Vita Nuova

by Magdalen Nabb

  The captain’s men seemed to be all down in the newly dug swimming-pool hole. They were working in silence. One of them saw him and waved a negative. They wouldn’t find anything with their metal detectors except junk. The marshal walked on. There had been thunder during the night and, judging by the wet lawns and bushes, some rain. Now the sky was innocent and blue, the birds chirping. Please, God, let the sister have stopped crying. He walked under an archway, through the wing that was being converted. He guessed it had once been the stabling and carriage house, outbuildings of various kinds. He kept close to the walls, where the gravel path was shaded by wooden eaves, and returned to the main part of the house. The garden with its low, geometrical box hedging was on a lower terrace cut into the hillside. Vineyards and an olive grove below and a bit of pasture. Then the perimeter wall. These flower beds looked exhausted and messy after weeks of relentless heat and stagnation. The marshal felt the same. Whatever all that fuzzy flowery stuff confined by the low hedges was, it was dead or dying, and last night’s bit of rain had only helped the weeds. Needed some attention. No sign of a gardener. The studded doors stood open and he could see along the flagged carriageway and out of the front doors that he’d used yesterday. He felt someone was watching him. From inside the passage . . . ? No. After that . . . he walked on a bit, his footsteps loud on the gravel, then stopped. That prickling sensation . . . but where . . . ? Perhaps there was a gardener, after all, and he looked down to his right, scanning the area, but there was no possible place to watch from in that glaring, geometrical emptiness. Turning his gaze straight ahead, he walked forward again and knew for certain that something pale flickered low down to his left. The long barred windows of the kitchen near his feet—or, no, he’d already passed those, must be the other rooms at that level. There had been a door to what would be some sort of servants’ quarters, he remembered. Somebody he still needed to talk to . . . only natural they should be curious. Could be scared, even, given what had happened. Somebody else without a work permit, no doubt. These days. . . .

  He walked on to the tower at the end. These oak doors, too, stood open. He’d sent a carabiniere up there with the sister to check for missing objects.

  ‘And if she shows signs of bursting into tears, bring her down right away. This was never any robbery, and I want her in good enough shape to talk, understand?’

  The ground floor of the tower was stone-flagged. A shower and a slatted wooden changing room had been built in one corner, and there was an enormous fridge which yesterday’s search had revealed to be crammed with soft drinks and fruit. There was a long, marble-topped table at one side of the room, and deck chairs, beach umbrellas, and a lot of big toys on the other. So the room was servicing the swimming pool outside. The steep stone staircase looked pretty dangerous for a three-year-old to the marshal, and it was certainly hard work for him. As he climbed, he listened for sounds of crying but heard none. And as he listened, he thanked heaven he’d arranged to talk to the sister up here instead of going down to that kitchen again—must remember to ask . . . that flicker of a face watching him. Hadn’t the sister said yesterday there was nobody in the house except herself and her mother? Sitting down there in that cellar-kitchen in this great place. . . .

  Thank goodness for the smooth stone banister. Far too high for a three-year-old. . . .

  And why would these rich people receive him in the kitchen, anyway? Some sort of insult, keeping him in his place? No, the prosecutor had gone down there, too, when he’d finally turned up.

  ‘Uff!’ The last flight.

  The carabiniere was on the landing.

  ‘She says there’s nothing missing.’

  ‘Was she all right when you took her into the bedroom?’ The bed and the stained rug beside it had been covered with polythene sheeting.

  ‘She seemed to be. I’ll go down to help the others, unless you need me.’

  ‘All right—no, wait. Go across the road to the neighbour who was here yesterday. Her name’s Donati, Costanza Donati. Tell her I sent you and ask her if she’s remembered anything else other that what she told me yesterday—which was nothing, but she was pretty agitated. Anybody going in or out of here by car or on foot, other than the people who live here, including the ones they never think to tell you about, postman, delivery, you know the form. Anybody hanging around in the last few days, and. . . .’ He drew the younger man away from the doorway and murmured, ‘Ask if she ever saw the victim going in or out with a man.’

