The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [66]
Jean expected that Dana would be the last to arrive, and she had anticipated that Dana’s costume would be sexy and insubstantial. What she had not expected was that Dana would bring a date.
“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” she cooed, giving Jacqueline a triumphant glance. “You all remember Giovanni, don’t you?”
She was, of course, Cleopatra. And her Mark Antony was Lieutenant di Cavallo.
His appearance cast a momentary pall on the company. Then Jacqueline rose to the occasion, greeting her guest with cool charm. In a short time the lieutenant had become what is commonly known as the life of the party. He sang, he strummed Andy’s guitar, he made jokes with José, and he discussed the smuggling of antiquities with Scoville. By midnight the party was in full swing, and everyone seemed to be having a fine time.
Jean was not. She had been suspicious of the party from the first, and di Cavallo’s appearance confirmed her suspicions. He looked magnificent in his sweeping white toga, but Jean knew he was miscast. Mark Antony, the rough, tough soldier who had let passion for a woman override ambition, was not the right role for this man. Again Jean was reminded of the cold, handsome face which appears on so many statues in Rome: Augustus, the most enigmatic of all the Julians, a man ruled throughout his life by calculating intelligence.
It was exactly midnight when di Cavallo pounded on the table and proposed a toast. The hilarity was at its height and it took him several minutes to get them all together, with their glasses of wine. José’s headdress was tipped onto the back of his head and Ted’s moustache had run into a shapeless smudge. Scoville was sulking; he had been trying all evening without success to get Jacqueline out onto the balcony. Now they all gathered around the big table in the dining area of the salone, and di Cavallo opened a fresh bottle.
“A toast to a lovely and charming lady,” he said, lifting his glass. “Our hostess.”
They drank. Di Cavallo filled the glasses again.
“We thank her,” he said oratorically, “for a memorable evening. For this masquerade. And now, my friends, the masquerade is almost over.”
The change in his voice struck them, even Scoville, who had consumed more wine than anyone else. One by one the relaxed figures straightened and turned, until they sat like a circle of frozen images, staring at the man who stood at the head of the table.
“The masquerade is over,” di Cavallo repeated. The resemblance Jean had noticed was pronounced; the face was cold and beautiful and quite merciless. “Some of you, perhaps, have been deceived as to the purpose of this evening’s entertainment. Yet I think that in your hearts none of you has ever been wholly deceived. You have known the truth, and tried for a number of different reasons to conceal it even from yourselves. But the truth cannot be concealed. It is time for it to emerge. It is time now.”
Di Cavallo was enjoying himself. His expression had not lost any of its cool calm, but Jean sensed the streak of sadism underneath. His voice rolled.
“To come here under false pretenses was not the act of a gentleman. I feel no shame; because in my humble fashion I serve justice, and justice, my friends, sometimes demands the sacrifice of honor. Yet I cannot claim the credit for discovering the truth. That distinction rests with another, and it is for her to explain it to you.”
His outstretched hand indicated Jacqueline. Gathering up the folds of his skirt in a royal gesture, he sat down.
Jacqueline’s hands were loosely clasped around the stem of her glass and her eyes were fixed on the glowing burgundy liquid. She was as white as her robe, but her voice was perfectly steady when she began to speak.
“The lieutenant gives me too much credit—if that is the word. But I won’t talk about blame or credit, honor or justice. This had to be done. Whether I like it or not is beside the point. In every human society, every culture of which we have record, one crime is the ultimate crime, punishable by the extreme