by Mark McCrum
He was frustrated too, he had to admit, at being treated like all the others. In both his previous ‘investigations’, he had had a measure of freedom, if not special status. He had never been boxed in with the suspects like this. Had Moretti even been fibbing earlier, leading him to think that he was, himself, above suspicion? Surely the police didn’t think he had anything to do with either of these horrid crimes? No. She and her colleagues, having expressed an early interest in his detecting skills, had decided for some reason of their own to clip his wings. In doing so they were making a mistake, because he was ninety-five per cent sure they were wrong about Duncan. He could see what they were thinking, of course, but they were stupid, not prepared to listen to the thoughts of someone who’d been here since before the first murder, who had chatted to all the guests individually at dinner, heard their life stories, and had much more of an idea of what might have motivated one of them to do these terrible things. He had, after all, come up with Framley Grange as a likely motive long before Marta.
At eleven a.m., the gates opened again, and a police car swept down the drive. But it didn’t contain any of the important police personnel, let alone the missing ambassador; just two blue-shirted agenti, who marched into the house and returned with Fiona. Each was now carrying a heavy suitcase, while Fiona carried a light bag. Without a word to the others she was shown into the back seat and the car swept away, slowing through the jostle at the gate, the shouts, the flashing of cameras.
‘And what does that mean?’ asked Belle, of the three ladies sitting in the row of deckchairs in the sun. Mel was reading, while Zoe and Diana were hard at work, Zoe tap-tap-tapping away at her laptop, Diana writing some great screed with her pink fountain pen in a loose-leafed A5 notebook.
‘I don’t think they’ve arrested her,’ said Mel. ‘They’d have sent a more senior officer to do that.’
‘But they haven’t released Duncan,’ said Diana. ‘Have they? Or he’d be back. Wouldn’t he?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Liam. ‘He might have had enough of us.’
‘Maybe they’re taking his daughter to witness his release,’ said Zoe. ‘It looked like both their suitcases going off with them.’
‘Maybe they’re taking his daughter to witness him being charged,’ said Liam, who was sitting further off.
‘If you want to join in the conversation you can always come over here,’ Zoe called back.
‘Maybe Liam’s right,’ said Diana. ‘Maybe they are going to charge him. I mean he has the motive, doesn’t he?’
‘It doesn’t really work like that out here, I don’t think,’ Francis said, turning, and then getting to his feet. He too had been sitting a little way from the group and hadn’t been planning to contribute. ‘It’s not so much about formal charging as ongoing investigating. In any case Duncan doesn’t have the motive. That’s the whole point. The beautiful house goes to her sister. He gets chucked out.’
‘So he says,’ said Diana. ‘But who’s to know that’s true. Has anyone here seen Poppy’s will?’
It’s not her will, you idiot. It’s the father’s will. The general’s. It was made some time ago and as it happens I’ve ordered it online. I should have it in my fat little mitts in five days’ time. If only it were sooner! was what Francis didn’t say. Instead: ‘It’s the general’s will they need to see,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Quite,’ Mel agreed. ‘Hers won’t be proved for some time.’
‘So what are you saying?’ said Diana. ‘That the general left the house, in the event of Poppy’s death, to her sister?’
‘Exactly,’ Francis said. ‘That is what he, Duncan, alleges. Which is why it’s a little odd that the police are continuing to hold him.’
‘Unless they know something you don’t,’ said Diana.
‘Indeed,’ said Francis. He got to his feet and headed towards the hall. It was time to do something bold and act on his intuition, which was gathering force like a rising wind.
‘They may have compelling evidence,’ Diana called after him.
‘They may,’ he called back. He ran up the stone stairs and knocked on the door of Tintoretto. Gerry was there, and yes, of course Francis could use the printer. Alone in Masaccio, Francis took the last twenty pages of Zoe’s memoir and threw them in the bath, then ran the taps. He watched with quiet amusement as the ink ran on the now soggy paper. Perfect!
Back down in the courtyard Francis walked up to Zoe and produced his roll of damp paper. Silly fool, he told her, he’d managed to drop these pages in the bath while he was reading it. Was there any chance he could borrow her laptop for five minutes to print off some new copies? As she could see, he was nearing the end.
She laughed. ‘Reading it in the bath. You must be enjoying it. Are we near a final verdict?’
‘We are.’
She handed over her Mac Air without a murmur. As he took it from her, she was beaming; at him, and also round at Diana, Belle and Mel.
‘No, absolutely no need to come with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll just pop up to Tintoretto and get Gerry to print off the relevant pages.’
‘Are you sure?’
He was. The unnecessary printout took three minutes. Then he was back in the gloom of Masaccio, scrolling speedily through Zoe’s files. How carefully would she hide this key and private document, her daily journal? he wondered. It certainly wasn’t apparent in the basic list of files. But then, when he pulled up Recent Files, there it was, right at the top of the list. ‘Journal’. Its actual location was inside a folder marked ‘Private Notes’, which itself was inside a file called ‘Personal’. Nothing like signalling your intentions. Francis’s own journal was called ‘xyz’, and lived in a file called ‘Rejected accounts’, within a file called ‘Tax anomalies’, which itself existed within ‘Business’. He always cleared Recent Files at the end of any session that involved confidentiality. Poor, dear, tech-challenged Zoe. ‘Journal’ was hardly the best hidden file ever.
