The Sonnet Lover (45 page)

I slide Lionel’s letter to Benedetta out from under the letter opener and read it again. What would Mark have thought of Orlando’s claim? Would he have realized that everything he had worked for since he be-came president of Hudson College would evaporate once this boy proved that La Civetta belonged to him? He’d have wanted to see the letter, but surely he wouldn’t have deliberately hurt Robin to get a hold of it…But if he’d tried to take it from him on the balcony…?

The terrible thought forms in my head with the same vivid clarity with which Robin’s blood on the pavement had appeared to me a moment ago. I try to shake it away—to replace it with the scenario I’ve so carefully built up of Orlando pushing Robin to his death—but instead I see Mark following Orlando out onto the balcony. The door closes in front of my vision, but in my imagination I open it and see Orlando rush toward Robin on the balcony with Mark close behind him—because he wants to get that letter first. If it had been Mark who tried to get the letter from Robin…

A crack of lightning makes me jump, and the letter opener clatters to the floor. I stoop to pick it up and slip it into my pocket. When I stand up I see that a curtain of rain has fallen over the view of the little villa. No one will be venturing out of there too soon.

If Mark believed Robin had the letter on him, he might have grabbed something else from him…one of Ginevra’s poems maybe. If so, he might still have it in his room. And if I want to look in Mark’s room, now would be the time to do it.

I gather the poems and bring them back to my room, placing them in my book bag. The letter from Lionel Graham, though, I put in the pocket of my hiking shorts. Then I make my way down the hall toward Mark’s room. I’m not sure what I think I’ll find there, but I do have an idea of how to get in. When I was here twenty years ago, I learned that these old locks were easy to pick. Fortunately, Claudia’s home improvements haven’t extended to changing the locks. The sharp point of the letter opener does the trick in minutes.

Mark’s room is surprisingly messy and, even more out of character, he’s left the bedside light on. His office and apartment in New York are always scrupulously neat, and he’s a stickler for turning off lights. He must be under a tremendous amount of pressure to have left such a mess and to forget about the villa’s electric bill. His desk is strewn with papers, which, I see when I go through them, all have to do with the lawsuit. I find here the agreement he’s drawn up with Claudia in which she relinquishes her claim to La Civetta for three hundred thousand euros. It’s a lot, but not as much as she’d get if the lawsuit went her way. Was she willing to settle for so much less than her stake in the villa because it had been Orlando who pushed Robin? Or was Mark paying her to keep Orlando quiet? But Orlando loved Robin. If he saw Mark push him, would any amount of money keep him quiet?

No, I must have it wrong. Mark couldn’t have pushed Robin. Still, having gotten Orlando arrested I feel I owe it to him—and to Bruno—to do a thorough search. I open the closet and find Mark’s locked briefcase. That’s where he would keep anything really important. Fortunately, he once needed me to stop at his apartment to pick up some papers for him and he’d given me the combination.

I revolve the well-oiled brass cogs and flip open the locks. Here, at least, Mark’s usual fastidiousness still reigns. The matching Dunhill diary and notepad I gave him for Christmas last year are neatly strapped into the top compartment. There’s only one piece of stray paper lying across the bottom. I pick it up and shiver at the leathery touch of parchment that’s been crumpled like a discarded glove. It’s hard to make out the faint ink on the wrinkled page, so I sit down on the bed under the bedside lamp and read the first line.

Be not dismayed at winter’s icy breath.

It’s as if an icy breath has brushed across the back of my neck. There could be several explanations for what Mark is doing with one of Ginevra’s poems, but I’m suddenly sure there’s only one. He took it from Robin before he died, thinking it was the letter from Lionel Graham. He must have been awfully disappointed when he found out he had a four-hundred-year-old poem instead. Mark didn’t even like poetry.

Another wave of cold air chills the back of my neck, but this time I recognize its source. The door to the bedroom has opened, letting in a cold draft. I lift my gaze to the window in front of me and see, reflected in it, Mark’s familiar broad-shouldered silhouette.

“So you’ve found at least one of the poems,” he says as he approaches me. “Let me guess; you’ve found the others, too? And Sir Lionel’s letter? You must have found that or you would never have broken into my room.”

