by Roz Goldie
“Please sit.” He nodded and gave a wide grin, “This is a great pleasure Senor and Senora Tebaldi – a great honour. Your grandson, Nico, is a welcome customer at any time, but especially this evening. We have heard about you both for so long, and it is good to meet you at last.”
All conversation was conducted in Italian, to the delight of Mario and Olivia.
They dined on specialities that Alberto had prepared – briefed by Nico on his grandparents’ favourite dishes. Wine from the Veneto region pleased Mario.
By the time they had finished their meal, Nico ordered a taxi. His grandparents were ready for a short drive and a long sleep.
Alberto would not hear of payment for the meal. He blustered about the honour and respect of Italians. Mario enjoyed the pantomime and conceded.
“Thank you for your generosity. The food is superb – as is your hospitality, Alberto.”
Nico took his leave of them at ten, assuring them that he would return in the morning.
* * *
The Ulster Hall was refurbished in 2009, and is home to the Ulster Orchestra. A Victorian music hall it is, relatively small in comparison to the new concert venues. Its elaborate décor reflects the fact that it was built by a linen magnate at a time when Belfast was a great industrial metropolis – more significant than most of the large English cities. The architecture appealed to Bill Adams, with its sturdy stone and cast iron-columned edifice. The rigid strictures of building in the 1860s gave him a sense of solidity, discipline and order.
Escorting Lady Margaret Beightin was a privilege he enjoyed. He had never been a sociable sort, but now found himself on the edges of Margaret’s wide set of connections. She introduced him to people from all walks of life, including many of the musicians, conductors and legal professionals he otherwise encountered criminal proceedings. Margaret spoke to people with ease and grace. She asked about people’s work, their family and had a remarkable ability for remembering the smallest of details – including names of their children and grandchildren. She managed to chat to the staff without condescending and asked questions without appearing intrusive. In short, he was in awe of her personal skills and the ease with which she carried her social status.
This evening, she wore a blue gown and a white angora wrap, looking regal and yet unadorned by any jewellery. As they approached the large doors of the Ulster Hall, she greeted Sir John and Lady Cressida Colliers. He noticed how warmly the two women spoke to each other and the cautious manner in which Sir John returned the greeting. Adams was a policeman at all times, even when off duty. Sir John was supercilious with the cloakroom staff, but most attentive to those he saw as important.
As Margaret took her seat, some rows behind the Colliers, she whispered to Adams, “John is always like that, Bill. Don’t give it another thought. He assumes that people are not aware of his ambitions to be national governor of the BBC – and therefore, is prone to ingratiating himself to people he thinks will help him achieve that.”
Policing experience of three decades told Bill Adams otherwise, but he did not comment.
At the interval, Colliers attempted to look unobtrusive as he networked the elite in the foyer. As he collected drinks for himself and Margaret, Bill Adams heard him briefly chat with someone called Frederick Stewart – the same man who had made such a show of greeting Margaret when they had arrived. Margaret had been polite, but rather cold in response.
Despite these thoughts, the policeman found himself transported by the melodious harmonies of Chopin and the delightful company of dear Margaret.
When the recital came to a close, rapturous applause filled the hall and the audience rose as one in approval. As the assembled throng dispersed, talking enthusiastically, Bill Adams wrestled with the desire to declare his undying love for Margaret. Instead, he thanked her for a wonderful evening.
“Then we should do this again, Bill. I had no idea that you were such a music devotee.”
Disappointed that she had not directly returned the compliment, he straightened his shoulders and blurted out, “It is your company that is so marvellous, Margaret. I would stand in the pouring rain just to be with you!” He blushed to the roots of his hair, at his own words.
Margaret Beightin was as kind to him as she was dignified. “Bill Adams, I believe you have a crush on me! That is a lovely thing to say.” She took his hand and squeezed it warmly. “Now let’s get something to eat.”
She convinced him that his adoration had gone unnoticed before, but understood she must make up her mind about how she felt about him – that was only fair.
* * *
Nico sat under an angle-poise lamp in Eliza Taunter’s office, as he still thought of the room. Having seen his grandparents safely back to Marianne’s, he started into a four-hour session of preparation for his teaching and supervision. Although quite confident that he was capable of these assignments, Nicola Tebaldi worked scrupulously to ensure he missed no detail. His task was made easier, as he had access to Eliza’s computer – staff passwords were regulated by security, and he was given a new personal identity number alongside his contract and the keys to the office.
The professor’s teaching materials were tidily filed by module and week number in PowerPoint presentations. He set about checking the detail of every slide, only to find a number of citations were wrongly attributed – leaving the hallmark of plagiarism from websites. Finding how unreliable the late professor had been, he selected what he would need for his teaching in the coming week and took quotations and references from his own work. It was simpler to start from scratch than to tinker with Eliza’s work.
Her supervision commitments were filed separately, showing little understanding of the doctoral research of the five unfortunate postgraduate students, who had fallen under her wing. The most honest thing to do was to read what each one had so far written up, meet with them and agree a way forward. He’d have to be tactful, but he suspected he would encounter very grateful five postgrads – without recourse to comment on the late professor.
