‘Did you intend, at that point, to marry a future Viceroy, Lucy? Supper dances at Simla in the Viceregal lodge, that sort of thing?’ said Powerscourt in his most serious voice.
‘I don’t think a future Viceroy was much in my thoughts at that point, Francis. Rather a dashing young Captain in the Black Watch.’
‘And was your grandfather pleased with your efforts?’ asked Powerscourt, rubbing slowly at the bruise on his knee.
‘He was,’ said Lady Lucy happily. ‘He said he wouldn’t like to be a tiger or a rebellious native trying to take me by surprise.’
There was a sudden rush of footsteps to their table.
‘Lord Powerscourt, Lady Powerscourt.’ Captain Imperiali cast his eyes up and down Lady Lucy. ‘I have just heard the terrible news about what happened this afternoon. It was all a terrible mistake. I have come to apologize for the behaviour of my fellow Corsicans.’
The Captain pulled a chair from the neighbouring table and deposited his ample frame upon it.
‘In what way was it a mistake?’ said Powerscourt. Some mistake indeed, shots pursuing them down the mountainside, rifles waiting for them in the open stretches of the road. He felt sure that Imperiali knew more than he would say. Perhaps he had instigated it himself.
‘It is a tradition,’ said Imperiali, smiling at Lady Lucy as he spoke, ‘a tradition in the village of San Antonino. Perhaps we have too many traditions here in Corsica. They call it the Traitor’s Run. Over a hundred and fifty years ago, Lady Powerscourt, there was war in the Balagne, the French against the Genovese. San Antonino and the other places up there were with the Genovese. Calvi was always loyal to Genoa. But up in San Antonino a young man betrayed the village to the French. For money, you understand. So the people of San Antonino take him and his fiancee out on to the road down to the coast. ‘Go and find your French friends down there,’ they say, kicking them both on the start of their journey. Then they followed them down the mountain. The young men of San Antonino let the traitors almost reach the bottom so they think they are safe. Then they kill them. Their bodies are cut up into pieces and left for the wolves.’
‘What a horrible story,’ said Lady Lucy, avoiding Captain Imperiali’s eye.
‘This is what is important, Lord Powerscourt.’ Imperiali was leaning forward, his hand fingering his unlit cheroot. ‘Every year since then, the young men of San Antonino replay this event. That is why it is called the Traitor’s Run. A young man is drawn by lot from the people of the village. He has to persuade a young woman to accompany him. The anniversary is today, my lord. Today is the day for the Traitor’s Run. You were not the only people running down the mountainside. Perluigi Cassani and Maria Cosenza from San Antonino were also running down. The young men think you are the traitors. So they shoot. But they never intend to kill. Always they shoot at the running persons on the day of Traitor’s Run. But in over a hundred years nobody has been hit or killed. It is like a game, even though it is more serious than a game. Nobody intended to kill you this afternoon. It was a case of the mistaken identity. You were quite safe.’
Captain Imperiali paused to light his cheroot. ‘On behalf of the people of Calvi, on behalf of the people of Corsica, may I apologize most seriously,’ he said.
‘We are most grateful for your apology,’ said Powerscourt. He wondered if Lady Lucy’s book on Corsica made any mention of a Traitor’s Run. It was certainly a good story. He wasn’t yet sure if he believed it.
‘May I have the pleasure of taking you both to dinner in Calvi’s finest restaurant?’ the Captain went on. ‘The lobster there is superb. And they specialize in wild boar, a great delicacy in these parts.’
Powerscourt thanked him for his offer, but said they were both tired and would prefer to remain in their hotel. Maybe another day.
‘Do you know when you are going to leave the island, Lord Powerscourt?’
Powerscourt said they had no plans to leave for the present. Captain Imperiali bowed to them both and departed, the smell of his cheroot still lingering in the air.
‘Well, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘did you believe a word of it?’
‘What a revolting man he is,’ said Lady Lucy firmly, ‘the way he looks at you is quite appalling. Did I believe it? I think I probably did – I’m sure anybody we ask here in the next few days will all swear it’s true. It’s not the sort of thing that would be in the guidebooks. It might put people off.’
‘There is a boat to Marseilles first thing in the morning,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’ve booked two passages in the name of Fitzgerald. Do you like the thought of becoming Lady Fitzgerald, Lucy?’
‘Very much,’ Lady Lucy replied. ‘But I must ask you one question. When you aimed at those people on the hill this afternoon, were you intending to hit them?’
‘Of course I was,’ said Powerscourt, ‘weren’t you?’
‘I most certainly was not,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘I was aiming about ten feet away from them and praying that I wouldn’t hit anyone at all.’
‘Why ever not?’ said Powerscourt, draining his glass of Corsican white wine.
‘Oh Francis, can’t you see? Suppose we had killed one of them. That would have been the start of a vendetta. Our lives, the children’s lives, would all be at risk to the Corsicans’ terrible passion for revenge. I don’t think I could have slept safely ever again. They’d have followed us all the way to London.’
Powerscourt was lost in thought. Corsicans in London. Corsican killers in London. Corsicans who garrotted their enemies.
William Alaric Piper was pacing nervously up and down the street outside his gallery. He was waiting for Lewis B. Black, the taciturn American millionaire whose silences unnerved him to the point of illness. Piper resolved to say as little as possible, though he doubted if he could bear a prolonged period of silence.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Piper,’ said Lewis B. Black, shaking him by the hand, ‘fine weather we are having this morning.’
This was the longest single speech Piper had ever heard from the taciturn millionaire. Maybe London was beginning to have an effect on him.
‘If you would like to come with me, Mr Black,’ said Piper, leading the way up the stairs past his gallery to the holy of holies on the second floor, ‘I think I have a painting that might interest you.’
Piper opened the door and turned on the lights. There on the easel sat a Joshua Reynolds, Clarissa, Lady Lanchester, perched on a seat in an imaginary landscape with a glorious sunset behind her. She was wearing a cream dress. Her small hands were folded in her lap. And on her head was a hat of the most expensive and exquisite feathers the London milliners of the late eighteenth century could provide. But the face was not from the eighteenth century. Of course it had been painted to look like an eighteenth-century face. But the face that stared back at Lewis B. Black bore an uncanny resemblance to Mildred, also known as Mrs Lewis B. Black of New York City. It had been copied from the page of the magazine Edmund de Courcy had stolen from the Beaufort Club.
Lewis B. Black rubbed his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. He took three paces to the left, then three paces to the right. He went so close that his nose was almost touching the canvas.
‘This for sale?’ he said finally.
‘Yes,’ said Piper. He didn’t think the delaying tactics he had used on McCracken would work with Black. The man might simply disappear.
‘Fifteen thousand,’ said Black, putting his hand in his pocket as if to check he had that much cash about his person.
‘Pounds or dollars?’ said Piper.
‘Dollars,’ said Lewis B. Black.
‘Pounds,’ said Piper. His mental arithmetic was not strong – de Courcy looked after the accounts – but he knew that a pound was worth a lot more than a dollar.
‘Dollars,’ said Black again.
‘Pounds,’ repeated Piper.
‘Dollars,’ repeated Black. Piper thought Black might go on like this all day.