"Possible. But the fact that he has no alibi for either night, in my view, is actually a strike in his favor. Besides, what's Bullard's motivation? Why kill Grove and Cutforth? And why make it look like the devil?"
"He's got a macabre sense of humor."
"On the contrary, the man appears to have absolutely no sense of humor at all, apart from a kind of gangsterish schadenfreude. Somebody playing a mere joke would not take such a dangerous risk."
"He wants to send a message, then."
"Yes, but to whom? For what purpose?"
"I don't know. If it isn't Bullard, it might be some fundamentalist nutcase who wants to bring back the Inquisition. Somebody who thinks he's doing God's work."
"A second possibility."
There was a short silence. Then Pendergast added, "Vincent, you haven't mentioned the other possibility."
D'Agosta felt his gut tighten. Pendergast wasn't serious-was he? He found himself unconsciously fingering his cross.
"Where's Bullard now?" Pendergast asked.
"He left on his yacht this morning, heading to the open ocean."
"Any idea where?"
"Looks like Europe. At least he's heading east, at full speed. Better than full speed, in fact-the yacht must have a specially modified power plant. In any case, Hayward's got someone on it. We'll know where and when he lands-unless he evades customs and immigration, which seems improbable with a yacht like that."
"The admirable Hayward. Is she still upset?"
"You could say that."
Pendergast smiled thinly.
"So what's your theory?" D'Agosta asked.
"I am doing my best not to have a theory."
D'Agosta heard the crunching of tires on gravel, the slamming of doors, the distant chatter of voices. He glanced back across the meadows and spotted the new arrivaclass="underline" a long, old-fashioned limousine, its top down. A huge wicker basket was lashed across the rumble seat with leather straps.
"Who's this?" D'Agosta asked.
"Another guest," Pendergast said simply.
Now someone came around the side of the car: an enormous figure, grossly out of proportion to its surroundings but moving with a remarkable fluidity and ease. It was Fosco, who, it seemed, had somehow made the transition from witness to acquaintance.
D'Agosta looked over. "What's he doing here?"
"It seems he is in possession of some information of great value that he's most eager to pass on. And since he's expressed an interest in viewing what passes for antiquity here in America, I thought I'd invite him to Ravenscry. I owed him a return for an interesting night at the opera."
The figure came striding swiftly down the path, waving his arm in greeting long before he arrived.
"Marvelous place!" boomed the count, rubbing his white-gloved hands together. He bowed to Pendergast, then turned to D'Agosta. "The good sergeant. D'Agosta, is it not? Always pleased to make the acquaintance of a fellow Italian. How do you do?"
"Fine, thanks." D'Agosta hadn't liked the man and his flamboyant ways at the memorial service, and he liked him even less now.
"And this is my ward, Constance Greene," said Pendergast.
"Your ward, you say? I am delighted." Fosco bowed and brought her hand almost, but not quite, to his lips.
Constance inclined her head in acknowledgment. "I see you and Mr. Pendergast share an interest in exotic automobiles."
"Indeed we do; that and much more. Mr. Pendergast and I have become friends ." He beamed. "We are very different in some ways. I am a lover of music and he is not. I am a lover of fine clothes, and he dresses like an undertaker. I am voluble and open, he is silent and closed. I am direct, he is diffident. But we do share a love of art, literature, fine food, wine, and culture-as well as a fascination with these dreadful and inexplicable crimes." He peered at Constance, smiled again.
"Crimes are interesting only when they are inexplicable. Unfortunately, few remain so."
"Unfortunately?"
"I was speaking from an aesthetic point of view."
The count turned to Pendergast. "This young lady is exceptional."
"And what is your interest in the case, Count, besides mere fascination?" Constance asked.
"I wish to help."
"Count Fosco has already been helpful," said Pendergast.
"And, as you shall see, I will be more helpful still! But first I must tell you how enchanted I am with this estate. Your great-aunt's, did you say? So picturesque! Falling into ruin and neglect, mysterious, haunted. It reminds me of Piranesi's engraving Veduta degli Avanzi delle Terme di Tito , the Ruins of the Baths of Titus. I much prefer a building in neglect and ruin-much of my own castello in Tuscany is in a delightful state of dilapidation."
D'Agosta wondered what the castle of a count looked like.
"As promised, I brought lunch," the count boomed. "Pinketts!" He clapped his hands and his driver, who was about as English as they come, unstrapped the huge wicker trunk and hefted it down the path, then proceeded to arrange a linen tablecloth, bottles of wine, cheeses, prosciutto, salami, silverware, and glasses on a stone table beneath the shade of an enormous copper beech.
"This is kind of you, Count," said Pendergast.
"Yes, I am kind, especially when you see the Villa Calcinaia '97 Chianti Classico Riserva I've brought, made by my neighbor, the good count Capponi. But I have something else for you. Something even better than wine, caviar, and fois gras. If such a thing is possible." The black eyes in his smooth, handsome face sparkled with pleasure.
"And that is?"
"In good time, in good time." The count began arranging, with fussy attention, the things on the table, uncorking and decanting a bottle of red wine, letting the anticipation build. At last, he turned with a conspiratorial grin. "By chance, I have made a discovery of the first importance." He turned to D'Agosta. "Does the name Ranier Beckmann mean anything to you, Sergeant?"
"We found that name on Bullard's computer. The guy he was trying to locate."
The count nodded as if he'd known it all along. "And?"
"Bullard had done an Internet search for a Ranier Beckmann, without success. Grove also seems to have been looking for Beckmann. But we don't know why."
"I was at a luncheon party yesterday and was seated beside Lady Milbanke. She told me-between frequent displays of her new necklace-that a few days before Jeremy Grove was murdered, he had asked if she could recommend a private detective. Turned out she could-scandalous people often can. I then went to this gentleman myself and soon pried from him the fact that Grove hired him . to find a certain Ranier Beckmann ."
He paused dramatically. "Grove was in a panic to find this man. When the detective asked him for details, he could provide none at all. None. The detective stopped his investigation when he heard of Grove's death."
"Interesting," D'Agosta said.
"It would be interesting to see if the name Beckmann turned up among Cutforth's effects, as well," Pendergast said.
D'Agosta removed his cell, dialed Hayward's direct line.
"Hayward here," came the cool voice.
"It's Sergeant D'Agosta. Vinnie. Have your people finished inventorying Cutforth's apartment?"
"Yes."
"The name Ranier Beckmann turn up, by any chance?"
"As a matter of fact, it did." D'Agosta heard a rustling of paper. "We found a notebook with his name written on the first page, in Cutforth's hand."
"The rest of the notebook?"
"Blank."
"Thanks." D'Agosta closed the phone and related what he'd heard.
Pendergast's face tensed with excitement. "This is precisely the thread we've been looking for. Grove, Cutforth, Bullard. Why were all three looking for Beckmann? Perhaps we should find this Beckmann and see what he has to tell us."