In truth, he had never suspected Eliza was quite such a fraud. He was more surprised than angry, although he took teaching and supervision as seriously as his own research and publication.
It was nearly 3 in the morning before he got to bed, weary but contented with his work and overjoyed to see his grandparents happily ensconced in Belfast – if only for a temporary visit. He fell asleep with warm memories of sitting in the farmhouse kitchen as a boy, with Olivia cooking dinner and Mario reading him tales of daring deeds.
* * *
Veronica arranged to meet Mario and Olivia Tebaldi that afternoon. Marianne served homemade cakes and coffee for them in the kitchen.
Nico was present as translator, knowing his grandparents spoke a Veronese dialect in part – and that her teach-yourself-Italian was unlikely to stretch that far.
Mario and Olivia greeted Veronica with such great warmth and gratitude that she was taken aback. She pointed out that no one could have ignored Nico’s plight, adding that a younger and more athletic woman would not have twisted her ankle in process.
“You saved our precious, Nico. He is our only grandson and we are forever in your debt, Veronica,” Mario spoke with deep-seated emotion. Olivia nodded in agreement.
“Actually, I am a very nosey person, and my curiosity got the better of me. And it was Jack Summers, who got into the house.”
“Then, we are also forever in his debt, dear lady,” Olivia spoke for them both. “As we are here for such a short visit, we would like to spend some of the time repaying your goodness. Would you and the Jack Summers man be free to have dinner with us this evening?”
Nico added, “It will be in Alberto’s, and I know you both appreciate his food!”
“How could I resist that? I would be delighted! Jack will be too, assuming he is free.” Veronica relished the thought.
“Oh, he is free, Veronica. I asked him this morning, and he will be there.”
“Good. I know
his Italian is much better than mine – you won’t need Nico to translate everything.”
* * *
Cressida Colliers booked the pre-Christmas river cruise on the dates she and Margaret had agreed. She opened her gardening diary and carefully penned in the dates and times of travel. Wistfully, she looked through her study window into the carefully manicured garden, wondering how she would fill her days until then.
Downstairs, a crashing noise and the sound of breaking glass brought her back to the present moment. She dropped her diary and went to see what had happened. As she reached the turn in the stairs, she discovered Scarlet Woods, the housekeeper, lying, bleeding on top of an antique mirror, now smashed to smithereens.
“Scarlet!” Cressida shouted out, but got no response. “John, come quickly; there’s been an awful accident!”
Colliers appeared from upstairs. The front hallway sparkled with shards of crystal glass in the middle of which lay a body, face down in a pool of blood that was spreading across the parquet floor.
“Don’t touch a thing, Cressida! Call an ambulance immediately, and I will see if she is still alive.” He gingerly stepped towards the body, trying to avoid getting blood on his shoes and put a finger to the carotid artery. There was no pulse.
When the ambulance arrived, Scarlet Woods was pronounced dead. “The cause of death was almost certainly a shard of glass through the oesophagus.”
Despite every appearance of a sorry accident, the police were obliged to attend the scene. Since neither Sir John nor Lady Cressida had seen what had occurred, they could only report the sounds they had heard. The presence of a small stepping stool overturned nearby made it reasonable to assume that the housekeeper had slipped and somehow brought the heavy antique-looking glass down with her.
Cressida was shocked and seriously disturbed by the sight, and was sitting in the drawing room, sipping hot, sugary tea, with a policewoman at her side. Once he had given his statement, Colliers excused himself, hoping to keep as far away as possible from witnessing his wife’s distress.
“I must call my daughter. She will be able to look after her mother,” he said by way of an excuse to absent himself.
“Indeed, Sir John, that would probably be helpful.” The policewoman hoped that the daughter was a more compassionate person than her father.
Colliers left the drawing room and proceeded towards the privacy of his own room. He rarely went into his wife’s study, preferring to avoid her company and chattering other than at meal times. Perhaps, it was instinct or just his fastidious reaction to seeing Cressida’s diary lying untidily spread out on the floor. Whatever the motivation, he went in, rather than simply closing the door. The diary was open on the page where Cressida had made notes on le Brocquy, Luke and Conor – plus the names, Leo Richards and Peter Saunders. He suddenly felt exposed and angry. What was she doing interfering in his business? And why was she making detailed notes? She must be that informing Margaret Beightin woman!
Cold, calculating determination filled his mind. He would deal with that busybody of a wife once things had calmed down.
* * *
The table at Alberto’s was cheerful. Mario, Olivia and Nico Tebaldi sat on one side, facing Jack Summers and Veronica. As they made their way through a large platter of antipasti, they chatted easily. Olivia was asking Jack about the rescue of Caro Nico. An astute woman, she did not accept any story at face value.
“How did you get into the house?”
Before answering, Jack looked at Veronica, as if to caution her not to be too specific. Olivia noticed and laughed, “Oh, so you were mischievous, then?”
Jack pursed his lips, put his index finger to them, nodded and winked at her.
“I won’t ask more,” she opened a new topic of conversation. “Nico tells me you know Tuscany well.”
