He laughed, “Sorry, but the car is cool, I turned the air con on ten minutes ago. It will be cooler up in the hills.”
“What’s the name of this place again?”
“Barga.” He handed her the leaflet and she read it.
“Oh, right, of course they have the opera festival there. I’d forgotten. I went there quite a few years ago, they were doing a Vivaldi Oratorio, Juditha Triumphans, in the Duomo. It was pretty amazing.”
“Well, tonight the concert is outside, in the cloisters of the convent.”
“I love concerts in the open air and it’s Beethoven string quartets. Great.”
“We’re eating in the historic centre of the town. I’ve booked us in for seven thirty at the Scacciaguai restaurant. It was recommended by a friend.”
They had reached the car and Vanessa got in and sighed, “Oh, this is lovely, so cool. Look at me, I must look like a tomato.”
She was a little flushed. Jacopo said, “I like tomatoes.”
They took the road that ran through the Serchio river valley, often right beside the river which now contained little water. At Borgo a Mozzano the dam was half empty. Just beyond the dam was the donkey-backed Devil’s bridge, first built by Contessa Matilde di Canossa in the twelth century and later modified at the beginning of the fourteenth century. Dragonetti who had looked it up that afternoon told Vanessa all about it. “The real name of the bridge is the Ponte della Maddalena, but it is usually known by the other name. It seems that the man who was building the bridge was behind with the work and made a pact with the devil who enabled him to finish the work in time but claimed in payment the soul of the first living being to cross the completed bridge. The problem was solved by sending a pig over first.”
“I love it.”
“Even the Germans spared it during the second world war.”
“They spared the Ponte Vecchio in Florence too.”
“Perhaps they thought they would be coming back and wanted to keep the beautiful things intact.”
“Probably.”
As they drove up the last stretch of road the outline of the Duomo of Barga came into view. “Will we have time to look inside it?” asked Vanessa. “I seem to remember there’s a huge barbaric wooden sculpture of Saint Christopher.”
“My favourite saint. We’ll dash in and have a look at him before the concert. The convent is practically next door and anyway the concert’s bound to start late.”
“I think you’ll be quite surprised by the church. It’s pretty stark and dominated by the statue.”
“It will make a change after all the Baroque stuff I’ve seen in Lucca.”
They parked the car in a car park that was inconveniently placed down in the valley below the town, which meant they had an uphill walk to get to the restaurant.
Dinner was an amazingly quiet meal considering the violent emotions several members of the group were experiencing. Ursula hid her agitation with an air of such coolness that no one dared to mention or even allude to the colossal row that she must have known they’d heard. Tebaldo tried to look unaware that his wife’s presence was a distinct embarrassment to him. She was so obviously unhappy that she sat stuffing herself with an enormous amount of food. It took all he’d got not to tell her to leave the table. Isabella always tried to stifle her unhappiness with food and ate it much too fast, ramming it into her mouth to fill up some inner emptiness. Feeling the eyes of her in-laws on her, she finally stopped gobbling and excused herself saying that her headache had returned. Ursula remarked, “It probably has something to do with your digestion. Perhaps if you ate more slowly you’d feel better.”
With a little spark of rebellion, Isabella answered nastily, “Perhaps you’ve got a migraine for the same reason? Perhaps you weren’t able to digest something either?” She stood up as she spoke, pushing her chair back so violently that it fell over, and quickly left the room without righting it, and before Ursula could reply. There was an uncomfortable silence before Lapo made light conversation in a falsely hearty tone, about the expected summer storms and global warming, to which the others added only polite comments. Marianna sat quietly, ate little and avoided looking at anyone. Teo had a pained expression as though he felt tainted in some way by his wife’s treason. With a feeling of mutual relief the dreadful meal drew to an end and they all went their separate ways. Ursula sat in the drawing room flicking through magazines. Tebaldo, obviously unwilling to join his wife upstairs, sat there too for a while, reading, but they didn’t speak. Finally he got up and said, “Goodnight.”
Left alone, Ursula stared out of the open windows at the dark night and what she could see of the garden which was discretely illuminated by lamps placed at intervals along the borders of the shrubbery. The smell of the burning mosquito repellent was familiar but this evening she found it particularly unpleasant. She moved out into the garden and walked slowly along the path enjoying the fresher air. Isabella, closing the window in the girls’ room, on the floor above, saw her. She would have given a lot to know what had happened between her and Guido. At least he was off the scene for now, and maybe permanently. Ursula heard her, looked up, and abruptly turned back into the house.
Fifty miles away Vanessa and Jacopo were listening to the second half of the concert, the Beethoven quartet No 13 opus 130 and what had been the original last movement, The Great Fugue, opus 133. When it was over Vanessa leant towards Jacopo and said in his ear said, “Thank you so much for thinking of this. I’ve had a fantastic evening, great food and now this,” she waved her hand to encompass the cloisters and the musicians who were taking their fourth bow.
“Good, I’m glad you enjoyed it. They were good, weren’t they?”
“Excellent. I’m very impressed.”
“Of course you realise it will take at least an hour and a half to get home.”
