Fanatics

“I think the fire in this room that night started before the prof died-and guess who started it? The official explanation of the events was that the prof had a seizure and the force of his body hitting the floor dislodged a log from the fireplace, starting the blaze. That’s what Mrs. Stoppini believes. But that doesn’t explain the books hurled all over the place, the upturned table, the knocked-over chair. No, what happened was that the spectre appeared, maybe not for the first time. But because the prof had finished the book, it came with furious vengeance. The prof got up from the table where he was editing the manuscript. He knew what was about to happen. Flames broke out near the fireplace-maybe that’s where Savonarola was standing. The prof’s terror brought on the beginnings of the seizure. He experienced dizziness. Loss of control, loss of strength. He gathered up the manuscript, struggled toward the open secret cupboard, clutching at the walls as he lurched along, displacing books. He got to the fire-proof cupboard-which, remember, is insulated metal-and shoved the manuscript inside and locked the door. When I found it the pages were loose, piled on top of the file folder. With the manuscript safe he staggered toward the spectre and fell to the floor, knocking over the chair. And he died.”

We were silent for a little while, picturing Professor Corbizzi’s last moments of life.

“What an incredibly courageous man,” Raphaella said.

“He sure was.”

“But there’s one thing that isn’t explained,” Raphaella said, her brow wrinkled.

“The keys.”

“Right. How could Professor Corbizzi have had time to lock the cupboard, cross the room, and drop the keys into the desk drawer?”

“He didn’t.”

Raphaella smiled. “Mrs. Stoppini?”

“Indeed.”

Three

I

AFTER LOCKING THE CUPBOARD and windows, Raphaella and I dragged ourselves along the hall and into the kitchen. Mrs. Stoppini stood at the table, her hands and forearms white with flour, kneading a fat roll of bread dough, her narrow body leaning into the task. I saw her in a different light now. She knew a lot more than she pretended, but how much she was aware of was still an open question.

We said our goodbyes and I remembered to leave my laptop in the shop. Then, under a sky that still refused to brighten, we climbed wearily into the van. I started the engine, turned around, and drove down the foggy lane.

“I feel like I’ve been dragged behind a train for an hour,” Raphaella sighed, stifling a yawn.

“Me, too.”

And I meant it. We were both emotionally beaten up, brain-whacked, and mauled by fear.

“But you have to admit, life with me isn’t boring,” I added as the gates closed behind the van.

“Should we have left Mrs. Stoppini there alone?”

“I was thinking the same thing-and not for the first time. But I think that if anything was going to happen to her, it would have by now.”

“I guess.”

“The only way to be sure she’s safe is to get the spectre to leave the mansion permanently. And that means moving the reliquary to another location. If we’re right in thinking that he’s bound to the cross, shifting it should solve the problem temporarily.”

“The bigger problem being to have him move on permanently,” Raphaella added. “But where could we put the cross? The workshop? Maybe the friar could help you repair antiques.”

I laughed.

“But you’d have to keep him away from flammable liquids.”

“Lame joke. Do you know that ‘edible’ and ‘inedible’ are opposites but ‘flammable’ and ‘inflammable’ mean the same thing?”

“You’re being evasive.”

“Okay. There’s too much fire hazard in the shop to take the risk of having a firebug Dominican in there. Unless…”

Raphaella turned toward me in her seat. “What?”

“If we remove the manuscript, maybe we accomplish the same thing. He wants to incinerate it. That’s his goal. No manuscript means he’s stuck in the library with the reliquary.”

“But then we’d have a totally infuriated murderous spirit in the house.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Incandescent with rage,” Raphaella added.

“Inflamed with anger.”

“Hot under the collar.”

“Fuming.”

I turned on to Raphaella’s street.

“How did we get into this mess?” she asked, her exhaustion colouring every word.

“I went to the Half Moon for a coffee one morning-what?-three weeks ago? But the truth is, I fell for a business deal that was too good to be true. I signed a contract with a very strange old lady who is a mystery cloaked in another mystery. And I talked you into helping me.”

“My normally excellent judgment was undermined by your magnetic charm.”

“Hah.”

“Or it could have been the Thai stir-fry that got to me.”

“You know what? I think it’s time Mrs. Stoppini came clean. I think I need to confront her.”

“I should go with you.”

“That would help. Mrs. Stoppini likes you. But I got us into this mess.”

“Will you go back and talk to her now?”

“No hurry,” I said.

II

FOR THE FIRST TIME in a long while I got a good night’s sleep, and the cloudless blue sky that greeted me when I got out of bed gave me a welcome lift.

Dad was at the breakfast table when I entered the kitchen, reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. A bowl sticky with the streaky remains of porridge sat beside his cup. Dad made it the old-fashioned way, with real rolled oats. No instant stuff for him.

“How you can eat that glop is a mystery to me,” I greeted him.

He lowered the paper and folded it, putting it aside. “Like most things nowadays, it’s a lost art.”

“Hah.”

“Porridge is the food of the gods. It sticks to your ribs.”

“And the pot, your spoon, and anything else it comes into contact with.”

“Did I tell you the joke about the Englishman and the Scotsman arguing over the benefits of oatmeal?”

“Not this week. Interested in a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“No, thanks. By the way, my customer was very pleased with the job you did on that pine table.”

“I’m glad,” I said, searching the fridge for a block of cheddar.