William Bell - Fanatics

Aware that I was pressing my luck, I made my way toward the place off to the side of the cabin where the chewed-up ground indicated they parked their ATVs. It was empty. Or so I thought at first glance. Streaked with dried mud that blended perfectly with its camo finish, one ATV stood nose-in to the trees. And I could just barely make out the little licence plate. I took a picture of the machine, zoomed in, and captured the plate. I pocketed my cell.

And froze when I heard the sound of water striking dry leaves.

I held my breath, scanned the trees around the ATV for movement. I finally saw it. Sparkling with captured sunlight, a stream of water arched from the leafy ground to the camo trousers of a figure standing near the ATV, legs splayed, hands at his crotch. A two-way radio hung from his belt. Little wires connected his ears to the lump in his shirt pocket, and his head bobbed as he played the stream of water back and forth on the ground.

“Can you write your name in the dirt?” I almost shouted. If this character was the camo-boys’ idea of a sentry I figured I didn’t have much to worry about. But then I remembered the chase a few days before, when I could taste my fear at the back of my throat. I began to retrace my steps, stopping every few metres to look back and listen. When I was fairly sure I’d gotten away unnoticed I walked more confidently, sweeping the forest with my eyes as I walked as silently as I could. The sentry’s presence proved the paintballers were out and about, and I couldn’t let down my guard.

Time to boogie.

SOMETIMES I WONDERED if Mrs. Stoppini ever left her kitchen for anything other than writing letters or sleeping. When I got back to the mansion, she was making fettuccini noodles.

“Mrs. Stoppini, I need to have an important conversation with you,” I announced as soon as I had come in the door.

She turned and regarded me with a mixture of severity and curiosity.

“Indeed? And what is it about?”

“I guess it’s about my job here. And our contract.”

She searched my face for a moment, her dark brows forming a V, her mouth pursed, and seemed to come to a decision. Brushing flour from her hands and pulling her apron strings, she replied, “If this is to be a business meeting, perhaps we should hold it in the parlour. I shall join you presently.”

I walked through to the formally furnished parlour and dropped into an armchair. Sheer curtains on the north window muted the light, making the room feel cool, although a thermometer might say otherwise. There were paintings on the walls-landscapes with rolling hills, stone villas, and spear-like cypresses pinning the earth to clear blue skies.

I psyched myself up for my task. I had confidently persuaded Raphaella that I should do this on my own, but now I didn’t feel so sure. The stork-like Mrs. Stoppini could be intimidating at times. Because I wasn’t sure how much she knew, I was worried about upsetting her. I might blunder into territory that was none of my business, or trample on her grief.

She glided into the room with a silver tray holding a bottle of clear liquid and two small stemmed glasses. For a split second she reminded me of the spectre, the way her dark form seemed to cover ground without touching it.

“We shall talk over a glass of grappa,” she said in her don’t-contradict-me tone, setting down the tray and pouring from the bottle. “It was the late professor’s favourite aperitif.” She sat, perching her angular frame in the centre of the green leather couch opposite me.

“Now, Mr. Havelock, it appears you have something significant to impart. Please go ahead.”

I did my best to use a businesslike tone. “Mrs. Stoppini, the lease I signed for the workshop required that I do a full inventory of the library.”

Her eyes squinted slightly. Her posture straightened a little, if that was possible. What are you up to? her body language demanded.

“And, um, I would feel better if I was confident that you are aware of… well, everything.”

“Everything?” she repeated in a wintery voice.

“Not long ago I showed you a hidden cupboard-no, please let me go on,” I said hastily when she showed signs of bolting, “so skilfully built into the bookshelf that it was invisible. The workmanship was top-notch.”

“The late professor never did things by halves,” she stated, reluctantly staying put.

“I want you to know, Mrs. Stoppini, that I discovered it without intending to. I was taking out the things in the, er, visible cupboard when one of the vellum sheets caught on the edge of the recess where the release catch is.”

“You haven’t touched your aperitif.”

I lifted the little glass to my mouth and barely allowed it to touch my lips. An unusual fragrance, an unexpected taste.

“Once I found the cupboard and saw what was inside, I tried to show you. But I failed. I think it’s important that you know about the… er, contents. Or are you already familiar with the items? No?” I asked when she didn’t respond. “Then I think I ought to tell you. Raphaella agrees,” I quickly added, hoping that would persuade her. “Okay?”

She nodded and finished off her drink without confirming or denying that she knew about the exotic objects in the professor’s secret cupboard.

“There are some very old manuscripts on vellum,” I began. “I can’t read them, so I can’t tell you what they are. There is a small handmade wooden box containing a medal with Girolamo Savonarola’s image on it.”

Her frown deepened.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Every Florentine has heard of him,” she replied, shakily refilling her glass and clutching it in both hands, as if afraid it would fly away.

“There is a large cross of gold with gems set into it. I don’t know anything about jewellery, so I can’t say what they are. They might even be glass, but I doubt it.”

I had decided to leave out the glass dome and the atlas for the time being.

“Mrs. Stoppini, that cross might be a priceless antique.”

“Good gracious,” she murmured-to herself, not to me. “I didn’t realize.”

“There’s something else.”

The intense woman sitting across the room from me began slowly to come apart. Her severe expression ebbed away as signs of grief-a softening of her brow and the set of her mouth-crept in. The rigidity of her back and shoulders gave way, and she gradually settled into her chair. Her chin quivered.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, regretting my decision to press her. But she surprised me.

“Please continue, Mr. Havelock.”

I swallowed a bit of grappa. “There is a complete typed book-length manuscript. Written by Professor Eduardo Corbizzi.”

She gaped as her thick brows rose in surprise. “Did you say ‘complete’?”

I nodded.

She began to cry silently.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stoppini,” I said again.

“Tell me about it,” she said, pulling a lace hanky from her sleeve and dabbing at her streaming eyes.

“The title is Fanatics . Professor Corbizzi had been editing it when he… when he stopped.” I hesitated. “Raphaella has read it.”

“Good. The late professor would have been most gratified to know that an intelligent young woman like Miss Skye had read his book.”

She blew her nose and continued to pull herself back together.

“Well,” she sighed, making a final dab with her hanky and stuffing it up her sleeve, “an interesting conversation to be sure.”

“It’s not over yet.”

“In that case.” She held up the bottle to ask if I wanted more, and reading my refusal in my face, she topped up her drink.

“I have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said.