Taken at the Flood

by K. J. Rabane

  To my darling Abe,

  for loving me so long and so well,

  My thanks and love, always, Leo X

  Removing the wrapping paper, I lifted the lid of the box and saw it contained a gold watch. I lifted it up and saw the inscription in Italics on the reverse of the dial. It read, Abe and Leo and the date.

  It had been a long-standing joke between us that I would never buy a watch until the hands fell off the existing one. I held it and felt my heart pounding in my chest. What was going on? Why would she buy such a present, was it another facet of her treacherous nature, or something else? The possibility that she hadn’t deceived me with another man was something I refused to contemplate. The evidence of her infidelity lay shredded in the offices of Brockwell and Hansen. And there was no mistake. I’d seen it with my own eyes.

  Chapter 31

  Alan’s news had a profound effect on me. Guilt seeped into me like damp into the walls of a derelict building and I spent less and less time in River House, the place where memories gnawed at my conscience. I saw Leonora everywhere, heard her laughter flowing throughout the house and could not tolerate looking out into the woodland. Every day that passed I tried to forget what I’d done but failed miserably.

  The apartment in Mayfair became my refuge. Her presence was less obvious there and I was able to put her to the back of my mind for hours at a time. Softcell was ticking over and Alan was thrilled I’d made him a Director of the Company at last.

  I became aimless and wandered around the city like a lost soul. My friends were sympathetic and understanding but none of them knew the truth. What would they say if they knew what I’d done? Would their generosity stretch to harbouring a murderer in their midst?

  I spent my evenings in an alcoholic daze once more but this time the soporific effect was absent. Instead, I drifted into a sleep, filled with haunted dreams, which failed to disperse on waking. Television became my constant companion. I watched daytime chat shows, soaps, news reports, dramas, cooking programmes, DIY and travel shows. One evening when I was watching a travel programme about Italy, I became aware that the image on the screen was familiar to me. I was half-heartedly watching the presenter’s dyed blonde hair falling in her eyes as she walked up a cobbled street. She passed kerb-side tables situated outside cafes, each with an attractive array of tablecloths draped over them and then I watched her stride uphill towards a large stone tower looming in the background. Across the screen floated the words San Gimignano, Tuscany.

  I sat up, suddenly remembering where I’d seen the place before. It was in the offices of Brockwell and Hansen and I was staring at a photograph of my wife with another man. Then I remembered a postcard Ian Hansen had sent me during his investigation, which was still in the drawer of my desk at River House.

  The next day I went down to River House. I was feeling like shit, my drinking was having an effect. Stubble grew on my chin. I looked like a tramp and as far removed from the photograph of me in HI LIFE magazine, as it was possible to be. My hair had grown long and my skin had an unhealthy pallor.

  The house looked deserted as I drove up. The shutters on the upstairs windows were closed, as were the blinds on the ground floor windows. I was surprised to see Josie walking away from the front door as I locked my car and went to meet her.

  “Oh there you are. Henry and I were beginning to think you must have moved. We see far too little of you these days. How are things?” she asked, kissing my cheek and grimacing. “I can see you need looking after, my lad.” She laid an affectionate hand on my arm.

  I gave a rueful smile. “I know I look disgraceful; I promise I’ll shape up some time soon. As for not seeing me, I can’t seem to settle in River House for long, I’m too restless.”

  She looked at me and sighed. “I understand; too many memories for one thing. Look, one of the reasons I’ve come over to see you is, Henry and I are having an anniversary party at the weekend. We’ve been married for ten years and are celebrating with a few friends. We really would like you to join us. Say you will?”

  I stroked my chin, felt the rough hairs dragging against my fingertips and hesitated. “I don’t think…..” I began then raised my eyes to her face. Dear Josie, who had known Evelyn in her youth and had stayed loyal in spite of everything, was trying to save me from myself. “I’ll be there,” I said, “but please, please, don’t invite some unattached female on my behalf.”

