“Vaguely guilty,” Kaz corrected me.
“Even more interesting,” I said. “He couldn’t even fully admit it to himself. I have a feeling it wouldn’t take much to push our Mr. Brackett over the edge.”
“I think he is as worn and frayed as his suit,” Kaz said. “It would be interesting to pull some threads and see what lies underneath.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Gentlemen, follow me please,” John May said. He’d returned with two new plain, black overcoats. They weren’t as nice as his, but he didn’t strike me as the vow-of-poverty type. He led us out of the Governatorato and into the gardens. Even in winter, the grounds were stunning. Thick green grass, evergreens, broad-leaved plants and palms created a sense of warmth and peace. The dome of Saint Peter’s drifted above the landscape, like the moon on a summer night. We passed a plain two-story house, set within the lawns like a small jewel, so odd in its everyday simplicity. A wiry, gray-haired man with a thick mustache leaned on his rake and nodded a greeting to May.
“Buongiorno, Pietro,” May said in response. “The Vatican gardener. Excuse me, I must have a word with him.”
Kaz and I admired the gardens as May talked with Pietro. The smell of fresh manure drifted up from the flowerbeds. Palm trees rustled their fronds in the light breeze. Eight hundred days is a long time, but this beat any slammer I’d ever had to cool my heels in.
“Pietro is a lucky man,” Kaz said. “He lives in beauty that he tends with his own hands, and may leave when he wishes.”
“And he has a beautiful wife,” I said, watching as the curtains parted on the top floor, just below the orange-tiled roof. Lace gave way to a cascade of dark hair, large brown eyes, and translucent skin. She saw us looking, and hastily snapped the curtains shut.
“Or daughter,” Kaz said, smiling. “I may return to ask him how he keeps the bougainvillea in bloom.”
“Beware the farmer’s daughter,” I said, and noticed the quizzical look on Kaz’s face. I’d have to explain that one to him later.
Pietro reached into a wheelbarrow and gave May a burlap sack. May glanced around before slipping his hand in his pocket and then shaking hands with Pietro as he took his leave.
“Fine fellow, Pietro. He has a cousin with a farm in Cerqueto, brings in the manure for the gardens,” May said.
“That’s not what you have in the bag, is it?” I said, sniffing the air.
“Hardly,” May said. “There’s a false bottom in the manure cart. The Germans don’t bother an old farmer with a cart full of ripe cow droppings, so it’s an excellent way to bring food in. A fine cut of lamb today, with potatoes, carrots, and a pecorino cheese.”
“Why all the bother?” I asked. “The train we came in on was full of food.”
“Three boxcars of supplies won’t last a week here. There are thousands dependent on the Holy See to feed them. Everything has to be brought in-water, electricity, food, and fuel. The only natural resource here is prayer, and that does little to fill the belly. The food brought in by train is basic stuff, and Sir D’Arcy requires a level of dining to befit his status here.”
“So you deal in the black market,” Kaz said.
“Please, such a horrid term. I prefer to think of it as cutting out the middleman. It’s much more efficient to purchase food directly from the farmer who cultivates it, don’t you think?”
“That sounds reasonable,” Kaz said. “Pietro and his wife must enjoy the fresh food from his cousin, no doubt.”
“His wife died last year. He keeps to himself these days. He has some laborers who work in the gardens, but they don’t live here. He’s a nice chap, but shy, likes to be left alone. His cousin provides for us quite nicely. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as Kaz and I exchanged raised eyebrows, both of us thinking that Pietro had good reason to value his privacy.
“You will be dining with Sir D’Arcy tonight,” May said, as we left the gardens behind and approached a long, narrow building, three stories high, taking up a full city block. “Stay close to me, we’re going inside. Don’t worry about the Germans.”
Before I could tell him I always worried about the Germans, May was chatting with one of the Vatican police guarding a side entrance. They shook hands, and I noticed the gendarme stuffing a pack of cigarettes into his pocket before opening the door and ushering us through.
“What exactly is it that you do for the British ambassador?” Kaz asked, clearly impressed.
“I am Sir D’Arcy’s butler,” May said, as if it should be obvious.
“Of course,” Kaz said, his continental background kicking in. He was a baron, after all. “That explains everything except why it was you who met the train.”
“All things in good time, gentlemen,” May said, opening the door to a wide passageway. “No English for a while, if you please.”
We stepped into the corridor, the vaulted ceilings glittering with gold leaf and brightly painted decorations. Closer to the ground, the colors were more gray-green, as German soldiers strolled past us, studying the frescoes that lined the walls. Maps. They were all maps of the Mediterranean. Italy, Sicily, North Africa. Medieval maps, but they showed the same lands and seaways we were fighting over. Not for the first time, I saw.
I brushed past two Germans pointing at a map of Sicily, surrounded by cobalt-blue waters and ships of the line in full sail. Their fingers traced lines in the air, and I understood they were talking about their days in Sicily, charting their withdrawal across the Strait of Messina. Had we shot at each other? Had I killed some of their pals, or they mine? For the moment they were tourists, unarmed, off duty. I had a strange desire to join them, to move my finger along the coast, into the interior, and see if our lines intersected.
“Padre, bitte?” One of them said, holding up a camera in that universal request to have a photograph taken. I nodded, trying for serene. The two of them posed in front of the Sicily fresco, arms around each other’s shoulders. I took the picture, hoping one of them might show his grandchildren this snapshot one day.
May shot me a look and I caught up with him. I didn’t see any reason to worry within these walls, especially not from a couple of privates gawking at the artwork. We left the museum building and walked along a roadway, passing a round tower that looked like it belonged on a castle. May took us under an arch in a narrow wall, and then we were there.
Saint Peter’s Square. Magnificent colonnades circled the piazza, with a view of the Tiber River one way and the facade of Saint Peter’s Basilica the other. Between them, a white line was painted on the stones, marking the border between the neutral Vatican and occupied Rome. German paratroopers guarded the line, their eyes searching those who approached. These guys were not off duty. Helmeted and heavily armed, they stopped and questioned several people approaching the square, eventually letting them all through. I noticed that people strolled out easily; it was those who wanted to enter who came under scrutiny.
“I thought you might want to see the scene of the crime,” May said. “As well as be cautioned not to get too close to the line. I wouldn’t put it past the Jerries to snatch a fellow if he came within arm’s reach.”
“All right, take us to Death’s Door,” I said, feeling a bit melodramatic as I said it.
The portico was gleaming white marble, the floor inlaid with the crests of Popes who had the clout to get the top billing. The central three doors were bronze, flanked by two plain oak doors, the Door of Death on the far left side.
“He was found here,” May said. “On the top step at the base of the door. The Swiss Guard who came across him at first thought he was an escaped POW or refugee sleeping under the cover of the portico. When he got close enough, he saw the cassock. And the blood.”
“Was the weapon found?”
“No. Soletto had the trash cans searched, but nothing was discovered. He was certain he had his man, so the search was halfhearted.”