A Rather Curious Engagement (36 page)

“Hey,” I said suddenly. “It’s a bum deal.”

Jeremy said, “What is?”

“How come neither of you got seasick?” I demanded.

Jeremy and Rollo both grinned. “Darling,” Rollo said, very matter-of-factly. “We’re English.”

“So am I!” I objected. “Half, anyway.”

Jeremy and Rollo looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Definitely American,” Rollo sighed.

“Sadly, yes,” Jeremy agreed. Then, as an afterthought, he added meaningfully, “And French!”

“Whoa, worse yet!” Rollo howled in that idiotic knee-jerk way that the English sometimes put down the French.

François appeared with my tea, and set it down gently on the table. “Soon we are in Nice,” he told me lightly, then left again.

“Case closed,” I teased Jeremy. “The French are classier.”

Rollo went below to gather his things. Jeremy and I went up on deck. The harbor seemed to welcome us with open arms. As we cut our speed and
Penelope’s Dream
came gliding in to her berth, Rollo reappeared, with his suitcase all packed, and his hat on, ready to disembark the minute we anchored.

“Well, my friends, I’ll say goodbye now,” he announced. “I don’t suppose you’d like to spot me a few quid for the tables, as payment for my excellent research work?”

“How much is a few quid?” I asked.

“Too much,” said Jeremy. “When we find the Lion, Rollo, you’ll get your fee, as agreed.”

“Oh, very well,” Rollo sighed. “But you might at least cover my bar tab in Corsica. Expenses, you know, while on-the-job.”

I saw Jeremy slip him some money, “As an advance against payment, ” Jeremy said. Rollo accepted the money with stunning ease. And as soon as the gangway was ready for him, he went charging down to shore, and shambled off to a waiting taxi.

“How come you were carrying around that much cash?” I asked Jeremy as we went into the main salon.

“I figured we’d have to grease some palms along the way,” he said. “Didn’t know it would be Rollo’s, but I might have guessed.”

“Hey,” I said. “What’s that envelope on the table?”

It was addressed to both of us. There was a letter inside, on the yacht’s stationery. Here’s what it said:

“I knew it,” Jeremy said. “That old thief. What’s this Chinese thing? It’s probably worth more than the boat and the Lion put together.”

“Take it easy, it isn’t,” I assured him. “It was among the items listed in the sale of the boat. It’s worth about three hundred euros. And he’s right, it’s kinda scary-looking.”

“Still, he stole it. I knew that leopard couldn’t change its spots,” Jeremy said, disgusted.

“Yes, he has changed,” I said.

“How so?”

“When was the last time you ever heard of a leopard writing a letter of apology?” I asked.

We reached Lake Como at lunchtime, when the sun was high in the sky, and the birds were busily swooping around the twisty, gnarled trees in lush, fragrant gardens. The lake was a lovely aquamarine color, rippled by more boats now that the tourist season was up to full roar.

We drove to the Count’s castle straight away. When we pulled into the gravel turnaround in front, there was a familiar car there, a large black BMW.

“Kurt’s,” I said. We rang the doleful doorbell and were ushered in, this time by the young servant girl who wore a white apron over her flowered dress. She led us to an elevator at the rear of the castle, that took us straight up to the Count’s study.

The Count was seated in his upholstered wheelchair by the window, with his blanket across his lap. There was a wooden tray that fitted into the arms of the chair, so that the tray could hold his meals above his lap. He was using both hands to lift a big round bowl of soup to his lips. Kurt was standing in the corner, sipping his coffee from a tiny espresso cup. When he saw us he asked, “Would you like me to send for some coffee or tea for you?”

“No, thanks,” Jeremy said briskly. He turned to the Count. “We have been searching for your Lion, but we cannot find it. We even went to Corsica to look for it. Where, I might note, we were shot at by an unknown assailant.”

We watched as the Count widened his eyes. “So we need to ask you some questions,” Jeremy said with a fairly stern expression.

The Count very carefully ate the last of his soup, then picked up a beige, cloth napkin and wiped his mouth. Kurt tugged on one of those old-fashioned embroidered sashes that rings a bell somewhere downstairs to summon a servant, who appeared shortly afterwards to clear away the dishes. Kurt gestured toward two other wing chairs, and we sat down to listen.