  She laughed, called to her dogs and replied, “I see you know me too well. See you at eight on Saturday.”

  She left me standing there and took the river path towards her house. I watched her go, saw the dogs run through the woods past the place where I’d buried Leo and waited with trepidation, but they just sniffed the ground as usual until she called them to heel, and continued along the path until she was lost from view.

  Afterwards, in my study, I picked up the telephone on my desk and ordered flowers to be delivered to the Dangerfields’ house for Saturday, then opened the bottom drawer and felt around until my fingers closed on the postcard. As I had thought, there in front of me was the small Tuscan town of San Gimignano its towers dwarfing the surrounding landscape. Picking up the telephone again, I dialled the number of Thomas Cook’s office and booked a flight to Pisa for the following Monday morning. I also arranged for a hire car to be waiting at the airport. Deciding the time had come for me to go in search of Leonora’s mysterious aunt and whatever else I may find in Tuscany had given me a sense of purpose. However, hovering at the back of my mind was the question, what if I was opening Pandora’s box, and would it be safer to stay at home?

  Chapter 32

  Champagne corks were popping as Josie opened the front door to me. She looked very like she had on the night Evelyn and I had first visited her all those years ago, elegant, sophisticated and adorable. Henry Dangerfield was a very lucky man, I thought, but then Henry was aware of it and had told me so on many occasions.

  The room was full of people but this time Evelyn, Leo and Lucas were buried deep beneath the ground and I alone had the knowledge that three bodies now lay beneath the soil.

  The unattached female Josie had invited to ‘make up the numbers’ was a small mousy creature, who replied to questions with one-word answers and then waited expectantly for the conversation to continue. After failing to keep up the flow, I retreated to find Henry. He was in the billiards room at the back of the house puffing away on a sly cigar.

  “I see you’ve found my hiding place, old bean,” he said, swinging his chair around to face me.

  “Still not allowed to smoke in the rest of the house I see, Henry.”

  “Josie’d have a fit if she could see me smoking at all. She’s decided it’s not good for me. I have to grab the odd puff whenever and wherever I’m able. I noticed she was in deep conversation with Sarah Jessop about cushion covers so sloped off here for a spot of indulgence. Glad you felt you could come tonight,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Can’t bury myself away for ever, as a matter of fact I’ve decided to push off to Italy for a month or two. Soak up some sun and get away from the winter.”

  Henry looked at me and sighed. “Not trying to find her, are you?” His eyes narrowed in the smoke from his cigar.

  “I suppose at the back of my mind there is always the possibility I might bump into her. But no, I’ve decided to close that chapter of my life. Josie did try to warn me and now I realise I should have taken more notice.”

  “She is very beautiful. I can understand your obsession,” Henry said.

  “Obsession?” I thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose you could call Leonora an obsession, my beautiful obsession. But the letter she sent me put an end to all that.”

  Henry muttered some words of sympathy and I walked around the room towards the glass cabinet housing his polo cups and medals, aware that he was contentedly puffing away behind me. I noticed a small silver cup on a wooden stand dated the year before I had met Evelyn. The plaque read To Henry L. Da
ngerfield, Captain and the date of their win against the Argentineans.

  “What does the L stand for?” I asked idly inspecting a row of medals on the shelf beneath the cup.

  “Leonard, my father and grandfather were both blessed with the name and it sort of got handed down to me but thank heavens only as a middle name, I don’t think I can quite see myself as a Leonard, do you?”

  We laughed together and Henry reminisced with me about his time in Argentina. “I was a different man then you know. What a time we had. I was young, successful and what they would call today a ‘babe magnet’”.

  I spluttered into my drink, “Sorry,” I apologised.

  “No need to apologise. I can see it might be difficult to imagine now, but back then we had the world at our feet. Groups of girls used to follow the team around to different tournaments and if you won, well then, you were flavour of the moment and could take your pick. I had the time of my life, I can tell you.” He looked down at his legs and the smile slipped from his face. I coughed in embarrassment not knowing what to say until he suddenly brightened. “Anyway that was then and this is now and I have Josie - the best consolation prize any man could have.”

