by Mark McCrum
‘So you’re saying that Liam was an IRA member? But I thought they laid down their arms.’
‘Technically so. At the time of the Northern Irish Agreement, in 1998, there was a ceasefire. The IRA stopped fighting, and many of their prisoners were released. But there were others, diehard Republicans, who didn’t give up on the cause. They moved into other organizations. There was one called the Real IRA. It’s not important, except that if you were thinking of Liam as a possible murderer, that would all fit.’
‘But you don’t think it does?’
‘No. He is too open about his sympathies. He reads poems about his dead father, who was an IRA fighter. Also, he’s too … off the wall, if you understand me.’
‘Off the wall?’
‘Crazy, mad. He’s a big supporter of the legalization of drugs. All drugs, not just the soft ones. He’d like to see them for sale in the local chemist. He has other controversial opinions too, which he’s very honest about. And also, not to be discounted, he loved Sasha. They had become such friends. In a very short time.’
‘So you don’t, in fact, think it was him?’
‘No.’
‘So then …?’ Marta gave him her nicest, most amenable smile.
She was being very patient, and Francis was, perhaps, being a bit of an arsehole. But he had worked through everything in his mind, and he wanted, if not exactly to show off, at least to share; to find out how much she had found out; whether her track of suspicion had in any way matched his. After that he would take her to the murderer.
‘For a while,’ he went on, ‘I was suspicious of Roz. She was behaving oddly and kept disappearing. She confessed to me one evening that she was having an affair with a married man. I even thought for a while that she might be Duncan’s secret mistress, that the pair of them had been working together, that she too wanted to inherit the beautiful house. But then, when we had our day out in Gubbio …’
‘The day we searched the villa?’
‘Yes. By chance I caught her in a very intimate embrace with Tony. On the cable car.’
‘Tony!’ Marta laughed. ‘I thought he was fin— er, gay. He is so tanned and … fit for his age.’
‘Who would have thought it, eh? But he is, it turns out, her lover. Did she tell you she was involved with a married man?’
‘No.’
‘Well, she is. And this is him. Tony. For reasons of their own they decided to be on this course together, but not together, if you follow me.’
‘Pretending to be single?’
‘Yes.’
‘For some sexual thrill perhaps?’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or maybe just because he’s terrified of his wife finding out about them somehow.’
She nodded, with understanding. ‘So what about him? Tony?’
‘He is a man of mystery. He said at the start of the week that he would have to kill us if he told us what he really did for a living. It seemed like a joke …’
‘Yes, one of the others told us this. Diana. She didn’t see it as a joke. She was very concerned about him.’
‘Was she?’ Francis said. ‘That’s interesting. But though he had access,’ he went on, ‘to both Poppy and Sasha, I couldn’t see a motive. My only thought was that he might have been working for someone else. Someone who would benefit from Poppy’s death. Who wasn’t here.’
‘Such as?’
‘The sister. Minty. We know there was no love lost between her and Poppy. Minty had always coveted Framley Grange. She also passed the test of knowing that Poppy and Duncan would be out here, in this place, at this time. So if you are squeamish and well-off, why not employ someone else to do your dirty work for you. Well away from home.’
‘So you suspect Tony – of that? Being a proxy killer?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘First, because of Roz. I can understand – just – bringing your secret mistress on holiday with you, and staying in separate bedrooms, being quiet about being a couple. Because you’re terrified that this liaison might get back to your wife. But to do that when you’re planning a contract murder … it seemed unlikely.’
‘Unless all that was a front. To put you off suspecting if anything went wrong.’
‘I thought of that, too. But then I found out what Tony does do for a living. He’s an antique dealer.’
Marta laughed. ‘An antique dealer, no!’
‘Quite successful, it seems. He’s made enough money to make contract killing an unlikely hobby.’
‘So you have eliminated him too. Who does that leave? Your hosts, and a collection of nice old ladies.’
