by Rosanna Ley
‘So, what changed?’ Isabella couldn’t take her eyes off Luca Bordoni’s painting. Could that other more valuable painting still be hidden under this canvas? Was it even possible after all this time? She was desperate to know. She couldn’t believe that Ferdinand had been able to walk past it every day not knowing, not doing anything about it. No wonder he had kept staring at it. ‘Did your father change his mind when he became ill? Was that it?’
‘No.’ Ferdinand sipped his coffee. ‘It was more of a random thing.’
‘Go on.’ This was getting more intriguing by the second.
‘My father was reading an article about old monasteries and convents in Italy, and how many of them had been converted into hotels.’
‘Like ours.’
‘Like yours. Exactly.’ He paused. ‘The old convent in Vernazza was mentioned in the article. It piqued his interest, naturally. The memories must have come flooding back. He mentioned it to me and I suggested we look it up online.’
Isabella already knew what he was going to say next. She had been responsible for a large part of The Lemon Tree Hotel’s website design. She knew there was a photograph of the staircase, the black-and-white tiled lobby, the very niche where Luca Bordoni’s painting had always hung. ‘You saw an image of this painting,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And Karl remembered it,’ Giovanna added. ‘Of course.’ Her eyes softened.
‘And he told you – about what he’d done?’ Isabella sipped her coffee more slowly this time.
‘Not then, no.’ Ferdinand glanced away. It was approaching sunrise. The pale dawn was creeping through the small windows in the kitchen, pooling the smooth flagstones with lighter tones. ‘He must have spent some time mulling it over, trying to decide what to do. But by then he was too poorly to travel. So, that’s when he told me the story.’
‘He asked you to go and recover the painting.’ Isabella sat back in her chair. ‘To get it back for him.’
‘No, no, my darling.’ Giovanna waved an arthritic finger. ‘He asked Ferdinand to recover the painting, sì, but he also told him that if by some miracle it was still there, he should give it to any of the nuns who might still be living near Vernazza.’ She nodded with satisfaction. ‘Or otherwise to give it to our town, our community, to someone who could be trusted to do the right thing. To have it authenticated and valued before the community decided what to do with it. He was very clear, was he not, Ferdinand? That was what he wanted to do.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘He did not want it for himself, Bella, not at all.’
Isabella was beginning to see. ‘He wanted to make amends.’ She exchanged a glance with Ferdinand. That was what he had said, and now it was making sense. If the painting was there, if it could be recovered, if it was indeed as valuable as they all thought it was, then the community of Vernazza could in some way benefit from the money it might raise. It wouldn’t make everything right. But it would be something.
‘Exactly.’ Ferdinand once again added more milk to his coffee and drank it down in one. Like Isabella, he must be feeling pretty hyper by now. And Giovanna seemed to realise this too as she got up to put her tray of pastries in the oven.
‘My first task was to discover if any of the nuns were still here, or someone else who had been around at the time, and you helped me with that as soon as I arrived.’ He beamed at Giovanna. ‘You told me about Giovanna, and I learned a lot more about what had happened from her.’ He sent her aunt a knowing look.
Giovanna smiled back at him. ‘Ferdinand told me the full story,’ she said. ‘It was quite a surprise, I can tell you.’
‘And not the only one,’ Ferdinand added.
Isabella remembered the day Ferdinand had arrived at the hotel, how he had sought her out and asked her to introduce him to Giovanna. She remembered her old aunt’s reaction too – how forgiving she had been, how she had welcomed Ferdinand into her home. Since then . . . they had really bonded.
‘He told me about his plan to look inside the frame of my father’s painting. If there was nothing there, well then, we would know that someone else had found the Last Supper and that it was lost for ever. But if it was still there . . .’
‘Then I could hand it over to Giovanna for safekeeping.’
‘And I could take it to our community and tell them the whole story.’ Giovanna retrieved her cornetti from the oven. They were golden and smelt divine. She brought them over, still on the baking tray. ‘Or at least part of the story.’ She chuckled.