  It was my turn to look wistful and this time I sensed Henry’s discomfort as the door opened and an autocratic voice announced.

  “So this is where you are both hiding. Come on you two we’re waiting to cut the cake. Put out that cigar you’re holding behind your back first, Henry dear,” Josie added, sweetly.

  When I said goodbye to them both later that evening, I think I knew then it would be for the last time. I was glad I’d made the effort to go to their party and sorry our lives had taken such differing paths, theirs to happiness, and mine to despair.

  When Monday arrived, I closed up the house. Mrs Bates had rung earlier in the week and advised me that she would be returning at the end of the following week and I told her I didn’t expect to be back for quite a while. She didn’t seem to think this was odd and, as I hadn’t asked her to terminate her employment, seemed satisfied with the arrangement.

  As I boarded the aeroplane, I felt a terrific burden lift from my shoulders. I was leaving the horror behind, I thought, unaware that I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Would you like something to drink, sir?”

  The pretty airhostess, her dark hair tied up on top of her head, waited at my elbow for my reply.

  “Brandy, thank you,” I replied, leaning over to look out of the window from my seat in first class. It was a clear sunny day. There were no clouds to hide the view of the Alps as we soared high above them. Far below I saw snow-capped peaks rising towards into the sky like giant coconut cakes and turned back to the pages of my paperback with a sigh of contentment. When I looked down again, holding a tumbler containing a large measure of brandy, it was to see the Italian landscape spreading out beneath me like a map, lakes and mountains giving way to fields dotted with red-roofed houses, stretching as far as the eye could see. Cars sped by on miniature roads like ants on a ribbon and I marvelled at the changing scenery with new eyes. I’d buried myself in work for too long and missed the pleasures of a relaxing holiday with nothing to worry about. I was kidding myself, trying to forget what had happened on that fateful night, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. Part of my brain succeeding in blocking out the horror of it all, whilst far beneath the surface it was waiting to reappear, waiting to compromise my sanity.

  The flight was smooth, as was the landing. Customs clearance was unusually quick and efficient for a country known to find haste an anathema. I found my hire car waiting at the airport terminal, a Fiat convertible that had seen better days, its white paint scratched and dented in places where previous drivers had conformed to the Italian code of driving. It was the kind of car that could be seen on any Italian street and as such I knew it would not arouse unwanted suspicion. As I sat behind the wheel and consulted the maps I’d brought with me, I wondered why I was pursuing something, which might have been better left alone but knew I had no choice. When I laid Leo to rest, she’d refused to remain beneath the soil and, although she was hidden from my sight, my soul was in turmoil. Ever since that day, she haunted my every waking hour, insidiously torturing my consciousness. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d thought I’d seen her shopping in the city or walking along a country lane ahead of me. At night, when I lay dreaming, she entered my head, her beautiful blue eyes pleading with me for forgiveness.

  Alan’s recent revelation had shaken me to the core. If she was innocent of sabotage, was it possible she could also have been blameless where Evelyn was concerned?

  I clung on to the fact I’d had photographic evidence confirming my suspicions regarding her infidelity and her countless visits to Italy but I could feel the threads of certainty beginning to unravel and dreaded the outcome of my journey. Nevertheless, I was determined to discover the reason why she was so insistent that I shouldn’t accompany her on her previous visits to her ‘aunt’.

  During the drive out of Pisa, I took the road leading through verdant countryside. To either side of me I saw fields of sunflowers nodding their large golden heads in the sunshine, colouring the landscape in a sheet of yellow. The road became steeper and narrower until I saw the towers of the small Tuscan town of San Gimignano in the distance; those same towers I’d seen on Leo’s postcard and on the travel programme. I wound my window down and sniffed the warm, fresh- scented air, as I looked around for a place to park.

