhere. He might even know who killed the man and has already taken steps to show his disapprobation.”
Denis’s disapprobation was dire indeed. “Was de Luca robbed?” I asked.
Lord Matthew’s letter had not indicated this—I was wondering out loud. A killer would find plenty to steal at his home. I also wondered if his murder had anything to do with the statue Denis wanted.
“Speculating will only distress me,” I said. “We must to Rome.”
“We are going there anyway,” Grenville reminded me. “Will you linger in Rome to find out what happened?”
I wanted to. I also thought of my wife, wandering the villa’s garden, counting on my return.
“No,” I said resolutely. “De Luca’s death likely has nothing to do with Denis or the statue. Rome is a dangerous place, and de Luca’s home had many valuable pieces of art in it.” I thought of the monstrance, a marvel in gold. “A robbery gone wrong it must be.”
“Very likely. Poor fellow.”
“Yes.”
I did not like to think on it. I had planned to approach de Luca about the statue again and enjoy his company. Now I would not have the chance, and I grew morose.
The rest of our evening was spent preparing for the journey. I wrote letters to my family, telling Donata of de Luca’s abrupt death. To Gabriella, I gave a lighthearted version of Grenville’s mishap and rescue by the Stanbridges, omitting any reference to his struggle with a would-be killer. To Peter, I sketched the outlines of what I’d seen in Pompeii and told him of Baldini’s speculations that the flat area surrounded by columns had been the gladiators’ training grounds.
In spite of how much I’d enjoyed this sojourn, we were a somber party that entered the carriage to return to Rome.
The journey was uneventful. No earthquakes, and no one attempting to waylay us. Our assailant was mercifully absent, but I wondered very much when he’d turn up again.
