CHAPTER TWENTY
JOANNA
June 1973
I picked up the three objects from my bed, examining them in my hand and wondering what they could mean. The German banknote was easy enough to understand. German money. Someone had been paid German money. But the other two? I stared at the piece of stiffened cloth. It was dark brown. I lifted it up and sniffed for the smell of paint, then recoiled. It was not paint. It had a faintly metallic smell. Surely it was blood. Hastily I scooped up the three things and shoved them into the toe of one of my spare shoes, where they would be safely hidden. Then I folded the letter and put it back inside the envelope, which I carefully placed between the pages of my dictionary, just in case.
I could tell nobody—that was clear. Not even Paola. She must not be put in danger. I realised now that Gianni had been trying to get me alone last night not for an amorous encounter but because he wanted to tell me something. He knew the truth about Sofia. He must have known about my father. And this was enough to get him killed. I stared through the bars on my window out into the blindingly bright sunshine. Had he been followed here last night? Had someone seen him push the envelope through the bars and shutters of my window and then hit him over the head? In which case I was in danger. It occurred to me that I should have just left the envelope where I had found it so that anyone who came to search would realise that I was completely unaware of its contents. But it was too late for that now.
The most sensible thing for me to do would be to go back to Florence and take the next train home. Once I was out of the country, I would be safe. But the two policemen had said I was not allowed to leave the area until I was given permission. There was no bus I could take, and anyone who gave me a lift could get into trouble for abetting my escape. I was trapped here. I would have to make sure I stayed close to Paola. She would not let anything happen to me.
I collected my sponge bag and towel and almost ran back to the house.
“You are indeed eager for your bath,” Paola commented, noting I was breathing hard. “Relax, my little one. Forget about what you have seen. Forget about those men. Gianni and his mistakes are nothing to do with us. May God have mercy on his soul, and also on his poor wife, who is now left alone. She will now be like me, unable to take care of the sheep and make cheese. I must go and offer her comfort, but not today. She may not even know the truth yet, poor soul.”
Paola took me through a long tiled hallway and ushered me into an enormous bathroom with a big claw-foot tub against one wall. She turned on the water and ran it until it reached the correct temperature. Then she nodded with satisfaction. “Good,” she said. “Take your time. Enjoy it. Let your cares be washed away.”
While the bath was filling, I cleaned my teeth. I certainly wasn’t going to use the water from that well for anything other than flushing the toilet! I lowered myself into the warm water, lay back, and stared at the high ceiling, but I couldn’t relax. I was glad to see that there were also bars on this window. I was safe for a while at least. After I had bathed I was relieved to find that Paola and Angelina were working in the garden, picking the broad beans. They were within hailing distance if I needed them. They could also see anyone coming down the path from the town. I dressed, put my dictionary into my purse, and came out to see if I could help with the picking.
“The rest we will leave until it is cool this evening,” Paola said. “Now I suppose we must go up to the town, or those brutes will come looking for us. Let us get it over with.”
I followed them into the house. Paola took off her apron and put on her hat before we set off up the hill. As we came into the piazza, we found it abuzz with people. We were besieged the moment we were spotted. Most of the Italian was too fast for me to understand and spoken in the local Tuscan dialect, but I got the meaning. Was it true that Gianni had been murdered? Found in Paola’s well? And she heard nothing? No cries for help? Who could have done such a thing?
At this last question looks were exchanged. “Well, that Gianni,” a woman said, leaning in closer as if she didn’t want her words to be heard beyond our little group. “He was maybe asking for trouble. My husband warned him when that man showed up looking for him. Remember I told you?”
There were nods all around. “And that time he had that grappa for sale? Who knows where that came from? Certainly not from around here.”
I could see relief in all those faces. Not from around here. His death had nothing to do with anyone in San Salvatore.
“We have to go to the Carabinieri and make a statement,” Paola said.
“Good luck with that,” one of the men who had been loitering at the edge of our circle said. “You go in that place and you’re lucky to come out again.”
They chuckled, but I could see they also glanced over at the yellow building.
“Don’t say that in front of the English signorina,” one of them said. “She will not believe you’re joking.”
“Tell her she will be fine as long as she leaves a good bribe,” the man said.
“Don’t talk like that.” A woman in black turned and gave him a hefty shove. “Shouldn’t you be minding your shop, not meddling where you are not wanted?”
The man shuffled away. Paola took my arm and marched me toward the open door of the Carabinieri building. “Pay no attention. That man is a troublemaker,” she said. “He is as bad as Gianni was. He sold some of the illegal grappa at his shop, didn’t he? Claims he didn’t know there was anything wrong with it.”
We went up three steps and into the cool darkness beyond. It smelled of stale smoke in there. The room we went into was lit only by a small, high window with bars on it. I felt as though I had stepped into a prison cell. I glanced nervously at Paola. She didn’t seem at all worried.
“So we have come to make our statements. Let us get it over with. I have much work to do with market day tomorrow,” she said.
One of the officers we had seen this morning was seated at a desk.
“Ah, you came. Good. Just tell the truth and all will be well,” he said.