“Where did you go when you were in Corsica?” Jeremy asked.

“A perfectly dreadful bar in Calvi,” said the Count. “Very common. And I had to go into a private room behind the bar to meet with that awful man. But he had it, all right. I saw it with my own eyes. I paid him, and he wrapped it up in front of me, and I went home.”

“Is that all you did in Corsica?” I asked gently. “You didn’t visit anybody else there?”

“I have no one to visit there,” the Count said, sounding genuinely surprised.

“There was no one else you talked to while you were in Corsica? ” I persisted.

The Count considered this carefully. “Just a beggar woman down by the pier,” he said. “She had most peculiar eyes. She stared and stared, and seemed to look right through me. And she pointed a finger at me and cursed me. I cannot say why.” The Count closed his eyes. I knew he really didn’t want to answer any more questions, but I was fairly bursting with them now.

“We saw her, too,” I said. “I am told that she is a
mazzera
, and if so, then she may have been trying to warn you, not curse you.”

I was sitting on the chair beside the Count, and I leaned forward now and asked, “Could you possibly tell me the name of your great-great-great-grandmother?”

The Count looked surprised, but said to Kurt, “Bring me the family Bible.”

Kurt went to one of the bookshelves and pulled down a very heavy, ornate volume. Inside the first pages of the Bible was a family listing of names, in faded, old ink. With a shaky finger the Count traced the names. “Beginning in present time, here is my son Kurt, my daughter Marthe, my wife Liesl and me; then my parents, my grandparents and my great-grandparents . . .” He paused, squinting at the faded names.

Kurt continued for him. “And your great-great-grandfather, whose name was Rolf,” Kurt said. At that, I elbowed Jeremy. “And Rolf’s father was Sigwald,” Kurt continued.

“And what was the name of Rolf’s mother?” I asked.

“Here she is,” the Count said, pointing. “Her name was Greta.”

“What else do you know about her?” I asked, watching his face.

But he only shook his head, and said, “Not very much at all. Only that there was a scandal because she ran away from her husband and family, and died abroad in disgrace.”

I placed the family tree I’d worked on alongside his Bible. I could hardly contain my excitement as Jeremy unrolled the grave rubbings we’d made. He spread them out on the table for the Count to see. I pointed to the rubbing from Greta’s tombstone. The Count leaned forward and studied the papers. Kurt gazed at them, too.

“We believe this is from Greta’s grave,” I said. “Which we found in Corsica.”

Well, I must say that, considering the stunning information we had for them, Kurt and the Count were very cooperative. They bristled at first, not sure if we were trying to sully their family name or help strangers usurp their claim to a family heirloom. But gradually, bit by bit, we pieced it all together. The Count was a direct descendent of Beethoven’s student, Greta, and her German husband, Sigwald von Norbert, and their son, Rolf. From generation to generation, they handed down their priceless collection of aquamanilia, and a story of the missing Lion. But they didn’t tell their children about Greta’s scandalous love affair with Paolo, the young Corsican who made the Lion, which resulted in a son, Aldo, and his long line of descendents who lived in Corsica, right up to Diamanta and her family.

And as family legends go, both sides of Greta’s descendents believed that the Lion was rightfully theirs. The feud, the
vendetta
erupted because of this.

“What does it all mean?” cried the Count. “Did someone from Corsica take it away from me on the boat that night?”

Kurt said, “But who, Papa?” Kurt turned to us and said quietly, “Father couldn’t really remember what happened on the yacht, because he lost consciousness on that voyage.”

“I tell you, I didn’t fall ill immediately,” the Count insisted. “It was that storm. The worst weather I’d ever seen on the Mediterranean. Everything knocking about, sliding across the floor! I heard the door of the linen closet bang open; I must not have turned the handle properly to shut it tight. So I got up in the middle of the night and went out into the corridor to check my suitcase, and the Lion was still there,” the Count said stubbornly. “I got dizzy then, so I went back to bed.” I showed him the drawing I’d made of the Lion, per Diamanta’s description.

“Is this what your Beethoven Lion looked like?” I asked gently. He stared at it, then glanced up at me with great excitement.

