‘Charming!’ she had said. ‘I hope you never use it!’
‘Well, I could use it to come to you … but its entrance is not in my bedroom … ’
‘Thank goodness for that. If you ever ask me to change rooms when we have guests I warn you I will be terribly suspicious.’
Rosa’s voice interrupted her reverie. ‘Are you listening to me, Alva? I am not joking, I assure you, you are in danger, believe me I know plenty of things.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘About Luca and his first contessa. Renata’s mother. Things are not what they seem … ’
‘I don’t really want to know,’ Alva said, but a cold band had started to tighten inside her. She felt a shiver as if someone had walked over her grave. This was ridiculous — was the woman implying that Luca was not what he seemed. She remembered how Rosa d’Casta had been all over him at the dinner party. Hardly the actions of someone who loathed, or was afraid of the conte. Alva realized that the woman could be trying to cause trouble.
‘I so want you to believe me, Alva! I know we did not get off to a good start but I do have your interest at heart. Remember the stairs, when you allegedly fell down, do you recall how you nearly died, Alva? Do you believe it was an accident?’
‘I don’t know what it was, but I do know that I never made a suicide attempt,’ Alva said.
The woman had fired the right bullet: it met its target, Alva’s desire to know the truth of what happened before she ended at the foot of the stairs. Curiosity vied with loyalty to Luca. Whatever had happened she could not believe that Luca had anything to do with it. There was no reason for Luca to do such a thing and, besides, instinct told her that Luca was a man to be trusted. However, the realization that she might learn something was too irresistible. She had to go.
‘I don’t know where you live? I can leave now but it might take me some time to shake off my bodyguard.’
‘It is not hard to find my villa. As to your bodyguard, might I suggest that you … ?’
*
Lying did not come easily to Alva. Having to explain to Carlo that she had a headache and that she would spend the morning resting was a miserable experience. As it was, she avoided the man’s eyes, busying herself in the kitchen, making a tray of tea things and brushing aside Claudia who wanted to do it for her. Yet everything had to be carefully done so that no one would suspect.
Once in her room she took from her wardrobe a black track suit, covering her silvery blonde hair with the hood of the jacket and feeling that it was all a little dramatic. However, Rosa d’Casta had assured her that she would not reveal anything unless Alva came alone.
Fortunately, she made the outside of the house without any problem. Crossing to the garage she met one of the stable boys but he knew nothing and merely acknowledged her. In the garage she mulled over which car to take and in the end took the small Fiat. It was a car that the servants often used to go into the village or down to the port. If anyone saw it gone they would assume someone had taken it and would hardly call a roll call of everyone on the estate to see who was missing.
Congratulating herself on her cunning, she drove slowly down the drive and beyond the gates. Once she reached the road that Rosa d’Casta had told her to take her confidence ebbed a little. It was a steep narrow road; the higher she climbed the narrower it appeared to be. On one side the land fell away down to the sea, the area covered with scrub, rather like the maquis in the south of France. On the other side there was a higher cliff, at the top a villa or two and then nothing.
Holding her foot to the brake she climbed slowly and carefully, hating the sound of rough stones breaking under the wheels.
As she turned a bend she almost skidded as she pulled up for a large brown dog. It was lying at the side of the road and for a moment she wondered if it had been hit by a car. Hesitantly, she unwound her window and called to it softly. It merely gazed at her with its huge soft brown eyes. The tinkle of bells sounded on the still air and she remembered the reason for the dog. Around the bend came two men with a herd of goats, the coats of the animals long and glossy, their expression haughty, as they were herded down the road. That was what the goat herders did; they sent the dog ahead to warn oncoming traffic that the animals were being brought down from the high hills.
The men touched their caps as they passed by the side of her car and one murmured. ‘Buon giorno, Contessa.’ She nodded and smiled, she had not wanted to be seen but the two men were hardly likely to rush to a telephone and tell the people back at the palazzo that the contessa was driving somewhere alone. The island had its own ways, her husband was their employer but islanders did not know everything that went on.
