Black Ceremonies (16 page)

“It is true,” Strombolli agreed. “And this city has so many delightful women to choose from.” The artist smiled at those who surrounded him.

“It is quite a collection you are amassing. This will be the fifth, will it not?” It was Theroux who smiled now, and the lack of teeth in that smile, and the crooked nose, stirred distant memories for the artist.

There were a few gasps at both Theroux’s toothless smile and his words, and someone whispered, ‘bigamy’.

Strombolli ignored the question, focussing on Theorux’s appearance instead. “My, my, it is a monster. Perhaps I should add you to my collection.” The artist laughed, many of his female companions sharing his amusement.

“You are the monster!” Theroux cried in rage.

Laughter turned to screams of panic as Theroux lunged towards the artist’s face with the knife he had suddenly pulled from inside his jacket.

Instinctively, Strombolli had thrown up his hands to protect his handsome features. But Theroux had anticipated such a move, had hoped that that was how Strombolli would react, and changed his attack to slash at the artist’s exposed hands.

Strombolli cried out as the knife struck, and Theroux launched himself at his enemy.

He had made sure the blade was extra sharp and by the time he was pulled from the artist, Strombolli’s hands were a bloody ruin, missing several fingers.

Several years previously…

“Well, I can confirm your suspicions, dear lady.” Doctor Badieur smiled at the young wife of Luigi Strombolli. “You are pregnant.”

“Oh.” Valerie Strombolli gasped at the news, her hand going to her open mouth.

And well she might gasp, the doctor thought. Before Luigi Strombolli had met his current wife, Doctor Badieur had performed tests that proved that the artist was unable to father children.

The young woman did her best to compose herself. “Please, Doctor Badieur, you will not tell my husband of my condition?” Madame Strombolli leaned forward in her chair. “I wish to break the … um … happy news to him myself.”

Doctor Badieur wondered again whether she knew her husband was sterile. Should he warn her? Madame Strombolli was a beautiful woman, and obviously she was not averse to bestowing her favours upon other men. Perhaps she would be grateful for the warning. Perhaps she would want a secret abortion. He briefly imagined how she might show her gratitude. He quickly dismissed the idea and rose from his chair. Luigi Strombolli was not a man to fall foul of. If the artist suspected any liaison between his wife and his doctor then he would most certainly take action. No, it would not be wise to provoke the man. Badieur moved around the desk, took Madame Strombolli’s hand and helped her rise. “Of course not.” Although he would love to be there when she told her husband. “I am sure he will be most delighted.”

It was three months later that the
Agnes Villiers
arrived in port. Upon his arrival, Jean Theroux booked into the most reputable inn then sent a message via the usual means – the teenage son of one of the native women who worked in the Strombolli kitchen – to let Valerie Strombolli know that he had returned to the island.

The ship’s captain bathed and shaved, dressed in his best clothes, then settled down with a bottle of the finest available brandy to wait to hear from his lover. He waited several hours without receiving any response. Perhaps that was a response of sorts. He dismissed such thoughts from his head and ordered another bottle.

Eventually he decided it would be a good idea to go find Valerie Strombolli.

The Strombolli residence was a large whitewashed villa that stood at the heart of a sugar cane plantation. Strombolli’s second wife had previously been married to the estate’s owner Guy Le Roux. By all accounts, Le Roux was considered something of a bully and tyrant, and he had ruled the plantation with an iron fist.

One evening Le Roux was discovered hanging from a beam in an outhouse. No evidence of him suffering from depression was found and suicide was ruled out. With the death being deemed a murder, suspicion soon fell upon an ex-estate worker known only as Tomas.

Tomas had recently been dismissed by Le Roux after having a heated argument with the plantation owner. Several witnesses testified he had sworn that he would have his revenge upon his former employer, and the fact that a small doll that bore a remarkable resemblance to Le Roux was discovered in his shack with a rope around its neck was enough for him to be declared guilty of the crime and subsequently executed by guillotine.

Luigi Strombolli had married the Widow Le Roux after a suitable period of mourning had passed.

Jean Theroux was somewhat inebriated by the time he reached the property. Ignoring discretion, he had gone straight to the front door and rapped upon it with the doorknocker, then after getting no response, banged with his fist. Still, no one came to the door. He knocked angrily upon it again, this time making his intentions clear vocally, “I wish to see Madame Strombolli!”

A native woman eventually opened the door. It was the kitchen servant, mother of the boy who carried Theroux’s messages.

“Where’s that lad of yours? Did he bring my message to your mistress? Or is he off spending my coin on the local whore?”

The woman scowled. “Go away!” she urged, gesturing that he should leave. “It is not possible.”

“Where is she? I must see her.”

“Go quickly, before the master comes.” The servant tried to push him away. “You cannot see her.”

From inside the house a man said, “Au contraire!” Luigi Strombolli was of above-average height, sturdy build, black-bearded and handsome. Nothing like the effeminate cuckold artist Theroux had imagined him to be. “You must see my wife, Captain Theroux. In fact, I insist upon it!” Strombolli smiled.

“Let him in, Marie. And then find Randolph and tell him to await me outside my private gallery.”