Isabella took one of the neat spirals. She’d had no idea that her aunt was so secretive. Cautiously, she bit into it, crisp flaky pastry giving away to a hot, sweet custard centre. She blew on the pastry and took another bite. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was.
‘So why was it such a big secret?’ she complained when she’d finished the next mouthful. Ferdinand could have told her all this days ago, and they could have examined the painting together. ‘Didn’t you trust us?’ It was ironic that all this time Isabella had been unsure whether to trust Ferdinand because he wouldn’t tell her exactly what he was doing here, and now it turned out the positions had been reversed without her even being aware of it. He didn’t trust her family. That was hardly a decent foundation for any kind of relationship.
Giovanna held up a hand. ‘That was my fault.’
‘Your fault, Aunt?’ That was impossible. Their family had always looked after Giovanna – she would have no reason not to trust them.
‘Ferdinand’s father knew that it was a delicate situation,’ she explained. ‘He didn’t know who had bought the convent, of course. He didn’t know that it was in fact one of the very rebels who had been running away that night and whose compatriots had been shot.’ She shook her head sadly.
Isabella thought of the great-grandfather she had never known. ‘Ah, yes.’ That made sense. If he had known this, he would have been even more wary of the family’s reaction.
‘But what he did know was that the painting had originally belonged to the covent, and that therefore it would have been sold to the new owners along with the other contents of the building.’
‘So, any part of it would automatically belong to my family,’ Isabella said, her mouth still full with her next bite of cornetto. ‘But couldn’t you trust us to do the right thing?’
‘I promised my father to keep it a secret,’ Ferdinand said. ‘And Giovanna told me I should respect that wish – for now.’ He swallowed his pastry in one. ‘You made that very hard, Isabella.’
She supposed that she had. Not that she was about to apologise. But if she and Ferdinand hadn’t become so . . . er, close, then the problem would never have arisen. ‘Hmm,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know you, Isabella,’ Ferdinand said. ‘Not then.’ He reached out his hand and took hers. She liked that feeling a lot.
‘And I was concerned too, my dear,’ Giovanna admitted. ‘Elene and Silvio had so many plans for The Lemon Tree Hotel . . . How might they react if the money to do everything were to land in their laps?’
Isabella gaped at her. ‘You know about all that?’
Ferdinand squeezed her hand. ‘It’s my impression that Giovanna knows everything that goes on around here,’ he said.
He had a point. But: ‘I’m certain my parents would also want to do the right thing,’ Isabella said staunchly.
Giovanna nodded. ‘And I think you are right, Bella.’
‘But don’t offer them the temptation, is that it?’
Giovanna seemed evasive. ‘Some things are best kept quiet,’ she murmured, ‘even from those you love.’
Ferdinand was fidgeting. ‘Enough talking,’ he said. ‘We have to get this painting back on the wall before anyone notices it’s gone. Don’t you think it’s time to find out if the Last Supper is even there?’
‘Most definitely,’ said Giovanna.
Isabella jumped up to get the tool-bag from where she’d dumped it in the hall. ‘Come on then, Master Criminal,’ she said, putting it
down next to the Archangel Gabriel. ‘Let’s do it.’
CHAPTER 43
Isabella
‘Shall we open it up outside?’ Giovanna’s faded old eyes were twinkling with excitement.
‘There is more room outside, yes, why not?’ Ferdinand agreed.
The two of them, Isabella thought again, were thick as thieves. Literally. She looked down at her flimsy nightdress and shrugged. She wasn’t cold. She was still wearing Ferdinand’s fleece on top of it, and besides, there was far too much going on to be cold.
He carried the Bordoni painting under one arm out on to the terrace. A pink misty dawn made the morning sky look like a watercolour. Isabella let out a small sigh. It seemed paintings were very much on her mind . . .
The hens were clucking inside their coop, eager to get out into the fresh air, and Giovanna clicked her tongue. ‘I must let out my girls.’
