world.”
“Is that so?” Renilde affected surprise, and then, placing a hand on the rector’s leg, as if to steady her nerves, she said, “Would this be connected to the art theft and murder that happened here last month?”
Kendrick jumped at her touch, and attempted to ease his leg from under her hand without giving offense.
“Yes,” he said.
“I know quite a bit about that. You see, the matter involves my family.”
“Your family? Oh, I say!”
“Yoo-hoo! Mr. Kendrick!” Belinda called from across the room, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Father Terranova has asked me to sing. Would you be good enough to provide accompaniment on the pianoforte?”
He rose to oblige her, inclining his head toward Renilde. “I should be most interested in hearing your story, Miss Rinaldo!”
“Yes? Well, I shall tell you about it another time,” she replied in a low voice. “But we must talk privately, for I am not supposed to discuss this with anyone. Now you had better go, for my cousin wants a song, it seems, and where his pleasures are concerned, he is a very impatient man.”
Chapter 12
P OSSIBLE S USPECTS
Dear Mrs. Janks,
The weather in Resina is all one might wish at this time of year, and we are very comfortably accommodated in a good sort of hotel, where the food, though not a patch on Mrs. Moly’s cooking, is fresh, plain and substantial enough to keep us from hunger and stomach complaints.
There is no news of the statue yet, as we have only just arrived, but I did go down to view the scene of the dastardly crime. Herculaneum, or “Ercolano,” as the natives call it, is “hauntingly beautiful” by daylight, and plain “haunting” after the sun goes down. Only think of all the ghosts that must be bound to this city, where their human forms perished centuries ago, all within moments of one another!
Now I wonder, Mrs. Janks, whether you can have heard any news pertaining to the “family scandal”? Do people still talk of it? Are we still ostracized and reviled? Or have things begun to settle down, at last? My mind misgives me upon the subject. I have already written several letters to friends and relatives, but have heard nothing as yet. We cannot come home until the whole sordid mess is forgotten. Please write as soon as you can, either to relieve my anxieties . . . or to confirm them.
With warmest regards to you and all the Lustings staff,
A.B.
Arabella blotted and folded her letter, carefully placing it between the pages of The Decameron for safekeeping until she should have occasion to go upstairs, for she was presently sitting in the hotel parlor, away from the annoyances of the coffee room. She would infinitely have preferred to be both downstairs and alone, but she had been obliged to compromise, for the dour landlady was in here, polishing her Venetian goblet collection. Fortunately, Signora Fiorello was not the garrulous sort, as persons with a limited command of one’s own language so often are, and Arabella respected the fact that her landlady was a fellow collector. There were no presumptuous priests here, or invasive, pear-headed morons to shatter the tranquility, and reopening The Decameron to the page where she had lately left off reading, Arabella began to relax.
But there is no rest for the wicked: She had just nestled into the cushions, having come to the part where the nuns are enjoying the services of the well-endowed deaf-mute handyman, when she was distracted by the hotel cat, drinking lustily from its water bowl in the corner.
“Signora Fiorello,” said she, “you would greatly oblige me by removing that animal from my presence.”
The landlady stooped to pick up the bowl with one hand, puss with the other.
“Don’t-a you like-a cats?” she asked fiercely, cradling the animal against her well-upholstered shoulder. In Signora Fiorello’s world there were only two types of people: those who loved felines and those destined for a
“Is that so?” Renilde affected surprise, and then, placing a hand on the rector’s leg, as if to steady her nerves, she said, “Would this be connected to the art theft and murder that happened here last month?”
Kendrick jumped at her touch, and attempted to ease his leg from under her hand without giving offense.
“Yes,” he said.
“I know quite a bit about that. You see, the matter involves my family.”
“Your family? Oh, I say!”
“Yoo-hoo! Mr. Kendrick!” Belinda called from across the room, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Father Terranova has asked me to sing. Would you be good enough to provide accompaniment on the pianoforte?”
He rose to oblige her, inclining his head toward Renilde. “I should be most interested in hearing your story, Miss Rinaldo!”
“Yes? Well, I shall tell you about it another time,” she replied in a low voice. “But we must talk privately, for I am not supposed to discuss this with anyone. Now you had better go, for my cousin wants a song, it seems, and where his pleasures are concerned, he is a very impatient man.”
Chapter 12
P OSSIBLE S USPECTS
Dear Mrs. Janks,
The weather in Resina is all one might wish at this time of year, and we are very comfortably accommodated in a good sort of hotel, where the food, though not a patch on Mrs. Moly’s cooking, is fresh, plain and substantial enough to keep us from hunger and stomach complaints.
There is no news of the statue yet, as we have only just arrived, but I did go down to view the scene of the dastardly crime. Herculaneum, or “Ercolano,” as the natives call it, is “hauntingly beautiful” by daylight, and plain “haunting” after the sun goes down. Only think of all the ghosts that must be bound to this city, where their human forms perished centuries ago, all within moments of one another!
Now I wonder, Mrs. Janks, whether you can have heard any news pertaining to the “family scandal”? Do people still talk of it? Are we still ostracized and reviled? Or have things begun to settle down, at last? My mind misgives me upon the subject. I have already written several letters to friends and relatives, but have heard nothing as yet. We cannot come home until the whole sordid mess is forgotten. Please write as soon as you can, either to relieve my anxieties . . . or to confirm them.
With warmest regards to you and all the Lustings staff,
A.B.
Arabella blotted and folded her letter, carefully placing it between the pages of The Decameron for safekeeping until she should have occasion to go upstairs, for she was presently sitting in the hotel parlor, away from the annoyances of the coffee room. She would infinitely have preferred to be both downstairs and alone, but she had been obliged to compromise, for the dour landlady was in here, polishing her Venetian goblet collection. Fortunately, Signora Fiorello was not the garrulous sort, as persons with a limited command of one’s own language so often are, and Arabella respected the fact that her landlady was a fellow collector. There were no presumptuous priests here, or invasive, pear-headed morons to shatter the tranquility, and reopening The Decameron to the page where she had lately left off reading, Arabella began to relax.
But there is no rest for the wicked: She had just nestled into the cushions, having come to the part where the nuns are enjoying the services of the well-endowed deaf-mute handyman, when she was distracted by the hotel cat, drinking lustily from its water bowl in the corner.
“Signora Fiorello,” said she, “you would greatly oblige me by removing that animal from my presence.”
The landlady stooped to pick up the bowl with one hand, puss with the other.
“Don’t-a you like-a cats?” she asked fiercely, cradling the animal against her well-upholstered shoulder. In Signora Fiorello’s world there were only two types of people: those who loved felines and those destined for a
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