  The carabiniere clattered off down the stone stairs. The marshal tapped on the open door.

  ‘May I?’

  She was sitting on a big, white covered sofa, intent on examining a box in her lap. A shaft of sunlight from the open window made red glints on her smooth dark head and glittered in the gold chain running through her fingers. The door that opened on the bedroom was closed now. The trail of stuff through this first room had been cleaned up after the forensics people had finished.

  She looked up but didn’t speak. She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, a cotton skirt, and brown leather sandals. The marshal noticed that her long dark hair hung loose down her back today and that, without the swollen red eyes, she was even prettier than he’d thought.

  ‘What about the jewellery? You’re sure there’s nothing missing?’

  She was twining the gold necklace round her fingers.

  ‘It’s all here.’

  ‘You never know, your sister might have bought herself something nice, something valuable.’

  ‘She couldn’t have. She had no money.’

  He stood looking down at her. Her long fingers were opening and closing on the necklace. It wasn’t just a chain, it was wider and as delicately worked as lace and a jewelled cross hung from it. She could easily break it with her nervous hands. Still, at least she wasn’t crying. . . .

  ‘No money at all? I suppose, this being your parents’ house, she lived here for free and you told me yesterday she worked, that you drove the little boy to summer school yesterday because your sister had to work.’ He spoke gently, chose his words, hoping to avoid another flood of tears.

  ‘She’s working on her doctoral thesis in Chemistry and she helps out in the registrar’s office at the university sometimes at busy times. They’re busy now because enrolments started in July but she only does a few hours a week. She had no money for buying jewellery.’

  ‘What about a present from a boyfriend? A ring, even. They may have quarrelled and he took it away because the purchase could be traced, you see, perhaps through a credit card. Did she wear a ring?’

  ‘No. Can I keep this? I want to keep it. Daddy gave it to her for her First Communion.’

  Her face flushed on the instant she said it. Tears welled up.

  ‘Of course. You want something to remember her by. You don’t have to explain. Consider it yours, but just leave it here for the moment. It will no doubt all be yours once this investigation’s over.’

  ‘I don’t want anything else.’

  ‘You think about it later. I’m sure your sister would have wanted you to have them, or your mother, perhaps. They look like very nice pieces. Are those real diamonds there?’

  ‘Of course they’re real, and I don’t want any of them! I’m not interested in jewellery!’

  ‘Try not to get agitated. Breathe deeply.’

  She did as she was told, lifting up her face, keeping her big dark eyes fixed on him, appealing for help.

  ‘That’s right. Deeply and slowly. I have to ask you questions, but there’s no hurry. If you get too upset or tired, we’ll stop and carry on tomorrow. All right?’

  She nodded, her fingers still clutching the necklace, her gaze still fixed on him, thick dark lashes fringing the unblinking eyes. . . .

  ‘All right. Tell me a little about yourself.’ The upsetting bits would have to be dealt with a bit at a time, at long intervals. ‘You were looking after your little nephew yesterday. Does that mean you don’t work? Keep breathing deeply. There’
s no hurry.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’ll be all right. I help Daddy in his office, but not full-time.’

  The flush was fading, thank God.

  ‘I see. What sort of office is it?’

  ‘A staffing agency. We place people in jobs, domestic mostly, some secretarial.’

  Obedient to his instructions, she was breathing deeply, very audibly.

  ‘I see. So, if I needed a cook or a gardener, I’d come to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At least, I would if I could afford it.’

  ‘Our fees are no higher than anyone else’s.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re not. I only meant I couldn’t afford a cook or a gardener.’ He smiled to indicate that he hadn’t meant it seriously.

  ‘Oh. . . .’ She did a fleeting imitation of his smile and the fixed stare returned.

  ‘You’re lucky to live in this beautiful place.’ He didn’t mean that seriously, either, because he wouldn’t like to live in this sad old house whose roots were being torn up by bulldozers. So empty. Yet, behind her head, beyond the open window, was a perfect panorama of Florence below a serene summer sky.

