The least he could do! It was not, after all, as if Antonio would be gambling the same great stakes that sat on the table before his uncle the ppe.
So. This session on the Galileo affair seemed to be coming to an end. Thankfully. Antonio was careful not to be the first to rise. Only the third. By the time he came fully erect, he had made his decision.
Yes. He would send an emissary to Naples on the morrow. No point in dallying. Great matters were coming to a head; it was his simple duty to do the same with smaller ones.
Besides, there was this. The Spanish would be furious. But the Americans would be pleased. The reason for that was somewhat mystifying to Antonio. Such odd notions those creatures had regarding the position of women. Still, he’d paid careful attention to the political reports and didn’t doubt the reaction at all. Artemisia Gentileschi was the most prominent female artist in all of Europe, of the few there were at all. Were Cardinal Antonio Barberini to advance his public and munificent patronage to the woman . . . stealing her right away from the king of Spain . . .
Once again his eyes met those of his uncle.
Yes. Antonio was sure of it, now. The Americans even had an expression for the thing, he suddenly recalled. Knows which way the wind blows.
Chapter 32
“He’s in here, Father.” Billy Trumble stood at the door of the suite of rooms Buckley had occupied, leaning against the doorpost in the nerveless way that had come to mean “death room” to Mazzare over the years.
Mazzare studied the young Marine officer for a moment. Very young, he was, just out of his teens. Billy’s complexion definitely looked a little green under the surface.
“Perhaps you should stand your guard outside, Billy? Fresh air might do you good.”
“Uh, Father, I can’t. Lieutenant Taggart told me to take guard here.”
Taggart must have been standing somewhere in the room beyond. Mazzare heard his voice drift through the open door. “There’s no need for that now, Lieutenant Trumble. I think the father is right. Go outside and get some air.”
“Uh, thank you, sir.” Billy gave Mazzare a flashing glance of thanks and started marching away. A very military-looking stride it was. The boy’s back was ramrod-straight. Mazzare knew the posture was simply young Trumble’s way of maintaining himself under the circumstances.
The priest sighed, wishing now he had brought Gus along. The big Jesuit somehow seemed to anchor the world around him to solid, physical verities. The presence of the earthy German would do Billy good that Father Mazzare wasn’t entirely equipped to deliver. Silently, he wished the lad well—hardly a lad, now, he reminded himself, a commissioned officer as he was—and went through the doorway.
Inside was the gloomy, smoky half-dark of a candelabra-lit room. Buckley had picked one of the smaller, more cluttered suites higher up in the house, apparently for the view. Or possibly for the profusion of overstuffed and riotously carven furniture it held. In the far corner, by the long drapes that hid the night sky outside, stood Lieutenant Taggart, looking down at something that was hidden from Mazzare by a chaise-longue. Mazzare stopped and waited to be noticed.
Taggart was only a moment before seeing him. “Father,” he said. “There’s been a murder.”
“Is it . . . ?”
“Aye. Mister Buckley.” Taggart nodded, downward to what was on the floor by him. “Mistress Nichols has the laying out of him.”
Sharon stood up, then. Mazzare hadn’t spotted her, kneeling next to the corpse behind the chaise-longue. “Hello, Father.”
“Good evening, Sharon.” Mazzare nodded to her. The candlelight revealed nothing of her complexion or how steady she was, but she had the hooded eyes and upward tilted face that were the universal signal of the young lady retaining her composure under stress. Professionalism in every line of her poise, Mazzare thought. Her father’s influence. He could guess that in a good light the blood would be visibly drained from her face, but that there would not be a tremor in evidence. “How, ah—how did Joe die?”