“Who cares? It was worth it.”
Piero, hovering outside the room, managed to catch Ursula when she came out and carry her off to the study where he told her about the letters. She sat in a stunned sort of apathy. Finally, she said, “I see. Well it all sounds a bit far-fetched and I certainly don’t think that people who write these letters ever actually carry out their threats, which in this case are not even defined. However, I will go down to the police station when I have time. I’m tired, Piero. I have a migraine and I want to go back to bed. It’s been an exhausting day.”
“Yes, well, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
Half an hour later she stood up, “So I hope everything’s clear now. I don’t want to discuss it again.”
They looked at each other. Piero merely said, “Goodnight. I hope you feel better in the morning.”
“So do I. I doubt I could feel much worse.”
After she’d left, he remained in the study going through the accounts and when he finally looked at his watch he was surprised to see how late it was. He went down to the kitchen, checked that everything was in order and then finally prepared for bed. His chronic insomnia meant that he might well be forced to get up again, but at least he made the pretence of trying to sleep. Usually, if he hadn’t managed it by two, he would take a pill. Recently, he had been taking one most nights but not tonight. He didn’t really expect tonight to be any different to the others but there was too much going round in his head for him to find any peace and he needed to think things through. Marta always slept the sleep of the just but not until Lapo had come in. Before that she would be in a light sleep that only Lapo’s arrival could disturb. She rarely noticed his own comings and goings, or perhaps because they had become so frequent, she ignored them.
The villa apparently settled down for the night but it was not a quiet night. Footsteps on the stairs, the sound of water gurgling through the drains, car doors were closed quietly but were audible, half glimpsed figures that Piero recognised as he wandered the corridors. No, it was not a quiet night.
25th July
CHAPTER TEN
The absurdl
y huge bouquet of roses arrived early. Marta took the delivery and sighed as she placed them in the hall. She knew quite well who’d sent them without needing to look at the note. She doubted that it would work. Once Ursula had made up her mind she rarely changed it. But perhaps she hadn’t quite decided. Piero had no idea what the quarrel had been about, and neither did she. She could only imagine it had something to do with money or maybe he’d palmed her off with a fake antique. Of course it could have been another woman, but she didn’t believe it. Guido knew when he was on to a good thing. Why take risks when he was so close to achieving his goal?
Jean Pierre, the hairdresser, was due at ten and when Ursula hadn’t come down to breakfast by half past nine, Marta went up to her room to wake her. She took a tray of coffee, freshly-squeezed orange juice and toast with her so that Ursula could have something to eat quickly before Jean Pierre’s arrival.
She knocked, then went into the darkened room, and set the tray on the dressing table just inside the room. She moved over to draw the heavy burgundy coloured curtains and open the shutters. To her surprise the shutters onto the small balcony were not locked. She opened them and light flooded the room. She turned back and looked towards Ursula’s curtain-draped four-poster bed. The curtains, as always, were half open and a mosquito net was draped across the rest of it, shrouding the occupant. Marta stared and moved closer. Her mouth dropped open in a soundless scream, her body became rigid and then suddenly she collapsed quietly onto the Persian carpet. A few minutes later, seeing the door open, Teo popped his head into the room and at first saw only Marta on the floor. He rushed to her side.
“Marta, what’s happened?”
She opened her eyes and felt hot tears gush from them, “Teo, did you see?”
“See what?”
“Madam, she’s…,” she couldn’t say the word.
Teo leapt up, rushed towards the bed, pulled at the netting and then stopped in horror. What he saw wasn’t a person. There on the four-poster bed that aunt Agnese had peacefully died in, was a blood-stained puppet, a savaged doll, a scene from a horror film; it couldn’t ever have been a person. He turned and vomited on the floor. Marta by now had struggled to her feet. She avoided looking at the bed. “Teo, quick, come out of here now. We have to call the police.” She dragged him out of the room, closed the door, locked it and put the key on her pocket. She was trembling violently. She grabbed Tebaldo’s arm, whether to support herself or him, she didn’t know. They stumbled downstairs together to the hall.
“Sit down there,” she said, in a shaky voice, “I’ll call the police.”
“Why are you doing that?” He sounded bewildered. His face was ashen.
“Teo, she’s been murdered.”
“Murdered, but she can’t be! No, but of course, she was murdered, I didn’t realise. I wasn’t thinking.” Tears gently escaped from his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks.
But Marta wasn’t listening. She had the phone in her hand and was pressing the buttons. She felt a cold sweat break out all over her body and held onto the table because she thought she might faint again. Somehow, she found her voice and said what had happened, quietly and concisely. When she put the phone down, she realised her hands were wet with sweat and she felt light-headed again. She sat down quickly beside Teo. “They’re coming now.”
“Yes,” he said and bowed his head. Marta wanted to call Piero but she knew her voice would fail her and didn’t think her legs would take her as far as the kitchen. Also she didn’t want to leave Teo alone, so they sat there together like two victims of shell shock waiting quietly for the police. These were the last quiet moments they would pass for a long time.
