CHAPTER NINETEEN
JOANNA
June 1973
Angelina was woken up and sent to fetch the Carabinieri. Two men in impressive military-style uniforms arrived, red-faced from running down the hill. It took them some time to extract the body, so firmly was it jammed into the well. When they laid it out on the gravel path, I gave a little gasp of horror. It was Gianni, the man who had offered to escort me home last night, only to be pushed aside in favour of the more reliable Alberto.
The two Carabinieri agents recognised him instantly. “But surely this is Gianni,” one said. And they exchanged a look I couldn’t quite understand. A doctor was summoned and pronounced that Gianni had been struck on the back of the head with a blunt object. He had then been pushed into the well with his head under the water. The cause of death was drowning.
I found I couldn’t stop shivering. It was too horrible to contemplate. Paola took one look at me and put an arm around my shoulder. “The poor young lady is in shock. And she has not even had her breakfast yet. Come, my dear, let me pour you some coffee and you will feel better.”
“And who is this young lady?” one of the policemen asked.
“She is a visitor from England,” Paola said. “She is newly arrived here and stays at my guest house.”
“This is the guest house?” the officer asked, pointing at my open door.
“It is,” Paola confirmed.
“So close to the well,” said the officer, a rather unpleasant-looking, pudgy individual with little piggy eyes, staring at me. “You sleep there, Signorina? And yet you heard nothing when this man was murdered?”
“I heard nothing,” I said.
He asked another question. This time the Italian was beyond me. “I’m sorry. I only speak a little of your language,” I said. “I will understand if you speak slowly.”
“I asked who found the body,” he repeated.
My brain was refusing to function properly. I couldn’t think clearly in English, let alone form sentences in Italian. “The signora and I found it,” I stammered, waving my arms as one does when speaking a foreign language and lacking the vocabulary. “I wanted to take a shower. There was no water. I went to the well, but . . .” It took me long enough to say these words, then my Italian failed me.
“She was not strong enough to remove the cover alone, so she came for me and together we lifted the cover,” Paola said. “We both saw the body at the same time, and I think we both screamed. We were certainly both alarmed.”
“Do you know this man?” the other officer asked.
“I know him,” Paola said, “as well as you do. He has lived in San Salvatore all his life. But this young lady does not. I told you, she is newly arrived here.”
“And do you have any idea why Gianni may have chosen to hang around your house at night?” There was a sneer to the voice of the unpleasant Carabinieri.
“Certainly not to court me,” Paola said hotly. “Of course we know no reason. Signorina Langley and my daughter Angelina and I were enjoying our dinner together and then we went to bed. That is the story of our evening. As to how this man wound up in my well, I would say it is likely that he was knocked out on the path on his way out of town and that my well appealed to his attackers as a good place to hide his body because my house was closest to the path.”
“We can make no assumptions yet,” one of them said. “You will both be required to come up to our headquarters in the town and make an official statement. Later there will be further enquiries. It may be that the inspector from the municipal decides to come from Lucca, since this is clearly a murder investigation. You are not to leave this place without permission, is that clear?”
I hadn’t managed to follow this, but I understood more when Paola said, “I have no intention of going anywhere, but this young lady, she may have to return to her homeland quite soon. She is not to be held up by a murder investigation about which she knows nothing.”
“As for that, we shall see when we have made further enquiries,” the fat one said. “For the time being she is to remain here. Understood?”
I nodded. The full implications of this were just sinking in. The men at that table would undoubtedly be questioned. They would say that Gianni wanted to walk me home but I refused. They might say that Gianni flirted with me. I could see that a warped imagination might read several scenarios into that. Perhaps they would all like to be able to pin a murder on an outsider. I felt sick.
Paola didn’t seem at all perturbed. “I’ll leave you men to go about your business and have this man’s body removed from my premises,” she said. “As for my well, I suppose my water is now contaminated. Poor Signorina Langley certainly won’t want to take her shower until it has been treated. Come, my dear, you shall use the bathroom at the farmhouse and have a good long soak in my tub. Our water comes from the mains.”
With that she put an arm firmly around my shoulder and led me away from the crime scene.
“Don’t let them upset you,” she said as she closed the kitchen door behind us. “Those men are bullies. They are not from around here. The Carabinieri are only country policemen, always chosen from among the uncouth and the loutish. Many of them come from Sicily, and we know what kind of people live down there, don’t we? Gangsters. Mafiosi. Still, they are not permitted by law to investigate major crimes. With luck a senior inspector from Lucca will be sent and all will be well. But first let me pour you coffee, and you should have a good breakfast before you take your bath.”
Angelina had been standing just outside the kitchen door, watching from a distance with the baby in her arms. As we approached, the baby started to cry. Angelina rocked her back and forth. “Have those horrible men gone yet, Mamma?” she asked. “Is it true that someone was murdered? I did not like to come closer in case the shock curdled my milk and I could not feed the little one.”
“It is true, mia cara,” Paola said. “The poor man who lost his life was Gianni.”
“Oh, Gianni.” Angelina nodded thoughtfully as she put the baby to her shoulder and patted its back. “Well, I suppose that is not a complete shock, is it?”
“It is always a shock when someone dies before their time,” Paola said. “Go put the little one down and we will have our breakfast. This poor young lady is shivering as if she has been out in the snow.”