  From what I could make out, it seemed as if most of the small town was paved for pedestrian use, accessible by foot or bicycle alone, but I‘d noticed a tourist bus further down the road making for a car park, outside a large stone walled area and so headed in the same direction.

  Removing my small trolley case from the boot of the car, I locked it and walked towards the outskirts of the town where I could see an information office in the distance. Fortunately, the woman behind the counter spoke excellent English and advised me to book into the Hotel Colligiata but after taking a cursory glance at the brochure, I asked if she could recommend a small guesthouse, as I was not sure how long my visit would be. She nodded and produced a card with F. Orsini, Proprietor of Santa Lucia guesthouse, written in green cursive writing on one side and on the other, a sepia drawing of a square stone building, which, I was assured, lay in a side street off the main cobbled square.

  Climbing the cobbled incline, which gradually rose through a narrow street lined with gift shops, I stopped to catch my breath and noticed passageways at intervals traversing the main thoroughfare and caught glimpses of the hills, which surrounded the town. I picked up my case and walked on until I reached a side street down which I could see the sign of the Orsinis’ guesthouse swinging on a bracket above the front door. The stone building was square and stood three storeys in height, wedged in-between a wine bar and a shop selling newspapers and magazines.

  A middle-aged man with thick greying hair opened the front door as I reached it and held it open for me to pass through into the hallway. Behind a small desk in the corner stood a woman who smiled shyly at me as I approached her.

  “I would like a room, please,” I said, putting my suitcase down on the floor.

  “Perhaps I introduce myself and my wife?” the man who had opened the door for me held out his hand. “I am Franco Orsini and this is my wife, Cecilia.” The woman inclined her head in my direction.

  “How long you’ll be staying with us?” Franco asked, pulling a large register towards him and opening it with a flourish.

  “I am not sure. It may be for some time.”

  “No problem, sir, the room is yours for as long as you likes.”

  I thanked him and he added, “Now I show you the way,” as he picked up my case and turned towards the staircase beckoning me to follow.

  The room was on the first floor overlooking the street.

  “Breakfast is at 9.30 and dinner 7.00 o’clock,” Franco said, putting my suitcase down on the floor at the foo
t of the bed. As he started to leave, I handed him two large denomination notes and saw the spring in his step as he walked towards the staircase. His gaze lingering on the lira notes, he thrust them into the pocket of his cotton trousers and I knew I had only to repeat the gesture to gain his trust.

  The room was clean and adequate for my purposes; it wasn’t the Ritz but then if I’d wanted luxury I would have stayed elsewhere. There was single bed covered by a patchwork cotton quilt, its headboard resting against the middle of one wall. To either side of the bed stood a side table, on one lay a telephone and on the other a lamp. A large dark wooden wardrobe with a full-length mirror set into one of the doors, stood opposite the bed and a small dressing table sat under a watercolour of the town on the wall opposite the window, on which rested a portable TV.

  My reflection in the mirror startled me. I was overweight and dark circles ringed my eyes. Evelyn would have said I looked years older than my age and she would have been spot on. I walked over to the window to draw the curtains as the light was fading and then I saw her.

  She was hurrying down the narrow street beneath my window, her pale blonde hair flowing behind her like a wave. At the corner of the street, she paused beneath a street lamp and I caught my breath as she turned her head and I saw her face. It was Leo.

  I began to shake and wrapped my arms around my body. It was getting worse. Before, I had simply imagined I was seeing her passing by, only to be disappointed when a stranger turned to face me. Now I was actually seeing her. There was no mistake. The girl who had stood in the street beneath the lamp had Leo’s face. I shuddered as I drew the curtain, opened my luggage and removed the flask of brandy nestling amongst my clothes. Never had I needed its solace more than I did at that moment. I feared for my sanity and as midnight approached, the image of what I had done shook me as forcibly as a madman shakes the bars of his cell.