The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Thomas stared at her. “How do you keep doing that?” he said in a plaintive tone. “You’re right, as usual—Harry Strangle and your young Mr. Daventer”—he nodded at me—“were among the travelers stopping here that night. Accompanied by an attractive young lady. The abbot did not approve.”

  “I should think not!” I said.

  “It’s a shame you couldn’t get a look at the crypts,” James said thoughtfully. “You might have learned even more.”

  “I doubt it,” Thomas said. “The monks purified the place next day; if there were any lingering traces of enchantment, they were dispelled then.”

  “I had not realized that Mr. Strangle was that good a magician,” I said.

  “He’s not,” Thomas said. “He barely deserves the name. Still, he has enough skill to contribute a bit when a spell needs more than one magician, and he’s perfectly capable of triggering a preset enchantment. That and his lack of scruples are what make him useful to people like Sir Hilary. He’s a perpetual hanger-on of coattails.”

  “But whose coattail is he hanging on now that Sir Hilary is dead?” I asked. “And what do he and Theodore Daventer have to do with these peculiar rituals we keep running across?”

  Everyone looked at me. “Oh, come,” I said. “You can’t all have missed noticing that Mr. Strangle and Theodore were in Paris when someone broke into Sainte Chapelle and did a not-exactly-magic ritual there. Or that the abbot’s account of the disruption here also fits that incident quite well.”

  “And you said Mr. Strangle did something at that temple in Amiens,” Kate said. “Though from your description it didn’t sound as elaborate as the other two rituals.”

  “It wasn’t as elaborate a temple,” I pointed out. “At least—I’m quite sure the Temple of Minerva Victrix doesn’t compare to Sainte Chapelle, but I don’t know about the monastery crypts.”

  “If they’re Roman, they’re dark and narrow and low,” Thomas said. “If they’re earlier than that, they’re even darker and narrower and lower.”

  “Very helpful,” James said in a tone that meant the exact opposite.

  Just at that point, the muleteers brought the mules forward at last, putting an end to the discussion for the time being. When we reached the accommodations on the far side of the Alps that evening, however, the discussion resumed. James seemed to think it his duty to remind everyone repeatedly that we did not actually know that Mr. Strangle was responsible for the break-in at Sainte Chapelle or the disturbance at the monastery. Despite this, he and Thomas agreed wholeheartedly that their first action on reaching Milan would be to track down Mr. Strangle.

  Next day, when we boarded the coaches hired to take us to Aosta, the talk turned to various methods they might use to accomplish this. They returned to the subject several times during the journey, and as a result, our travel time passed far more quickly than usual.

  Milan

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  1 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  MY FEET ARE WARM again. It seems days since I could say as much. Not coincidentally, we’ve been in Milan for an afternoon and a night and a morning, and it was only a moment ago that I realized my feet were actually warm and dry. I thought I would record this novelty, so that someday when I am sweltering in the heat of summer, I can think back on this day and indulge in a pleasurable shiver. I admit it seems a remote possibility just at the moment.

  It is raining. That is why we are all of us still indoors this morning. When I use the word raining, it is because it is the word everyone else uses. I confess it seems a pale, insubstantial word compared with the deluge that has been falling since last night. This side of the mountains is much greener than the barren slopes on the French side, and I suppose these quantities of rain explain the difference in prospect.

  Lady Sylvia has sent one of her knitted missives to say that things are much as we left them in Paris. It took all four of us to decipher it. Cecy is almost always the quickest to guess the significance of the objects incorporated into the stitches. She was first to realize Lady Sylvia represents Thomas with a bit of peacock feather. But it was Thomas who solved the question of what the fishhook meant. (The Duke of Wellington, as it is a reference to his soldierly nickname, Old Hooky.)

  2 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Thomas has arranged for us to go to the opera tonight. We are to see La Cenerentola, which I understand to be as near to Cinderella as makes no difference. Lord knows, I have seen Thomas looking extremely pleased with himself upon occasion, but when I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, he surpassed all previous efforts.