She sat me at the table as if I was a helpless child, put a cup of milky coffee in front of me, and then placed bread and jam and cheese on the table. “Eat. You will feel better.”
My stomach felt as if it had tied itself into knots, and I didn’t think I could eat anything, but with Paola hovering over and watching me, I had to at least take some sips of hot coffee and then spread some apricot jam on a slice of bread. The bread must have been baked that morning. It was still warm, and the butter and fresh apricot jam melted together so that I almost sighed with pleasure at the combination of textures and flavours. Who could have thought that bread and jam could have such an effect? I had a second slice, then some sharp cheese, and by that time I was feeling almost human again and strong enough to tackle even the most boorish Carabinieri.
Angelina came to join us, cutting herself a big hunk of bread and topping it with lashings of butter.
“Why did you say you were not shocked that Gianni was killed?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “It is said that sometimes Gianni makes deals, not quite legal ones, you know? Maybe cigarettes from a boat that comes to the coast. That sort of thing.”
“We don’t know that,” Paola said. “It is all hearsay. It is true he is not liked in town. Not trusted. And now this business with the olive press.”
“He wanted to get men together to build his own olive press, is that right?” I asked.
She nodded. “And of course Cosimo would not be happy if that came to pass. But I don’t think it would ever have happened. The other men would not have wanted to risk defying Cosimo. I think Gianni stuck his neck out for nothing.”
I tried to make sense of this, not just their Italian words but the implications of them. Gianni was involved in things that were not quite legal. And shoving someone down a well to drown would be the sort of thing that gangsters would do to teach someone a lesson. But he had also dared to cross Cosimo. I pictured that man’s face—so powerful, and his eyes so cold when he stared at me and said, “You are German, I think.” No, I would not have wanted to cross him.
But he’d had a stroke, which had clearly left him partly paralysed—certainly not able to lift that extremely heavy top from the well and shove a body down into it. But then someone as powerful as Cosimo presumably had minions who would obey his commands. And he had an adopted son who was big and muscular. I had to remember that!
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Paola said. “Market day in San Salvatore. You shall both help me see which vegetables and fruits are ready to be picked and brought to market.”
“Don’t we have to go up to the town and make our statements at the police station?” I said.
Paola gave a dismissive gesture. “Pah. Let those men wait. We know nothing about Gianni’s activities that might have led to his untimely death. It will be good for us to have something to do, and working out in God’s nature is always soothing for the soul.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we do that right now, before the sun is too hot, and then you can take your bath at your leisure?”
I would have liked to bathe first, having hastily pulled on yesterday’s clothes, but I wasn’t going to argue with Paola when she was being so kind to me. I followed her out to the garden. “Let us see,” she said. “These tomatoes—yes, we shall find enough ripe ones here, but we will not pick them until the last minute tomorrow. And these broad beans. They must be eaten young like this. The pole beans—they will take another couple of weeks.” She paused, bending to a feathery plant. “The asparagus? We want to keep enough for ourselves, but the plant has been generous this year. Good.”
She continued onward, moving with speed and grace for a large woman. “Ah, look, Angelina. The zucchini blossoms. Perfect.”
I saw her examine a yellow flower. “What do you do with those?” I asked. “Can you eat flowers?”
“Oh, but yes! Zucchini blossoms. We stuff them. So delicious. I will make some for us tonight, if you like. And then this plant will keep rewarding us with zucchini all season long.”
I had just seen something else I hadn’t expected to find in this well-cultivated plot. It looked like a giant thistle. “But surely one cannot eat this?” I asked, pointing at it.
Paola looked surprised. “You do not have artichokes in your country?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Then I will fry some tonight as an antipasto. Oh, but they are good. You will enjoy.”
We walked on. We found that there were ripe cherries and even some apricots, but that the peaches would not be ready for a while. “We will pick the fruit tonight after the sun goes down, and the asparagus can be cut, too, but the tomatoes, the blossoms . . . those we will wait until the last minute to pick.” She gave us a satisfied smile. “Good. We will have a fine offering at the market tomorrow.” And we followed her back to the house.
I went back to my room to collect my sponge bag and towel, looking forward to a long soak in a tub. As I rummaged in my bag for clean underwear, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from between the slats of the shutter on my window. It certainly hadn’t been in the room yesterday. I went over and pulled it free with some difficulty. It was an envelope. I sat on my bed and opened it. As I took out a letter, three objects fell on to the quilt. I examined them one by one. One was a little lapel pin in the shape of a many-pointed star. Another was a scrap of brown cloth, stiff with something like paint. And the third was a small banknote. It said “Reichsmark.” A German banknote from the time of the war.
I put them back on to the quilt and tried to read the letter. The handwriting was not easy to read, and my knowledge of written Italian was not great. I went for my dictionary and started to translate slowly and laboriously.
I want to tell you the truth about Sofia. I know. I kept silent until now, for fear of my life, but you are an outsider. I will take you to my sheep and there I will tell you, where nobody can hear us.
It wasn’t signed but it had to be from Gianni. He had invited me to visit his sheep last night. I found that my hand that held the letter was shaking. I looked at the objects on my bed. I had no idea what any of it meant, but I was frightened. Had Gianni been killed because he was going to tell me the truth about what happened during the war?