CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
JOANNA
June 1973
I studied the town on the hill as we walked. Yes, it did seem there was a way down the wall from close to Sofia’s house. An agile person could have climbed out of a window, made their way along the top of the wall, and then come down into the vineyards without too much chance of being observed. I remembered Renzo saying that his mother had left with her basket to forage in the woodland. My gaze went through the vineyards and then up through the olive groves to the woods that crowned the hilltop. Beyond them a rocky outcropping topped with an ancient ruin rose above the trees. I stopped to stare at it. It was little more than a pile of rubble, and it was hard to tell what had once been a building and what was part of the rocks themselves.
I thought of Sofia and her basket. Would it have been possible to hide someone up there?
“That old ruin,” I said. “Was it a castle once?”
“A monastery,” Paola said. “I remember the monks there when I was a child. Such a beautiful chapel it had.”
“When you were a child?” I blurted out the words. “It was still a monastery when you were a child?”
“Oh yes. Until it was bombed in the war.”
“The Germans bombed a monastery?” I asked, horrified.
“No, not the Germans. The Allies. The Americans, I think.”
“They bombed a monastery? That’s terrible. Was it by mistake?”
“Oh no. The Germans had turned out the monks and used that site for their big guns. It commanded a good view of the road in the valley and also of aircraft flying overhead. So of course the Allies had to take it out. Such a shame to destroy a holy site like that, but they had no choice, did they? In those days it was kill or be killed.”
I was still staring, trying to picture those remnants of standing walls as a once-beautiful monastery. It would have been simple enough to have hidden anyone up there, but surely they would not have been sheltered from the elements among those rocks. Still, it was somewhere I needed to check out for myself. But not that day!
Paola paused and sniffed the air. “We should hurry. Thunder is not far off,” she said, and quickened her pace. We were still a good way from Paola’s house when we heard the first distant rumble. The wind swirled around us, suddenly cold and fierce. The heavens opened and the rain came. We were drenched within a minute and arrived home looking like drowned rats.
“Oh, Mamma,” Angelina cried as she met us in the hallway. “Look at you! I was worried when I heard the thunder.”
“We are just a little wet, my darling, but nothing that dry clothes and a good glass of grappa won’t heal.” She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Go and put on dry clothes, Joanna, then we shall hang your dress inside the bathroom and it will soon be dry.”
“All right,” I said. It was a daunting prospect. It was raining so hard that the drops pinged loudly on the tile roof and bounced up where they hit the ground. I sprinted across the garden along a path that was now a series of puddles. I reached my little house, lifted the latch, and let myself in with a sigh of relief. As I closed the door behind me, I froze—surely I had locked my door when we left early that morning. Surely I couldn’t have been careless enough . . . and yes, the key was still in my purse. Then I remembered Renzo saying that nobody in San Salvatore locked their front doors. There must have been an extra key hanging in Sofia’s house—easy to find.
Maybe I’m worrying for nothing, I thought. Perhaps Angelina had needed something from this little house—there were spare linens in the big wardrobe. But also perhaps someone had used the knowledge that we were all at the festival to see if my room could be searched. It could have been the Carabinieri. Or not. I opened a drawer carefully. Yes, my clothes had been moved. I retrieved my spare shoes and found that the things Gianni had sent me were still hidden in the toe. So the searcher had not done a very good job, had he? Or he had found the things but saw no need to disturb them, letting me think that I was still safe. An alarming thought. I checked my other possessions, but nothing else was missing. And of course the incriminating letter, along with my passport and wallet, was safely with me in my handbag. So somebody might know what Gianni wanted to talk to me about. But they would also know that he never reached me and that I probably would not be able to interpret those three objects.
I collected some dry clothes, wrapped them in a towel, and ran back to the farmhouse.
Warm and dry and after a glass of grappa, I was feeling better. After the feast we were not hungry and had a simple meal of leftover soup and bread. I made sure my door was locked when I went to bed. I lay there listening to the storm moving off until the growls of thunder receded into the distance.
The next morning I awoke to the more familiar bright blue sky. The air smelled fresh and the colours were so brilliant after the rain that I had to shade my eyes to stare out across the countryside. Paola announced at breakfast that she had to work on her vegetables. She’d noticed that the insects had been having a feast. If the aubergines were ripe, she’d make an aubergine Parmesan for dinner.
“I suppose I had better see if the inspector from Lucca has made up his mind about whether I am free to go,” I said.
“Oh.” Paola’s face fell. “So soon? You wish to go so soon? Just when I have found another daughter?”
“I’m really liking it here,” I said. “But I need to know that the police don’t consider me a suspect in the death of Gianni. And I should be returning home soon. I have to get back to my studies.”
“But you will stay at least a week,” she said.
That fact struck me with surprise. Had I been here less than a week? It felt as if I had lived here for a long time.
“Oh, of course. At least a week,” I said.
“How can I teach you to cook Tuscan food if you run away so quickly?” She put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “And I need to fatten you up. You need meat on these bones or you will never find a husband.”
