stood, pressed close to the rock in the shadow of the opening, staring at the spectacle which met her eyes.
The tunnel opened into a narrow clearing, no more than a steep cleft in the rocks, closed in at the top on both sides by a tangled mass of trees and undergrowth. Down below, leaning at crazy angles in niches cut in the rock walls, was a weird population of statuary, clothed in brambles and rampant bines, their limbs frozen in attitudes of frantic gesticulation which gave a tragic emphasis to the burnt-out ruins of a building that occupied the centre of the dell.
Nothing was left but a confused heap made up of stumps of charred and broken columns, tumbled stones and shattered carvings, all overgrown with matted brambles and bitter-smelling ground ivy. The fire which had destroyed it must have been uncommonly fierce, for rubble and rock walls alike showed the long, blackened streaks caused by the flames. Yet, standing among the ruins, as though preserved by a miracle, was a single, gleaming statue of pure white marble. Marianne caught her breath in wonder at the scene.
A few steps had been roughly hacked out of the pile of ruins and on the top step, kneeling with both arms clasped about the knees of the statue, was Matteo Damiani.
The statue itself was the strangest and most beautiful that Marianne had ever seen. It was the life-sized figure of a naked woman, shaped with such sheer, sensual perfection as to be almost demoniacal in its beauty. The woman was standing with her arms spread backwards, away from her body; her head was flung back, as if drawn by the weight of her unbound hair and she seemed, with her closed eyes and parted lips, as if on the point of giving herself to some unseen lover. The sculptor had rendered every detail of the female form with an uncanny accuracy and the skill with which he had delineated the features, the narrowed eyes and voluptuously swollen lips, an ecstasy of pleasure so agonizing that it was almost pain, was close to genius. Disturbed by that breathing image of desire, Marianne thought that the artist must have loved his model with a torturing intensity.
The sun was rising and one golden beam slipped over the cliff and lighted on the statue. At once the cold marble glowed and came to life. The polished grain of the unfeeling stone took on a golden sheen, softer than any human skin, and for a moment it seemed to Marianne that the statue was truly living. Matteo had risen to his feet and was standing on the pedestal, clasping the marble woman in his arms. He was kissing the lips that offered themselves in a frenzy of passion, as if he were trying to infuse his own warmth into them, and murmuring an incoherent stream of words, words in which insults and endearments were strangely mixed, a curious litany of love and rage and the crudest expressions of lust. At the same time his hands roved feverishly over the marble body which seemed, in the warm light of morning, to be quivering in response to his caresses.
There was something so unnerving about this love scene with a statue that Marianne stepped back with an instinctive revulsion into the tunnel, forgetting that she had come there to confront the man and cow him. The pistol hung uselessly from her shaking hand and she restored it to her belt. The man was mad, there could be no other explanation of his insane behaviour, and Marianne was suddenly afraid. She was alone with a madman in a secret place which might well be unknown to most of the inhabitants of the villa. Even the weapon she carried seemed a puny defence. Matteo's strength was certainly prodigious. If he once realized her presence, he could overpower her before she had a chance to defend herself. Or else she would be compelled to shoot, and she did not wish to kill him. She had suffered enough, and suffered even now, from having involuntarily caused the death of Ivy St Albans.
She could hear the man making delirious promises to return that night to his insensate mistress.
'The moon will be full, my she-devil, and you shall see that I have not forgotten.'
Marianne's heart leaped. He was coming away, he would find her. Without waiting for more, she fled back along the tunnel and out through the cavern and the grotto with the speed of a hunted hare. She darted in amongst the bushes but turned, before plunging into the staircase passage, to take one last look through the leaves. She was only just in time. Matteo was coming out of the grotto and once again Marianne asked herself if she had not been dreaming. The man who a moment before she had surprised in a state of total erotic frenzy was now strolling quietly along the path that lay between the colonnade and the water, his hands clasped behind his back and his coarse features seemingly lifted to enjoy the light breeze that ruffled his grey hair. He might have been anyone taking an early morning walk in the cool, dew-fresh gardens before starting the day's work.
