The important thing about the ghost was that I had recognized, not its animator, but its face. Those stylized bones and sculptured cheekbones were unmistakable.
I was reminded of something my father had said once, when in my younger and more supercilious days I had complained that my college courses weren’t relevant to modern life. ‘Relevant?’ he had bellowed, with the snort he used when he was particularly exasperated. ‘How the hell do you know what is going to be relevant?’ He was right – though I would probably never tell him so. An art history course should be just about as esoteric and unrelated to the stresses of modern life as anything could be, but it had already proved useful to me in several life-and-death situations. This evening it had helped again.
The skull face was Aztec – a mask like the ones worn by priests of that macabre theology, in which skulls, skeletons, and flayed human skins played a large part. The Aztecs made skulls out of all sorts of material; sometimes they covered real bone with shell and turquoise mosaic. In a museum in London there was a small crystal skull carved by a long-dead master. The one I had seen tonight had been modelled on that one, though it was much larger, and I was willing to bet it wasn’t made of rock crystal. It was one of the little old goldsmith’s creations, and a super job. Somehow I felt sure that the workshop where that skull had been made wasn’t far away.
Chapter Seven
FIRST THING NEXT morning I went to Helena’s room. She had insisted that one of the maids sit up with her, and the poor girl was glad to be relieved. I started investigating the suitcases. Helena woke up while I was doing it.
‘Shut up,’ I said, when she complained. ‘Do you want the police after you? Pietro might let you get away with the brooch, but he won’t stand for this.’ I held up a T’ang figurine of a horse, which she had lifted from the drawing room. I wondered how she had known its value.
‘I was angry,’ she muttered. ‘Do you blame me?’
‘Not for being angry. I do blame you for being stupid. For God’s sake, no wonder this suitcase was so heavy!’
The weight had come from a solid silver candelabrum, almost three feet high.
I stood up, dusting my hands ostentatiously.
‘You put this stuff back,’ I ordered. ‘If you still want to leave, I’ll help you. But you can’t take all this along.’
She hadn’t removed her makeup the night before. It looked awful in the cold light of day, all smeared and streaked by the bedclothes. She blinked sticky lashes at me.
‘I am staying. He cannot cast me off.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of the ghost?’ I inquired.
‘You are not.’
‘No, but I wish I knew who . . .’ Helena had pulled the sheet up to her chin, but there was a gleam in those shallow dark eyes of hers that made me demand, ‘Helena, do you know who it was?’
‘No.’
‘And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me. That’s what I get for trying to be nice. Get up out of that bed and put your loot back, or I’ll tell Pietro myself.’
When I got down to the breakfast room I was surprised to see Pietro seated at the table gobbling eggs. He greeted me with a cry of pleasure.
‘You’re up early,’ I said.
Pietro handed his empty plate to the footman, who refilled it, and looked inquiringly at me.
‘Caffè,’ I said. ‘Just coffee, please.’
‘I have much to do today,’ Pietro explained. ‘We were so early to bed last night . . .’
He hesitated, looking warily at me.
‘You weren’t feeling well,’ I said. ‘I hope you are better this morning.’
‘My old war wound,’ Pietro said, sighing.
I wondered how much he remembered of what had happened the previous night. I didn’t wonder about the war wound; it was as apocryphal as a lot of other things about my charming host.
‘Your wound must be a sore trial to you,’ I said, watching with awe as Pietro devoured his ham and eggs and then accepted a bowl of cereal. He was international in his food tastes – Italian dinners, English breakfasts. In that way he got the absolute maximum of calories.
‘Yes, I must keep up my strength,’ said Pietro. ‘I have business today – business and pleasure. My old friend, the Principessa Concini, comes today. She will stay to dine, but first we have business to transact. A publication she is preparing, about my collections. Perhaps you will be able to advise us.’
‘I will be honoured.’
‘Sir John will also help. That is why he is here, to assist in arranging the collections.’
‘How long have you known Sir John?’ I asked casually.
‘Not long. But he comes most highly recommended. However . . .’ Pietro put down the sausage he had been munching and looked at me soberly. ‘However, I do not completely trust him.’
‘Why?’ I asked, breathlessly.
‘No, I do not trust him. You are a young lady guest in my house; I feel I must warn you.’
‘Please do.’
Pietro leaned towards me and lowered his voice.
‘I fear he is not altogether honourable in his dealings with women.’
‘Oh,’ I said, deflated.
‘Yes.’ Pietro nodded portentously. ‘Yes, I have reasons to suspect this. A man of my experience . . . Be on your guard, my dear Vicky. Not that you would be susceptible. I cannot imagine that any women would find him attractive, but my observation tells me otherwise.’
The door behind Pietro opened noiselessly. I caught a glimpse of blond hair, at a level that strongly suggested the owner was bending over with his ear to the door.
‘Oh, Mr Smythe has a certain crude charm,’ I said. ‘Some unsophisticated women, with no taste and limited experience, might be temporarily attracted to him.’
The door closed rather sharply. Pietro turned his head.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing important,’ I said. I pushed my coffee cup away and stood up. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk. Your gardens are so beautiful.’
‘You should see them at night, when they are illuminated. They are bright as day. We will have the illumination tonight, perhaps.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Yes, we will stroll among the blossoms and the gentle fountains in the summer night,’ said Pietro, looking as soulful as a little fat man can look. ‘Wait for your walk until then, when I can accompany you and point out beauties in hidden corners that you might otherwise miss.’
‘I’ll just take a short stroll now,’ I said. ‘It won’t spoil the beauties you can point out to me, I’m sure.’
I left him wheezing with amusement at my sly wit.
Smythe joined me as I walked across the terrace.
‘Beautiful day,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Oh, are you my watchdog today?’ I inquired. ‘Yes, I do mind. Lurking in the shrubbery suits you better.’
Smythe fell into step with me.
‘Of course you could run,’ he said. ‘Then I would run after you. We’d look pretty silly, wouldn’t we, pelting along the cypress avenues?’
We walked on in a silence that I hoped was repressive. It didn’t repress Smythe for long.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Oh, everywhere . . . anywhere. I haven’t explored half the grounds yet.’
‘You won’t find it.’
‘What?’
‘Whatever it is you are looking for.’
‘What do you want to bet?’ I inquired. We entered the courtyard next to the garage. The Rolls was out, being washed by two men with hoses and buckets. One of them was Bruno.
I hadn’t realized how big he was. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, baring arms like muscled tree trunks. He looked up and saw me and his heavy brows drew together in a scowl. He went on rubbing the fender of the car with a sponge.