He sits down on the side of the bed next to me and reaches out his hand. I’m afraid he’s going to touch me, but instead he reaches into the pocket of my shorts and retrieves the folded letter. I slip my hand into my other pocket and grasp the handle of the letter opener.

“Aha!” he says, proud of himself. But it’s me he commends. “I knew you’d find it, Rose. You’re a marvelous scholar.”

“How did you know about the letter?” I ask.

“Well, I really have you to thank for that, Rose. Don’t you remember? You sent Orlando to me outside the theater. He was only too eager to appeal to me as an authority figure to make Robin give him back the letter that proved he was entitled to his share of La Civetta. I told him that I’d have a nice long chat with Robin about that letter—and I would have, but your little friend was really very uncooperative. When I suggested on the balcony that we discuss the situation later, he started shouting that he could not be bought for a pound of flesh. He was sitting on that balcony and he took a piece of paper out of his pocket. So of course I thought it was the letter. I merely took advantage of the opportunity.”

“But Orlando must have seen you—”

“Of course he did, but who would have believed his word against mine? He was afraid I’d accuse him of pushing Robin…which is exactly what I told Claudia I
would
do if Orlando accused me of pushing Robin. She convinced Orlando to be quiet and tried to bribe me to settle the lawsuit out of court. She thought I had the letter because Orlando had seen me take the paper from Robin.”

The thunder cracks again, so loudly this time that I jump and the lights flicker for an instant. Looking out the window, Mark smiles. “Good thing I made them switch the performance to the chapel, eh? I don’t think anyone will be making their way back here too soon in
this.
”

The menace in his voice makes my skin prickle, but when I stand up he doesn’t try to stop me. “Well, now you have it,” I say. “No more lawsuit. I suppose that even if Orlando accuses you of pushing Robin, no one will believe him.”

“Of course not,” Mark says, standing, too. “He’s been telling that story all day, but thanks to the evidence you provided, no one’s inclined to believe him, especially since he didn’t come forward sooner.”

“And you got Gene to keep your secret by threatening his job?” I ask as I take a step toward the door. Instead of trying to stop me, Mark takes my elbow and steers me in that direction, falling into step beside me. In the hallway he turns me toward the rotunda. “But Leo. Why didn’t Leo say anything…?”

“Leo just wanted to go ahead with his film, and for that he needed my permission to use the villa and the poems,” Mark says. “They’re in your bedroom, yes? I’m sure he’ll be happy to see them. Shall we get them together?”

Is that why he hasn’t tried to hurt me yet? Unlike the rest of the people we’ve just mentioned, he must know that there’s nothing he can offer to keep me quiet. But how will he do it? He’s taken advantage of every opportunity so far or arranged for someone else to look like the guilty party.

“You told Claudia that Mara was going to break her side of the deal, didn’t you? So
she
pushed Mara down the stairs. But what about Zoe—what possible harm could poor Zoe do?”

“She saw the letter from Sir Lionel,” Mark says, pausing at the top of the stairs. “She doesn’t understand its significance yet, but I’m afraid that if she ever talks to Bruno, he’ll know what she’s talking about. Luckily, with her allergies…”

The oculus above us flares hot white. I look up and see a web spreading across the black-green sky—like veins in a giant eye—and I can taste metal at the back of my throat. I feel Mark’s grip tighten on my elbow, and suddenly I’m looking down the steep marble stairs, the splotches of red marble gleaming in the metallic glow of the next lightning flash. I pull the letter opener from my pocket and drive it into Mark’s thigh. His scream is even louder than the thunder.
Please, God,
I think as I run down the hall,
let someone hear that.

The hall is pitch black, but a faint light is coming through the open door to my room. I run in there and lock the door—remembering only at that moment that Mark has the key.

I hear a bloodcurdling yowl, which I guess is him pulling the letter opener out of his leg, and I run onto the balcony. The terrace below looks far away. If only this were a play there’d be a convenient trellis or vine to climb down, but it’s not a play and the fall looks like it would at least twist my ankle—and then how quickly could I get away? He’d have me in the deserted, rain-soaked garden, close to the crumbling—and now slippery—steps that Mara broke her neck on. No—I don’t want to go this way, but I do want him to
think
I went this way.

