'The bed was an abomination. Otherwise, passable, thank you.'
D'Agosta heaved on another log. He hated all this waiting, this not knowing, and was unable to completely suppress his irritation at Pendergast's going directly to his room the night before without a satisfactory explanation.
'How did you know about that secret society business, anyway?' he asked a little gruffly. 'I've seen you pull a rabbit out of a hat before, but this one took the cake.'
'What a delightful mixed metaphor. I had a suspicion that Fosco was involved in some way or another, even before I found the horsehair from the Stormcloud at the site of Bullard's killing.'
'When did you first suspect him?'
'You recall the associate I mentioned, Mime? I had him perform Internet background checks on the recent activities of all who were at Grove's last party. His research eventually picked up the fact that, six months ago, Fosco quietly purchased a rare seventeenth-century Florentine cross from an antique dealer on the Via Maggio.'
'The one he gave Grove?'
'Exactly. And recall the count himself was careful to point out to me that, had Grove lived only one more day, he would have been forty million dollars richer.'
'Yeah. Anytime someone volunteers an alibi, something's fishy.'
'The count's Achilles' heel is his volubility.'
'That and his big mouth.'
'I began to search for weaknesses in the count. He was clearly a dangerous man, and I felt we needed every advantage we could get-just in case. You may recall the comment of the colonnello 's, back at his barracks, about secret societies. He said the Florentine nobility was 'rife with them.' I began to wonder if Fosco belonged to such a secret society, and if so, whether it might be used against him in some way. The Florentine nobility are among the oldest in Europe-their lineages go back to the 1200s. Most of their ancient titles are associated with various arcane orders and guilds, some going as far back as the Crusades. Most have secret documents, rites, and so forth. The Knights Templars, the Black Gonfaloniers, the Cavaliers of the Rose-there are many others.'
D'Agosta nodded silently.
'Some of these societies take themselves extremely seriously, even if their original function has long passed and all that remains are empty observances and ceremonies. The count, coming from one of the most ancient families, surely belonged by hereditary right to a number of them. I e-mailed Constance, who managed to unearth several possibilities. I followed up with some of my own contacts here in Italy.'
'When?'
'The night before last.'
'And here I thought you were fast asleep in your hotel suite.'
'Sleep is an unfortunate biological requirement that both wastes time and leaves one vulnerable. At any rate, I uncovered hints of the existence of the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. It was a group of assassins formed during the most contentious years of the thirteenth century, long before the Medici came to power. One of the founders of the order was a French baron named Hugo d'Aquilanges, who brought to Florence some peculiar manuscripts full of the dark arts. Using these manuscripts, the group conjured up the devil-or so they believed-to aid in their midnight assassinations. They swore blood secrecy to each other, and any violation was punishable by immediate death. The cavaliere Mantun de Ardaz da Fosco was another of the founders; he passed membership with the title to his son and so forth, down to our Fosco. Their line, apparently, was also the keeper of the library of the Comitatus. It was these ancient documents Fosco used in conjuring up the devil for Bullard and the rest on All Hallows' Eve. Whether he planned to use those documents from the beginning, I can't be sure. But he would have learned Beckmann could read Italian and that Grove, even as a student, was knowledgeable about old manuscripts. Fosco couldn't pass off any old manuscript-it had to be the real thing. I believe that he simply could not resist the fun. Of course, he didn't realize at the time what it meant-or what penalties his breach of secrecy would incur. You see, members aren't inducted into the order until they reach the age of thirty.'
'But you still haven't explained how you knew Fosco belonged.'
'The research indicated that when the hereditary member is inducted into the society, he is marked with a black spot-a tattoo, really-using a bottle of ashes from the corpse of Mantun de Ardaz, who was drawn, quartered, and burned in the Piazza della Signoria for heresy. This black spot is placed directly over the heart.'
'And when did you get a glimpse of that ?'
'When I interviewed him at the Sherry Netherland. He wore an open-necked white shirt. Of course, at the time I didn't understand its significance-it merely looked like a large mole.'
'But you remembered it.'
'A photographic memory can be quite useful.'
Abruptly, Pendergast motioned for D'Agosta to be silent. For about a minute they waited, motionless. Then D'Agosta heard footsteps, a soft knock.
'Come in,' Pendergast said.
The door opened and Fosco slipped through, followed by half a dozen men with guns. He bowed. 'Good morning to you both. I trust you passed a decent night?'
D'Agosta did not reply.
'And how was your night, Count?' Pendergast asked.
'I always sleep like a baby, thank you.'
'Funny how most murderers do.'
Fosco turned to D'Agosta. 'You, on the other hand, look a little peaked, Sergeant. I hope you haven't caught cold.'