“Perhaps she already has a man in mind, Mamma,” Angelina said, looking up from where she was breastfeeding the baby.
“Is that right? There is a young man waiting?” Paola asked.
I shook my head. “No young man waiting.”
“Of course. You need to pass those exams first. When you are a rich lawyer you’ll have men lining up to marry you,” Paola said.
“She doesn’t want men to marry her for her money, Mamma,” Angelina said. “She wants to marry for love. You can see that she is a romantic, not a practical person.”
“Money doesn’t hurt, either,” Paola said. “But perhaps you come from a family with money so there is no problem.”
I shook my head. “No family money, I’m afraid. My father was almost penniless when he died. I will have to make my own way in the world, or marry a rich man.”
“She should make eyes at Cosimo,” Angelina said, chuckling. “Fifty-five and not married and owns all this land!”
“Cosimo? She should set her cap at Renzo, the heir. Much more pleasing to the eye, eh, Joanna?”
I felt myself blushing. She chuckled. “I notice things. I see the way you look when he speaks to you. And you go off together at the festa?”
“We were just speaking about his mother and whether he had any memory of meeting my father.”
“And had he any such memories?”
I shook my head. “No. But we are now sure that they did know each other. And now Gianni’s widow says that my father was taken away. Maybe that was what happened. He was taken away by the enemy, and she gave up in despair and chose the protection of a German. Or . . . or she was betrayed and taken away, too. I suppose now we’ll never know.”
“You never asked your father about this? He never spoke of it?”
“He never did,” I said. “My mother told me he was shot down and badly injured in the war and almost died, but I never thought to ask her for details. And I’m sure my father wouldn’t have shared anything about Sofia with my mother.” Which is why he kept his memories shut away in a little box in the attic, I thought.
We finished breakfast. Paola put on her sun hat and her apron and went out to work in her garden. I volunteered to help her, but she brushed me aside. “You are here on holiday. Enjoy yourself. Go.”
I left her tying up beans and set off up the hill. It was going to be a hot day. Already I could feel the heat of the sun on the back of my neck. I will try to see Renzo, I thought, and suggest that he comes to the monastery with me. The thought gave me a jolt of pleasure. I shook my head. Would I never learn? Renzo was the son of a man described as dangerous—a man who might have ordered the death of another who crossed him. He also happened to live in a village in Italy. Hardly suitable boyfriend material, even if he hadn’t turned out to be my brother. Besides, he had hardly seemed to notice when I grabbed on to him during the earthquake.
I reached the town piazza. The remains of yesterday’s merrymaking were still much in evidence. There were banners and flags looking very sorry for themselves after the rain and now trailing from rooftops or lying over tables that had not yet been put away. I went into the office of the Carabinieri and found that the inspector had not yet arrived and it was not known when he was expected. As I came out of the building again, I noticed that the yellow building at the edge of the piazza was the post office. It occurred to me that I should telephone Scarlet and let her know that I was still in danger of being arrested. Just in case . . .
I went in, paid, and was shown how to use the telephone. The post office employee was very excited about putting through a telephone call to somewhere as far away as England. He insisted on doing everything himself, and it took a long while before he finally handed the phone to me. I heard it ringing at the other end. I waited a long time and was about to hang up when a voice said, “Do you know what bloody time it is?” And of course I realised that Italy was an hour ahead of England. It was ten o’clock here but only nine there—the middle of the night as far as Scarlet was concerned.
“It’s me. Joanna. I’m sorry. I must have woken you,” I said. “I forgot the time difference.”
“Jo? Is something wrong?” she asked. “It’s not like you to waste money on a phone call. Are you still in Italy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you found your long-lost brother and your father’s former love?”
“No, but I’m getting there,” I said. “And as to whether something is wrong, I wanted to make sure you knew in case I’m hauled off to jail.”
“Jail? Did you rob a bank?”
“No, I’m a suspect in a murder.”
“Bloody hell,” she said. “What’s all that about?”
“A man’s body was found in the well beside the little room where I’m sleeping,” I said. “I think the police might want to pin it on me because it’s more convenient than finding out the truth.”
“Mafia, I suppose. Isn’t that what always happens there?”
“It could be something like that. The man had shady dealings, so I’m told.” I kept quiet about the letter. “I have to see the inspector again today, and he’s going to decide whether I have permission to leave or not.”
“You poor thing. Can’t you just hop on the next train and be safely in Switzerland before they realise you’ve gone?”
“Not as easy as that,” I said. “I’m in a place that has two buses a week. And it’s not on a proper road, so I’m stuck. But if you get a cryptic message from me asking you to feed the hamster or something, then go and find Nigel Barton and tell him I’m in trouble.”
“That’s funny,” Scarlet said.
“That I’m about to be accused of murder?” I exclaimed.
“No, Nigel Barton. I think he’s quite keen on you. He showed up last week saying he had news for you about those paintings you gave him—something about cleaning them up successfully. I told him where you were and that I didn’t know how long you’d be there.” She paused. “I think the paintings were an excuse.”
