The Magus of Sicily

by Philip Gwynne Jones

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

An island of myth, legend . . . and murder?

As the summer sun beats down on the ancient town of Acitrezza, a folk festival plays out in the picturesque harbour. Music, laughter and the aroma of local delicacies fill the air, and a traditional pantomime draws a crowd.

For rookie journalist Nedda Leonardi, it's just another day's reporting in a calendar of unremarkable events. Until that is, the performers dive in the sparkling Ionian Sea for their finale... and emerge with a corpse. Could this be Nedda's big break?

After one trick too many, Calogero Maugeri, self-styled Magus and con artist, is a wanted man. But his attempts to clean up his act and keep a low profile are thwarted when it's revealed he has a suspicious connection to the dead man pulled from the sea.

A young reporter keen for a scoop and a reformed swindler desperate to clear his name... can this improbable pair solve the most unusual of murders?

Discover the first mystery in your new favourite crime series set on Italy's most beautiful island: Sicily. A gripping and atmospheric page-turner, perfect for fans of Andrea Camilleri's Inspector Montalbano series.

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Praise for Philip Gwynne Jones:

'I devoured all Philip's novels' Val McDermid

'Clever and great fun' The Times

'An irresistible concoction of crime and culture' Daily Mail

'As delightful as a Spritz by the Rialto - a must for all Italy lovers' David Hewson

'Superb - always gripping, beautifully constructed and vivid' Stephen Glover

'Sinister and shimmering' L.S. Hilton, bestselling author of Maestra

'Vividly described' Literary Review

'The lively, colourful narrative scuds along as briskly as a water taxi...you'll enjoy the ride' Italia Magazine

Release date: July 3, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 83000

Sample

Perhaps the first thing to learn about Acireale is what to call Acireale. Sicilians would call it Jaciriali. Locals would call it Jaci. Apart from those that call it Aci, of course.

Its origins date back to the fabled Greek city of Xiphonia, a city so lost to memory that nobody is quite sure where it was or even if it ever existed. And so, the reasoning goes, it might as well have been here as anywhere else.

The shepherd boy Acis, they say, fell in love with the nymph Galatea. This had the unfortunate effect of angering his love rival, the cyclops Polyphemus. In terms of a contest, shepherd boy versus cyclops was always likely to be an unequal one, and Acis was unceremoniously squashed under a boulder, his blood flowing out and becoming the river that the Greeks called Akis.

Acireale looks out upon the Ionian Sea, and the Ciclopi off the coast of postcard-pretty Aci Trezza, the Cyclopean Isles hurled into the sea by the blinded, enraged Polyphemus in his attempt to kill the fleeing Odysseus. The bay sweeps around to Aci Castello, dominated by its black basalt fortress, and all the way to the city of Catania, its baroque centro storico surrounded by a grubbier, grittier urban sprawl. Catania has been buried under lava no fewer than seventeen times in its history, which has bred in its residents a curious mixture of fatalism and optimism.

Greeks and Romans, Arabs and Normans and Spaniards all passed through here and left their mark. Christianity and Islam, Judaism and ancient folk-myth have roots that lie deep within its soil.

Acireale rebuilt itself following the great earthquake of 1693. It raised the Italian Tricolour for the first time in 1860, as part of Garibaldi’s ‘Expedition of a Thousand’. In the twentieth century it survived Mussolini’s fascism, Allied bombing and the best efforts of the Cosa Nostra. Still it remains, optimistically clinging to the lower slopes of Mount Etna.

A land and a city with deep roots, a troubled past and an uncertain future, Acireale lies there, under the volcano, hewn from the lava and wedded to the sea.

A land with a violent past and, occasionally, a violent present as well. . .

Never try and con a con man.

It was just an hour to Milan, and then the Magus planned to change to the sleeper to Catania. Now, that might seem as if he were going back on himself, and Genoa might have seemed the more obvious station at which to change, but there was a method to it. If he took the service from Genoa, he’d have to share a sleeper compartment with up to four people. And he really, really didn’t want to have to do that. Whereas, by taking the service from Milan, he could have a cabin to himself and sleep all the more soundly.

There were fewer people in the carriage than he might have expected. He’d figured he could afford to treat himself to first class. He leaned out of his seat, just a little, and took a look at the other passengers. Just three of them, in various forms of standard business attire. One of them hunched over a laptop. Another leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, listening to something on expensive over-ear headphones. The third was watching a film on what might just have been the largest phone the Magus had ever seen.

