The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

at the cathedral not long after the police. When they hadn’t found the gentlemen at Fredo’s rooms, they came in search of Cécile and me. I explained what had happened, omitting—at my husband’s insistence—all references to war and espionage.

“This will bring me some peace,” he said. “I am glad her mother did not live to see this, and I am glad that no one else will be hurt by this terrible man. I will return home now. I hope you and your friends find the treasure but have no interest in doing so myself. Whatever it is will prove insignificant compared to the lives we have lost.”

I could not argue with that.

Cécile and I retreated to a far corner of the nave.

“I did not suspect Monsieur Benton-Smith,” she said. “He was so affable, so charming. The very embodiment of an English gentleman.”

“It kept us from seeing the truth. We should have noticed he had financial difficulties. His clothes showed signs of wear and he told us he couldn’t manage to get the books he wanted for his library. I assumed it was because the volumes were rare, not that he couldn’t afford them.”

“A spy in dire financial straits is always a danger,” Cécile said. “Monsieur Le Queux has taught me that. The Germans agents who are working in Britain are motivated solely by money.”

“Mr. Le Queux writes fiction,” I said.

Cécile shrugged. “That does not preclude it from being true.”

“Darius wasn’t motivated by money, not in that way,” I said. “He only wanted it so that he could fund his scheme, not for himself.”

Colin and Signore Tazzera, who had been chatting quietly, came over to us.

“I don’t want to press you ladies in these awful circumstances, but do you think it would be wrong for us to finish the search you began of the cupola?” Colin asked. “There’s no need for you to accompany—”

“We won’t be left behind,” I said.

Once again, we mounted the stone stairs and climbed up and up, past the carved symbols of the bat and the arrow, the stairway growing narrower as we went. The walls shifted from stone to brick, laid in a herringbone pattern. Just below the top, I spotted a caltrap, identical to the one on the coat of arms, carved into the riser of a winder step. We inspected the walls around it for any variations in the appearance of the mortar or the bricks, but could find nothing to merit further scrutiny.

“I’d hoped the hiding place would be in this final location,” Cécile said.

“We’re missing something,” I said. “It wouldn’t have made sense to violate the walls. Doing so could bring the whole dome crashing down. Maybe the treasure is hidden in the stairs themselves.”

I crouched down. Unlike those above and below, which appeared to be made from single stones, on this step, a thin line of mortar was visible at the top of the riser, just beneath the tread. Colin handed me his pocketknife, which I used to dig it out. Then, with his help, we tugged the tread loose, revealing a wooden box.

“It’s small,” Cécile said. “I was right all along—the treasure is jewelry.”

“It’s not that small,” I said. “It could contain any number of things.”

“Including jewelry,” Signore Tazzera said.

We heard footsteps approaching. “You might as well open it.” It was the policeman who had come after Cécile and I found Lena’s body.

“You’ve secured permission?” Colin asked.

“Sì, signore, so long as you are willing to pay for the repair to return the step to its original state.”

“Of course,” my husband said and handed the box to me.

I opened it. Inside was a pristine copy of Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura, the text written in a hand strikingly similar to that of the Latin graffiti in our palazzo.

“That’s it?” Cécile asked. “No jewelry? No gold florins?”

“This is…” Signore Tazzera reached for the book, a look of rapturous reverence on his face. “I have never seen its match. I wonder if Poggio himself made the copy. The handwriting is very like his. Although, not quite…”

Cécile turned to me. “I am glad he, at least, is pleased.”

“There are two other steps,” I said.

This gave her hope. We went down to the one marked with the arrow. It, too, contained a slim box. Inside were two sketches: one, the face of a beautiful young lady, the other showing four women facing a fifth, handing her flowers. One of the women had a face identical to that in the other drawing.

“It is very like a Botticelli fresco that’s in the Louvre,” Cécile said. “Venus and the Three Graces Presenting Gifts to a Young Woman. These must be the artist’s studies for the piece.” She gently touched the paper. “To imagine Botticelli himself holding these, a pencil in his hand…” Her voice trailed.

“As good as jewelry?” I asked.

“Better,” she replied.

The final step, marked with a bat, had in it a tube rather than a box, and we were abuzz with excitement. Would it contain carefully rolled canvases? Paintings saved from Savonarola’s bonfire of the vanities?

It did not.

Inside was a rolled-up sheaf of papers, an inventory of sorts, with three columns, the first listing objects; the second, names; and the third, dates, all in the second half of 1498.

“Savonarola was executed on the twenty-third of May that year,” Signore Tazzera said. “We were right. Someone was hiding things from him. After his death, they could be returned to their owners.”

I was reading over his shoulder. “Many of these are far too large to fit in a hollow step.”

“They must have put them somewhere else,” Colin said.

“Are there dates associated with every single item?” I asked.

“There are,” Signore Tazzera said. “Dates that are likely to record when each item was returned to its owner. My guess is that the treasure is no more.”

“Are the book and the sketches included?” I asked.

He skimmed through the list and nodded. “The book was owned by Mina Portinari and returned to her three days after Savonarola’s death. The sketches belonged to Cristofano Corsini.