“Oh golly,” I said. “That’s the last thing I need—a keen solicitor.”
“You could do worse. His dad and granddad own the business.”
“Why is everyone so eager to marry me off to someone who will inherit something someday?” I snapped.
“Whoa, what brought that on?” she asked. “Only joking, mate. Anyway, apart from being accused of murder, are you having fun?”
“Strangely enough, yes,” I said. “I’m having a good time. I’m learning to cook Italian food. And there was a big festival yesterday. I like it here.”
“A few days in Tuscany and she’s turning into an Italian housewife,” Scarlet teased. “But listen, take care of yourself, okay? If someone’s been killed then a murderer is still at large. It’s probably a local vendetta and nothing to do with you, but someone may think you know more than you do.”
“Yes, I’ll be careful,” I said, thinking how close she was to the truth. I wanted to tell her that, but I glanced out of the little cubicle to see the postmaster loitering nearby as well as an old woman, her arms folded impatiently. I had to keep silent for now.
“Call me again when you have more news,” she said. “And not so early in the morning next time. We were striking a set until two.”
“I’m sorry. And I will call you again, although the only phone in the village seems to be this very public call box.”
“I’d better send Nigel Barton out to rescue you.” Scarlet chuckled. “I can just see him riding up on his white horse.”
“Ha ha. Very funny. See you soon.”
“Yeah. See you soon.”
I stood staring at the telephone after I hung up. She had been my one tenuous connection with home, and now I was on my own again in a world I knew nothing about. I had heard of the bribery, corruption, and intimidation in Italy. Places where the Mafia ruled. What if the inspector was in the pay of the real killer and had been told to pin the crime on me? That seemed all too possible. Paola was my ally, but how much influence did she have in town? And the only other person I could turn to for help was the adopted son of a man who could well have ordered the killing himself.
I came out of the post office to see one of the Carabinieri officers beckoning me. “The inspector has arrived,” he called. “He asks for you.”
I took a deep breath and followed him. The inspector was seated at the desk again.
“Signorina Langley,” he greeted me in Italian. “Did you have a pleasant weekend?” He smiled, revealing a couple of gold teeth.
“Yes, thank you,” I replied. “I attended the festival in town. It was very beautiful.” I stammered the words as slowly as I dared with an awful English accent. I wanted him to think that if he needed to ask more questions he would have to find Renzo again.
“Am I at liberty to go home now?” I added.
He spread his hands. “I am not yet satisfied that you did not have a part in this killing. Why did you come to San Salvatore? I ask myself. It is not a beautiful tourist town. Were you maybe sent here to lure poor Signor Martinelli to his death? Paid money to do so?”
I took my time to understand this. “I have said before, I know nobody in this town. I came to find out the story of my father in the war. But nobody here knows of my father. That is all. Now I wish to leave again and go home to my country.”
“I have more people to question today. It seems this man had many dealings with outsiders—not all of them above the law. But do not worry. I shall get to the bottom of this. Maybe there are other fingerprints on that well. Maybe not. But if you are innocent, as you say, then you will be on your way home in a few days.”
He was about to dismiss me when there came the sound of raised voices in the hallway outside. The young Carabinieri agent poked his head around the door, looking extremely embarrassed. “Inspector, there is a gentleman and he says—”
“He says he must speak with the inspector immediately,” said a deep, rumbling voice, and Cosimo himself came into the room. In spite of his stick he moved remarkably quickly.
“Signor di Georgio, isn’t it?” The inspector had gone quite pale.
“Of course,” Cosimo said. “I am well known to your superiors in Lucca. I come about this unfortunate young woman. My son tells me he has spoken with her and he is sure that she has no connection to this crime. We do not want her to have a bad opinion of Tuscany, do we? We do not wish her to go home and say that the law in Tuscany is full of idiots, that they do not know how to solve a crime like Mr. Sherlock Holmes does. So I am here to say you must let her go when she wishes to leave. Maybe we will get to the truth about Gianni Martinelli one day. Maybe not. The sort of men who carry out such crimes are not always easy to track down, as you know.”
There was a long pause. The inspector looked uncomfortable. He did not want to surrender his authority, but he also did not want to go against Cosimo.
“Give me a few more days, I beg of you,” he said. “The young lady will be quite safe here. She can enjoy the Italian sunshine.”
“My son has to go into Florence tomorrow,” Cosimo said. “He is willing to drive this young lady to the train.”
“I will take the matter into consideration,” the inspector said. “That is the best I can promise.”
Cosimo put a hand on my back and steered me out of the room. “Do not worry, my dear young woman,” he said. “I can promise you that you will be able to leave with my son in the morning. Enjoy your last day in San Salvatore.”
I found that last sentence quite ominous, although I’m sure I was reading more into it than was meant. I came out into blinding sunlight and wondered where to go next. Then I came to a decision. I needed to talk to Gianni’s widow. She was the one person who had actually heard of my father. Maybe she knew more. Maybe she even knew why Gianni came to see me that night and met his end.