by Rhys Bowen
Renzo sat beside me. For a while neither of us spoke.
“You saved my life today,” I said. “Thank you. And in spite of everything, I’m sorry about your father.”
He nodded, choking back emotion. “Whatever kind of man he was, he was also my father and he was good to me. Of course I will miss him, but I had no idea, no idea. I knew his deals were not always quite straight. I knew he was a bully and made sure he got what he wanted. But that he was a traitor and a murderer? No. Never.” He brushed away a tear that was trickling down his cheek. Then he took a deep breath. “And I did suspect that he had some part in the death of Gianni. I don’t know if he carried out the murder himself or if he had one of his men do it for him. But the next morning when I saw him at breakfast he looked pleased with himself. As if a load had been taken off his mind.”
I reached across and put my hand over his. “You don’t know how relieved I am that you weren’t part of this. All this time I was afraid that maybe you’d had a hand in the murder, or at least knew about it.”
“Is that what you thought of me?”
“Only until I realised the truth,” I said. “When you tackled your father and tried to wrestle the gun from his hand, I knew I’d got it wrong.”
We looked up as there were footsteps on the terrace behind us. The servant came out bearing a tray with a wine bottle, glasses, and the obligatory dish of olives on it. She placed it on the little table in front of us and retreated without saying a word.
“She doesn’t know yet,” Renzo said. “I hadn’t the heart to tell her. She worshipped my father.” He paused. “He was always good to his workers. They will be devastated to know this.” He poured me a glass of wine. “I think we need to steady our nerves, don’t you?” he said.
Frankly I didn’t feel like drinking or eating anything. My stomach was still tying itself into knots. After a while I turned to Renzo. “When it comes to an inquest, what are you going to tell them?”
“You mean should the truth about my father be made public?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Are you going to tell them he was responsible for the deaths of many men, for the death of Gianni, and almost for my death, too?”
Renzo sighed. “I suppose I must.”
“Gianni’s death is being linked to his underworld dealings, isn’t it? And nobody knows that the partisans were betrayed in that German massacre.”
Renzo looked wary. “Are you saying I should say nothing?”
“It’s up to you. You say your father was liked by his workers, respected in town. Perhaps that is the memory you’d like to live on.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said. “Of course we could say that he followed us and the hillside gave way. But your Englishman ran screaming about a man and a gun.”
“My Englishman could have been in a panic and misunderstood.”
Renzo sighed. “I think the truth should come out, however painful it will be for me. Too many people have suffered because of my father.”
“You’re a good man, Renzo. I’m glad to have met you,” I said.
A worried frown crossed his face. “You’re not leaving now, are you?”
I smiled at him. “As I said to Nigel, I might be called upon to give evidence at an inquest, and who knows how long that will take? Long enough to learn how to make Paola’s ragu, at any rate.”
Renzo smiled back. Then a thought struck him. “At least we now know that Cosimo did not betray my mother. He loved her. So perhaps she was not betrayed by one of our own. Perhaps it was as simple as the German who was billeted in our house watching her going up the hill and following her one day.”
“Yes,” I said. “That is probably what happened. So the Germans came for both of them. My father managed to escape, but who knows what happened to your mother? Do you think we would have any way of finding out after all this time? Old records?”
“I suspect they shot her,” he said. “I’ve known in my heart all this time that she was dead.” He gave a long sigh. “If only that cart had come a little earlier. If only they could have got away . . .”
“Then they would have married and I would never have happened,” I said. “And I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”
“So some good did come of it,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY
HUGO
Early 1945
Hugo opened his eyes to a soft touch on his cheek. A young woman with dark hair and a sweet face was standing over him.
“Sofia?” he whispered.
“My name is Anna,” she said in English. “You are awake at last. That is good news.”
“Where am I?” He took in the white ceiling and the white curtains around his bed.
“You are in a hospital near Rome.”
“How did I get here?”
“You’re a lucky man. You were found when the Americans advanced toward Florence. God knows how long you’d been there. They almost gave you up for dead, but then they felt a heartbeat and rushed you back to a field hospital. They transferred you here after a few days when you’d been stabilised. You’ve been in a coma for a couple of weeks. Head injury, collapsed lung, and a real mess of a leg. Yes, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive.”
He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. “I need someone to write letters for me.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “All in good time.”
“Have the Allies taken the area north of Lucca now, do you know?”
“I really don’t know exactly how far they’ve reached. All I know is we are advancing steadily and the Germans are retreating as fast as they can. But I believe they haven’t quite been driven out of that area in the mountains yet. There’s still a lot of snow.”
“I need to find out about the village of San Salvatore,” he said. “I need to know if they are safe.”
“I’ll ask for you.” She gave him a smile. “Now rest and I’ll see if you are allowed a drink.”
“Whisky and soda,” he said.