‘Our hosts, yes. Gracious Stephanie and irreverent Gerry, the frustrated artist. Ideally placed to kill their guests, in that they would know all about the mechanics of the sauna, how to get the handle to fall off “accidentally”. They also, obviously, knew that Poppy would be coming here this week. But what did they have against her, that’s the question. Yes, Poppy had irritated Gerry with her remarks about abstract art, but that’s hardly a motive for murder, is it?’
Marta laughed. ‘Maybe in some places.’
‘In any case Poppy had managed to annoy everybody, pretty much. It seemed that that was what she did, even needed to do. Find people’s weak spots and poke them. Anyway, Gerry has his hands full. Literally. He’s having a passionate affair with the cook.’
Marta’s eyes widened. ‘Benedetta?’
Francis nodded.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have seen them together. He isn’t very careful, meeting up with her at night. He still thinks Stephanie doesn’t know, but she does. As do all the staff. Which is why they give her the cold shoulder half the time, if you’ve noticed. She’s a married woman, and that counts for something out here. No, I’d say Stephanie’s just biding her time before she sacks her and confronts Gerry. I suspect that moment would have come this week, at the end of the season. But here we are. The food is one of the things that everyone talks about here, and Benedetta has, famously, “golden hands”.’
‘Le mani d’oro …’
‘She is the reason the lunches and dinners are so delicious. Quite apart from the opinion of the guests, there’s a food blogger staying. Roz. Didn’t she tell you? Her Civil Service role is only her day job. Her passion is her food and travel blog. Which is quite widely read, it seems, and Stephanie and Gerry know all about it. So, I hardly thought, with all this going on, that our hosts would add murder to their to-do list, even if they had a motive.’
‘So who does this leave?’ asked Marta. She counted on her fingers again, muttering, ‘Five old ladies.’
‘Don’t forget Fabio and Benedetta. And the other cooks.’
Marta smiled. ‘I don’t think so. What is Poppy to them? Just another foreign guest.’
‘Quite. Though Fabio might fit the bill in other senses.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He has the demeanour, don’t you think?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If you were to pick a murderer from an identity parade of all of them …’
‘He would be the one?’ She laughed. ‘Maybe.’
‘And it was he who turned on the sauna, early in the morning.’
‘At Poppy’s request.’
‘The maintenance was his responsibility.’
‘He told us several times that the handle was completely OK. That he regularly checked it. When he’d last looked at it, he said, the screws were all in place. In any case, what on earth would be his motive?’
‘Working for someone else?’ Francis suggested. ‘Sister Minty? He could use some extra money, I’m sure.’
‘And how would sister Minty have made contact with him?’
‘She might have come out earlier, in the summer, with her children.’
‘Did she?’
‘Not that I could discover, no.’
Marta was studying him, head on one side. ‘I have an agente outside, a constable, re
ady to help me arrest someone. If your reasoning convinces me, Francis. You are not telling me this is Fabio?’
‘No. I’m just taking you through my thought processes. Fabio couldn’t have done it anyway because he wasn’t here on the morning when Sasha died. So you’re right, we’re left with five old ladies, three of whom are regular visitors to this delightful place. Why on earth should any of them set on a new arrival and kill her? Or if one of them did lure her out here, how and why did they do that? It does all seem most unlikely, even though Diana does always look rather murderously at anyone who gets to the breakfast table before her. Particularly anyone new.’
Marta laughed. ‘You see. That’s just the sort of insight you can only have if you’re staying here. No one has mentioned this fine detail in interview.’
‘Five old ladies,’ Francis repeated. ‘One of whom is over ninety and apparently sweet as pie.’
‘Sweet as pie. As in a pie you might eat?’
‘Yes. Did you never hear that expression during your time in Romford?’
‘I didn’t. Perhaps the pies weren’t so nice there. So what are you saying? The sweetness of the pastry conceals a bitter heart?’