He opened it and had the very briefest look. Oh my giddy aunt … it was all there … more than even he could have imagined. She had detailed everything. Every day since they’d been here – and before. He copied it quickly on to a memory stick and then ran back downstairs, ostentatiously clutching the newly printed pages of memoir.
‘There you are,’ he said, handing back the laptop.
‘That was quick,’ said Zoe.
‘Wasn’t it? I shall look forward to giving you my full verdict later.’
Back in his room he plugged in the memory stick and hunched over his computer. God help him, his intuition had been spot on. Not only did he now know who was responsible for all this crazy horror, he had proof. Dates, times, actions, not to mention all the guilt and revulsion that had inevitably followed. Motivation, too, rooted in the very memoir he had been reading. Zoe had changed the names of the private figures, of course she had.
He closed down his laptop and walked down the stone stairs as calmly as he could. He was excited now, but he needed to pace himself. He sat on the wrought-iron Wi-Fi bench and looked out through the window at the sunny courtyard. Even if the police had treated him badly, he could hardly withhold this information, could he? He pulled out his phone and texted the number Moretti had given him.
Please come immediately – and alone. Crucial new information indicates identity of murderer. When you arrive it’s important you make no signal that I have been in touch. Best, Francis.
He could only trust that Marta would do the right thing. There was of course a slim chance that some weird protocol would mean that she would insist on arriving with two police vans and screw everything up. But he had confidence in her. More so than in the others. The flashy gents. Ricci, in particular.
He got up and went into the side room to make himself a coffee. With a barista’s care, he took the handle of the shiny chrome portable filter, twisted it out of the machine and knocked the black sludge of the last cup’s used beverage into the bin. He held the filter under the
coffee hopper, pulled the lever to release a neat shot of ground coffee, pushed it up against the tamper to make a nice smooth surface, then twisted the portafilter back into the machine.
‘Nice action, bud.’ It was Liam, right behind him.
‘I love this machine,’ said Francis, smiling round at the Irishman as he half-filled the steel jug with milk from the fridge. ‘You want a coffee?’
‘I can do my own. You’ve only got the one-cup filter there anyway.’
‘So I have. I’ll froth you some milk.’
‘Thanks.’
Outside they stood side by side in the warm sun with their cappuccinos. The ladies had now got up, as one, to go in and make their own coffees and teas. ‘I wonder how the ambassador’s getting on,’ Liam said. ‘Perhaps they’re still holding him. Why would they send a car for Fiona otherwise? She came back in a taxi yesterday.’
‘Maybe they are.’
‘Would they be right, though?’ Liam went on. ‘Aren’t they barking up the wrong tree?’
Francis turned to eyeball him. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Instinct.’ He paused and fixed Francis with his plaintive brown eyes. ‘It takes a lot to kill someone, you know. Either you really have to hate them, or they’ve got to be causing a serious block to your future success or happiness, I’d say.’
‘Sounds like you know what you’re talking about, Liam.’
He shrugged. ‘Then again, there is revenge. After the fact. That’s a very powerful motive. But I don’t see that in Sir Duncan.’
‘Who do you see it in?’
‘Now that would be telling.’
‘Don’t they always say that revenge is a dish best served cold?’
‘They do say that.’
‘I expect you’ve seen that, where you come from …’
Liam sipped his coffee, almost daintily, and looked out over the courtyard. ‘There was a war going on in our little statelet, Francis. They gave it another name, but that was what it was – a dirty little war. Being, as I am, a poet, an observer, I never got involved, myself, directly. But you’re right, I knew plenty who did. So I’ve seen murderous passions in action. Very much so. Never a pretty sight.’
‘Was that a problem, staying neutral?’
‘I was never neutral, Francis. I just didn’t get involved.’
‘What are you two chaps looking so serious about?’ It was Belle, with her own frothy cappuccino. ‘Come on. We may be trapped, but we’re trapped in a beautiful place. Perhaps we should all have a game of cards or something.’
Five of them – Francis, Belle, Mel, Zoe and Liam – sat at the long table playing Black Maria, a whist variation that Belle recommended. Diana didn’t want to join in – she was still writing busily in her notebook and anyway she had things to do upstairs, she said. As for Angela: if anyone wanted to set up a bridge four she’d be interested, but no, she didn’t think whist was quite her thing.
But they hadn’t got through more than a couple of hands before the wrought-iron gates swung open and a marked Squadra Volante Alfa Romeo was nosing down the drive. It was Marta Moretti, thirty-five minutes after she’d been summoned. Apart from the handsome young agente who was driving, she was on her own.
She climbed out and looked slowly round the sunny courtyard. Today she was wearing a rather fetching pale green leather skirt. She walked over to the card players and stood watching.
‘Buongiorno, Marta,’ called Liam.
‘Buongiorno.’
‘Siete soli?’
‘Per il momento, sì.’
‘Dove sono gli altri?’