  Tread carefully, he warned himself. She looked as much like a frightened child as her mother did, but a rich family has expensive lawyers. This was a minefield. There had to be a man in this story. . . .

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down here?’ He pulled up a sturdy-looking chair. The furniture in here was austere, solid stuff that looked as if it belonged in the stone watchtower, but the fine rugs and white chair coverings, the book-lined walls and the shaft of sunshine softened the effect. The marshal had an eye for solidity in chairs. Better not to loom over her, in any case. ’You don’t mind?’

  ‘No. But—do you have to wear those dark glasses? It bothers me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s only because I have a bit of a problem with my eyes.’

  ‘You weren’t wearing them yesterday.’

  ‘No. Down in the kitchen, no. Up here, the sunshine. . . .’ She was observant enough, despite being upset, but that didn’t mean she’d tell him what she observed. ‘If you wouldn’t mind just closing the shutters a little.’

  She set the jewel case aside and got up to pull the brown shutters inwards at the open window.

  ‘Thank you.’ He slipped the sunglasses into the top pocket of his blue shirt. ‘Is that better?’ A good idea, anyway, he thought, as she sat down again. The shadowy room might be more conducive to a confidential talk. ‘Your sister must have been very clever, judging by all the books in here. Were most of her friends from the university? I suppose she brought some of them home?’

  ‘No. When she wasn’t studying, she spent her time with me and with my parents and looking after Piero.’

  ‘Of course. She must have been very busy.’ Kept him a secret from the family, then. Somebody at the university was sure to know.

  ‘What about Piero’s father? Did you know him?’

  ‘She would never tell us who it was.’

  ‘But I expect you had suspicions? You would have known if she had a boyfriend, wouldn’t you, even if you never met him?’

  ‘No. She always kept secrets from us. Mummy sometimes called her The Lodger, because even though Daddy insists we all have supper together every evening and she took turns with me cooking it, she never really talked to us.’

  ‘No? Well . . . chemistry, you said. They say scientists do live in their own world, that they’re absent-minded.’

  ‘She was like that when she was ten.’

  ‘Showed early signs, then. . . . You didn’t think it might be a married man who was the father, and that was why she never talked about him or brought him home?’

  Silence. Looking down at the necklace which she was winding more and more tightly round her fingers, she seemed to be giving the idea some thought.

  ‘Maybe . . . ,’ she said at last.

  ‘And what about you? What did you study?’

  ‘Music. I went to the conservatory. I was going to be a singer, but then I was seriously ill. I was in hospital for over a year and I had to give it up.’

  ‘That’s a pity. Do you still sing, though?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. My voice is still good, but I wanted to be a first-class professional. I’m not interested in being a talented amateur.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Would she now become the family drudge, helping in the office, bringing up her sister’s child, caring for her mother?

  ‘Your father is going to be all right, you know that?’ Something the prosecutor had checked on with the doctors before telling him the bad news. There was one advantage, then, in a case involving rich people. The prosecutor did some of the difficult jobs usually left to the marshal. ‘And you know that there’s a patrol car outside the gates, so you’ve no reason to be frightened. They’ll be inside the grounds at night.’

  ‘They weren’t there this morning when I took Piero.’

  ‘No, but they’re there now and they’ll stay. You may see some journalists out there, too. Just ignore them. They won’t be allowed to bother you. I imagine you’ll need to go out later to pick the little boy up.’

  ‘I collect him at four. I haven’t told him. He keeps asking me when she’s coming back, and I don’t know what to say to him.’

  Her face flushed red again, her eyes glittered.

  ‘Try to breathe quietly. . . . ’ Tears began to roll down her blotched cheeks, but she made no move to dry them, just continued to gaze at him. Having nothing else to offer her, he gave her his clean white handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you. He’s my responsibility now. I’ll have to tell him sometime.’