Thankfully, she came to the last turn and the road evened out. High on a promontory at the very peak was the pink villa that Rosa d’Casta leased. Alva recalled that Luca had told her it had been Rosa’s home for many years but no matter how close she had become to Luca and his first wife, she had not been allowed to purchase the villa. Besides, she had a house that she owned in Florence and to where she usually went in the winter. However, this time she had stayed for longer than usual.
The gates were thrown back. Alva drove through, deciding to park right outside the front door. There was no other car around so there had to be a garage. The front door was open, but between that and the entrance hallways was a glass door that was firmly closed.
Alva saw a bell pull on the stonework by the open door and pulled on that. Its clanging sound echoed back to her. Stepping into the small vestibule she went up to the glass door. There was no pattern on the glass and so she peered through, but the hallway was rather dark. There was no light filtering in from a window. Stepping back she rang the bell again and wondered whether Rosa had servants or not.
Thinking the woman might be at the back of the house, or perhaps in the garden, she wandered along the front of the house. There were windows, but they were shuttered, she could see no gate or entrance that would lead her to the back. There was just a high stone wall at the end of the house. Puzzled she went back to the front door, stepped inside and after ringing the bell waited once more.
When no one came she pushed the glass door, it swung open. Apprehensively, she stepped into the hall; there was a sweet smell of jasmine but it was artificial as if it came from a scent spray or furniture polish.
Gingerly she moved through the house, calling out ‘Rosa?’ as she went. There was no sound. Directly in front of her there was a heavy wooden door — it was very dark in the hallway and she thought she would have had to have a window put in somewhere to let in light, but then conceded that perhaps it was beautiful and cool on steamy summer days.
Opening the door partly, she peered around. It led into a sitting-room. Again it was rather dim as the shutters at the windows were closed.
The tiled floor echoed her footsteps back to her. It was a huge room, beautifully furnished with a chaise longue and sofas covered in pale blue silk. As she moved across the room the sole of her shoe felt as if it were attaching itself to a gluey substance. She looked down. Something had spilled on the floor but she could not make it out … was it wine? But no, it was too thick. ‘Rosa,’ Alva called, rushing across the room. Her feet encountered a pale rug in front of the shutters. Quickly, her fingers trembling, she unhooked the bolt on the shutters and flung them back. Vivid light spilled into the room, highlighting the substance she had trailed through. Across the carpet there were bright red footprints; mesmerized, she stared at them for a long moment. Her heart started to thud against her chest and, placing a hand there, she pressed hard as if this would still the rapid beat.
The substance she had walked through was scarlet, it trailed across the room … it spattered across a pale wood occasional table, to the right of the table was a bundle, like a pile of rags.
Crossing the carpet in the direction of the heap of rags, her feet slid on to the tiled surface once more and she almost skidded. Bending down she put her fingers into the substance
and then quickly jerked upwards. Her finger tips were covered in the liquid, only it was not liquid as such, rubbing the tip of her thumb over the red stuff, she at once recognized it as blood. A little gasp escaped from her; turning again, she stared at the rags,! or what she had thought were rags. Going closer, she saw it was a shawl of vivid reds and blues and it covered the head and shoulders of a body. Pale fawn trousers were on the lower half of the body and spots of blood were there too.
Her body shaking now, she bent, pulling at the shawl, it slid away easily enough … there was dark hair spread out over the floor. The back of the head looked like squashed, soft fruit. There was pulp and something greyish spilling out … tiny fragments of pale pith, that later she would realize were bone.
Realization was slow to come and she just stared at the battered head of Rosa d’Casta and then she gagged, dropped the shawl and turned away, only seconds later to turn back to put her bloodstained fingers to the woman’s neck. Rosa’s flesh was still slightly warm but there was no pulse. The woman was dead.
Fearful for her own safety, Alva backed away, stumbling out of the room and out into the hall, only to stop and lean against one of the wooden panels in the dim hallway. She listened. There was absolute silence apart from the loud thud of her own racing heart.
