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.

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.