The Grand Tour Read online

  “Sir Hilary may have proposed it, but I don’t think he was behind it,” James said. “Remember the letter Lady Sylvia’s friends found.”

  “I was getting to that,” I said. “Sir Hilary was after us—but those highwaymen stole the chrism. So Sir Hilary’s mysterious friend, the wizard who assisted him with the ambush, must have been trying to get hold of the chrism.”

  “You think Mountjoy is Mother’s X?” Thomas said thoughtfully. “An interesting idea. I said his excuse for being in Calais was too unexceptionable.”

  “You didn’t say it very loudly,” James put in. Thomas ignored him pointedly.

  “I don’t see how it can have been Lord Mountjoy,” Kate said. “Those highwaymen came from Paris, and he was still in Calais. With Piers asking him things.”

  “He was, but Eve-Marie wasn’t,” I said. “If Mountjoy was the thief, she must have known him. She got Piers out of the way for him, after all. Mountjoy could have sent her off to Paris with instructions for the highwaymen as soon as he realized he couldn’t steal the chrism from Lady Sylvia. Eve-Marie would have had plenty of time to get there while we were in Amiens visiting temples and bishops and so on. But it doesn’t explain why Sir Hilary was killed.”

  “Hold on a minute,” James said. “We know that Sir Hilary wanted revenge on us, but he could have been after the chrism as well.”

  “Someone would still have had to tell him we had it,” I pointed out. “And that is most likely to have been Eve-Marie. Unless you think the Lady in Blue would have gone straight to Paris to let him know.”

  “The highwaymen didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular,” Kate objected. “They were taking everything.” She glanced at Thomas. “It might have been a sort of accident that they stole the chrism.”

  “It seems most unlikely,” I said. “And after what happened to Mr. Strangle, I don’t believe that Sir Hilary’s demise was merely a falling-out among thieves, either.”

  “But what does Strangle have to do with the chrism?” James said.

  “That’s just the trouble,” I said. “Mr. Strangle and Theodore don’t seem to have anything at all to do with the chrism and the rest of the missing regalia. It was quite by accident that we ran into them in Amiens.”

  “At that temple your father suggested visiting,” James said.

  Kate’s eyes widened. “Cecy! All those places!”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Wait.” She practically flew out of the room, and returned a few moments later carrying her commonplace book. “The Temple of Minerva … Victrix, in Amiens,” she read. “Sainte Chapelle on the Île de la Cité in Paris. The Etruscan crypts at the Hospice of the Great Saint Bernard.” She looked up triumphantly. “All the places we’ve run across Mr. Daventer and Mr. Strangle—they’re all on your father’s list of antiquities to visit. I remembered because I copied it into my book a few days ago. I had spilt soup on the page your Papa gave me, and it was becoming illegible.”

  “Becoming?” Thomas murmured.

  “Good heavens,” I said. “But what could Papa have to do with Theodore and Mr. Strangle and Lord Mountjoy?”

  “I doubt that he has anything to do with them,” James said. “But I think you might write and ask him where he found his list of antiquities to recommend, Cecy.”

  “And what else is on it?” Thomas asked.

  Kate consulted her book. “A great many places we haven’t seen,” she said. “Though I suppose Mr. Strangle and Theodore may have visited some of them; indeed, I think it likely. The royal crypts at St. Denis, the Mithraeum at Villefranche, the—”

  “Yes, but what comes next?”

  “Oh.” Kate frowned. “There are some Roman ruins in Westphalia, and a great many shrines and things in the north of Italy. There are dozens of places around Rome, of course.” She looked up apologetically. “I am afraid I could not read all of them. And there’s the Royal something in V-something. Venice, or Vienna, I think.”

  “Too many different possibilities. It’s a pity we don’t know where Strangle intended to take his charge from here,” Thomas said. “It might be very informative.”

