The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  “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 ag
ain.

  “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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  The dog rose barking as I approached Francesca’s house. He looked so menacing that I was reluctant to come any closer. I wasn’t sure how long that chain was. I hoped she would hear the noise and come to see what was happening. Finally, a curtain was drawn back and a face peeked out, and then the front door was opened.

  “It is the English signorina,” she said. “You have come for Paola’s basket, no doubt. She will need it. And her bowl, too. The ragu was excellent. Please thank her for her kindness.”

  Her accent was so strong that I had trouble understanding her.

  “Come in, please.” She motioned me toward the door. The dog didn’t take his eyes off me for a second as I entered the house.

  “Will you take some coffee with me?” she asked.

  I wasn’t a big fan of the thick black espresso that was drunk here. It seemed that milk was only mixed with the coffee at breakfast. Any time after that it was a sign of weakness to water down the coffee. “Thank you.” At least it would give me an excuse to stay and talk.

  She ushered me to the bench at the table. I sat and watched as she poured the liquid into a tiny cup. “Signora,” I began hesitantly. “I wanted to talk to you about my father and the war. I think you know more than you said yesterday in front of Signora Rossini.”

  She looked uneasy. “I only know what my husband told me—that he had seen the Germans driving off with a prisoner. He thought that prisoner was an Allied airman. He wore a leather jacket like those who fly aeroplanes.”

  “Did your husband say anything about Sofia Bartoli?” I asked.

  Now she really did look surprised. “Sofia Bartoli? The one who went with the German officer? What has she to do with this?”

  “I think she helped to hide my father,” I said cautiously.

  She shook her head. “I know nothing about that.”

  On the path up the hill I had weighed whether I would put her in danger if I showed her the contents of the envelope. I decided to take the risk.

  “Your husband pushed a letter through the bars of my window on the night he died,” I said. “I have to think it was meant for me.”

  I handed her the note. She read it, then half laughed as she shook her head. “The stupid man. I told him he should have left well alone.”

  “You know what he was referring to, do you?”

  “I know very little,” she said. “I know he used to run messages for the local partisans. He was proud of that. Only a boy and already doing his part to win the war. He said to me once when he was drunk—which he often was, God rest his soul—that if the inhabitants of San Salvatore knew the truth, things would be very different.

  “‘What truth?’ I asked him.

  “‘About the war,’ he said. He said one day he’d find a way to let the truth out, and when he did, it would change everything.”

  She fiddled with the objects on the table, moving the sugar bowl and a spoon around as she talked and not looking at me. She was clearly uncomfortable with talking about this, but I had to press on.

  “Do you know what he meant?”

  “Not exactly. When he was drunk his conversation wandered. And when he was sober the next day and I asked him what he had been talking about the night before, he struck me across the face and told me to mind my own business about matters that didn’t concern me.” She paused and looked up. “He struck me frequently. He was a violent man as well as a stupid one.”

  “I’m very sorry. It must be a relief for you in a way that he is gone.”

  “A relief?” She glared at me. “A relief? To be left alone in poverty? How can I carry on the farming alone? At least he was useful in some ways. He made good cheese.”

  The absurdity of this almost made me grin. I stifled the smile. “So Gianni had run messages in the war and had seen something that was important, something that other people didn’t know about.”

  “That is what I believe,” she said.

  I opened my purse and removed the three objects. I put them on the table. “Did he ever show you these? Do you know what they mean?”

  She stared at them. “Well, that is the star of the Society of Saint George. It is the order that the respected men of the town belong to.”

  “And it was a secret sign of the partisans during the war?” I asked.

  “Maybe. I was only a young girl, I didn’t know about such things. But this”—she picked up the banknote—“this is German money, surely. And the cloth? A dirty
old piece of cloth? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it is stiff with blood,” I said, and watched her drop it hastily. “Maybe Gianni was trying to tell me that someone gave information that resulted in death and was paid for with German money.”

  “Oh.” She looked up at me, digesting this. “So that’s what he was hinting—that someone was not the hero he claimed to be and one day Gianni was going to make sure he paid well for his silence.”

  “Cosimo?” I asked. “Do you think he meant Cosimo?”

  “It’s possible.” She glanced around nervously in case anyone was listening at the window. “We all heard about his bravery during the war. And he certainly profited afterward. But if my husband was foolish enough to have blackmailed him, then he paid for it with his life.” She sighed. “I told him to leave it alone. He never listened to me.”

  I was coming to terms with this. I had heard how Cosimo had survived the massacre of partisans. What if he had not survived it but orchestrated it and been well paid? Gianni might have thought this was a good time to tell me about it so that someone outside the village knew. And when I was far away, then he’d blackmail Cosimo. As Francesca had said, foolish man.

  “Would you like to keep these things?” I asked.

  “No. You take them.” She pushed them back toward me. “Destroy them if you are wise. They can only bring more grief. The past has gone. My husband is gone. And I would like you to go now, too. Go home to your land and forget about this place.”

  There wasn’t anything more to say. I got up, thanked her for the coffee, and went out. The dog rose, his fur still bristling, but he didn’t growl as I passed him. I started down the hill but then I turned and headed up toward the woods. I didn’t know what I hoped to find. If my father had erected a little shelter there it would have been found or disintegrated long ago. And local people would have talked about it. Unless . . . I stopped at the edge of the woodland. Unless they all knew what had happened to my father. Unless they were all in on a secret and had agreed to stay silent. In which case I’d go home never knowing.