William Bell - Fanatics

“Go ahead.”

I recited the words spoken by the torture victim in my dream.

And the professor laughed.

“I guess I didn’t say it very well,” I said, disappointed.

“Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. What you said is taken from two very well-known works. Well, if you’re Catholic and know Latin, that is. The part beginning with Credo is from a statement of belief, the Nicene Creed. It goes, ‘I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth.’ And so on. Want me to repeat that?”

“I’m writing it down. Go on.”

“The second bit is a prayer. ‘Out of the depths I have cried to thee, oh Lord. Lord hear my voice.’ It’s from the Psalms and has been widely recited since medieval times.”

“Oh.”

“I believe it was Oscar Wilde who wrote a book while in prison. He titled it De Profundis , or ‘From the Depths.’ ”

“Prison, you said?”

“That’s right. They locked Oscar up for being gay. It was against the law in those days. What a world, eh? Anything else I can do for you?”

“No. This is great,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Any time, Garnet. My best to your parents.”

And he was gone.

With swelling excitement I opened my laptop and brought up the page of words I had copied from the medal and the professor’s old copy of Compendium Revelationem . My eyes darted back and forth between the computer screen and the scribbles I had made during the phone call.

The man in my dream was the man on the medal and his name was Hieronymus.

One of the names on the Compendium was Hieronymus. Northrop had said that Bonaccorsi was probably the publisher. So Hieronymus was probably the author.

I had the names of two cities in Italy, Ferrara and Firenze, or Florence. How they fit the puzzle was anybody’s guess.

I sat back and stretched. Puzzles. Conundrums. Riddles. Enigmas. Fun? Sometimes, but not this time. Frustrating? Definitely. Dangerous? I looked around. Maybe. Probably.

My gaze was drawn to the alcove. “Well, Professor Eduardo Corbizzi,” I said out loud, “maybe I should ask you.”

I crossed the room and took his Savonarolan Theocracy from the shelf and carried it to one of the comfy leather club chairs in front of the hearth and the new mantel. Wondering what “savonarolan” meant, I began to read. The first chapter took me to Renaissance Florence. After half an hour or so of dry academic paragraphs I sat back and stared at the ceiling, the book open on my lap.

It couldn’t be this easy, I thought.

Savonarola. A surname. First name, Girolamo. Born and educated in Ferrara. Lived and preached in Florence. A Dominican monk and a priest. A writer and renowned orator. One of his most famous books was Compendium Revelationem , in which he recounted visions of the future he claimed were revealed to him by God.

He was the subject of Professor Corbizzi’s book.

His name, Girolamo, meant Hieronymus in Latin and Jerome in English.

He was the face on the medal, the author of the “Collection of Revelations,” the subject of Professor Corbizzi’s book, and the tortured prisoner in my dream. And according to Professor Eduardo Corbizzi, he was a fanatic.

I CALLED RAPHAELLA to fill her in on my discoveries and deductions. She didn’t answer her cell, so I left her a message. “I’ve been detecting some more. And delving deeply. Call you later.”

With the new information spinning around in my head, I left the library behind and went to the shop. Working at my trade always took my mind off other things-a welcome relief at that point. I had too many new bits of information and a host of questions spinning in my mind.

Outside, the air had cooled and slate-coloured cloud had rolled in. I flicked the shop lights on, then, wearing apron, gloves, and mask, opened a can of primer. I flipped the table upside down onto a bench and brushed primer onto the underside and legs. A gentle drizzle misted the window, and before I had finished the table a punishing downpour had set in. As I was cleaning up, my cell rang. Raphaella, I hoped.

“Shall I assume you will remain for the night once again, Mr. Havelock? The weather is terrible and the forecast indicates that it will continue until past midnight.”

I looked at the rain beating against the window. “Thanks, Mrs. Stoppini. That sounds like a good idea.”

“Aperitifs will be served in exactly forty-four minutes.”

AFTER A DINNER of grilled lamb chops with roast potato, carrot, and fennel I went back to the shop under an umbrella hammered by rain and sat down at a bench with a carpenter’s pencil, ruler, and graph paper. I scribbled calculations and drafted plans for about twenty minutes. Then I turned on the band saw.

Two hours later I wheeled my invention into the library. It was a chest-high stand, like a flat-topped lectern, on wheels. I placed my laptop on it, powered it up, pushed the lectern to the reference section behind the escritoire, and launched Raphaella’s database. As a trial run I noted a few book titles and authors-mostly editors of reference books-then shut down the computer again. The lectern would be handy for cataloguing books when I was on my own. I could work right next to the shelves.

I dropped into the chair by the library windows and phoned Raphaella.

“It’s your lover,” I said.

“No way. My lover left the house five minutes ago.”

“Hah.”

“So you’ve been delving.”

“Yup.” I described my research, pausing after I had connected the medal and the antique book. She was silent.

“You didn’t say, ‘Hmm,’ ” I pointed out.

“Curious. The man who wrote the book is the man whose face is on the medal is the man who is tortured in your nightmare. Why are you dreaming about him? What does he want from you?”

“I wish I knew. I’ll bet he’s mentioned in Professor Corbizzi’s manuscript.”

“We need to read it.”

“And we’ll have to learn more about this Friar Savonarola guy.”

“Want to flip a coin?” Raphaella asked.

“No,” I replied, my eyes trained on the alcove. “I want the whole story. You take the manuscript.”

“Good.”

“Are you coming out tomorrow?”

“I can probably make it for a few hours in the morning. I’ll call you.”

I LEFT THE LIBRARY and returned to the shop to collect my duffle bag of clothes and toiletries, my phone charger, and my book. I locked up the coach house and secured the deadbolt on the kitchen door, then made my way up the staircase, which always reminded me of a suspense movie. On my way to my room, I heard Mrs. Stoppini calling me. I turned on my heel and approached her open door and knocked on the frame.

“Do come in, Mr. Havelock.”

Mrs. Stoppini’s suite consisted of a good-sized bedroom, which I glimpsed through an open door, and a small sitting room with two upholstered chairs arranged in front of a fireplace. One wall of the sitting room was a large open bookshelf bursting at the seams. There was also a small desk and a cabinet. Mrs. Stoppini occupied one of the chairs, and a wine bottle with two glasses sat on the table beside her. She wore a silk dressing gown-not black, but almost-and dark slippers. It was the first time I had seen her in anything but her black outfit. She held a thick book in one hand, a finger between the pages.