  3 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Last night was simply splendid. We attended the opera, the four of us, in our full Parisian finery. It was, if anything, more enjoyable than last time, because I was not in the least worried about my own appearance. I couldn’t be bothered to care who was looking greenly at us. There was the music. More than that, I was far from the only one there who had come to listen.

  As Paris is to pastry, La Scala is to opera. I cannot imagine that one could better La Scala and its audience. To behold those gilded boxes and the enormous stage fills me with joy, but alone they would make an empty paradise. It is the audience that makes it Heaven, all those people who know and care about the music. The throngs filling the seats are not invariably refined, and they are (I am told) almost never entirely respectful. Yet they know what they are hearing, and they appreciate it. Their criticisms can be unmistakable. I have been told sometimes they throw things to express their indignation at a poorly executed aria. What a world it would be if this level of critical appreciation were more widespread. If the chef sends up a badly cooked dinner, one could hurl a cabbage at his head by way of reply.

  No, on the whole, far better not to let such exacting standards escape the confines of the opera house.

  4 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  I knew that there would be sociability in Paris. I never expected that we would find sociability in Milan, at least, not so readily. It seems that the British Consul had been alerted to our arrival so there were invitations waiting for us by the time we arrived. At the Consul’s residence, we were introduced to some of the prominent residents of the city, and more invitations followed in short order.

  Mail was waiting for us, too. It has been a pleasure to take paper and pen and ink pot to write a simple letter home. Much less arduous than the work I have been putting into my knitted replies to Lady Sylvia. I refuse to try to knit an account of going to the opera.

  N.B. Where is my good left glove? I can’t have lost it. I do seem to have lost the last of Aunt Charlotte’s handkerchiefs. Luckily, I bought more in Paris.

  5 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  We now have been to La Cenerentola twice. There was also a work by Gritti, Caterina Sforza, but one performance of that was enough to convince Thomas that we did not need to see or hear or even think of it ever again. The La Scala audience was even more exacting than Thomas, and the Gritti production has closed, as preparations begin to replace it with an opera by Pacini.

  My time at the opera was golden. Even the hours before and after seemed filled with music. Once the rain stopped, the weather warmed delightfully, so we could have the windows open in our rooms. Each morning bells and birdsong wake us. Every street vendor seems to make a song of his wares, and everyone who sings can carry a tune. Thomas does not seem as enchanted by this phenomenon as I am, but despite the occasional complaint, he never gets up to close the windows.

  7 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Upon our arrival, Thomas and James did their utmost
to locate Mr. Strangle through persistent inquiry. I am sure that they would have succeeded in time. They didn’t have a fair chance to demonstrate the excellence of their methods, as pure luck forestalled them.

  Fortunately, among the invitations we received after enjoying the hospitality of the British Consul was one from the Conte and Contessa di Monti to a garden party to be held in the grounds of a fine estate near the city. It was a fête to salute the generosity of the Conte di Capodoro, who had just announced the donation of his collection of Roman and Etruscan antiquities to the city of Milan for the enjoyment of her people. The Conte and his Contessa were honored guests, and we joined the local notables in congratulating them on their philanthropy.

  It was a fine day, unseasonably warm, so there was no excuse to linger indoors. I was disappointed by this, as I’d hoped for more chance to admire the villa itself. Instead, we were escorted to the fine gardens, where we were greeted by our host, the Conte di Monti, who does something important for the Hapsburgs, and his Contessa, our hostess. They introduced us in turn to their guests, the Conte and Contessa di Capodoro among them. The Conte and Contessa di Monti were like a pair of Persian cats, both with flowing white hair and pleased expressions.

