Free Sign of the Cross by Thomas Mogford Page A

drinking vessel?’
    ‘Ornamental. Though we do have a salt-cellar nef at our hunting lodge in Wardija. That said, if you detach the nautilus shell . . .’ The Baron turned and headed back across the drawing room, Rufus following slowly behind, dog still attached to his leg.
    The Baroness placed a hand on Spike’s shoulder. ‘Poor Rufus,’ she whispered. ‘After what happened to your mother. And now David . . .’ She inhaled suddenly through yellowing teeth. ‘A drink?’
    ‘Allow me.’
    The decanters on the drinks trolley were strung with tarnished silver name tags. On the lower shelf squatted a phalanx of ancient-looking mixers. ‘I take a vodka and ice,’ the Baroness said. ‘A Scotch and dry for Michael.’
    The icebox exuded the aroma of stale freezers.
    ‘Please,’ the Baroness said. ‘Your father first. I forget: what is his tipple?’
    ‘Just fizzy water these days.’ Spike instantly regretted the suggestion, seeing that there was none. ‘I’ll give him some tonic. He’ll never notice.’
    ‘Standards, darlink,’ the Baroness chided. ‘Come. We find some in the cellar.’
    3
    They descended the palazzo through rooms of dust-sheeted furniture and unintelligible, bleached-out tapestries. On the occasional exposed table, amid the tea caddies and potpourri, sat photo frames of the Baron and his wife, posing with international dignitaries of another era: minor British royals, ageing French rock stars, a suited Asian who might once have been the Prime Minister of Japan. The absence of family portraits was a reminder to Spike that – like the Mifsuds – the Baron and Baroness were childless.
    The kitchen lay in the basement, small barred windows high in its walls, like a prison cell, Spike thought. A wooden ceiling fan hung motionless, while open on the Formica table was a Maltese newspaper: evidently the kitchen was Clara the maid’s domain.
    ‘This way.’
    The Baroness was beckoning to Spike from the open doorway. Within, a broad stone staircase curved downwards. The steps were worn with footmarks, their pallor a reminder that Malta was formed of the same limestone as a certain British-forged fortress at the mouth of the Mediterranean. What was it about Empire-builders and malleable rock? Places in which to carve their own image?
    The temperature fell. ‘ Eccoci ,’ the Baroness murmured, falling for some reason into Italian. She flipped on a stuttering light to reveal a cellar lined with wine racks, most of them empty. ‘You used to like it down here as a boy,’ she said. ‘You remember? When you visited with David and Teresa. You said it reminded you of St Michael’s Cave in Gibraltar.’
    A drop of murky water fell onto the Baroness’s hair, melting into the sand-coloured strands. ‘San Pellegrino in the corner. We bring up four, da ?’
    Spike crouched beneath the vaulted roof towards the racks. Carved into the walls, a foot or so above the floor, was a line of small crucifixes.
    ‘They date from the Second World War,’ the Baroness said, seeing Spike looking. ‘The Malaspinas opened their cellars as an air-raid shelter. Hundreds of people sleeping on the floor each night. They used to carve crosses above their camp beds to keep themselves safe.’
    Spike slid out the first two bottles, their labels slick and loose.
    ‘A charitable family,’ the Baroness said, ‘even then.’ She held out an elegantly wrinkled hand. ‘Come. We go back up.’
    4
    Rufus and the Baron sat on the covered balcony, rocking in their chairs like a couple of Mississippi landowners out on their porches. As Spike approached, he heard Rufus saying, ‘But he’d had business meetings scheduled, he’d been in Gozo . . .’
    ‘Gozo?’
    ‘Visiting a church, I believe. No thanks, son, not thirsty. Which church was it David went to in Gozo?’
    ‘Our Lady of St Agatha.’
    ‘Our Lady of St Agatha,’ Rufus repeated, ‘and at 10 a.m. on a Monday, which sounds like work to me, so hardly the conduct of