As their carriage approached their route out
of the city, towards Concord, another police
carriage roared past, on its way to North
Street.
"What was that?" Holmes jumped in his seat.
"It's Rantoul," Rey said. "He's gone berserk
since he heard about Peaslee."
"He wants to avenge the thief's demise?"
asked Holmes.
"Not likely. Rantoul's afraid whoever it is
who got to Peaslee will be looking for him
next. And he may be right. He's started
digging up the entire Arnold affair again,
scrounging through all the boxes he had packed
up. Let's see where he's in such a rush to.
Ya!"
Lieutenant Rey cracked the reins and his
stately gray mares sped after their
counterparts. The two carriages raced over
Beacon Hill and over to Ann Street. When Rey
and Holmes arrived, they found Rantoul's
carriage parked in front of the home of Pietro
Bachi. The door to the apartment was left
open.
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
Bachi said in disgust.
"Let me remind you," Rantoul snarled, "I
found your calling card taped inside this book
at the house of Marcus Arnold! Did you know
him or not?"
"It doesn't ring a bell," replied Bachi.
Rantoul slammed down a worn copy of the
Divina Commedia onto Bachi's writing desk. The
two half-empty bottles of gin wobbled with the
legs of the table. Above the desk hung a large
crucifix and a crayon portrait of a mildly
pretty, bright-eyed woman.
"You ain't going to pull the wool over me on
this, you understand? I want to know what this
is, Bat-chee."
"Bak-ee," corrected the Sicilian with a grave
seriousness.
"You cooperate or you'll find yourself on the
next steamer back to your own filthy hole of a
country!"
Rantoul grabbed Bachi by the collar just as
Rey and Holmes walked in.
"What are you doing here?" Rantoul turned to
them, releasing his grip on Bachi's sack coat.
Holmes at once recognized the leather-bound
book on Bachi's table as a rare 1811 Venice
edition of Dante's Comedy.
"We noticed your carriage," Rey replied
without hesitation.
"Keep to yourself and maybe you'll learn
something about how to solve a case, Rey. Now,
Mr. Batchee, I believe you to be a reasonable
man. Something tells me this book has
something to do with crimes that have been
committed. I found it some time ago, in the
home of a man named Marcus Arnold, in a wooden
box built underneath his bed, as if he were
hiding it from sight. Tell me what this book
is, and what these marked pages mean, and I
will forget your name was found among the
possessions of a murdered man." Holmes started
forward but Rey put out his hand and kept him
back. Rantoul threw his arm around Bachi's
shoulder and looked around the small,
disheveled room. "And we won't have to drag
your name out where others might be interested
in it - debtors' court, for instance."
Bachi paled. The Italian grabbed for the book
and turned to the marked pages, which were
sticking together from the sweltering heat.
Bachi dipped his fingers in his glass of
melted ice to help him turn the pages. The
text was crawling with handwritten notes in
the margins, some in black and some in red;
they seemed to have been written by several
different hands over the course of many years.
Holmes shook his head desperately, but Bachi
could not see. He was already flipping through
the book, through words he had read so many
times before, in times when he had felt lost
to the world.
"What are these markings?" Rantoul pointed to
scratchy marginalia written in red ink.
Rantoul picked up one of Bachi's gin bottles,
and poured some into the glass of melting ice,
pushing it closer to the Sicilian. "Tell me,
dear pal, and I shall be out of your hair
before you can cool yourself off with this
drink, refresh your soul. Just tell me, what
book is this, eh? It's in Italian, yes?"
"Yes," Bachi said finally, closing the book
and passing it back to Rantoul. "It's Italian.
Italian gibberish. I don't know where your
friend found it or my name, but I'm glad he
didn't wish to be tutored in it. It's just a
jumble of meaningless words, Detective."
Rantoul turned red. Bachi took the glass and
drank the gin slowly as he rose. The Italian
instructor had to steady himself against his
wall as he made his way to the bedroom. "Ci
vediamo, gentlemen."
Holmes only half-successfully restrained
himself from smiling. Rantoul slammed the book
to the floor and stormed over to Rey, grabbing
the lieutenant by the arm.
"If you know anything about what's going on,
Rey, I swear on the good father... " Rantoul
threatened.
"Tell me, Detective, did you find Peaslee's
share of your reward money in his apartment? If
not, you might consider that Stoneweather and I
were there first. Might those bank notes be
traceable to you, Detective Rantoul?"
Rantoul's grip on Rey softened, and the
detective stormed out without another word.
"We better start for Concord," Rey said to
Holmes, heading out of the apartment.
Holmes stooped, slipped the book into his
medical bag and telegraphed a grateful smile
to Pietro Bachi that the Italian could not see
from inside the bedchamber. But before Holmes
could depart Bachi reappeared, cradling a
gilded sack.
"Dr. Holmes? I believe this belongs to your
friends," Bachi said in Italian. "I heard from
DaPonte's associates in Italy that the Dante
Festival Committee was sending Fields and
Longfellow one of the sacks of Dante's ashes.
I mentioned it to a friend of mine who cleans
the Ticknor & Fields offices at night and
he... well, I was going to return it, I swear.
I just wanted some time with it."
"I cannot speak for Longfellow. But I think
he would tell you to keep it, Bachi," Holmes
answered in Italian after a long hesitation.
"No, no," he forced the sack into Holmes's
hand. "It doesn't belong to me."
"Mille grazie," Holmes thanked Bachi, then
rushed out into Rey's carriage.
