Evelyn. That was more than five years ago.'
'And then there's the count. A prime suspect. Look at him! Obviously a man of dark secrets. He's Italian, and you know them .'
The count smiled. 'We Italians are devious creatures.'
D'Agosta looked at the count with curiosity. He was struck by the man's eyes, which were a dark gray color, with the unique clearness of deep water. The man had long gray hair, swept back, and skin as pink as a baby's, despite his age, which had to approach sixty.
'And then there’s me ,' Lady Milbanke continued. 'You might think I had the best motive of all to murder him. We were once lovers. Cherchez la dame. '
D'Agosta shuddered and wondered if such a thing was physically possible.
The critic, Frederick, seemed to be equally put off by this image, because he began backing off. 'Excuse me, there's someone I need to speak with.'
Lady Milbanke smiled. 'About your new appointment, I suppose?'
'As a matter of fact, yes. Mr. Pendergast, a pleasure to have met you.'
There was a brief pause in the conversation. D'Agosta found that the count's gray eyes had settled on Pendergast and that a small smile was playing about his lips. 'Pray tell, Mr. Pendergast,' said the count. 'What is your official interest in this case?'
Pendergast didn't react. By way of response, he slipped a hand into his jacket and removed his wallet, opening it slowly and reverently, as if it was a case of jewels. The gold badge flashed in the lights of the great hall.
'Ecce signum!' the count cried delightedly.
The old lady took a step back. 'You? Police?'
'Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation.'
Lady Milbanke rounded on the count. 'You knew and didn’t tell me? And here I've made all of us into suspects!' Her voice had lost its undertone of amusement.
The count smiled. 'I knew the minute he approached that he was of the constabulary.'
'He doesn't look like an FBI agent tome .'
The count turned to Pendergast. 'I hope Evelyn's information will be useful to you, sir?'
'Very,' said Pendergast. 'I have heard much about you, Count Fosco.'
The count smiled.
'I believe you and Grove have been friends a long time?'
'We shared a love of music and art, and that highest marriage of the two: opera. Are you by chance a lover of opera?'
'I am not.'
'No?' The count arched his eyebrows. 'And why not?'
'Opera has always struck me as vulgar and infantile. I prefer the symphonic form: pure music, without such props as sets, costumes, melodrama, sex, and violence.'
It seemed to D'Agosta the count had gone stock-still. But then he realized Fosco was laughing silently, visible only from an internal convulsion. The laugh went on for quite a long time. Then he wiped the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief and patted his plump hands together lightly, in appreciation. 'Well, well. I see you are a gentleman with firm opinions.' He paused, leaned toward Pendergast, and began to sing in a low tone, his deep bass voice barely keeping above the noise of the room.
Braveggia, urla! T'affretta
a palesarmi il fondo dell'alma ria!
He paused, leaned back, beaming around. 'Tosca, one of my favorites.'
D'Agosta saw Pendergast's lips tighten a little. 'Shout, braggart,' he translated. 'What a rush you're in to show me the last dregs of your vile soul!'
The group became still at what appeared to be an insult directed at the count. But the count only broke into a smile himself. 'Bravo. You speak Italian.'
'Ci Provo,” said Pendergast.
'My dear fellow, if you can translate Puccini that well, I should say you do much better than merely trying. So you dislike opera. I can only hope you are less of a philistine when it comes to art. Have you had a chance to admire that Ghirlandaio over there? Sublime.'
'Getting to the case,' said Pendergast, 'I wonder, Count, if you could answer a few questions?'
The count nodded.
'What was Grove's mood on the night of his death? Was he upset? Frightened?'
'Yes, he was. But come, shall we take a closer look?' The count moved toward the painting. The others followed.
'Count Fosco, you were one of the last people to see Jeremy Grove alive. I would appreciate your help.'
The count patted his hands together again. 'Forgive me if I seem flippant. I want to help. As it happens, your line of work has always fascinated me. I'm an ardent reader of English mysteries; they are perhaps the only thing the English are good for. But I must confess myself unused to being the subject of detection. Not an altogether agreeable feeling.'
'It is never agreeable. What makes you think Grove was upset that night?'