  ‘Yes, you’ll have to tell him. The main thing is that he has you. I do think, though, that you need to calm down yourself before you can explain that she’s not coming back. You can’t do it when you’re in this state. In the meantime, do you have any help here? Someone to watch the child if you have to be elsewhere? A housekeeper, a maid perhaps?’ There hardly seemed to be any point in mentioning her mother as a possible help.

  ‘There are two girls who work here. They don’t live in, but Daddy phoned me last night and told me one of them should stay here now. She slept in the main house last night, but now that—now she’s to sleep here in Daniela’s bedroom so that Piero can stay in his own room next door. I have to stay with Mummy.’

  ‘That sounds sensible, but you’ll have to wait for the prosecutor to give his permission for anyone to use the tower. It may not be for a while yet.’

  ‘Why, as I’m here now?’

  ‘Yes. But you’re not here alone. We needed your help to check that nothing was missing, and you’ve been very sensible, but now the doors will be sealed and you must all stay in the main house. Please don’t worry. It’s only until the investigation’s over.’ He was conscious of treating her as though she were a child or a delicate invalid, or perhaps, to be honest, more like a bomb that might explode in another paroxysm of hysterical tears. But she was drying her eyes and waiting quietly for his next question. A pigeon fluttered, trying to land on the windowsill, frustrated by finding the shutters pulled to. What had the technicians been checking there yesterday? Did they think the man had been secretly climbing up to the princess in the tower?

  ‘Did your sister feed the birds?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. Maybe she did. I never came up here. She always brought Piero down to the car, and when she wasn’t studying we spent the afternoons by the pool. Daddy was going to start teaching Piero to swim and now . . . and now. . . .’

  ‘He will teach him to swim. He will. You can’t believe it now, I know, but life will go on. It does for us all. It will be all right.’

  ‘No.’ She said it in a low voice with a dreadful, black certainty and he saw her body hunch, curling in on itself as if rigid with pain. ‘No, it won’t. It’ll never be all right, and he’ll blame me.’

  All of a sudden, the room was too dark. The gloom spared his eyes, but she needed
sunshine. If she went to pieces, there’d be no witness in this case. This wouldn’t do at all. He shouldn’t have sent that carabiniere down, either. The last thing he needed was for the prosecutor to arrive to talk to the mother and find he’d sent the daughter into a fit of hysterics. That would be the end of his affability.

  ‘Why don’t you open the shutters now? I’ll sit out of the way of the strong light. I won’t put my dark glasses on, don’t worry.’

  She stayed where she was, hunched and rigid, eyes fixed on the chain pulled tight between her reddening fingers. He got up and went behind the sofa to close the window. The only light came from the small bare windows of the landing and staircase. He had to get her out of here.

  ‘I think we should go down. You’re getting upset.’

  ‘I want Daddy to come home! I can’t manage by myself!’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be home in a very few days, but he won’t want to find you in this state. He’s going to be all right, but he has been ill and he’ll need your help, your comfort.’

  ‘He won’t! He’ll blame me! I don’t want him to come home!’

  ‘Why should he blame you? You weren’t even here— and if you had been, what could you have done against an armed man?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t here. I wasn’t here . . . I was—do you want to know where I was? Trying on shoes! I didn’t tell you that yesterday, did I? I forgot—no, I didn’t . . . I was ashamed to tell you I was trying on shoes at Gucci. Yes. Trying on shoes when—when—Oh, God! Oh, God!’ Her face was pale now.

  ‘No, no, no. This won’t do at all. It’ll do no good to start blaming yourself. Breathe deeply. Breathe.’

  Thank heaven she responded to orders. He must get her downstairs and out into the open.

  ‘Come with me now. We’re going to go down and walk in the garden until you feel calmer.’

  He went down the steep stairs in front of her, still afraid she might faint, sure she would follow him. When calm, she was docile enough.

  Outside, slipping on his hat and dark glasses, he felt safer and was relieved to see the carabiniere he’d sent across the road coming towards them.