The thought struck him that perhaps he could now afford something similar. But then he’d need to buy jackets and trousers with bigger pockets and that seemed like a waste of money.

There was a hiss from the door opening behind him, and the gentle thunk of it closing. The conductor, he assumed, or the drinks trolley. In either case, he’d be needing his wallet. He balanced his briefcase on his knee and reached inside his jacket.

‘Can I sit here, my friend?’

He was startled for a moment. The speaker was a big man, completely bald, his skin burnished a deep nut brown. There was the faint smell of sweat, smoke and stale booze about him. Not enough to be immediately objectionable, but more the sign of someone who’s been burning the midnight oil even though it was barely past eight in the evening.

‘Erm, this is first class,’ said the Magus, and immediately hated himself for sounding like the sort of person who says things like ‘Erm, this is first class.’

‘I know,’ said the other man, with a look in his eyes that accused him of making a judgement. Which was true.

The Magus tried to recover the situation. ‘It’s just that the seats are reserved,’ he said. Which sounded feeble but was at least an attempt at not being obviously rude.

The big man looked at the illuminated LED strip above the seats. ‘Oh, that’s okay. Nobody’s sitting here until Bologna. And you’re getting off at,’ he squinted at the strip again, ‘Milan.’ He looked down expectantly at the seat opposite, which had a copy of the Corriere della Sera on it.

The Magus tried not to sigh, moved the newspaper, and positioned it on top of his briefcase.

The big man smiled and sat down. ‘Long journey ahead of you?’

‘Quite a long one. Rome,’ he lied.

A near-empty coach and this guy had decided to sit face to face with him. Worse, he seemed in the mood to talk. All he really wanted was a large glass of wine and to switch his brain off but that, it seemed, was not going to be an option. Oh well. It was only an hour to Milan. That was manageable.

‘Rome, eh?’ The Magus nodded. ‘Holiday?’

‘Business.’

The big man nodded at the briefcase. ‘Oh yes. Of course. You go there a lot?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Couldn’t live in Rome. Chaos, isn’t it? Mind, Bologna’s not much better. I blame the politicians, myself.’

There were two options, thought the Magus. Either he was the unluckiest man in the world because the most boring man in the world had chosen to sit opposite him, despite there being an almost completely empty carriage to choose from. Or there was more to it. Someone had been sent to find him. Which, he supposed, also made him the unluckiest man in the world.

‘Politics, eh?’ he said, in order to fill the dead air between them.

Next stop Chivasso flashed up on the information screen. What did he know about Chivasso? Nothing. But it was just ten minutes away. It was a shame to break his plans. He’d been looking forward to a leisurely train journey overnight. Still, if it had to be done. . .

He checked his companion over as discreetly as possible. Physically bigger, and definitely muscles there. A straight fight might be hard work. There was nothing to indicate the presence of a gun, given the way his jacket was hanging. A knife or a knuckle duster would be another matter. Still, he’d have to take that chance.

A shame. Turin had been a nice job. He’d heard about a private gambling club where proper money was changing hands. And there was one guy there who was doing ever so well. Just a little too well.

He’d sat in on a few games. He lost a little money. Just enough to keep them interested. Just enough to draw them in.

They were all counting cards. Casinos don’t like it, but it’s not the same thing as cheating. It’s the one thing that everyone can do if they have the patience and time, which, to be honest, most sensible people don’t. If they spot that you’re counting cards – and most places are wise to it by now – you get asked, politely, not to return. If you’re found to be cheating, well, the conversation will be less polite.

He watched the main guy over a few nights and started to notice the shifts and hops and passes. Cards being shifted from the top of the pack to the bottom and vice versa. He was good, very good. He’d have to give him that.

So the Magus started to bid higher and higher, losing more and more. Eventually the table was left to the two of them; the Magus dabbing at his forehead and sipping from the glass at his side and pretending he’d drunk more than he had.

And then he reeled him in. He spotted the cards that his opponent was shifting on the deck and adjusted accordingly. The greatest danger, the biggest gamble, was the possibility that his opponent would decide to cut and run. But as he looked across the table, he could tell exactly what the other man was thinking: that he’d found a sucker, someone with more money than sense, an amateur who makes the classic mistake of doubling every stake in the hope of finally coming good.

