Fanatics

I

I CALLED RAPHAELLA to fill her in on my discoveries and deductions. She didn’t answer her cell, so I left her a message. “I’ve been detecting some more. And delving deeply. Call you later.”

With the new information spinning around in my head, I left the library behind and went to the shop. Working at my trade always took my mind off other things-a welcome relief at that point. I had too many new bits of information and a host of questions spinning in my mind.

Outside, the air had cooled and slate-coloured cloud had rolled in. I flicked the shop lights on, then, wearing apron, gloves, and mask, opened a can of primer. I flipped the table upside down onto a bench and brushed primer onto the underside and legs. A gentle drizzle misted the window, and before I had finished the table a punishing downpour had set in. As I was cleaning up, my cell rang. Raphaella, I hoped.

“Shall I assume you will remain for the night once again, Mr. Havelock? The weather is terrible and the forecast indicates that it will continue until past midnight.”

I looked at the rain beating against the window. “Thanks, Mrs. Stoppini. That sounds like a good idea.”

“Aperitifs will be served in exactly forty-four minutes.”

AFTER A DINNER of grilled lamb chops with roast potato, carrot, and fennel I went back to the shop under an umbrella hammered by rain and sat down at a bench with a carpenter’s pencil, ruler, and graph paper. I scribbled calculations and drafted plans for about twenty minutes. Then I turned on the band saw.

Two hours later I wheeled my invention into the library. It was a chest-high stand, like a flat-topped lectern, on wheels. I placed my laptop on it, powered it up, pushed the lectern to the reference section behind the escritoire, and launched Raphaella’s database. As a trial run I noted a few book titles and authors-mostly editors of reference books-then shut down the computer again. The lectern would be handy for cataloguing books when I was on my own. I could work right next to the shelves.

I dropped into the chair by the library windows and phoned Raphaella.

“It’s your lover,” I said.

“No way. My lover left the house five minutes ago.”

“Hah.”

“So you’ve been delving.”

“Yup.” I described my research, pausing after I had connected the medal and the antique book. She was silent.

“You didn’t say, ‘Hmm,’ ” I pointed out.

“Curious. The man who wrote the book is the man whose face is on the medal is the man who is tortured in your nightmare. Why are you dreaming about him? What does he want from you?”

“I wish I knew. I’ll bet he’s mentioned in Professor Corbizzi’s manuscript.”

“We need to read it.”

“And we’ll have to learn more about this Friar Savonarola guy.”

“Want to flip a coin?” Raphaella asked.

“No,” I replied, my eyes trained on the alcove. “I want the whole story. You take the manuscript.”

“Good.”

“Are you coming out tomorrow?”

“I can probably make it for a few hours in the morning. I’ll call you.”

II

I LEFT THE LIBRARY and returned to the shop to collect my duffle bag of clothes and toiletries, my phone charger, and my book. I locked up the coach house and secured the deadbolt on the kitchen door, then made my way up the staircase, which always reminded me of a suspense movie. On my way to my room, I heard Mrs. Stoppini calling me. I turned on my heel and approached her open door and knocked on the frame.

“Do come in, Mr. Havelock.”

Mrs. Stoppini’s suite consisted of a good-sized bedroom, which I glimpsed through an open door, and a small sitting room with two upholstered chairs arranged in front of a fireplace. One wall of the sitting room was a large open bookshelf bursting at the seams. There was also a small desk and a cabinet. Mrs. Stoppini occupied one of the chairs, and a wine bottle with two glasses sat on the table beside her. She wore a silk dressing gown-not black, but almost-and dark slippers. It was the first time I had seen her in anything but her black outfit. She held a thick book in one hand, a finger between the pages.

“I hoped you would join me in a glass of sherry before you retire,” she said.

I reminded myself that she appreciated company, although she seldom said as much. “Sure,” I replied.

“If you’d care to pour.”

I followed her suggestion, then sat down. The windows were open, and the cool evening air freshened the homey little room.

“A votre sante,” said Mrs. Stoppini, offering her glass to be clinked.

“Cheers.”

“The late professor used to say,” Mrs. Stoppini mused, “that properly prepared food and things like caffe macchiato and sherry make us civilized.”

“You must miss him a lot.”

She looked down into her glass and said nothing.

“Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“Not at all, Mr. Havelock. You are quite right, of course.”

“He certainly was a scholar,” I said lamely. “I’ve had a chance to take a closer look at parts of his collection.”

“He was indeed,” Mrs. Stoppini said wistfully. “A true scholar is a rare thing in today’s world. One sees…” She didn’t complete her thought.

“I was wondering if it would be all right if I-and Raphaella-read a few of the books in the library. Especially the ones the professor wrote.”

“Provided nothing is removed from the library, I cannot think of an objection.”

I wished my mother was there. I was dying-wrong word-eager to dig more information about the prof from Mrs. Stoppini, but I was no good at wording questions that would tease out facts the way Mom could. So far, Mrs. Stoppini had volunteered almost nothing about the prof, but I knew there was something strange about the circumstances surrounding his death. All she had said was that he had become more private-almost paranoid it seemed-especially about his work, which he kept from her. I had concluded that the manuscript titled Fanatic was what had occupied him.

But why be secretive about it? He was a professor of Italian Renaissance studies. In the library there were lots of books on the period. He had written a few. Fanatic was probably one more. What was there about that book that demanded secrecy?

Raphaella and I now had permission to try and find out.

“Interesting book?” I asked, nodding at the volume Mrs. Stoppini had been reading when I came into the sitting room.

“Enough to pass the time, that is all.”

She didn’t mention the title. Why was I not surprised?

III