Page 34 of Bloodlines and Birthright

I looked to Miss Wheeler for support, but she didn’t need to utter a word for me to realize she thought it a good idea to follow the men.

She removed a pouch from her pocket. I’d seen it before, in Edinburgh, and knew it contained chalk dust. “They won’t see us,” she assured me before she too entered the alley.

I followed and was just in time to see her remove one of her gloves, throw the dust in the air and whisper her spell. The chalk drifted in the light breeze before seeming to dissipate. Miss Wheeler could sense it, however, and strode with purpose down the sloping alley. She didn’t even stop to check on the welfare of the shoemaker.

I assisted the elderly fellow to his feet. Despite coming off second best, he showed no signs of distress over the confrontation. He shook his fist and barked a few words at the retreating attackers. I only understood one: anarchici. Anarchists.

The shoemaker’s wife indicated I should help her husband inside then wouldn’t let me leave until I took payment in the form of a biscuit that tasted like almonds and lemon. When I finally stepped back into the alley, Oscar, Miss Wheeler and the trio they were following were nowhere in sight.

I would have to wait for them at the hotel, after all.

I headed down the alley then onto the busier thoroughfare of Monteoro’s main street, running parallel to the foreshore. Tourists were enjoying refreshments at one of the coffee houses with a view across the water, while others chatted amiably about their evening plans as they ambled. Such plans might be put on hold if the dark clouds crossed the lake.

I’d only walked a few steps when I spotted one of the trio of anarchists. Despite having only seen him very briefly, I was certain it was the third man, neither De Angelis nor his thuggish friend from the boatshed. His black and white shoes were out of place. I hadn’t seen any gentleman wearing footwear of any color other than all black since leaving Milan. Somewhat incongruously, he was purchasing a gelato from a wheeled cart with a green and cream striped awning keeping the sun off the icebox. There was no sight of his comrades or of Oscar and Miss Wheeler.

The man paid for his gelato then leaned against a nearby lamp post and ate it from the porcelain cup with a spoon. He looked as though he didn’t have a care in the world, but he also didn’t look as though he belonged there. It wasn’t just his fashionable shoes. His boater sported a scarlet hatband, matching the silk waistcoat. The sunlight shone off the pearl head of his cravat pin and a gold ring. He was alone, whereas most of the tourists were in couples or groups.

The more I studied him, a vague sense of familiarity grew stronger. I couldn’t place him, however, which annoyed me. Oscar was always going on about my excellent memory and quick mind, yet here was a fellow dressed rather distinctively, and I couldn’t recall where I’d seen him.

My frustration was the only reasonable explanation for why I threw caution to the wind and followed him.

With his gelato finished, he handed back the cup to the seller and walked off. I remained several paces behind but kept him in my sights. He did not look back as he strolled through the village, cutting a fine figure as he peered at displays in shop windows along the main street. If I hadn’t seen him with De Angelis and the other thuggish looking anarchist, I would have pegged him as a well-to-do visitor from the city, perhaps with his own summer villa nearby.

When he continued out of Monteoro along the promenade to Villa Corzoni, that impression grew stronger. If I’d not met Signore Scala, I would have thought this man was he. Perhaps he was Scala’s very good friend, as Brother Eduardo had put it. He fit the monk’s description of young, dark haired and handsome. Why was Scala’s lover meeting anarchists in the back alley of Monteoro? It was quite the betrayal.

Just when I’d decided he must be Scala’s lover, the man continued past the main entrance to Villa Corzoni. He took a narrow unpaved road that skirted the estate wall until the wall itself dropped in height, allowing a view of the lush private garden beyond. The air felt cooler, damper, and the breeze that had grown stronger as we walked was blocked by the dense vegetation, although the leaves of the taller trees rustled overhead, whispering to one another. Or so my guilty conscience imagined.

Up ahead, my quarry whistled. I stayed well back, but he didn’t turn around. At one point, the sound of voices up ahead had me plunging into the bushes beside the road. I watched through the shrubbery as two men dressed in laborers’ overalls passed the man. Neither acknowledged him and he didn’t acknowledge them. Once they’d gone a few steps beyond him, however, they looked back over their shoulders. If they recognized him, I couldn’t tell.

Once they disappeared from sight, I emerged from my hiding place and continued on. As with all the roads away from the lakeshore, it wound upwards, albeit at a gentler slope than the roads out of Monteoro and Pecco. After a few more bends, the vegetation thinned, and I realized we were behind the villa. The gravel drive led through an unguarded entrance, down to the outbuildings. Beyond them was a line of trees through which I caught glimpses of the pale jewel of the villa. Beyond that, the dark surface of the lake rippled with the strong breeze.

I followed the man along the drive, ducking behind another bush as two women dressed in housemaid uniforms hurried past. As with the other men who’d passed earlier, they didn’t acknowledge my quarry, nor he them. He must be known to them, however, because they didn’t try to stop him.

The man entered the villa using a service door tucked away at the rear, further confusing me. If he were Signore Scala’s very good friend, he would surely enter via the front. Why take the long road that skirted the entire property and come all the way around the back? Perhaps he was a local supplier, not Scala’s lover, and had business with the majordomo.

I sat with my back to a tree where I could still see the villa but was out of sight of the driveway. I would wait a little longer to see if the man re-emerged.

I awoke to a clap of thunder. A fat raindrop landed on my cheek with a splat. It was quickly followed by another and another. I leapt to my feet and, seeing no one around, hurried back the way I’d come.

The air felt much cooler and my neck ached. I checked my watch. Four o’clock! I’d slept for hours. The dark clouds had moved across the lake and now blocked out the sun, making it feel like dusk had come early. Suddenly, no longer able to hold their heavy load, they released the rain. It fell in torrential sheets.

I ran, although there was no point. I was thoroughly drenched by the time I reached the village. It would seem I was the only fool to have been caught out by the storm. Everyone else had seen it approaching across the lake and retreated indoors. The main street was deserted. Shops and restaurants stood empty.

The hotel foyer was busy, however, as guests waited out the weather. I self-consciously trudged across the tiles, feeling very silly for leaving behind wet patches with every step.

“Gavin!” Oscar sprang up from one of the armchairs. “Where have you been? You’re soaked.”

“It is raining.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm. I’ve been worried about you.”

“Because I got caught in the rain?”

“Because you’ve been gone for hours. The concierge said you never returned to the hotel. I thought you went for a walk, but when the weather turned, I thought something might have happened to you. It’s unlike you to be out and about in a storm.”

It was rather nice to have someone worry about me. Not since I was a child had anyone made a fuss over my safety. It proved Oscar cared. Or perhaps it simply proved that I never gave anyone cause for concern until now.

“There you are, Professor,” said Miss Wheeler, joining us.