  “And it might not,” James said. “This is all very interesting, but as Cecy said, Strangle and young Daventer don’t seem to have any connection to the missing regalia. Which is what we are supposed to be looking into, if you recall.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “And the reason the Duke of Wellington asked us to look into it is because being on our wedding journey gives us a marvelous reason to go anywhere we wish. And shepherding one’s charge about the Continent on the Grand Tour is an equally marvelous excuse for that, don’t you think?”

  “That is true,” James agreed with some reluctance. “But if so—”

  “If so, these peculiar rituals that Mr. Strangle has been doing must have some connection with the missing regalia,” I said. “I wonder if that’s what Theodore meant when he spoke of ‘practical applications’ at that bookstore in Paris?”

  “That, on the other hand, is leaping to a conclusion with a vengeance.”

  “Maybe,” Thomas said. “I’m inclined to side with Cecy in this, however. If only because I doubt that whoever disposed of Strangle was merely concerned about the Daventer boy’s morals.”

  “Theodore seemed to think his uncle dismissed Mr. Strangle for talking out of turn,” I said. “If so, the obvious question is, who was he talking to? And just how much did he give away?”

  “He was talking to the Contessa di Capodoro at the garden party,” Kate commented.

  “So he was,” James said. “Just before we accosted him.”

  “And Eve-Marie showed up at the Conte’s exhibit just after we saw it,” I said. “Perhaps Mr. Strangle was trying to get information about the exhibit from the Contessa and let something slip.”

  Thomas frowned. “I believe I shall pay a visit to the Conte di Monti,” he said. “Express my concern about this, er, unfortunate turn of events. I’m sure he’ll understand my desire to be reassured that I don’t have to spirit my wife straight back to England for safety’s sake.”

  “You wouldn’t!” I said.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” James said. “You can’t visit the Conte, Thomas. The man may be a bit woolly-headed, but he won’t have forgotten that you and Strangle had a run-in at the garden party. If you show up asking questions, you’ll have every authority in Milan down around our ears. I’ll go.”

  “And I think Kate and I will send a card to the Contessa di Capodoro,” I said. “We can invite her to tea. As an appreciation of her husband’s generous donation. You’d better sign it, Kate; ‘Lady Schofield’ sounds so much more impressive than plain ‘Mrs. Tarleton.’ ”

  “All right,” Kate said. “If you insist.”

  Thomas, having been thwarted in his desire to interrogate the Conte (for he had to admit the force of James’s arguments), instead set himself to finding out who else Mr. Strangle might have spoken to indiscreetly during his time in Milan. James returned from the Conte with the expected reassurances and the surprising news that Mr. Strangle had indeed been invited to the garden party; his name had been on the special guest list of people the Conte di Capodoro particularly wished to be invited (in addition to the Conte di Monti’s choice of guests). Applying his considerable address, James succeeded in seeing the list, and informed us that Mr. Strangle’s name appeared to have been added to the end, in another hand.

  This left us very little further along than we had been. For though we knew that someone had wanted Mr. Strangle at the garden party, we had no idea who or why. Thomas determined that Mr. Strangle had arrived very shortly before us, and, of course, he left immediately following our confrontation, so he had not had time to talk to many people. Indeed, the only person we knew him to have spoken with was the one we had seen ourselves, the Contessa di Capodoro. Kate and I were therefore exceedingly pleased when the Contessa accepted our invitation to tea quite promptly.

  “So very Eng
lish a custom,” she said in a soft voice, studying the tea tray.

  “Will you have milk or sugar?” Kate asked somewhat reluctantly. It had not occurred to either of us until the last minute that, as both Lady Schofield and the hostess, she would have to pour. This was a mixed blessing; on the one hand, it meant that she had not had time to work herself into a state over the potential for accidents and social embarrassments, but on the other, it also meant that she had had no time to practice.

  “No, thank you,” the Contessa replied.

