Will lifted the morning newspaper. 'They've decided, Carlos. Rothrock is charged as an 'accessory after the fact to kidnapping and rape,' a far lesser offense than Bennet's.'
Carlos blew up all over again. 'The bastard! He went up there and saw her, and
'As understandable as that would be, it would gain you and your family
Carlos just growled.
Will half-smiled for a moment. 'That aside, there's this report to Arundel to finish; he has been asking when it would be complete since his first letter after correspondence resumed. I'd like nothing better than to deluge him with copies of all of this.'
'Tell me he has some better reason than morbid curiosity-'
'I can tell you this much-what I suspect is true and what actually is true might not coincide entirely, but he's maneuvering for something, I am certain of it. He is nearly always planning and doing more than one thing, if over twenty years of acquaintance is any guide. But whatever might be in his mind, it will be with relief that I see this off by courier to my connection at Leiden.'
'Huh? Leiden? Is that the only way you can get it to Padua?'
Will sighed. 'My friend, Arundel is no longer in Italy, he has gone to be with Hartlib and other scholars in the Netherlands, because of what happened in Padua. Bennet's misdeeds are still coming to light. It wasn't in Grantville that they began, or apparently in Padua, either.'
'So? My wife's hell and mine-'
'Were caused . . . were caused by a mad series of events that began with confusion and have culminated in disaster. Do you know we finally discovered what became of the former chain of couriers?'
'Maybe you said something; I don't remember.'
'Well, then, at Arundel's urging after we regained contact, I hired the man who calls here to trace the whole chain and make inquiries as he went. A certain Armand d'Orsini, a man of seventy or so, traveled for many years between Padua and Innsbruck. On January fifth, he began his usual run north, went on for eight days, and stopped for the night according to his usual habit at the inn in Campo di Trens. And there he died in his bed. The innkeeper knew nothing of d'Orsini's business or relations, and had no better idea than to keep his saddlebags until someone might call for them.'
'Nobody did?'
'Nobody did, until the man I sent. As it happened, the bags contained Arundel's letter asking what I knew of the Ring's Fire-by that time a wildly spreading craze among the continent's rich and powerful, and soon enough a commodity of political advantage. Months wore away with no reply from me, and no messages from Morton either after that letter left Padua. Then an ordinary article of mine appeared in one of the new scholarly journals. Arundel was baffled and worried. A man in his position is liable to acquire unknown enemies at any time, and not necessarily because of anything he's done or not done. And so, not knowing whether Tim Morton or I even lived by then, or what other unimaginable calamity might have come about, Arundel sent Rothrock and Bennet here to look and listen with the greatest caution, and to do whatever seemed best. The rest, we know all too well.' He flicked his eyes toward the court transcripts.
'Shit! That's what started this whole clusterfuck?'
'Yes, Carlos. It was nothing more sinister than a man coming to the end of his appointed days. I have offered prayers for him.
'One thing more. Though I've served Arundel in compiling this, little in it is in any sense secret or even private. Nearly all of it comes from public records that any citizen may read. An agent connected to Schmucker and Schwentzel has approached me to make a book out of this miserable, confused affair. You and Olivia would be most welcome as co-authors.'
****
Olivia's homecoming was far from the joyful triumph it should have been. It was bittersweet to see Carlos's gentleness as she nerved herself to step down from the truck, looking all around her, then through the garden gate, along the flagstones, and finally after long minutes, up the stairs onto the porch and through the front door. She wore her gun; at her insistence, Carlos and Will did likewise.
She examined the house room by room, over and over, visibly taking hold of herself as she went.
All was tidy and well-repaired by the hands of their neighbors, friends, and children, other than the empty places of certain long-cherished belongings that were no more. The pain of Bennet's wanton destruction-which that hateful despoiler admitted at trial. . . . He never explained what prompted his furious ransacking, or what its object had been. Century-old Mexican artifacts shredded, Olivia's classically themed portrait spirited away, massive frame and all . . . At the end, he set fire to the back patio arbor. None of it made the least sense to anyone, perhaps not even to him. He had screamed 'witches' repeatedly at Olivia, Carlos, even Will during his trial, and been held in contempt thereafter.
Carlos helped settle her in the best chair, and brought her herb tea. While he warmed a bowl of apple crisp a neighbor had left, Will stood looking out at the front garden, wondering whether there was anything he could say to her that would help, or even whether it would be wise to say anything at all. But it was Olivia who spoke. 'Carlos, you want to bring in the cassette recorder? If we're going to write a book about this mess, we'd better start saving our recollections.'
'What the hell happened, Will?'
They were seated around a painted iron table, looking out into Olivia's back garden, where a young peach sapling had grown noticeably during the summer. Four or five bees hummed among the flowers in the golden light of afternoon. Even on this late summer day, Olivia wore a wool jacket half-buttoned, and had a light blanket thrown over her lower body.
Will cupped his hands around the mug of warm chocolate, made Mexican style, and tried to formulate an answer. Many answers.
'Bennet's delusion, I think, is the lesser mystery. You were among the artists and art teachers who posed in costume during photography and drawing sessions?'
Olivia nodded.
'One of those who came here to discover what might be of use in his profession returned home to Italy with photographs taken during the sessions. He was already an accomplished and respected painter. One of those photographs ironically became the inspiration for his own depiction of Calypso. Arundel purchased it as a gift to his host, who hung it in one of the salons, where Bennet saw it often. It fed his growing insanity. I can only guess what he imagined when he saw your portrait from Gozo, after he had already kidnapped you.
'But as to larger matters . . .' he paused again to marshal his thoughts. 'The Earl of Arundel rarely does anything for a single reason. However, I think I understand one of his purposes.
'He wishes England to take her place among the powers of the earth, as she once did in your history. But having pondered deeply on that history, and on the works of economists from Adam Smith onward, he has gained a very different understanding of the foundations of wealth and power from that of most minds of our time. He has discarded the long-held assumption that of course economics is what is called a 'zero-sum game,' because he sees that land is no longer to be the only source of wealth-not even the chief source. Therefore he is indifferent to the gains of others, so long as England gains-and the Howards. But for anyone to gain, the knowledge here in Grantville must not only be kept safe against all hazards, it must be spread to the world and brought to England as quickly as it can be. This has already begun, of course; one of my former countrymen at the high school has returned home to teach mathematics at Cambridge.
'Richelieu's unspeakable assault two years ago, which came so dreadfully close to success, shook Arundel badly. He wrote as much when I reported what nearly became of the library. He declares Richelieu's vicious plot to be a knowing and willful rebellion against the manifest will of God, blackest treachery even against the church he proclaims holy, against all of the Christian churches, and even to the great detriment of all the people of France. He has said that whatever brilliant arguments Richelieu may have conceived to excuse such a sacrilege in his own mind, it was in stark truth done in the service of Satan.
