William Bell - Fanatics

I was thinking about taking a break when my cell rang. I listened, then closed the phone.

“What’s zuccotto ?” I asked Raphaella.

“An Italian scooter?”

“I don’t think so.”

“An Italian painter?”

I shook my head. “Mrs. Stoppini just invited us to share a piece with her in the kitchen.”

“I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED,” Mrs. Stoppini said as she poured strong tea into china cups, “that a generous helping of zuccotto brightens up even the dullest day.”

It turned out to be sponge cake filled with hazelnuts, almonds, cream, and chocolate. Raphaella tried a bit, chewing with an angelic look on her face.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she rhapsodized dramatically. “Mrs. Stoppini, this is divine.”

Mrs. Stoppini smiled her thin-lipped smile. “One tries.” She glanced at me. “And your verdict, Mr. Havelock?”

I chewed slowly, swallowed, pressed my lips together, and tried to look pensive.

“Well…”

Mrs. Stoppini’s brows dipped in toward the bridge of her nose.

“Come on, Garnet,” Raphaella urged. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“It’s so delicious,” I intoned, “it ought to be illegal.”

Mrs. Stoppini tried not to look pleased. “Indeed.”

We all had a second piece.

Raphaella patted her tummy and said, “Bad idea to feed us, Mrs. Stoppini. Now I feel too lazy to work.”

“More tea,” our hostess stated, filling Raphaella’s cup. The teapot thumped as she set it down. “Mr. Havelock, if you will permit me, I have a request.”

Raphaella and I settled back in our chairs. “Fire away, Mrs. Stoppini,” I said.

Mrs. Stoppini folded her hands in her lap, drew in a long breath, and began. “I have been in contact with Ponte Santa Trinita University in Florence with respect to the late professor’s will. As executrix of his estate, I have decided to act upon a certain part of the bequest as soon as possible. To that end I enquired of the university, and the relevant persons there were kind enough to send details by mail.”

Was she being obscure on purpose? I wondered. I flipped a glance at Raphaella, whose eyebrows lifted almost unnoticeably. She didn’t get it either. Not yet, anyway.

Mrs. Stoppini got up and glided out of the kitchen in her creepy way, returning almost immediately with a bulky manila envelope, which she laid on the table beside my plate. The envelope had foreign stamps on it, along with a few post office imprints and stickers.

Taking her seat, our hostess went on, “I wish to ship one of the, er, objects in the library to Italy-the university-as soon as possible.”

“The cross,” I guessed.

She nodded toward the envelope. “There are strict but simple procedures regarding the shipping container required, along with suggestions for insurance, method of shipping, and so on. These latter issues I will handle myself.”

She paused.

“I see,” I said.

“I should be most grateful, Mr. Havelock, if you would consent to construct a suitable container for the object in question. Of course, I shall pay for the required materials and for your services.”

Her decision didn’t surprise me. Raphaella and I weren’t the only ones who would be happy to see the cross off the premises, although we were the only ones in that kitchen who knew it was a reliquary. Or that it was, as well as a valuable artifact, a bundle of trouble.

“I’ll agree,” I said, “if you’ll let me name my price.”

“Very well,” she replied with obvious relief. “That is acceptable. And what is your fee?”

“Another piece of zuccotto .”

“HMM,” Raphaella mused.

“Hmm, indeed,” I replied.

We were sitting before the fireplace as the gusty wind outside fitfully grumbled in the chimney. Behind us, beyond the window, legions of clouds marched across a sombre sky. I felt as if we were being shoved toward an inevitable confrontation with the spectre-a feeling I had been almost successful in ignoring for the past week or so. Mrs. Stoppini’s decision had brought Raphaella and me back to our main problem.

“What do we do?” I asked, throwing myself into a chair before the hearth.

Raphaella lowered herself into the other club chair. “We don’t have many options, do we? Comply with Mrs. Stoppini’s wishes, crate the cross up, and wash our hands clean of the whole issue. Or tell her it’s a reliquary with a resident ghost-”

“A murderous ghost.”

“And let her take responsibility. The way I see it, because we know what the cross really is and what its dangers are, we’re responsible if anything bad happens when it’s sent away.”

“I agree. There’s no way we can sidestep this one.”

We stared silently at the coals for a while.

“On the other hand, if the haunting is connected to the professor’s manuscript, as we believe… I don’t know where I was going with that thought.”

Raphaella got to her feet. “Well, I know where I’m going,” she said. “Back to work.”

“Unless…” I continued.

“Unless what?”

“I’ve thought of this before, but I pushed the idea away. It’s too… frightening.”

Raphaella nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Go ahead and say it. Get it out in the open.”

I nodded in the direction of the fireplace. “We could take the atlas from the reliquary and burn it.”

Raphaella sat back down. My statement lay between us like a sleeping dragon, too horrible to examine closely because we were afraid of what it might mean.

It would be like killing Savonarola all over again, I thought.

Raphaella shook her head, as if I’d spoken aloud. “He’s been dead since fourteen ninety-what was it?”

“Eight.”

“Right. He isn’t alive. Therefore we can’t kill him.”

“But it would be sacrilegious, like desecrating a grave.”

“How much respect is owed him? He probably killed Professor Corbizzi. Or contributed to his death. He wants to destroy the professor’s book. And look at his record.”

“I still don’t think I could bring myself to do it.”

“Me either.”

“But you said-”

“I was just playing devil’s advocate.”

“Good choice of words,” I said.

ON THE WAY TO THE SHOP the next morning, under skies that showed no sign of allowing the sun to peek through, I stopped off at the lumber store and bought a sheet of thick plywood and some spruce planks to make a frame for a shipping container. The packing foam would be delivered in a few hours.

With the directions from the university in Florence-translated by Mrs. Stoppini-laid out before me on my workbench, I started to work. The guidelines were straightforward and pretty simple. I needed to build what was essentially a wooden box with interior braces capable of holding the cross upright and immobilized so as to withstand rough handling and vibration. The space around the antique would be stuffed with synthetic packing. I didn’t tell Mrs. Stoppini that there would be a stowaway in the crate.

By working full tilt I had the crate ready by lunchtime. I brushed it clean of shavings and sawdust, hung my apron by the door, and left the shop, taking a deep breath of the soggy air to clear calculations from my head.

I had just stepped onto the patio when I saw him on the shore of the lake, by the willows, just as I had weeks before.

The setting suited him-the backdrop of grey waves and greyer sky was a perfect frame for his black robe and dark, disfigured features. He stood motionless, if “stood” is the right word for a spectre that seemed to hover just above the ground like an evil thought, his cape undisturbed by a wind that lifted the willow branches nearby. His ravaged face was trained in my direction, the swollen eyes dark in their sockets, as if he were reminding me of something. I held his stare, fighting to control my breathing. He glowered at me, fuming, radiating anger and hatred.