“Of course we will tell the truth because we have nothing to tell,” Paola said. “It is not my fault that some man chooses to meet his end on my property. So, where is some paper? Where is a pen? We do not have time to waste.”
A sheet of paper was produced, and the officer pointed to a chair for Paola to sit. When he tried to give me a sheet of paper, I shook my head.
“I can’t write in Italian,” I said. “I don’t speak it well, either.” I thought at this moment it might be better if they thought of me as a stranger who understood little and therefore could have no connection with what went on in San Salvatore.
“All right.” The officer picked up a pen and looked up at me. “How long have you been in San Salvatore?” “I only arrived yesterday,” I told him. “No, I have never been here before. I have never been to Italy before. I know nobody in the town. I was told that Signora Rossini had a room to rent. That is why I am staying there.”
“And why did you come to San Salvatore?” he asked, frowning at me. “We have no antiquities here. No famous church. We are not Siena or Florence.”
I tried to think of a reason for coming that would not involve my father or the war—an innocent reason. I was a student of agriculture and writing a paper on olive trees? But then I realised that someone would have told them that I was asking questions about Sofia Bartoli and my father. It was better to tell the truth. I had nothing to hide, except for a letter concealed in my dictionary.
“My father was a British airman,” I said, those words now coming easily to me as I had said them several times. “His plane was shot down near this town. I wanted to see it for myself because he died recently.”
“Ah.” That seemed to satisfy him. “I understand. And this man who was killed. You did not know him?”
“I only came here yesterday,” I said. “I think he was among the men who were kind to me when I asked about my father. They bought me a glass of wine here in the piazza. Then I went home to dinner with Signora Rossini, and after dinner I was very tired. I fell asleep early. This morning I wanted to wash but there was no water. That was when I asked the signora and she helped me lift the lid on the well and we saw the body. That is all I know.”
“Very good, Signorina,” he said. I could see that his expression was now relaxed. I was not a suspect.
“Am I free to go if I wish?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We have had to report this to the detectives in Lucca. They will send an inspector, and he will want to confirm what you have told me. A mere formality, you understand, but until he comes you must remain here.”
“And when might he come?” I asked. “I have to go back to England.”
He gave an expressive shrug. “It is Saturday tomorrow, is it not? Perhaps he will come then, or perhaps he will wait until Monday. We have to see.”
I tried to tell myself there was no harm in my waiting around for two more days. I’d be with Paola. I’d be safe. Then my hand tightened around the purse I was carrying. Had someone observed Gianni push the envelope through the bars? In which case what lengths would they go to in order to recover it from me? I should have resealed it and left it in my room, I thought. But then I decided that nobody could get into that room unless they managed to break down the heavy door.
I followed Paola out into the dazzling sunshine. “That is finished, thank la Madonna,” she said. “Now to more important matters. I think we should go to the butcher’s and buy some veal for tonight’s dinner. You like veal?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” I said, not even knowing what the word meant.
“What do you eat in England?” she asked. “Always roast beef?”
“No, we eat lamb, sausages, fish. And potatoes. Always potatoes, not pasta.”
She gave me a look of intense pity. “That is why you are all skin and bones,” she said. “You must stay with me long enough for me to fatten you up. Who will want to marry a girl with no meat on her?”
“I wasn’t always skin and bones,” I said. “I have been sick this year.”
“Ah. That explains why you look like a walking statue. You stay here, my dear, and you will see what sunshine and good food can do for you.”
It was a very tempting offer. At this moment I could think of nothing better than staying with Paola, learning to cook, being mothered by her. Except that a man had been killed and it may have been because I was in San Salvatore. He had written that he knew the truth about Sofia. Did that mean that someone else in the village knew the truth and wanted it to remain hidden? I looked around the piazza. At this hour of the morning the tables outside the trattoria were empty. The only people around were housewives doing their shopping with baskets over their arms and some small children chasing the pigeons that wheeled and flapped and settled again.
On the church tower above, the bell started tolling. I thought it was for the hour but it went on ringing. Paola crossed herself. “The angelus. It is midday. Come, we must hurry before the shops shut for lunch. And that lazy butcher will not open again until at least four.”
She set off at a great pace. I almost had to run to keep up. We bought some pale little chops of what I had now worked out must be veal. Then in the delicatessen next door she chose several salamis from among the hundreds arranged on the shelf and some white cheese.
“Now we go home to eat,” she said, nodding in satisfaction. “You shall help me stuff the zucchini blossoms.”
We arrived back at her house. “First we pick and then we stuff,” she said.
“I’ll go and put my purse away,” I said. “Then I’ll help you.”
I took the key and wended my way through the market garden to my little house. The door was still locked and untouched. I heaved a sigh of relief. I let myself in and checked that the three objects were still in my shoe. I left my purse and locked the door behind me. As I glanced over at the window, I noticed the imprint of a big boot in the soft earth. Had that been there this morning? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure I would have noticed. Was it maybe Gianni’s print from last night? But I remembered he had been quite slickly dressed—light blue shirt open at the neck and tight black trousers. Certainly no workman’s or labourer’s boots. That meant that someone had been trying to see in through that window while we had been away.