Marianne ran quickly up the stairs and stepped through the open panel but before she closed it again she took careful note of its inner and outer workings. It was, in fact, possible to open it from either side, by means of a handle on the stair or by pressing a boss on the gilded moulding within the room. Then, seeing that it was nearly time for Agathe to bring her morning tea, she slipped hurriedly out of her dress and sandals and got into bed. The last thing Marianne wanted was for Agathe to find out about this morning's expedition.
Snuggling down among the pillows, she tried to think calmly but this was not easy. The discovery in quick succession of the secret panel in the wall and then of the temple in the dell, the statue and Matteo's madness was enough to overcome a far more robust nervous system than Marianne's. In addition, there was that curious and highly ominous assignation he had made with his marble mistress. What was the meaning of his strange words? What was it he had not forgotten? What did he mean to do that night in the ruins? Most of all, what was that monument, gutted by fire, on whose ruins the statue stood? A villa? A temple? To what cult had it been dedicated, and was perhaps dedicated still? To what dark ritual of madness did Matteo Damiani mean to offer sacrifice that night?
Marianne turned all these questions over in her mind without finding the slightest answer. At one moment, she thought of questioning Dona Lavinia again, but she knew that her questions caused the poor woman pain and she would hardly have recovered from the previous night's ordeal. Besides, it was quite possible that she knew nothing, either of the steward's insanity or of the strange goddess to whom he meant to make his secret sacrifice. She wondered whether even the Prince knew how his steward and secretary passed his nights and, if he did, whether he would answer her questions, even supposing that she were able to ask them. Perhaps the best way was still to question Matteo himself, although this would naturally have to be done cautiously. In any case, she had ordered Dona Lavinia the night before to send him to her first thing in the morning.
'Well, we shall see,' she muttered under her breath.
Her mind made up, Marianne swallowed the scalding tea which Agathe brought in at that moment, then got up and dressed. The day promised to be as hot as yesterday and she selected a morning dress of sulphur-yellow jaconet embroidered with a design of big, white daisies and a pair of matching slippers. Dressing in light, gay colours seemed to her a good way of combating the unpleasant memories of the night. Then, when Dona Lavinia came in to tell her that the steward was awaiting her pleasure, she made her way to the small sitting room adjoining her bedchamber and rang for him to be admitted.
She sat at a small desk and watched him enter, doing her best to conceal her dislike of him. The scene in the dell was still too fresh in her mind for her to feel anything but distaste but if she wanted to find out anything it was necessary to control herself. He appeared in no way disconcerted at her summons and anyone seeing him, standing before her in a deferential attitude, would have sworn that he was a model servant and not a man so base that he could steal, like a thief, into the very same woman's bedchamber while she lay helplessly asleep.
To keep her fingers from trembling, Marianne had picked up a long goose quill from the desk and was fiddling with it absent-mindedly. When she said nothing, Matteo took it on himself to open the conversation.
'Your highness sent for me?'
She glanced up indifferently.
'Yes, Signor Damiani, I sent for you. You are the steward of this estate and I imagine there is very little you do not know about it?'
He smiled faintly. 'I think I may claim to know it, yes.'
'Then you will be able to tell me. Yesterday afternoon was so hot that even the gardens were stifling. I sought refuge, and coolness, in the grotto…' She paused, her eyes never wavering from the steward, and thought that she saw his thick lips tighten a little. With a pretence at carelessness, but measuring every word, she went on: 'I noticed that one of the hangings was a little awry and that a draught was coming through. I found that there was an opening behind it. I should not be a woman if I were not inquisitive and I entered the passage, and found the remains of some burnt-out monument.'
She had deliberately refrained from mentioning the statue but this time she was sure that Matteo had paled under his tan. There was a darkling look in his eyes as he answered:
'I see. Permit me to tell your highness that the Prince would not be pleased to know that you had discovered the little temple. For him, it is a forbidden subject, and it would be best for your highness —'