She laughed. “You’ll be lucky.”
Later she returned. “The village you asked about is still in territory that is being fought over. It’s close to the Germans’ fortified line.”
“So I couldn’t get a message there yet?”
“I’m afraid not. But everyone is optimistic that we are nearing the end, in Italy at least. And with any luck you could be going home if you continue to make progress. How about that, eh?”
He tried to smile.
The next day an American army surgeon came to see him. “I’ve patched you up to the best of my ability,” he said, “but that leg of yours is a nasty mess. I gather it is an old wound that has healed badly. You’ll need to have it cleaned out of pieces of bone and reset. I imagine they’ll want to do that at an English hospital and not try to do anything here. So it will be a question of waiting until there is a ship that can take you.”
Every day he felt a little stronger. He was allowed to sit up, to walk with crutches. He wrote a letter home to his father, wife, and son. Daily he asked for news on the fighting at the front and whether the area north of Lucca was now in Allied hands, but the answers were always uncertain. He longed to write to Sofia but didn’t dare risk it. If there was still a German presence in her area and she received a letter from an English pilot, it could be a death sentence.
And so he waited impatiently for something to happen. In the middle of February he was taken to Civitavecchia harbour and on to an English ship bound for Portsmouth. The journey was a long and tedious one, dodging enemy ships and then battling gales in the Bay of Biscay. He was taken straight to hospital in Portsmouth where his leg was operated on. Again he wrote to his father and wife. And at the beginning of March he received an answer, but not from his family.
Dear Mr. Hugo,
I have taken the liberty of writing to you as there is not a family member at Langley at the moment to answer your letter.
May I say that I am so glad and relieved that you are saf
ely back in England and not in some foreign hospital. I wanted you to be stronger and on the road to recovery before I shared the news with you. Your father died two months ago. His chest became progressively worse, and during the brutal cold in early January he caught pneumonia. I think the worry about having you reported missing contributed to his death. I am sorry he never lived to know that you were safe and coming home. So you are now officially Sir Hugo Langley, although I don’t suppose that brings you any comfort.
There is talk that the army regiment may be pulling out of Langley Hall at last. Thank God for that, although I fear they have made an awful mess of the place. It really does seem as though the war will soon be over. It hardly seems possible, does it, after so many years of hardship and worry?
I am going to see if you are allowed visitors, and if so may I take the liberty of coming to visit you? They are not restricting travel so much these days. I’ll bring you some good food. I expect you need building up after all that time hiding out with nothing to eat. Cook has done wonders with our limited rations plus what the estate brings in, although I’d truly be glad to see the end of rabbit pies.
Well, I won’t tire you anymore, but hope to visit you soon.
Yours truly,
Elsie Williams, housekeeper
Hugo folded the letter, his head a jumble of thoughts. He smiled fondly at memories of Mrs. Williams. When he’d been growing up she’d been Elsie, a new housemaid, a cheeky young girl who was kind to him after his mother died. Then, years later, the old housekeeper had retired and Elsie had taken her place. Always kind and cheerful, that was how he remembered her. Such a contrast from Soames, the butler—stiff, rigid, and humourless.
Then his thoughts turned to his father, and he wondered whether he felt any grief. His death was not unexpected after all, and his father had always been a remote sort of man, shying away from affection or any sort of closeness. Duty, honour, doing the right thing—they were what mattered to his father. And now he was gone. Hugo tried to picture himself as lord of the manor. Sir Hugo Langley. It seemed highly improbable. How Sofia would laugh, he thought. If only . . .
Elsie Williams came to see him a few days later. She still looked plump and cheerful, fresh-faced and young-looking for her age, as if the war had not affected her at all. She brought a hamper packed with good things: calf’s foot jelly, a game pie, homemade elderberry wine, and a jar of strawberry jam from last summer’s crop. She laughed when she held up this treasure. “We all saved our sugar rations for a month to make that,” she said. “My, did we have a bumper harvest last year. I helped Cook to hull all those strawberries. I’ve been helping her quite a lot recently since we’ve no kitchen maid. I never realised how much I enjoy cooking.”
“It’s very good of you, Elsie,” he said. “Although I must apologise. I should be calling you Mrs. Williams.”
“Only if you want me to call you Sir Hugo,” she replied. Then her face became sombre. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news about your father. In truth he had been going downhill for the past few years. And having his house occupied by a lot of louts really grieved him, too.”
“A lot of louts?”
“That army regiment. You should see what a mess they’ve made of the place. I think it almost broke your father’s heart. You know how proud he was of the house and the grounds.”
Hugo realised there was one subject they hadn’t broached. “And my wife and son? You haven’t even mentioned them.”
“That’s because they’ve been gone from the house for a while,” she said.
“Gone? Where?”