  The man of the hour, the Conte di Capodoro, was no taller than Thomas, a very thin and bony man with a fine prow of a nose and hooded amber-brown eyes that reminded me of a falcon. His wife was even more distinguished in appearance and demeanor. She wore pure white silk in the most Grecian style imaginable, complete with a delicate gold fillet threaded through her dark curls. She had the small, remote smile of a classical statue of Venus. There was an air of stillness about her, and it seemed to me that her smile served to conceal her shyness, for she spoke scarcely a word. I wondered if the Conte di Capodoro had collected her because she resembled one of his antique beauties, or if she had adopted the classical style to please him.

  The formalities began when we were conducted to little chairs ranked in rows before a lectern. Once we were seated and gazing attentively, our host welcomed us officially. He then described the excellence of the Conte di Capodoro’s character, the width and depth of his erudition, and the excellence of his taste. He thanked the Conte on behalf of the citizens of Milan for the gift of his collection of classical antiquities. He congratulated the Conte on his immense generosity, and he foretold the gratitude of all civilized people would ensure his name lived down the centuries, renowned and respected.

  After the Conte di Monti’s address, the Conte di Capodoro rose and made a few gracious remarks expressing his gratitude. It was an excellent speech, short enough to leave us hoping for more, yet sufficiently grateful that all our host’s courtesies were amply returned. We were then invited to make free with the refreshments and to stroll through the gardens.

  Thomas spoke quietly with the British Consul. James, Cecy, and I chatted with our hostess and one or two others as we drifted through the garden. To be strictly honest, James and Cecy chatted with the Contessa di Monti, and I concentrated on keeping my skirts from catching on the rosebushes as we walked.

  We came to a spot where the rosebushes met an avenue of topiary with a reflecting pool at the far end. It was as I bent to free myself from a particularly awkward thorn that my attention was drawn to a man and a woman standing by the reflecting pool. They were well out of earshot but close enough for me to see facial expressions.

  The man was very tall and extremely thin, and there was something horridly familiar about the set of his head and shoulders. He was speaking intently, from what I could see, with scarcely a pause to permit his companion an opportunity for a response. The woman smiled shyly up at him. This surprised me considerably, for the woman was the Contessa di Capodoro and the man (I will not sully the word gentleman) was Mr. Strangle.

  As I freed myself from the rosebush, I took an involuntary step back the way we’d come. I don’t think I made any sound whatsoever, yet my awkwardness caught Cecy’s attention. She could tell something out of the ordinary had happened. “Kate, what’s wrong?” Everyone else turned to stare at me, mild-eyed and curious as a herd of dairy cattle.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I said hastily. I smoothed my skirts and moved to rejoin the group. “Merely my usual clumsiness.”

  After a few moments, chat resumed and our party drifted on aimlessly. My reply had deceived Cecy not at all. She and James closed in, one on either side of me. Under her breath, Cecy asked again, “What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. Strangle is here,” I murmured back.

  With the greatest effort of will, the three of us maintained our lackadaisical progress. “Where?” James asked.

  “Right there.” I nodded toward the reflecting pool. The Contessa di Capodoro had retired, but Mr. Strangle still stood there, staring into the water like a heron waiting for its next fish.

  Cecy was decisive. “Kate, go find Thomas. James and I will follow Mr. Strangle at a distance. We will keep an eye on him without letting him know we’re interested.”

  James looked grim. “We’ll follow him to kingdom come, if necessary.”

  “It will be such good practice for you.” Cecy looked from James to me. “Do hurry, Kate.”

  I hurried.

  Thomas was right where I’d left him, part of the circle listening to the British Consul. He took one look at me and extricated himself from the circle with almost as much courtesy as efficiency. “What’s happened?”

  I looked back the way I’d come. “Mr. Strangle is here. Cecy and James are keeping him in view without letting him know it. There is a most convenient topiary nearby, but if he walks far in any direction, I don’t know how they will contrive to stay out of his sight.”

  Thomas took only a moment to register that. I knew he’d grasped the situation completely when he said briskly, “Then we must hurry.”