The servant nodded, stood aside, to allow the captain to enter.

Theroux stepped inside. Marie closed the door and hastened to carry out her instructions.

Strombolli looked the sailor up and down. “So you are the one.” From his expression it was clear that he was not impressed by what he saw.

“You know?”

“Of course I know. Do you take me for a fool?”

“I love her.”

“Yes, yes,” Strombolli sighed. “Of course you do.” He indicated that Theroux should follow him. “This way.”

“I’ll not give her up.”

Strombolli led the way along a corridor the walls of which were lined with landscape paintings. If he’d had a mind to study them Theroux would have seen they were of a very good quality.

“Oh really? It may have escaped your notice, Captain Theroux, that she is
my
wife.
Mine!
”

“Damn you, Strombolli! You may be married to her, but it is me that she loves!”

“Once, she may have done. Not any longer.”

“What do you mean?” Theroux snapped.

Strombolli ignored the question. “In here.” He opened the door and entered the room.

Theroux followed, and Strombolli allowed the door to swing shut.

“Not many get to enter this room.” The artist laughed. “Fewer get to leave it alive.”

The walls of the room were also decorated with paintings. However, these were portraits rather than landscapes. All were of beautiful women. Often naked.

But Theroux’s attention was captured by the tableau on the far side of the room.

A tableau composed of four women that were either standing or sitting quietly.

“Valerie!” Theroux had instantly recognised his lover.

She did not respond to his cry.

Theroux dashed across the room.

Strombolli followed at a more leisurely pace.

“My darling!”

To his horror, Captain Theroux realised that Valerie Strombolli did not move, nor did her three companions.

The sailor reached out to touch his love, but at the last moment he resisted the urge and span round to face the artist. “My God! What have you done?” He was shaking now. He felt sick.

“Quite a collection, isn’t it? Allow me to introduce you to my first two wives: Sophia, and Claudette, and this is Alliette, a whore who once modelled for me.” Strombolli smiled. It was a cruel, mocking smile. “Of course, you already know Valerie.”

“What have you done?” Again, Theroux began to reach out to touch his lover, but he could not bring himself to make contact with the woman who stared glassily, whose smile was cold and fixed in place.

Instead, he lurched drunkenly at the artist.

Strombolli easily evaded the drunken sailor’s attack. “Randolph!”

The ebony-coloured servant who entered at his master’s call was a veritable giant. He rapidly crossed the room, and took hold of Captain Theroux. The sailor struggled to no avail. The servant had his burly arm around Theroux’s throat and was crushing his windpipe.

“Now that you have seen my wife, perhaps you wish to die now. Well, do you wish to die, mon capitan?”

Theroux shook his head and managed to gasp, “No!”

Once he had stopped resisting, Randolph eased the pressure against his throat.

“In case you haven’t already comprehended the situation I shall explain.” The artist caressed Valerie Strombolli’s cheek, ran the tip of his finger across her lips. “As well as being an extremely talented painter, I am also skilled at several other arts. One such that I am an expert in is taxidermy. As you can see.” He indicated the four unmoving women. “Of course, it took a lot of practice to perfect the art, but I mastered the skills I needed before I began work on Sophia, my first wife.”

“You monster!”

“Valerie brought this upon herself with her infidelity. Or rather brought it about sooner. This would have always been her fate. Before her beauty started to fade. When that happens, well an artist needs a new muse, new inspiration. A new model. A new wife.”

Theroux started to struggle again. “I’ll kill you!”

“I think not.” Strombolli nodded to his servant, who increased the pressure against Theroux’s throat. “Randolph, take him outside.”

Once out in the courtyard to the rear of the house the servant threw Theroux to the ground. A grim-faced plantation labourer leaned against a wall. He sprang to attention once he saw his master emerge from the house.

“Ah, Doctor Lorencio. We will have need of your services soon. You are prepared?”

The labourer held up a canvas bag and nodded.

“Good.”

Randolph removed his jacket and handed it to the kitchen servant who took it inside.

“Beat him,” commanded Strombolli, who then addressed Theroux, “Much as I would enjoy administering this beating myself I cannot risk damaging my hands. You do understand, I’m sure. No matter, this is something that Randolph has a talent for and he will do a more than adequate job.”

Randolph rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as he strode over to where Captain Theroux sprawled face down in the dirt, gasping for breath. He spat at the downed man then proceeded to kick him. After striking the writhing sailor several times with his booted foot the servant grabbed Theroux by the hair, pulled him up and punched him repeatedly.

“Pay especial consideration to the captain’s face, Randolph. I cannot see any appeal in it myself, yet evidently some women find it attractive. We do not want that to occur ever again.”

Randolph was merciless. In fact, he took great pleasure in his brutality. Eventually he dragged the almost-comatose sailor across the courtyard and slammed his face against the wall.

The sailor’s nose was broken and several teeth now lay in the bloodied courtyard dirt.

Strombolli watched impassively until he was satisfied. “Enough, Randolph. I think that is sufficient.”

Randolph grinned and released his hold on the battered and bruised ship’s captain, allowing him 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