“I couldn’t tell you, sir. I know she has left you a letter, but I didn’t think it was my place to open it. She told your father she was going away, but he never told me where. Maybe she was nervous being close to the south coast when those doodlebugs and V-2s started coming over. She never looked happy and it was hard to please her.”
“And my son? Is he away at school?”
“No, sir. He was attending the village school until recently. Your father was most put out. He wanted Teddy to go to the same school that you were sent to, but Mrs. Langley wouldn’t hear of it. She said she’d been doing without a husband, she wasn’t going to do without a son as well.”
“I can understand that,” he said. “Oh well, when I finally get home I expect it will all be sorted out. And when the war ends, we can choose a school for Teddy then.”
“You really think it’s going to end soon?”
“I’m sure of it,” he said. “The Germans are retreating all over Europe. We’ve got them licked, Elsie. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Praise the Lord for that,” she said, “and for bringing you safely home. I was so worried about you, Mr. Hugo. When we got the telegram that you were missing, well, we feared the worst. And what good news when you finally wrote that you were alive.”
“Only just,” he said. “I was extremely lucky. That the American troops found my body in the midst of a German convoy and, what’s more, discovered that I was still alive—well, that was nothing short of a miracle.”
“You must have had an angel watching over you,” she said. And Hugo’s hand went instinctively to where his breast pocket would be.
He was allowed home in April. The banks were covered in primroses. There were daffodils and crocuses blooming in cottage gardens, and the fruit trees were a mass of pink and white blossoms. As the taxi drove up the drive to Langley Hall he saw what Elsie had meant about the place being destroyed by louts. Heavy army vehicles were parked all over the south lawn, their tyres leaving deep gouges in what had once been immaculate grass. The north lawn had been ploughed up and was now growing vegetables. The house looked in need of a coat of paint, and some of the windows were boarded up with plywood. He got out of the taxi and went up the steps to the front door. Immediately a sentry stepped out to intercept him.
“Oy, where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“Where am I going?” Hugo regarded him with distaste. “I am Sir Hugo Langley and this is my house.”
“Not this part of it, mate,” the man said. “Right now this is the property of His Majesty’s government and the East Sussex regiment. Your bit is the wing over there.”
Hugo swallowed back his anger. “I thought you were supposed to be moving out.”
“We are. They were going to send us over to France, but it seems they don’t need us. Doing very nicely without us. So I reckon we’ll be going home soon.”
As Hugo went to walk away the man called, “So where have you been? Having a good time on the Riviera?”
“Flying bombing raids. In Malta since 1941, then in Italy, then in hospital for three months while they rebuilt my leg.”
The man stood to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see the uniform. I didn’t realise.”
Hugo went around to the side of the house and in through what had once been a servant’s entrance. It felt wrong to be sneaking into his own home like this. He wandered around, recognising objects of furniture but experiencing a jolt of unreality that nothing was in its proper place and none of the rooms were familiar to him. On the table in what was now serving as a drawing room, he found the letter addressed to him.
Dear Hugo,
As I write this I don’t know whether you are alive or dead. They say you are missing. I have to think that means dead. I have stayed on here dutifully, but now I have to think about my own happiness and that of our son. I have met someone. He’s an American major. A wonderful person, likes to laugh and dance and makes me feel alive again. I am going to America with him as soon as they can find a place for me on a ship. I have instructed your solicitor to start divorce proceedings. I’ll happily admit to being the guilty party so there is no stain on you or your lofty family.
It never really worked, did it? I saw the fun, creative side of you when we were students together in Florence, but when we came back to England you tried to be your father—stuffy and boring and correct—and
I never felt that I belonged at Langley. Not the sort of life I would have chosen. And poor little Teddy, so lonely and always teased by the village boys. I want a better life for him, too.
Please forgive me. I wish you all the best,
Brenda
Hugo stared at the letter for a long while. At first he felt indignation that his wife should betray him with an American. But then elation took over. If Sofia’s husband did not return he was free to marry her. As soon as the war ended and he was allowed to travel, he would go back to Italy and bring her home. He sat down immediately at the writing desk and wrote her a letter.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HUGO
Spring 1945
Weeks passed and there was still no letter from Sofia. Hugo told himself that the postal system in Italy was just not up and running yet. Maybe her letter had got lost in the mail. He’d wait until the official end of the war and then write again. Or better still, he’d go over and surprise her.
But then he had a visit from the family solicitor, Mr. Barton.
“I’m sorry to meet in such distressing circumstances,” he said. “I understand you will not contest the divorce your wife requests?”
“I will not,” Hugo said.
“Then that matter can be taken care of simply. But your father’s death has created the serious matter of death duties. I am afraid they are quite considerable based on the size and value of the estate.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘quite considerable’?” Hugo asked.
“Almost a million pounds.”
“A million pounds?” he demanded. “Where am I going to get that sort of money?”