I slip the hem of my T-shirt over the railing and pull until it tears away, making sure the fabric snags on the metal. Then I go back into my room, glancing back to see the piece of white cotton waving in the wind like a white flag. I hear a key slip into the lock.

When the next thunder rumbles overhead, I open the lid of the
cassone
and climb inside, closing the lid quickly so that the thunder will cover the creak of its hinges. Then I lie in the darkness and wait. I try to listen for Mark’s footsteps, but the wood is too thick for me to hear anything that’s outside of the narrow casket (it looked so much bigger from outside!). Even the thunder is a low rumble from in here. I suppose these wedding chests were made solid and sturdy to protect the bride’s valuable clothing from dampness and vermin, the joints smoothly planed and fitted together so snugly that no air will get in. What was I thinking when I climbed in here? Mark won’t have to throw me down a flight of stairs—he’ll only have to wait until I suffocate to death. Perhaps even now he’s figured out where I am and is sitting on top of the chest to make sure I can’t escape.

The thought that the lid—only inches from my face—is pinned down is so excruciating that it’s all I can do to keep myself from testing it. I run my fingers lightly over the inside of the lid and feel the crescent indentations of Ginevra’s fingernails embedded in the wood. What had she said in her deposition?
I was there so long, screaming and trying to claw my way out, that I thought it would be my coffin.
How long, I wonder? How long before she would have run out of air? Or gone insane—another option that occurs to me. That’s one of Juliet’s fears when she drinks Friar Lawrence’s potion—that waking up in her ancestors’ tomb she’ll “madly play with my forefathers’ joints.” At least there are no bones here in this coffin…only…

My hand roving over the lid has lit on something stuck in one of the crescents. It comes loose and falls on my face, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. I pick it off my face and feel its ragged contours—a centuries-old fingernail, relic of my rediscovered poet.

I am half ready to take my chances with Mark when I hear a loud creak—like wood on old hinges. It sounds so much like what the
cassone
would sound like being opened up that I put my hand over my face to protect myself from the attack I think is coming, but when the lid remains closed I come up with another theory. It’s the shutter to the balcony. Mark’s gone out and found the scrap of my shirt on the railing. Will he believe I’ve gone into the garden?

Something bumps into the
cassone
and then I hear another creak—this time I’m sure it must be the bedroom door. He’s gone downstairs—no need for him to risk the jump from the balcony—and from there he’ll go out into the garden to find me. Now all I have to do is get out of this damn box and run toward the
limonaia.
Bruno will be there; he wouldn’t have gone to the performance with Orlando in jail.

The thought of Bruno—so close—gives me the strength to open the lid of the
cassone
and pull myself out, gasping in the warm muggy air as though it were an Alpine elixir. Before leaving the room I take the Maglite from my night table and then steal out into the blackness of the hall. I don’t turn the light on, though, because I’m afraid that it will draw Mark’s attention if he’s still in the villa, but I grip it in my hand, ready to strike. I could go through the archive room and down the spiral stairs, but I don’t want to risk those twanging steps. So I start down the hall toward the rotunda, following—I can’t help but think—the path Ginevra took fleeing from the scene of her rape.

When I come into the rotunda it is empty and dark. No light shines through the oculus. I feel my way along the landing banister, toward the stairs, making myself go slow enough not to trip. I’ve reached the first step—I can feel the edge of it with my bare toes—when something hard rams into my back. I keep from going over the stairs only by gripping the banister. I can hear the flashlight fall to the marble floor below and crack when it lands. Then I feel my neck wrench as Mark hauls me to my feet by the roots of my hair. He bends me over the banister on the landing and I can feel the cold marble pressing into the small of my back. I feel the hand he has in my hair snake onto my shoulder, shoving me back, while his other hand slides down my leg, behind my thigh, and starts to lift me up—

Another crack of lightning splits the blackness, lighting up Mark’s face. He looks—surprised. I feel his hand on my thigh lose its grip, but the one on my shoulder clutches at my flesh as he falls heavily onto me. His weight is pushing us both backward. Beneath us yawns the empty space of the rotunda—not the abysses of the Alps or even the ten stories Robin fell, but enough of a fall to break both our necks. Then something pulls us both back from the edge. Mark slides onto the floor, clutching his shoulder, and at that moment the lights come on.