Ferdinand and Isabella exchanged a glance. The situation would be funny – if it weren’t so serious. Ferdinand placed the painting carefully on the wooden table and assembled his tools beside it. They waited in silence for Giovanna to return.
She fussed around, unlatching the low door that was strong enough to deter any wild animals that might want to try their luck. Then she fetched some grain to toss on to the cobbles. Ferdinand glanced at his watch. Isabella knew what he was thinking. They had to get the painting back where it belonged before anyone from the hotel was up and about. If they didn’t . . . At this moment in time she was unable to think of any plausible reason why she and Ferdinand might have taken the Bordoni down from the wall, let alone why they might have spirited it away through the olive grove and to Giovanna’s cottage . . .
At last, Giovanna returned, and Ferdinand set to. He turned the painting face down and picked up the screwdriver. ‘We must take off the back.’ He eased the screwdriver under the lip of the worn gilt frame. It was stiff and, of course, it resisted.
‘It has been many years,’ said Giovanna. ‘It is a bit like taking off the lid of an old paint pot, no?’
‘A bit.’ Ferdinand gave a grim smile. He was being rather gentler than he would have been with a paint pot, easing the screwdriver in a bit all the way around, and gently prising the hardboard apart from the wooden frame.
It creaked.
Giovanna nodded. ‘A good sign,’ she said.
Isabella supposed it showed the picture hadn’t been tampered with – at least not lately. She realised she was holding her breath, and she exhaled slowly.
Ferdinand went around the frame a second time with his screwdriver. This time the gap between the hardboard and the frame was wider, and he could insert it more easily. The tacks that held it in place had come out a few millimetres, and he took his pincers and meticulously removed each one, placing them in a pile on the far side of the table. ‘And now . . .’ He prised the hardboard further apart from the gilt frame. Dust motes flew out into the morning air. He eased the hardboard backing away.
Giovanna and Isabella peered over. Now that the backing had been removed, it was possible to see the back of the frame that held the Bordoni canvas in place. All was intact, but in the centre of the frame’s cavity was a smaller canvas, face down, kept in place all around its perimeter with balls of scrunched-up newspaper. There was indeed another painting here – that was immediately obvious. But was it the painting?
‘Madonna santa,’ whispered Giovanna. She crossed herself.
Ferdinand took out the balls of newspaper. ‘It must have been all he could find,’ he muttered.
His father would have had no time to think about long-term protection. He would have had to think and act fast. And if he hadn’t used the newspaper, the second canvas – which was smaller – would have moved around within the Bordoni’s larger frame cavity, Isabella realised. People would have guessed that the frame housed something else other than the painting on show. The smaller canvas would have made a noise and been discovered almost straightaway. This way though . . . The smaller canvas was protected and could remain undetected. Until now.
Ferdinand had taken out all the newspaper. He reached into the cavity of the frame and he took hold of the smaller canvas with both hands.
Isabella held her breath again.
He lifted it up and turned it around for them all to see. ‘It is here,’ he said – rather unnecessarily.
Because here it was indeed. It was nothing short of a miracle that this painting could have been hidden under the Bordoni for so long. It was quite dazzling. Isabella blinked. She’d seen other depictions of the Last Supper – it was a popular subject of course, inspirational, she imagined, for many artists, especially those painting in the Renaissance. But she’d never seen one quite so bright. There was a luminosity in the yellow, ochre, and saffron of the disciples’ robes and hair, a soft light in the sky through the pillars beyond. In the light of the morning here on Giovanna’s terrace, the hidden painting glowed.
‘Ah, sì, sì.’ Giovanna’s voice was soft and tender. ‘I remember this painting from when I was a girl. It hung in the convent, in the vestibule. It was the first thing one saw on coming into the building.’
‘It’s beautiful. Is it very old, do you think?’
‘Fifteenth century perhaps?’ Giovanna sounded uncertain. ‘And it has great character.’
That was undeniable. Isabella couldn’t take her eyes off it.
‘But who is the artist?’ Ferdinand was peering at the signature. ‘Did he donate it to the convent do you think?’