“Yes. When I was there recently, I met a man you would know.” He smiled, “Giacomo Dilucca.”
Mario’s eyes widened. “Dilucca, the policeman?”
“Yes,” Jack nodded. “He helped me organise Dad’s funeral arrangements.” He used the term without thinking, feeling a stab of grief.
“Yes, of course, my condolences, Jack,” Mario spoke softly.
“Thank you. I haven’t talked about it much, but I miss him terribly.” Jack’s lower lip wobbled.
“Ah, we Italian men are much more emotional than you British and Irish.” Mario was unsure about which nationality Jack would claim. “The bond of father and son is strong – I miss Nico’s father terribly, even after all these years.” There were tears in Mario’s eyes.
“And yet, we have Nico!” Olivia interrupted. “And we have to thank you and Veronica for saving him from that dungeon!” She lifted her glass and toasted, “To the two redeeming rescuers!”
Nico and Mario raised their glasses, “To the two redeeming rescuers!”
Jack blushed, and Veronica pursed her lips.
“I think you have thanked us quite enough. I am still more than curious about why Leo Richards imprisoned Nico in the first place – and cannot understand how the police believe he has simply vanished.”
Jack said nothing, but recalled his conversation with Giacomo Dilucca, and the suggestion that Richards was there in secret and up to some nefarious deed. He laughed, “You had better be careful. Veronica is a detective in her spare time! The next thing you know she will have you ensnared in her investigations.” Although Jack did not use the word ‘amateur’, Veronica wondered if had used the usual ‘amateur sleuth’ and as she did not grasp all his Italian, she shot a warning glance at him.
Seeing this, Nico intervened, “It is a compliment, Veronica.”
She relaxed and sipped her wine contentedly.
* * *
Secretary of State Clive Heedon sat in his well-appointed office, flicking through papers on his large, rosewood desk. He enjoyed what work he did and the Northern Ireland Civil Servants. They were much more compliant than their English counterparts, rarely displaying the sort of independence that Ministers in England had to endure. Permanent Secretaries had run the place for decades when the country was under the regime of Direct Rule from Westminster, but less senior staff had not dared to question let alone challenge Ministers. Somehow, that practice had remained delightfully unaltered.
When, and if, he asked advice, he relied on the fact that he would usually be told what he wanted to hear. In particular, he liked the do-nothing response to any controversy. Currently, the hullabaloo was about flying flags – allegedly, this had some effect on public order, but this Secretary of State found the whole matter petty and unfathomable. What was the problem? Could the police not sort it out? It seemed tiresome and not something he’d expect in London.
He laughed, remembering the day he had overheard an Assistant Secretary asking a subordinate about a letter. Pointing to the words pencilled in the margin ‘spherical objects’, he’d asked, “Who is spherical and to what does he object?”
The subordinate had coughed and replied that it was a mischievous, critical comment: “Someone trying to be witty, sir.”
He had changed the person assigned as his personal public servant after the embarrassment with those damned, fake pictures. Of course, the woman had been correct to warn him about the Beechland’s Gallery, but he had been stung for a large sum of money and although it was reimbursed, he felt a certain awkwardness bordering on humiliation. A pleasant, young man, called Chris Barker, was now his daily helper. It galled him that word might spread, but he ignored that possibility and was happy that the subject was never spoken of again.
He thought about how practical and effective Sir John Colliers had been in the whole sorry business and wondered if he could help Colliers get the governorship at the BBC. Clive Heedon wielded considerable influence and felt he owed it to Colliers to back him. As he was due to see the man in the next few days, he would seek out some information about the BBC post beforehand.
Calculating that Colliers would then be in his debt, Cliv
e Heedon was happy that the proper balance of things would then be restored. He lifted his phone and asked Chris Barker to get him a briefing on the National Governorship of BBC Northern Ireland.
Barker came into his office with a small folder and afternoon tea on a tray some 15 minutes later.
* * *
Chapter Six
Jack Summers had been a policeman for almost his entire working life. His letter of resignation was carefully written, and he reread it before putting it into an envelope and sealing it. He had left it for 24 hours before lifting it from the mantelpiece and putting it into his pocket. It was bound for DCI Bill Adams’ desk that morning.
He knew it was irrational, but his encounter with Mario Tebaldi had broken through the protective shell that held back almost a lifetime of grief for his mother and lately, the intense pain at the loss of his father. The old man’s open emotion and compassion had gently penetrated the armour shield that encrusted him. Having experienced the poignancy of memory when he referred to his father as ‘Dad’, Jack felt a warm sense of acceptance slowly seeping into his whole being. He slept well that night and woke up refreshed, alert and happily settled.
He was not at all sure what he was going to do when he left his job, but decided he would just give it time. After a long hot shower and a light breakfast, he was positively cheerful. He strode into Donaghdubh Station with energy and purpose.
* * *
Margaret had asked Veronica to her home for coffee. She wanted to make it crystal clear that the cottage was Veronica’s place and she would only appear when invited. Although reluctant to discuss her relationship with Bill Adams, Lady Margaret Beightin found Veronica a trustworthy confidant – and discretion was essential.