Police — ambulance — her head was empty of numbers: she could not think what the emergency number was. An image of the woman’s head flashed before her eyes; she felt bile rise up in her throat and, as well, a terrible pity moved through her. Quickly, she shook the vivid picture out of her mind, heading determinedly for the door. Once outside she sought for breath, for calm, and went and got into her car, careful to lock all the doors.
On the seat next to her was her mobile phone. She might not remember the number of the emergency service but she knew by heart the number of the palazzo. Carlo would know what to do …
Before she finished putting in the number there was the sound of a car — a siren. Looking in the mirror she saw the familiar shape of a police car drive too quickly through the gate, only to brake as the driver saw the Fiat. The squeal of brakes was deafening but he somehow managed to turn the wheel and collide not with her but with a cluster of terracotta plant pots that shattered on impact.
Before she could get out of the car they were on to her, guns in hand, trying to open the car door, ordering her to get out, not to try anything.
Timidly she unlocked the door; before she could open it one of the policemen dragged it open. She held her hands, palms up, as if to say calm down but the policeman took no notice and dragged her unceremoniously from the car, turning her around and patting her down roughly.
She wanted to say, ‘How dare you?’, but she knew that would antagonize them so she merely acquiesced without saying anything.
The other policeman suddenly seemed to recognize her. He said in rapid Italian. ‘Dio Mio, it is the contessa.’
‘E allora!’
The man searching her body with more enthusiasm than necessity suddenly let her go. Turning around she glanced at the police car. There was someone huddled in the back.
‘Show me your hands!’ the policeman now demanded. Palms turned up she revealed the damning evidence of blood.
‘Someone has done something terrible to Signora d’Casta,’ she said. ‘In the sitting-room, please go and see, I don’t think she’s alive but I can’t be certain.’
‘Go and look,’ the policeman said to the man who had searched her, ‘I’ll stay out here.’
Alva stood now with arms folded at her waist, leaning back against the car. Her body burned with the humiliation of the man’s rough and intimate search. She felt dirty. It is nothing, her conscience told her, think about what has happened to Rosa d’Casta.
Now the door to the police car opened a little. A tiny woman emerged, thin and pale with fright, not too young but not old. ‘Sir, I did not see this lady … ’
‘Zitto! Get back in the car!’
‘Officer, you surely do not think that I had anything to do with this,’ Alva said. ‘I found the signora, I was about to call you … ’
He said nothing, not making eye contact. The other policeman came out. ‘She’s dead, skull bashed in,’ he glanced at her. ‘Sort of thing a woman would do, you know, one turns away, the other bitch decides she’s had enough, boom, bang … ’
‘Any weapon?’
‘Nothing that I can see, better call the chief … we need forensics.’
‘Contessa, you will have to come with us, the commissario will require you to make a statement.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed.
‘You do know that will be on the mainland?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. I want to co-operate but I must insist I come in later. When my husband is here, I have not been well and … ’
The men exchanged a look, debating the point with their eyes. She knew they were wondering how tough they should be. Mentally questioning how far they dare go with her.
‘You have to know that my life was threatened too.’
‘We heard something,’ the one she decided to describe as arrogant muttered.
‘Call the commissario now,’ she demanded, coming out of her shock and fear. After all, she was innocent and would not be pushed around by these two, one who was obviously relishing humiliating her, and probably for some political purpose.
‘Perhaps you could give us a statement now,’ the marginally milder of the two suggested.
‘Let me call it in first,’ the other said.
As he went to the car, the sudden spurt of confidence had weakened Alva and her legs started to tremble. ‘Perhaps I could sit down,’ she murmured, then when no answer came, opened the door of her car and slid on to the seat. Her phone was there, she picked it up, looked at the policeman and quirked an eyebrow in an unspoken question. He nodded, probably thinking she was going to call some hotshot lawyer.
Luca’s telephone number was at the top of her list of stored numbers. She highlighted and pressed ‘call’. It was answered in seconds.