‘No. I have chatted to Angela several times and though she, too, clearly disliked Poppy, she was far too well-mannered ever to say so. As far as I can ascertain, she had never met her before this holiday. There is no motive that I can see. Even if there were, can we imagine this frail, if straight-backed, old lady mustering the strength to strangle a strong young woman like Sasha?’
‘No.’
‘So we come to the two Yorkshire ladies …’
‘Mel and Belle.’
‘Now they have never been here before, which in a funny way makes them more suspicious than the regulars. They are also great friends and have known each other since they were teenagers. Say, for some motive we have yet to discover, they did have it in for Poppy and found out somehow that she was coming here, it would be all too easy to sign up to the course too. They have already told us they only booked a month or so ago. As we’ve discussed before, bumping someone off away from home has its advantages. Belle knows Italy, speaks Italian fluently, might know that there are no coroners out here and that necroscopi don’t always call for autopsies …’
‘You are still saying that it’s easier to get away with murder here in Italy than at home in Britain …’
Francis shrugged. ‘No. But they might think that. Or maybe they just think it’s easier if they’ve got Poppy away from her friends and her routines at home.’
‘So … what? It is this pair you are accusing?’
‘I kept them in the frame for a long time. Partly because they seemed so unlikely, and from my previous experience it is the unlikely ones you need to watch the closest. Also, partly, unfairly, because of a certain look that Mel has …’
‘Eyes close together …?’
Francis nodded. ‘Among other things. All most unfair, I admit. I’ve never subscribed to the theory that your physical characteristics describe your character. But partly, also, because I found out that Poppy, before she met Duncan, had spent some time in their part of the world.’
‘Yorkshire?’
‘Yes. Belle lives in Knaresborough, which is not far from Harrogate, where Poppy lived for a while. Poppy did interior decorating, as did Mel and Belle. Was that a coincidence? Also, this is a well-to-do part of the country, but it’s not London, where there are jobs galore. Perhaps they quarrelled over work …’
‘This hardly seems like a motive for murder. Years later.’
‘I agree. It really was, I think, just a coincidence. If Poppy even had a business up there. She was quite a fantasist. Maybe she did a couple of jobs for friends and then exaggerated it into something more. And there was no cover-up about them not having known each other. They hadn’t known each other.’
‘So you are letting these two off as well?’ Marta asked.
‘Yes.’
‘So, you are left with …?’
‘And then there were two,’ said Francis. ‘Zoe …’
‘… and Diana.’
‘Both formidable women.’
‘They are.’
‘And you think it is one of these two?’
‘I know it is one of these two. But it’s a little more complicated than that. Because these two, Zoe and Diana, are regulars here. They are not the closest of friends, but they have both been coming for years. So we are thrown back to that original question of mine. Why would a regular – or two in this case – want to lure someone new out to the villa to kill them?’
‘What are you saying? They are both guilty?’
‘No, no. They are not both guilty. But yes, they were working together.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Earlier in this holiday, Zoe gave me her memoir to read.’
‘Her memoir?’
‘An account of her life, memories, characters, adventures …’
‘Ah, her memorie …’
‘Is that the word? Her autobiography.’
‘Autobiografia, yes.’
‘I groaned, inwardly, because often these manuscripts that your students give you are pretty dreadful. You are obliged to wade through them and then find something nice to say, something you almost certainly don’t believe.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow …’
‘I’m getting there. Anyway, the good news is that this memoir of Zoe’s is surprisingly good. She’s Jewish, as I’m sure you know. She is wealthy now, but it wasn’t always that way. Her family escaped with nothing from Poland at the start of the last century. Her grandfather was a poor tailor in Whitechapel. It’s an interesting read, a classic rags to riches story, full of entertaining detail about that colourful Jewish milieu. Now by the time Zoe came along, the family were well-established in the UK and on the up. She was able to go to college, the Royal College of Music indeed, and join a lively London scene in the early 1960s.’