Which, of course, is what happened. Except this time it actually worked. There was an awkward silence around the table. All the more so when the Magus immediately decided it was time to call it a night. He packed his winnings away, keeping an eye on the exits. He was expecting there to be trouble – there often was – but there was nothing more than an angry silence. He was away to the station and on the next train to Milan within minutes.

Except, of course, it wasn’t as easy as that. His travelling companion, he was certain, had been despatched to get his boss’s money back. Time, then, for a Plan B. And fortunately, he always had a Plan B.

He took out his phone and tapped away. Five minutes after arriving in Chivasso he could be on a train to Genoa. Genoa. He smiled. It seemed like that was his destiny after all. Oh well. Sharing a compartment it would have to be.

‘You seem happy,’ his new friend said. The Magus’s phone plinged as the transaction cleared on his new rail ticket.

He smiled back. ‘Just some good news, that’s all. Nothing major. Just a few logistical issues to sort out. You know what travelling’s like.’

He looked up at the information screen again. Five minutes to Chivasso. He got to his feet, bracing himself. The next couple of minutes were going to be crucial. Timing was everything, in magic as in life.

He scanned the compartment. Laptop man was still engrossed in his spreadsheets. Headphones guy was leaning back in his seat, his mouth slightly open. The other still had his eyes fixed on his cellphone. If they were getting off, they’d be moving by now. He checked behind him. No conductor. No trolley service.

He took down his suitcase and folded his Corriere away inside his coat. ‘Nice talking to you,’ he said.

The big man frowned. ‘My friend, we’re still a long way out of Milan.’ He craned his head around to check the screen. ‘We’re coming into Chivasso.’ He shook his head. ‘Wherever the hell that is.’

He’d taken his eyes off him. Just for a fraction of a second. And, in magic, that’s all you need.

Get this wrong, and he’d have started a fight in the middle of a train.

Get it right and – well, there would another set of problems to unravel, but he could deal with those as and when necessary.

His fist lashed out and caught the big man square on the chin, his eyes rolling back in his head. He hit him again just to be sure, sending him slumping back into his chair.

He checked the screen once more. Four minutes.

He dragged his new friend over to the window seat and leaned his head against the glass. Unless somebody took a very close look, they’d assume he was just sleeping.

He went through his pockets.

Mobile phone. He’d have that.

Wallet. He flicked through it. Some money. He’d have that as well.

Cigarettes and a lighter. He left them. Whoever this guy was, he was going to want a smoke when he woke up. And when he had to tell whoever had sent him that he’d lost his target.

He collected his luggage and briefcase. Then the train halted at Chivasso, the door hissed open, and he stepped down into the cool night air.

Five minutes later, he was on the train to Genoa, patting the case at his side.

Don’t try and con a con man.

He tried to piece together what had just happened. His gambling buddies, it seemed, were sore losers. It might be good to lay low for a while. More than that, it might be good to be somebody else for a while.

He flicked through the ID cards in his wallet. Some of them were paper, some of them laminated. None were biometric. All were expiring within a few years, but that was fine. That was tomorrow’s problem.

Domenico Rossi. Marco Riva. Simone Lucarelli. Calogero Maugeri.

Maugeri. A good Sicilian name. A good Catanese name.

Calogero Maugeri.

He smiled to himself.

Now, there was a name to conjure with.

‘How much longer until John the Baptist turns up?’ Nedda Leonardi dropped her empty bottle of birra Messina into the recycling bin at the side of the kiosk and glanced at her watch.

Stefano Gallo stretched his arms wide, enjoying the feeling of the summer sun on his skin, and yawned. ‘It starts when it starts, Nedda. You should know that by now. These things never begin on time.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m kind of bored of this, you know? They could just have reprinted last year’s report and nobody would have been any the wiser. That’s if anybody reads it at all.’

‘It’s local colour, Nedda. Part of the local pageantry. Part of our history. Your history, I should say. But more importantly, it’ll fill half a page.’ Nedda half-checked her watch. ‘And if you’re wondering about the time, it’s about thirty seconds on from when you last checked.’ She looked back towards the kiosk. ‘And no, you’re not having another beer.’

‘What is this, have I come out to work with my dad or something?’

‘I just don’t want you killing yourself on your scooter on the way home.’

‘Why, Stefano, what a kind thought. And I keep telling you, it’s a bike not a scooter.’

‘I’m not being kind. I just don’t want to have to explain it to your dad, that’s all. Neither do I want to tell the boss that I’ve managed to kill one of his reporters.’ He glanced at his watch.