‘Cara,’ he murmured, full of warmth and pleasure, as if the call were important and welcome to him. ‘I was going to call you, I am at the port and I will — ’
‘Luca, something terrible has happened.’
*
Luca was obviously speaking to someone high up in police society. ‘If it were my ancestors they would have cut off his balls and made him eat them.’
‘Luca!’ Alva whispered, horrified.
‘How dare he pat down my wife so intimately? There is no need for that machismo from that coglione. The contessa was distraught, she found Rosa d’Casta with her head smashed in … she was in shock. Who are these men masquerading as cops you have sent me? I want replacements.’
Obviously, soothing words were being said on the other end of the line. She watched as Luca, hand tightened around the telephone receiver, marched around his desk, back ramrod straight, head thrown back, anger making him pale.
‘I know,’ he said at last, the words almost a sigh. ‘But have you ever seen my wife … she is a tiny thing, I doubt she could hit anything hard enough.’
‘Oh yes I could, if I needed too,’ she murmured. He turned; obviously he heard her for he winked.
The telephone call came to an end and he put the phone in its cradle and turned to face her, leaning his hip against the desk. She was sitting in a chair in front of him. How quickly he had come home to her, dropping everything, arriving in hours. Caring for her so tenderly, she wondered how she had ever wanted to leave him.
‘Oh Luca,’ she went to him, pleased when he drew her close, wrapping her in his arms. Only then did she feel truly safe. ‘What is happening, Luca? What is going on in this idyllic world of yours?’
‘I wish I knew, cara, but I don’t. When I think of what could have happened to you. Promise me you will never do anything like that again?’
‘I won’t. I think I have learned my lesson the hard way, but Rosa was so convincin
g, she told me she knew something about … about — ’ But she stopped, how she could tell him that what Rosa had told her hinted that he knew something about her fall down the stairs. It would surely wrench them apart again if he thought that she suspected him of involvement. Quickly she sought around for something to say.
‘I don’t care what gossip she had for you. Gossip is not important. Besides, Rosa was a woman who imagined she was in love with me. She would only want to make mischief; she could say nothing important about anything,’ he said.
Ah, he had not realized it was something serious to do with him. That above all proved his innocence to her; if he had done something wrong he would be questioning her more closely to find out if she knew anything.
‘The commissario will come here. He’s on his way; he will talk to you but I am going to be here all the time — you just have to tell the truth.’
But what was the truth? What could she say about what Rosa had said to her? If she told him exactly verbatim would that not pour suspicion on Luca? After all, the woman had hinted at something about Luca and his first wife. She knew she was a bad liar — the words needed to put an end to this terrible matter would not come easily to her, yet she had to try.
‘Luca, you are home early, I didn’t expect you until tomorrow?’
‘My business was over and I decided not to go and see Renata. As well, really, she will be home the moment she hears about Rosa. They were very close. She will be devastated.’
Alva’s heart sank. On top of everything else she must contend with the sulky and resentful Renata — but at the same time she knew there was nothing she could do about it. There was no way that she could show that she did not want the girl to come to her own home, no matter how unpleasant Renata would make life.
‘Are you sure, Alva, there is nothing else that Rosa said?’ Luca asked the question nonchalantly. He was standing at the window, partly turned away from her.
If she loved him as she knew she did, then why hold back the truth. Show that Rosa had meant to cause trouble between them perhaps. Damn her memory, if she was cognizant of the past then she knew there was nothing she could not share with him. But it was this lack of memory that made her hesitate. How did she know? She could not even remember what Luca had said about his first wife in the past. Of course he had recently told her that Silvia had died in a road traffic accident. That Renata had been with her. He had said they were on their way home from Rosa’s villa. Yet there was nothing sinister in any of that … speak up, her mind urged, but something tugged the thought back. Forget it. It has nothing to do with anything. He was probably right about Rosa; she had wanted him and wanted to make trouble to make her go away. That was all it was, a woman in love with a man who did not want her.
Shadows of the Past Page 12