Isabella came to her senses. The signature was illegible, but could easily be authenticated by an art expert, she imagined, when the time came. ‘Never mind that now,’ she said. ‘Now you must get the other back, Ferdinand. Pronto.’
‘Of course.’ Ferdinand laid the Last Supper reverently on the table. He took the original hardboard backing and, jiggling it about a bit, he fixed it into place on the original frame. He glanced at the tacks he’d just removed, discarded them with a shake of his head and pulled a packet of new tacks from the canvas bag. Deftly, he tapped them in with a small hammer, and the gilt frame was back together again, looking much as before, the gilt just a little more cracked perhaps. He was becoming quite the expert.
‘See you later.’ He kissed Giovanna on both cheeks.
Isabella stepped forward, and he took her hands. ‘Forgive me?’
Isabella met his gaze. ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she said. He had loyalty to his father – that was good and right. But ultimately, he had indeed come here to make amends to their community, and Isabella respected that. She would have preferred that he had trusted her enough to tell her the truth before now. But . . .
He gave one last look at the painting, and at Isabella. And then he was gone.
Isabella and Giovanna gazed down at the painting. ‘It is a good picture,’ Giovanna remarked.
‘Yes, it is.’ Isabella could tell it was valuable – although she still had no idea who had painted it or how it had been acquired by the convent in the first place. There had been so many wonderful Italian artists. She turned to Giovanna. ‘What now?’ What would she do with it?
‘We must wrap it carefully . . .’ She frowned. ‘Wait here.’
Which wasn’t quite what Isabella had meant.
Giovanna returned with a wad of tissue paper.
‘You’re going to wrap it in that?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s better than clingfilm.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then, after someone has looked at it, the painting will go to our community,’ she replied, ‘just as Ferdinand’s father wants it to.’
‘Will our community want to sell it?’ It seemed a shame, after all that effort.
Giovanna smiled. ‘It rather depends on what it is worth, my dear. It could be valuable. It might be painted by some artist whose paintings are rare and highly valued. Only an art historian will know, I suppose.’
Isabella scrutinised the painting. She thought of the story of the Las
t Supper. On the evening before his death, Jesus called his disciples together for supper, knowing that it would be his last. Before the meal, he washed the feet of everyone attending. During the meal he disclosed the fact that he would be betrayed by one of his twelve followers. He shared the bread and wine, eternal symbols of his body and blood, as depicted in this painting. In this picture, Jesus was the only figure dressed in a dark robe – the disciples wore robes of many colours. They had been drawn with various expressions of worry, disbelief, animation on their faces; only Jesus looked serene and set apart. One of the disciples – maybe Peter? – was whispering in another’s ear. Which one was Judas? The one who looked the most worried, she supposed.
‘It’s quite something,’ she said.
Giovanna nodded. ‘Ah, sì, it is special. It is a reminder of what we have lost. But also, my dear Bella, it is a reminder of what can be saved.’
CHAPTER 44
Chiara
Chiara had flown from Pisa to Gatwick and caught the train from there to Weymouth. It had been a long journey and she hadn’t found it easy travelling alone. It was all so different, so strange. Before leaving home, she’d planned her itinerary – at least in the early stages; after that she would have to wait and see – but making the journey was another thing entirely. A hard knot of anxiety sat in her belly. The unfamiliar surroundings, having to depend on a transport system in an unknown place, the not knowing what she would find . . . It was definitely a step outside her comfort zone. Was she mad to have come here at all? She hoped not, but only time would tell.
She wasn’t sure what had come first – the idea to get away or the urge to find Dante. It had begun with that conversation with Giovanna, and had taken root in the olive grove that meant so much to them both. Could she be brave enough? She’d made her travel arrangements quickly, so there’d be no time to worry about it or change her mind. Even so, she’d lost count of the times she’d felt unsure, been tempted to turn right around and go back home. But she hadn’t. She didn’t have the luxury of certainty, but she had to at least try.