‘Lavorando sodo, in città. Mentre voi giocate a carte, vedo.’
‘Non abbiamo nient’altro da fare.’
Marta laughed. As did Belle.
‘Are you sharing the joke with the rest of us?’ said Zoe.
‘I was just asking the commissario,’ Liam said, ‘why she was on her own today and wondering where the others were. And she replied that they were all working hard, as you’d expect, while you lot were enjoying yourselves playing cards. To which I replied, “There’s feck all else to do here. Given that we’re trapped in the villa, not even allowed to go for a walk in the valley.”’
Marta didn’t comment. ‘So Francis,’ she said, ‘it was you I came to see. If you don’t mind me interrupting your game for a few moments.’
‘Not at all.’ He threw down his hand and led her into the house. She refused a coffee and they went together into the library.
‘Thank you for your discretion,’ Francis said, closing both doors behind them. He gestured for her to sit, then followed suit. They sat facing each other in the gloom, each on a shiny leather armchair. Outside the bright sun played on the leaves of the trees.
‘So what are you so keen to tell me?’ she asked.
‘I’ll explain in a moment, if I may. How have you been getting on with Sir Duncan?’
She paused and considered him for a few moments, as if wondering how open she ought to be with a man who might have some answers for her. ‘There have been some interesting developments,’ she replied.
‘You’re holding him on suspicion of murder?’
‘No, as it happens, our investigation of him is concluded. He’s been released. He’s currently sitting in a nice hotel in Perugia with his daughter.’
‘You what? I was assuming a tiny cell with six other reprobates.’
Marta laughed. ‘I think for a British ambassador we might have managed … at least … l’isolamento.’
‘So, how … why …?’
‘We were fortunately able to fast track access to the general’s will and his story stands up. As you thought it would.’
‘Framley Grange was left to the sister?’
‘Precisely.’
‘You had better luck than me. I’m still waiting for my copy.’
‘Questo è presumibilmente lo svantaggio di essere un dilettante.’ She smiled, then: ‘This is presumably the disadvantage of being an amateur,’ she translated. Francis wasn’t even clear why she’d bothered with the Italian, except to subtly remind him who was in charge. ‘No,’ she went on, ‘without a motive, in fact with an anti-motive, I think Sir Duncan is in the clear. But I believe you thought that anyway.’
‘Not to start with, no. But yes, once he said he was losing the house, it didn’t strike me as likely that he was involved. Also, just the way he was reacting, in conversation, at dinner. I got the feeling, even under that old-school exterior, that he was genuinely upset.’
Marta nodded. ‘This is the advantage you have over me. In being here, talking to them all at all hours. So what is it you want to tell me?’
‘So now you’ve eliminated Duncan,’ he replied, ‘I’m imagining you might be stuck. With no leads?’
‘I’ll be honest, Francis. We need a result. Quickly. Look by the gate. It’s not just the Corriere dell’Umbria any more. They’re all here. La Repubblica, La Stampa, Il Corriere della Sera. TV networks. Other Europeans and Americans, too, this morning. Because you are British and American this story has an international dimension. And maybe, too, because we are from Perugia. Some of those foreign journalists have never forgotten the Amanda Knox story. Already the reference has been made. The Americans are just waiting to have another go at us for being inefficient, corrupt, all the things they said when they disagreed with our procedure before … and our conclusions …’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do. More urgently, Ceccarelli’s boss had the Interior Minister on the phone from Rome last night. In strict confidence, if we don’t have some sort of solution by tomorrow he’ll be sending someone down to take the case over.’
Francis looked down at his shoes, which badly needed a polish. He was keeping her waiting. Why, he hardly knew himself. Except perhaps to get back at her for the offhand way she had treated him on Sunday. Given the circumstances, he was in danger of being petty, not to say spiteful, not to say negligent. ‘OK,’ he said, after
a few moments. ‘So what do you think about Liam?’
‘Liam?’
‘As a suspect?’
The policewoman sat forward. You could sense her excitement. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘we think – he is one of the suspicious ones.’
‘So you haven’t eliminated him?’
She shook her head. ‘Obviously I would rather not say.’
‘For a while,’ Francis said, ‘even when I was still thinking it was probably Duncan who had committed this crime, I had Liam in my mind as a possibility. There’s this Irish connection, which you know about …’
‘Poppy’s father …’
‘The general. Who was a significant player in the Northern Irish Troubles of the 1970s. I looked him up. He was a colonel then, based in Belfast. He would surely have directed a number of operations against the enemy, the IRA. Who knows exactly what happened, but this was a war – there were deaths on both sides. I’m sure he remained a target for the IRA until his death. It would take a particularly vengeful kind of IRA man to go after his daughter, but such people do exist. The Irish have long memories.’
‘So you … and Diana … have told us.’
‘And who’s to say that Poppy wasn’t at some level involved herself, in that she was in her twenties in the 1970s, which is when all this happened.’
‘You mean … Poppy was a fighter in the British army?’
‘No.’ Francis laughed. ‘Though I wouldn’t have put it past her claiming to be. But I’ve checked her out too. She was never anything directly to do with the Army. But she was close to her dad. He was out there. So maybe there is some story there.’