‘Ah-hah!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You checked the time. You’re getting as bored as I am.’

‘Not at all.’ He gave up trying to pretend. ‘Okay, it’s dragging on a bit, I admit.’ He closed his eyes, his lips moving as he ran through the timings in his head. ‘Okay, U pisci a mari should be starting any time now. Operative word being should. We take a few photos of that. Then they start parading Johnny the B through the streets. We take a few photos of him as well. Get a shot of his hand, that’s the important bit, the relic. Then I write my copy, you write yours, and we should be able to file this early evening. And everyone will be happy.’ He opened his eyes. ‘So which bit do you want to cover?’

‘Which do you recommend?’

‘U pisci a mari is probably more fun. Properly bloody that can be, at times. Fishermen waving terrifying-looking knives. And a man pretending to be a swordfish being hacked into pieces.’

‘Thanks. I know what it is. I’ve seen it often enough.’

‘So do you want to do that?’ Nedda said nothing. ‘Look, I’m offering you the most interesting one. It’s that or talk to the priest.’

‘Okay.’ She wasn’t convinced. ‘But does that leave you with enough to do?’

‘Sure. I’ll talk to the padre about John the Baptist. Plenty of material there, I’m sure.’

‘I’m never quite sure when you’re joking, Stefano.’

‘Oh, I’m serious. That’s what you’ve got to do in this job. Boss sends you out to cover a school football tournament, your job is to make it sound as exciting as the Azzurri winning the World Cup. At least, that’s what I try to do. So I’ll let the padre talk about John the Baptist, the importance of saints, traditions, family – all that stuff. And try and make it interesting. Admittedly that’s kind of a big ask.’

‘You could always ask him about the hand?’

‘Like what?’

‘You know. Ask him if he thinks it’s real or not.’

‘What’s the point? “Priest says relic is real” isn’t a story.’

‘What if he says it isn’t?’

‘He won’t. Trust me on that.’

‘Do you think he believes it?’

Stefano shrugged. ‘I think he believes he believes it.’

‘Do you?’

He rubbed his forehead. ‘Okay, I give in. I’ll buy you another beer as long as you promise to stop asking questions.’

Nedda smiled. ‘Deal.’ Then she paused. ‘Oh, hang on, I think they’re about to start.’

June the twenty-fourth. The sagra of San Giovanni Battista, patron saint of Aci Trezza. Saints Venere and Sebastian may have held sway in Acireale, while further along the coast Aci Castello had long been the domain of St Mauro; but Aci Trezza was now firmly established as the realm of John the Baptist.

It hadn’t always been that way. St Joseph had served perfectly well as their patron until he was unceremoniously replaced in 1750. Little now remained of poor Joseph in the town, save for his commemoration on March the nineteenth, when his statue was paraded around the town before being placed back in its niche, in a side chapel in the church now dedicated to St John the Baptist. Joseph’s statue had been one of the few things to survive the great earthquake of 1693. It was only right that there still remained a place for him, no matter how small.

But the great celebration, of course, was reserved for the Baptist himself, on the twenty-fourth of June. His effigy and relics, enthroned amongst red anthuriums, would be paraded around the town before being returned to his eponymous church, and then – devotional duties all taken care of – the party could really start, with fireworks, eating and drinking long into the night.

The terracotta-coloured houses were now draped in red and gold silks, as, indeed, were the people. The streets were filled with the aromas of coffee and cigarettes, of sweet and savoury pastries and of good, fried things. A brass band stood outside a gelateria, enjoying the respite of something cool upon their lips instead of brass instruments heated white-hot by the blaze of the sun.

Sicily has long been a land where the sacred and profane have existed side by side, and the ancient, folk-horror pantomime of U pisci a mari comfortably co-existed with the veneration of the Christian saint. Before the Baptist’s statue was carried around the town on his golden throne, people would gather by the shore to watch and commemorate their town’s long and precarious relationship with the ocean.

Nedda remembered the very first time she had watched it with papà. He’d explained it all to her beforehand, about how they were about to watch a simple tale – a pantomime, if you like – about the fishermen who had plied their trade along the shore for centuries. Three men in a boat would head out to sea in search of a swordfish, played by one of the young men of the town. They would then pretend to spear him, haul him on board and prepare to slaughter him. But just as the ràis – the captain – was about to apply the killing blow, the young man-fish would slip into the water leaving the distraught crew to mourn the loss of their catch. A reminder that a simple mistake might mean the difference between putting food on the table and going hungry.

