Countdown - Iris Johansen [148]
“And Angus?”
“He was the first Angus. It’s not too far from Antonio.”
“If there weren’t any family stories, then how did you know about Cira?”
“You told me.”
“What?”
“You and Eve Duncan and Trevor. I read the story in the newspaper.”
She gazed at him incredulously.
He chuckled. “You don’t believe me? It’s true. Shall I prove it?” He grabbed one of the lanterns and moved across the room toward the draped objects leaning against the far wall. “Life is strange. But this was a little too strange.” He pulled the drapery off to reveal a painting—no, a portrait, she saw, as he turned the painting to face her. “Fiona.”
“My God.”
He nodded. “It’s a mirror image.”
He stepped back and held the lantern high.
The woman in the portrait was young, in her early twenties, and dressed in a low-necked green gown. She wasn’t smiling but gazing out of the portrait with impatience. But there was a vitality and beauty that was unmistakable. “Cira.”
“And you.” He began stripping the draperies off the other paintings. “There’s no other similarity as close as Fiona’s but there are hints, traces of resemblance.” He pointed at a young man dressed in Tudor clothing. “His mouth is shaped like Cira’s.” He gestured to an older woman with a lorgnette, and hair in a bun. “And those cheekbones were passed down in almost every generation. Cira definitely left her stamp on her descendants.” He grimaced. “I had to take down every portrait and hide them here when I knew I was leasing the place to Trevor.”
“That’s why there were so many tapestries on the walls,” she murmured. “But you don’t bear any resemblance to her at all.”
“Perhaps I take after her Antonio.”
“Maybe.” Her gaze was moving from portrait to portrait. “Amazing . . .”
“That’s what I thought. I was only curious at first. I began to probe a little and did start to do a little intensive research into family history.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Nothing concrete. Cira and Antonio covered their tracks very well. Except for one old, tattered letter I found buried with some papers Angus had brought from the Highlands. Actually, it was a scroll in a brass container.”
“From Cira?”
“No, from Demonidas.”
“No way.”
“It was a very interesting letter. You’ll be glad to know it was addressed to Cira, not Pia. It was couched in flowery terms but it was basically a blackmail letter. Evidently when Demonidas returned to Herculaneum he heard about Julius’s search for Cira and decided that he’d see if he could get more money from her than he could from Julius for telling him where she was. He was agreeing to meet with Cira and Antonio to receive his pound of flesh.” He smiled. “Big mistake. Nothing was heard from Demonidas again.”
“Except the ship’s log.”
“That was written three years before he tried to feather his nest. He must have left it at his home in Naples. But when I heard it existed, I knew I had to try to get hold of it. I didn’t know what was in it, but I didn’t want to risk it connecting Cira with my family.”
“Why?”
“The gold. It’s mine and it’s going to stay mine. I couldn’t let anyone know that it might not be in Herculaneum. If they knew there was even a chance that it was here, they’d find a way to tear this place apart.”
“And would they find it?”
“Maybe. I haven’t yet.”
“How do you know that it wasn’t found by one of Cira’s descendants and spent?”
“I can’t know for sure. But there have always been tales of a lost treasure in the family. It was vague, more fairy tale than anything else, and I never paid any attention to it. I was too busy coping with the real world.”
“Like Grozak and Reilly.” She gazed at the portrait of Fiona. MacDuff’s kinswoman might have had her share of trials and tribulations, but Jane doubted she’d had to deal with monsters who cared nothing for human life or dignity.
“You’re shivering,” MacDuff said roughly. “It’s cold in here. If you intended to breach Angus’s stronghold, why the devil didn’t you grab a jacket?”
“I didn’t think. I just went for it.”
“What you always do.” He went over to