  He accompanied me through the gardens as quickly as we dared. It really would not have been wise to bustle noticeably. We did not wish to attract any unnecessary attention.

  Mr. Strangle was still beside the pool when we rejoined Cecy and James. I wondered why. Was he admiring his reflection in the water? Or was he waiting for someone? No one seemed to be taking the least notice of him. More unusually, he seemed to be taking very little notice of his own surroundings, not even leering at the fashionably dressed ladies who drifted past.

  “What’s he doing here?” Thomas demanded under his breath. “He can’t be an invited guest. Surely the Conte di Monti has better taste than that.”

  “Perhaps he accompanied Theodore Daventer,” Cecy suggested. “Theodore mentioned an uncle they were to meet. Perhaps that is what Harry Strangle is doing here, bear-leading the young man until he can turn him over to his uncle.”

  “What is he doing now?” I asked.

  Mr. Strangle had reached into the pocket of his coat and produced something that looked remarkably like the end of a loaf of bread. It must have been quite stale, for he seemed to have trouble breaking off the small bits he sprinkled into the pool.

  James said, “It looks very much as though he’s feeding the fish.”

  “The blackguard. Let’s have a word with him.” Thomas took a careful look around to be sure that our host and hostess were nowhere in view, then marched across with James. The two of them flanked Mr. Strangle so neatly that he dropped the whole bread crust into the water in his surprise. Cecy and I joined them, keeping a safe distance.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. Strangle exclaimed. He tried to retreat, but James and Thomas held his arms firmly. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “You disappointed me in Paris, leaving so abruptly,” said Thomas. “I wanted a word with you but you ran away from me.”

  “Can you wonder at it?” Mr. Strangle demanded. “You attacked me.”

  Thomas was grim. “I never touched you.”

  “I am uncommonly fleet of foot.” Mr. Strangle looked as pleased with himself as usual. “That is the only reason you didn’t.”

  If anything, Th
omas’s grimness increased. “Now that we’re all here together, you won’t mind answering a few questions, will you? For a start, why did you murder Sir Hilary Bedrick?”

  I gazed at Thomas in surprise. This was quite a feat of illogic, even for Thomas. The effect it had on Mr. Strangle, however, was galvanic. He all but leapt into the air, and only the greatest effort from James and Thomas kept him securely in their grasp.

  “Who said that?” Mr. Strangle’s terror seemed to contain a great deal of anger. “He’s lying! I never saw him—not since last summer. I never saw him at all after he lost his magic.”

  “He didn’t lose his magic,” said Cecy. “He had it taken from him by the Royal College of Wizards.”

  James added, “And richly he deserved the punishment.”

  “Someone thought he richly deserved to die. Were you the one who killed him?” Thomas put more pressure into his grip on Strangle’s arm. “You knew he was dead. You know what happened to him.”

  “Of course I heard he was murdered.” Strangle swallowed hard. “That kind of word travels fast. But I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he was in France. I had my own affairs to worry about.”

  Cecy looked severe. “That’s something else we should discuss with you. But first things first.”

  “What was Bedrick up to?” Thomas demanded.

  Mr. Strangle didn’t answer the question. He eyed Thomas defiantly. “You will have to use force, won’t you? Hardly the done thing at a garden party. You will have to use fisticuffs, as you did in London. You won’t object to beating a helpless man, I know. But the civilized guests here deserve to know what they’re confronted with, once you reveal your true colors.”

  “If anyone asks, it will be my pleasure to explain to them precisely what kind of fellow you are, you malignant swine.” Thomas glanced over at James. “Can you hold him for me?”

  James nodded and took a firm grip on both Strangle’s arms, but he looked distinctly uneasy about it.

  “Fine.” Thomas stepped back and made a series of swift gestures, touching just a fingertip to Strangle’s forehead, his chest, and finally his mouth. “Dicemi veritatem.” I felt a soft throb from the ring on my left hand, which seemed to grow warm as he spoke. “What was Bedrick up to?”