Triumph and disaster walked hand in hand. It was always the same in Sicily. And on the feast day of St John the Baptist, this was their very own Passion Play.

Papà had told her that it was just pretend. That nobody would be really hurt. But he hadn’t told her quite how much blood would be involved. When the man-fish was hauled on board the boat, and the ràis held a huge rectangular knife above him, both blade and boy soaked in crimson gore, Nedda had screamed and buried her face in her father’s shirt.

The next term at school had been a bit difficult after that. Nedda with the red hair, Nedda the outsider, was now Nedda who’d sobbed all the way through U pisci a mari.

‘Nedda?’ Stefano was waving his hand in front of her face. ‘Earth calling.’

She shook her head in annoyance, shaking the memories out. ‘Sorry. Head in the clouds.’

Stefano sighed. ‘All right, I’ll go and talk to the priest. You stay here and watch, talk to locals, and take photos. The bloodier the better.’ He checked his watch. ‘And I’ll see you here in about thirty minutes, yeah?’

She nodded, staring out to sea to gaze at the Ciclopi, the Isles of the Cyclops, rising from the sea. So different from the urban sprawl of Catania. So beautiful the way they rose out of the deep blue sea. So . . .

‘Nedda?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Did you hear a word I was saying?’

‘No. Head/clouds thing again.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake. I said I’ll meet you back here in half an hour. And don’t miss anything.’

‘Stefano, it’s just a pantomime about swordfish. It’s not the last helicopter out of Saigon.’

‘“Just a pantomime about swordfish.”’ He grinned. ‘Photos, plenty of gore, remember? That’s what the old man wants.’ He looked more closely at her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s just you don’t look one hundred per cent.’

She shook her head. ‘Probably just the heat. Don’t worry. Go on, go and talk to the priest about relics.’

He smiled. ‘Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.’

He made his way through the crowds, and up the steps of the church of San Giovanni Battista, where fishermen, dressed in the traditional bright red and gold, were dancing and capering to the strains of a brass band.

Even at a distance, Nedda could see the priest was smiling yet thin-lipped, as if thinking that there was perhaps a little too much dancing, a little too much capering, than was properly reverent.

She looked out at the deep blue sea once again, and then turned through a full circle, taking in the brightly coloured dancers, the pilgrims waving their red handkerchiefs, the deep gold of the throne carrying the Baptist, and the reds and yellows of the boats.

Sicilians did nothing in black and white. Bianconero was for Milan and Turin and the cold cities of the north. Sicilians lived in the brightest Technicolor.

‘Midsummer’s day and the nativity of St John the Baptist – a celebration where the old and new religions come together and the veil between these opposing worlds is thin.’

Would she use this? Perhaps not.

The priest was still smiling, but dabbing at his forehead. She felt sorry for him. It was only late June, yet it must be fearfully hot under a cassock. In a month’s time it would be almost unbearable.

Cheers rose from the crowd, as the fishing boat set out into the harbour for U pisci a mari. The woman next to her hauled a small boy into her arms so that he could see properly. The fishermen, gaily dressed in red shirts and gold sashes, waved back at the crowd.

The boy cheered and clapped, and then turned to waggle his hand at Nedda. She was never quite sure how to react to small children, but smiled and waved back. He reached out for her, his hand tangling in her hair.

His mother gently pulled him away. ‘Leave the nice lady alone, Tonio.’

Nedda smiled. ‘It’s all right.’

‘He’s very excited. Aren’t you, Tonio?’

The little boy pointed towards the sea. ‘That’s my brother. Mamma says he’s the best swimmer in the world.’

She laughed. ‘Maybe the best in Aci Trezza, trisoru.’ She hugged him closer to her. ‘Now, you remember what I said? This is all just pretend, understand?’

‘I understand, mamma.’

Nedda shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun, and looked out to sea, the mournful drone of every boat siren in the harbour echoing in her ears. A slim, dark-haired boy – presumably this year’s swordfish – was hauled out of the sea and splayed out across the prow of the boat as the ràis prepared him for the ritual slaughter. His legs – one ankle wrapped in a yellow ribbon, the other in red – thrashed helplessly at the water as the ràis held a wicked rectangular blade high above him, whilst discreetly. . .