“Yes!” he cried. “This is the one I had. Did you find it, at last?” he asked hopefully.

Boy, I hated to have to tell him we didn’t. He looked utterly crestfallen, and sat back in his chair, exhausted.

The nurse reappeared in the doorway. “The Count must rest now,” she said.

“Father,” Kurt said urgently, “is there nothing more you can recall?”

“No,” said the Count, sounding defeated. “That is the last I saw of the Lion. And that is all I can remember.”

"Gee,” I said mournfully to Jeremy. “Our first engagement. A total bust.”

Feeling fairly dispirited, we had filed downstairs, leaving the Count to take his afternoon nap. Out in the hallway, a servant was vacuuming the Persian carpet. In Italy, they vacuum all day. All morning and all afternoon. Even in the finest houses and hotels, for some reason, there is always somebody vacuuming a staircase or a hallway, droning away, leaving behind a long power cord that you have to step over.

Kurt led us into the “family kitchen” where he told us the cook would be sending up a few sandwiches and coffee for us. As we stood there, the cook’s little grandson came tearing into the kitchen, being chased by his sister, the young servant girl in the braids, who was carrying clean towels in her arms.

“Pepi!” she cried in an admonitory, scolding tone, reaching out for the boy who’d just escaped her grasp and went tearing out of the room again. The girl straightened up, looking at us apologetically. “He is a wild one today!” she exclaimed, and, after she went out, I could hear her still scolding him. Jeremy told Kurt that we’d be leaving Lake Como this afternoon.

“But wait for the sandwiches. If you are in a hurry, we can wrap them up to take with you. I am sorry that we wasted your time on this chase. But I really don’t see much hope of ever recovering this prize,” Kurt said. This was a signal allowing us to give it up.

“Very hard to say what has become of it,” Jeremy agreed reluctantly.

“I still don’t trust that dealer,” Kurt said bluntly. “And I know nothing of this Corsican family.”

“The thief could be anybody,” Jeremy admitted.

I felt extremely dissatisfied. “Oh, stop blaming the Corsicans,” I said. “It’s not them, it’s not our crew, and it’s not even Mortimer. These are all plausible theories, but they’re all wrong.”

They both looked at me. “Well, then, what’s your theory?” Jeremy said, amused.

“For once,” I said, “I don’t have one.”

Kurt sighed. “Well, perhaps the way to look at it is that my father paid for a dream. It was a nice dream, it made him happy. He can still imagine that he once owned that famous Lion. He even knows more about his family than he probably cares to. But I do not see the wisdom of spending more money on this dream.”

I went out into the hallway in search of the ladies’ room. A few doors down, the servant girl was putting fresh towels in a bathroom. She smiled, stepped out for me, and shut the door. The room seemed designed for female visitors, having a mirror rimmed with good lightbulbs for making up, and ample sink and counter space, and pretty white and gold tiles.

After I’d combed my hair and washed up, I turned to go out. As I reached for the door, I suddenly stopped dead still. I found myself in the thrall of a strange, sensory, somewhat Proustian moment. Only it wasn’t a madeleine cake that triggered my memory. It was the door-handle. Not a knob, but a beautiful, curved, gleaming brass handle, with ornate curlicues. You had to turn the entire handle horizontally to open the door; and then make sure you turned it back vertically again to make the door click shut. The insight came into focus now.

“Hinges!” I cried aloud. I bolted out, and raced back to the kitchen, where Kurt and Jeremy were still waiting for me, with a newly arrived tray of food.

“I’m packing sandwiches for the trip home,” Jeremy said. “Want ham or roast beef?”

“Kurt,” I blurted out, “is there a closet in the hall outside your father’s bedroom?”

“Penny! What’s up?” Jeremy asked.

“Didn’t the Count just tell us that, when he was on the boat during the storm at sea, he got up to check on the Lion and found the door of the closet hanging open?” I cried. “Well, that couldn’t possibly have happened aboard the yacht. Because all the doors for the cabins on the lower level—including the door to the linen closet—have sliding doors. With no handles. Just those little circles you put your thumb into, to make the door slide.
Slide
,” I emphasized, “not swing open or closed. However, there
are
handles on
these
doors. Brass handles . . .”