TAM03 - Cruel Music by Myers Beverle Graves

Author:Myers, Beverle Graves [Myers, Beverle Graves]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cThriller, epub-for-travel, Historical
ISBN: 9781615951376
Google: h3Bh1ao-WpwC
Amazon: B007ENCSFG
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2006-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Part Three

“Pretexts are not wanting when one wishes to use them.”

—Carlo Goldoni

Chapter Fifteen

The hospital of Santa Maria della Consolazione lay across the Tiber, at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. Abate Rossobelli had called for a carriage and insisted on climbing in after me.

He perched on the front seat, facing me, canting his head this way and that: a gigantic, white-faced crow exuding an air of genteel concern. “You must allow me to accompany you. Cardinal Fabiani would think me remiss if I allowed you to make this difficult journey alone.”

I nodded.

Holding my gaze, he raised his fist and rapped on the roof for the driver to start on.

Out in the streets, a bright sun beamed down on throngs of Romans going about their everyday business. Most of the faces that turned toward the carriage sporting the cardinal’s coat of arms mixed a flicker of curiosity with the tedium of oft-repeated activities. At that moment, I would have traded my vocal cords for the boredom of an ordinary day. My mind was in a tumult. Rossobelli explained that a boy had run from the Trastevere with the news that a servant from the Villa Fabiani had been run down by a drayman’s cart. The lad’s description left no doubt of Benito’s identity: finocchio, he’d called him, a poof. I peppered Rossobelli with questions about his injuries, but the abate couldn’t say. The boy had been more interested in collecting a few coins than furnishing details.

We crossed the river at the Isola Tiberina and soon stopped in a courtyard formed by a soaring church of smooth gray stone and an outflung arm of the same material. A flight of steps bisected the hospital wing; I took them two at a time. Rossobelli followed at a more dignified pace. Bursting through the doors and running toward a long mahogany counter, I cried, “Benedetto Benaducci! Where is he?”

A gnome-like nun wearing a white habit and intricately pleated wimple bent over a ledger. I fidgeted while she ran her skeletal finger down the list of names. She finally shook her head, gazing at me over the top of her spectacles.

“Please,” I begged. “He was admitted earlier today. An accident victim.”

“They are all accident victims, Signore.” She addressed me severely. “That is the only type of patient we accept…but the name you speak is not on the list.”

I reached across the desk to turn the heavy book so I could see for myself, only to have my hand smacked with the large crucifix that dangled from her waist.

Rossobelli approached the counter with a solemn frown. His clerical garb seemed to impress the nun more than my fashionable attire.

“We’re looking for a small man who was run down in the Trastevere just over an hour ago,” Rossobelli said. With a sidelong glance at me, he added even more gravely, “He may not have been able to state his name.”

“Wait here.” She slid off her stool and scuttled down the corridor like a white crab.

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