When the police arrived it was like a thunderstorm breaking over the house. The bell rang like a clarion call. Marta started from her chair and went to open the door. The chief of police came in flanked by two others.
“I am Maresciallo Spadaccia, and you are?”
“Marta Lotti, housekeeper. I’m the one that phoned you. This is Tebaldo von Bachmann, Madam’s eldest son.”
“Where is Mad… the victim?”
“Madam is upstairs, in her bedroom, first door on the left. I locked the door.” Marta fished the key out of her pocket and handed it to him.
He took the key and the three men ran up the stairs as though haste was essential or could be useful. Marta and Teo looked at each other helplessly. Some part of them seemed to hope they had only imagined the terrible scene in the bedroom. There was a dreadful silence from above and then the door was closed and locked again. Marta stared at the floor. The men came back down the stairs slowly and then she saw the policeman’s boots stop in front of her. She looked up at him as though expecting some relief from her anguish.
“Who found the body?”
“I did. It was late so I took Madam a breakfast tray up.”
He turned to Tebaldo, “What about you, sir? Were you present?”
“I saw the door was open and went in to say good morning to my mother. Marta had fainted on the floor so I went to her. I didn’t even realise what had happened to my mother. Is she dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she is. Did you see the body?”
“Yes, er, yes, of course.”
“Did either of you touch the body or anything else in the room?”
“No.” said Teo, aware that Marta was clutching his arm. He heard her take a sharp breath. She said hurriedly, “I did. I drew the curtains open as I always do. The shutters weren’t locked like they usually are, which I thought was strange, but I didn’t imagine…” She suppressed a sob and took control of herself. “I suppose that’s how he got in.”
“Who?”
“The person who did this, obviously,” Marta said in explanation.
“I see.” He made a few brief notes in a notebook
“Mrs Lotti, when did you last see Signora von Bachmann alive?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“At what time?”
“I saw her at dinner. I think my husband was the last to see her before she went to bed.”
“Do you know at what time?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Did you both sleep here in the house?”
“Yes,” they said together.
“Did either of you hear any noises during the night?”
“No, nothing at all,” said Marta firmly.
“What about you?”
“No, nothing,” said Teo.
Marta suddenly gasped, “Oh God, nobody else knows. The rest of the family, I mean. We came straight down after we found her, and I phoned you. I wasn’t feeling well so I had to sit down. I couldn’t go and tell them.”
“You say you felt unwell. Did you vomit in the bedroom?”
“No, that was me,” said Teo. “I’m sorry, it just happened.”
“Right. I want both of you to remain here. You’re not to speak to anyone. Bianchi, stay with them and you, Tardelli come with me.”
As he went out of the front door, he was pulling his cell phone from his pocket. They heard his voice for some time while they sat as though in a waiting room, waiting for nothing, unable to even think clearly. Teo was wrestling with the memory of the horrific sight of his mother’s body. The whole thing kept flashing back unbidden into his mind and he felt another wave of nausea. He stood up abruptly. “I have to go to the bathroom.” He moved quickly as he spoke and before the policeman could stop him he wrenched open the door and disappeared from view.
Marta said, “He’s always had a delicate stomach, ever since he was a child. Anything upsets him and he vomits.”
The Chief of Police came back. “Where’s the man?
“He’s feeling unwell. He’s in the bathroom.”
“Fool, I told you not to let them out of your sight. How do you know what he’s doing in there. Which room?”
Marta pointed at the door and he promptly hammered on it. A white-faced Teo peered out. “Sorry, I had to throw up.”
Teo came out shakily. “No, of course not. Sorry, I just feel so ill.”
Spadaccia turned to Marta. “Where are the other members of the family?”
“I think Marianna’s still in bed. Lapo too. Those are Madam’s other children, and Isabella and the girls had breakfast and then went out. Isabella is Tebaldo’s wife. My husband, Piero, will be down in the kitchen, I know he was checking the arrival of the wine order. I expect Jean Pierre has arrived by now. He’ll be having a coffee in the kitchen with Piero, waiting for me to tell him Madam is ready for him.” She stifled a sob.
“Jean Pierre?”
“Madam’s personal hairdresser. He comes two or three mornings a week.”
“I see.” His voice was rich with unspoken comment.
“Who else is in the house?”
“Paola, that’s the cook, and Franca, she helps in the kitchen and cleans. We’ve got another cleaner, Laura, but she’s off today. What will happen now?” asked Marta.
“No one will leave the villa and no one will enter, with the exception of those family members who slept here last night. I have left a man outside for that purpose. The Procura is sending a magistrate to head the preliminary investigation and we do nothing until he arrives, except secure the scene. He’ll bring the crime scene team and the pathologist with him.”
“When will he arrive?”
“I don’t know. It may take a while.”
“Could we go down to the kitchen? Like I said, the staff has arrived and will be preparing lunch and my husband’s there too. We could at least offer you a coffee.”
Maresciallo Spadaccia appeared to weigh things up and then shook his head. “No, I want you both to stay here.”
Marta lost control, burst into tears and wailed, “I want to tell Piero that Madam’s dead. No one knows.”
Broken Chord Page 9