‘Swinging London?’
‘A bit before that, but heading that way, yes. To cut a long story short, she met a man. A handsome and talented musician, whom she fell in love with. He was in fact the composer Robert Heddon – have you heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘He’s well-known in England. He wrote a famous piece for piano and saxophone called Rural Idyll. It’s the kind of thing people play at weddings and funerals. Anyway, she and Bobby were together for a while, and then along came a younger woman. A femme fatale, if you will. In Zoe’s story, even though this younger woman knew they were happy together, perhaps even because they were happy together, she stole Bobby away. Zoe, being young, optimistic and in love, hoped he might come back. But even when this younger woman dumped him, a couple of years later, it was no good. Zoe had by then met the man who was to become her husband. He was nice, decent, stable – and Jewish to boot. She didn’t feel she could leave him to return to someone who made her heart beat that much faster, but …’
‘Might break it again too.’
‘Exactly,’ said Francis. ‘And the name of that femme fatale was …’
‘Poppy?’
‘Poppy Pugh-Smith. Born to privilege, beautiful, spoilt, one of those people who didn’t care what she did.’
‘And that’s all in the autobiografia?’
‘It is. Although Zoe changed her name. If I’d been sharper I might have recognized Daphne Cassock-Jones earlier, which sounds like a made-up name, but then so many English names do. At one point, just before you dismissed me, I was going to tell you to read it. Then, I’m afraid, I took umbrage and kept the information to myself. As I did also about another story of love and betrayal, which happened thirty years later, in the late 1980s. This time to our last suspect …’
‘Diana.’
‘The more prosaic Diana MacDonald. Happily married to a man she lived and worked with twenty-four-seven. They ran a fabric importing business together, specialising in designs from Africa and the Far East. A
nd all was well, until one day, along came a client, a younger woman, who lured him away. Diana always thought that the main attraction for this younger woman was that the man was out of bounds. Because two years later, she was off, but again it was all too late. Diana couldn’t take him back, even though there was no one else. For her, the betrayal was too much. He found someone else, but she, Diana, never forgot the woman she called “the floozy”. Never forgot, and never forgave.’
‘Are you telling me this was also Poppy?’
‘It was.’
‘A client, you say. So she had been an interior decorator?’
‘Apparently so. For a while at least. But down in London by now. So how and why,’ Francis went on, ‘did she end up here, at remote Villa Giulia, with these two women whom she had wronged in love? Both Zoe and Diana were regular visitors to the villa, as we know. One night, a couple of years ago, they were telling each other stories after dinner. They were talking about coincidence, and what a small world it could sometimes be, and Zoe came up with a story about how she had recently gone on a weekend course in memoir-writing in London and found out that one of the other participants was a woman she had crossed swords with years before, when this woman went off with a man Zoe had loved. Zoe had two points to make: a) that it was bizarre that she should run into this woman again, and on a memoir-writing course of all things, when she, this woman, the femme fatale, and what she’d done, took up at least a chapter of her memoir; and b) that she was surprised this woman had no idea who she was, or of how she had affected her life. Even when she’d asked her leading questions, she hadn’t taken the hint. Poppy Pugh-Smith was not just a femme fatale, but une femme qui ne se souvient pas.’
‘A woman who didn’t remember.’ Marta laughed. ‘Or maybe didn’t even know.’
‘That is possible too. Anyway, at this point in the story there had been loud shrieks from Diana. It was really no surprise to her, she said, that in the world as it is, you might run into someone whose life had crossed with yours years before. But what was a very strange coincidence was this. This very same Poppy Pugh-Smith had ruined her life as well. It was she who had seduced Diana’s husband, David. And then, after a short two years, thrown him over. But once betrayed, like Zoe, Diana could never go back. And not just because Poppy had, to her certain knowledge, nicknamed him “David the Dreary”. She just couldn’t forgive him. Or her.