  Kate handed her a cup with evident relief, and poured for herself and me without mishap. We settled back in our chairs to sip and nibble and make polite remarks. The first few minutes passed in unexceptionable comments about the beauty of the city. When Kate mentioned how much she had enjoyed the performances at La Scala, it developed that the Contessa was likewise a devotee of the opera. The Contessa’s shyness evaporated as they compared various performances; indeed, for a time it appeared that the purpose of our meeting would be totally forgotten. Kate was at something of a disadvantage, as we had not been in Milan long enough for her to see many different operas, but the Contessa graciously conceded that one’s first visit to La Scala must be memorable, no matter the quality of the performance.

  “And the present opera is very good,” she added. “Now, when I first came to Milan, Salieri’s Armida was playing.” She shuddered expressively. “And yet, it was La Scala, and so I treasure the memory.”

  “How long have you been in Milan?” I asked, hoping to turn the subject.

  “Some seven years,” the Contessa replied. After a moment, she added quietly, “It is my husband’s home.”

  “And where is yours?” Kate asked with ready sympathy.

  “Rome,” the Contessa answered. “Or it was. Now my home must be here.” She sighed. “At least there is La Scala.”

  “Does your husband share your enthusiasm for the opera?” I asked. “Or is he entirely taken up with antiquities?”

  “The latter, I am afraid,” the Contessa said with a little smile. “He is sometimes … very concentrated. We travel a good deal, always to places where he hopes to find more of his Etruscan things. He speaks of Vienna soon.”

  “Vienna?” I said. “I thought the Etruscans lived around Rome.”

  The Contessa looked at me in surprise. “You know of the Etruscans?”

  “My Papa is an antiquarian,” I said. “He is quite… quite passionate about it at times. One cannot help but pick up a few things.”

  The Contessa laughed. “He sounds a twin to my husband. I am not sure why he hopes to visit Vienna; some new theory that he has recently learned of, I think. We have been many other places that were even less likely—Spain, Prussia, France.”

  Kate and I exchanged glances; I think we were both mentally comparing the Contessa’s list of destinations with the Duke of Wellington’s list of missing royal antiquities. “It must be pleasant to travel so much,” I said. “I have never been outside England before, and I must own, I am vastly enjoying the experience.”

  “It would be more pleasant if it were not always in such a hurry,” the Contessa confided, making a little face. “I think my husband is trying to make up for lost time. He was so busy, when Bonaparte was in France, and he did not have time for antiquities then. Now, it is all different.”

  “Was he in the army?” I asked.

  “No, no,” the Contessa said, shaking her head. “He would never have fought against Napoleon. Never! No, he was trying to prevent the Austrians from coming. It is a pity he did not succeed.”

  “Forgive me, Madame, if I have misunderstood,” I said. “But are you saying that your husband worked for Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  “Ah, you are English,” the Contessa said with considerable vigor. “You do not understand how it was. Italy was in many little pieces before Bonaparte—as it is once again now that he is gone. The Emperor was a … a believer in unity. He was good for Italia.”

  I was unsure how best to respond without provoking an argument, especially when it seemed to me that very few of the other Italians we had met agreed with this position, but Kate nodded sympathetically. “If your husband was unable to pursue his interest in the Etruscans while Napoleon was in power, it was even more generous of him to donate his collection to the city,” she said.

  “He is very proud of his home,” the Contessa said. “And … I think he hopes for some new and more dramatic finds soon. It is not so hard to let go of things of lesser value when one has the prospect of gaining those of greater worth.”

  “More dramatic?” I said. “That would be quite an achievement. Kate and I visited the collection a few days ago, and I found it very impressive. Though I suppose if he does find Etruscan ruins in Vienna …”

  “He does not discuss it with me, you understand,” the Contessa said earnestly. “But it is as you say: ‘One cannot help but pick up a few things.’ And I believe he has just such hopes. I beg you will not discuss it. It would be so embarrassing for him if he is wrong.”

  “You may rely on our discretion,” I said.

  “I believe it,” the Contessa said. “But let us talk of something else. How long are you in Milan?”

  “Thomas speaks of leaving soon,” Kate said. “I don’t believe he has decided where we will go next.”

  “You are leaving? You have hardly arrived!”

