“I…” She paused momentarily. “I used to love that library,” she said sadly. “It was-is-such a beautiful room, so full of light. It was our custom each morning to take our coffee there before our breakfast. We would chat or read contentedly, surrounded by our books, discussing our plans to return one day to Italy and retire to a small village outside Florence. Our house there has been in the Corbizzi family for three hundred years. There is a small garden and a few olive trees on the rise beyond the yard. I regret to say it passed into other hands when the professor needed to raise money quickly last year for his research.
“There was a time, Mr. Havelock, when I would not have shared with you what I am about to relate. But you have proved to be a reliable and, may I say, a caring young man, and I feel that I can confide in you.
“During the last few years the professor began to act in a way that was, as you say, uncharacteristic. He was frequently agitated. He had begun a new project, his last book, he promised, his best and most important. I saw immediately that it was not like the others, which he composed at an orderly pace, working an hour or two each morning after breakfast, then again after lunch. He became obsessed, as if his life would have been rendered meaningless if he didn’t finish the project.
“He grew increasingly secretive, retreating to the library behind closed doors. He made me swear to keep confidential all facts pertaining to his most recent work. Eventually he requested, then demanded, that I stay away from the room in which we had passed so many pleasant hours. He worked feverishly, often long into the night, as if desperate to reach some self-imposed deadline. Occasionally I would open the doors to see him asleep at his work.
“I feared for his health. He lost weight and his colour was not good. Sometimes I heard him talking to himself, at times remonstrating, as if he was arguing with someone. I looked forward to the day when that accursed book would be finished for good and all. But of course, he passed on before… I was about to say, ‘before he brought the book to a conclusion,’ but you’ve said it
“Did his change in behaviour begin as soon as he started the book?”
“Shortly thereafter. He was conducting preliminary research and drafting the outline when he told me excitedly that he had made some sort of breakthrough or discovery and it was imperative that he go immediately to Florence. It was subsequent to his return that he… changed. For some reason, the journey altered him, and he evolved from a kind and gentle man to a person possessed. He was frantic to finish the project.”
“Did he bring anything home with him?”
“Papers. Notes from his research. Books. And something he refused to let me see. He kept it in the library, out of sight.”
“So you don’t know what it was.”
“Not until today. I know now. It had to have been that cross.”
Everything Mrs. Stoppini had told me fit with what Raphaella and I had deduced. Now I had to proceed cautiously. I couldn’t let slip anything about the spirit haunting the library. If I did, Mrs. Stoppini would think I had flipped my lid.
“Mrs. Stoppini, there are two important-crucial-suggestions Raphaella and I want to make.”
“Very well.”
“But you can’t ask why we’re making them.”
“Indeed. Well, Mr. Havelock, you
You’re not kidding, I almost said, not realizing at first that she was using the word “spirit” in a different way.
“About the cross. If it is bequeathed to the university”-she nodded as I spoke-“please don’t take it to Italy yourself. Don’t let anyone take it. Send it. The second thing is that Raphaella and I are certain there is only one copy of the professor’s manuscript. There should be a backup copy. We’d like your permission to take it out of the house to have it photocopied.”
I had decided not to tell her that Raphaella had photos of each page, taken without permission.
“We hope you’ll have it published,” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Havelock, I agree. As I said, I was not aware that the late professor had completed the book. That fact alters my original intention to include it among his papers and add it to the bequest. I shall not do so. But I see no need to hurry publication. The manuscript will keep, I am sure.”
Not if it burns first, I wanted to say but couldn’t.
“In addition,” she went on, “you are quite correct about making a photocopy. I shall lodge the second copy with my lawyer. He keeps a safe in his chambers. I would be most grateful if you and Miss Skye could attend to that task as soon as is convenient.”
I relaxed a bit and took another sip of the grappa. We sat together for a few minutes in what Mrs. Stoppini would have called a companionable silence. I heard her sigh, then she spoke softly.
“In a way, Mr. Havelock, the late professor gave his life to that manuscript.”
She didn’t know how right she was.
II
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when I got home to find Dad assaulting the hemlock hedge that borders our yard, his electric clippers buzzing and clattering as he slashed away like a cavalier. Mom was relaxing in a chaise longue on the patio, spooning boysenberry yogurt into her mouth.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Eventful.”
“How so?”
“Tell you later. I gotta hit the shower. Make sure Dad still has all his fingers when he’s done.”
I stood under the hot water a long time, letting the shower sluice away the day’s sweat and tension and trying to decide what had been more intimidating, the testosterone-charged atmosphere of the paintball camp or the mournful face of Mrs. Stoppini. I was pleased that she had opened up a bit. When I thought about it, I recognized that she had placed a lot of trust in me from the start-in certain areas. Not that I blamed her for guarding her personal business. It was her unexplained behaviour concerning the secret cupboard that had weakened my trust in her and led me to wonder if, in a way, I was being used and purposely kept in the dark. Now I believed in her, and that made me both glad and relieved, because I liked Mrs. Stoppini.
I was getting into clean clothes when my cell rang.
“It’s your companion,” Raphaella said.
“Nice to hear your voice, Ethel.”
“Hah-hah. What did she say?”
I sat down on the edge of my bed and replayed my conversation with Mrs. Stoppini.
“It must have been hard on her, going over the events of the prof’s death again,” Raphaella remarked.
“Yeah. There were lots of tears. But I got the feeling she was relieved, too, like she was unburdening herself.”
“She’d been holding it all in since he died.”
“Right.”
“But you’re certain she knows nothing about our favourite ghost?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Good. And you got her permission to take the manuscript away and get it copied?”
“Yup.”
“You’re brilliant.”
“Come over for supper. We can pick up a movie and flop in front of the TV for the evening.”
“Okay. Who’s cooking?”
“Dad.”
“Oh.”
“Come anyway. It’s barbecue.”
“Barbecued what?”
“I don’t know. Some dead animal or other. I’ll try to get Dad to throw some veggie burgers on the grill while