  “The Marquis was most concerned about the recent news,” I said. “You must have heard—an Englishman found dead in a fountain! My husband was nearly as worried; he talked of returning to England at once.”

  “I had heard of this; indeed, it would be difficult not to,” the Contessa said. “The city is full of talk of it. But surely your husbands do not think it is common for Englishmen to drown themselves in our fountains! If it were an ordinary thing, it would not be so much talked of, you see.”

  “That seems a most sensible way of looking at it,” Kate said, cocking her head as if she were much struck by the Contessa’s words. “I must remember to mention it to Thomas.”

  “Besides, the Englishman who was found was a… a most unpleasant person.” The Contessa ducked her head. “I should not say it, perhaps. But he … he spoke with me once, at a garden party, and I found him most distasteful.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?” the Contessa said.

  “You actually talked with this person?” Kate put in. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing that I wish to repeat,” the Contessa replied, looking down. “He assumed—He was far too hasty, even if—”

  “I understand,” Kate said sympathetically. “I met him once, some time ago, in England.”

  “Then surely you can prevail upon your husband to remain in Milan!” the Contessa said. “It would be a shame for you to go so soon, when we have only just met.”

  “I thought you and your husband would be leaving for Vienna soon,” I said.

  The Contessa looked up, plainly startled. “Yes, I—It is not yet certain.”

  “Well, we have not determined to leave yet, either,” Kate said. “And if we do, perhaps we could arrange to meet in Vienna.”

  The Contessa brightened. “I had not thought of that! Yes, that would be very pleasant.”

  She and Kate discussed the matter from several angles, and then returned to talk of opera until the tea went quite cold. At last the Contessa departed, with much cordiality on every side. Her carriage had hardly rolled away from the door when James and Thomas pounced on us.

  “Well?” Thomas demanded. “What did he say?”

  “Who?” Kate asked, widening her eyes innocently.

  “You know perfectly well who,” Thomas said. “Strangle.”

  “Nothing to the purpose,” I said. “Only what we might have expected him to say to a pretty woman.”

  James frowned at the windows, in the direction the Contessa’s carriage had taken. “That’s a little odd. She doesn’t seem like Strangle’s usual fare. Too
petite, and shy into the bargain.”

  “And if Strangle was in league with the Conte to steal all those royal antiquities, it would be the outside of enough for him to try to seduce the Conte’s wife,” I said.

  Everyone turned to look at me. “Oh!” said Kate. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.”

  “Why?” Thomas said. “What other important information have you neglected to mention that leads the pair of you to this rather startling conclusion?”

  “The rest of the Contessa’s remarks,” I said, and summarized it quickly for them.

  “So the Conte’s a Bonapartist,” Thomas said thoughtfully when I finished.

  “I think the travel itinerary is more indicative,” James replied. “Especially if he’s using Etruscans as an excuse. Only a complete cloth-head would look for Etruscans in Spain.”

  “But what ought we to do?” Kate said. “Shouldn’t we stop him somehow?”

  This time, everyone looked at her. She frowned at us. “Well, Mr. Brummell said, that very first night, that Vienna was the last place that Lady Sylvia ought to take the chrism. And if the Conte has it, and he is going to Vienna next—”

  “We shall have to do something about him,” I finished.

  “Venice,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, that might do,” James replied. “And if we set it about that we’re taking ship for Greece next—”

  “A ship?” I said. “You cannot mean to take a ship from Venice to Greece. I refuse. I’m not setting foot on a boat again until I’ve made a focus and had it long enough to be positive I won’t be afflicted with that seasickness again.”

  “I don’t think they mean for us actually to go to Greece,” Kate said. “Only to say that we are, so that the Conte doesn’t worry that we’re following him.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

  James and Thomas left to begin making arrangements. Kate stayed where she was, frowning slightly. “Cecy, are you planning on creating a focus soon?”

  “I’ve been planning on creating a focus for some time now,” I said a little crossly, for I was beginning to think I would never have the opportunity.