Through the trees she could see the light shed from Michelle’s apartment through the big wall of glass, an elongated rectangle of dazzling white cast across the snow; she could feel the icy wet seep up from the hem of her jeans. Felt the impulse to go down there and spy on them, only poor Nicki trembling in the kitchen stopped her. She turned around and walked without thinking back towards the castle, skirting the grass to the front, where she stopped.
Over there, in the dark. She looked down the straight avenue of cypresses, swallowed up in the night, weighted with snow, behind her the great looming bulk of the castle’s front elevation.
‘Start something up with Fairhead? No way.’ Beth was speaking. She sounded pretty sure; almost cheerful. ‘She thought he was a loser. No way. She even said it. Like a dog returning to its own vomit.’
‘Right.’ What a horrible expression, thought Cate. And for some reason Vincenzo came into her head. What, she asked herself in a brief moment of distracted clarity, am I doing with him? Poor Vincenz.
It came to her that these were delaying tactics. ‘So you’re not going to tell me?’ A light came on in the façade, and for a wild moment Cate thought it was in Loni’s room and that she had come back to stop her secrets being spilled. The stocky outline of a man stood in the window, looking down: Sandro Cellini. Not in Loni’s room but in Beth’s, the room next door.
‘I don’t know.’ Beth sounded frightened. ‘She was so – obsessive, about people not knowing. She liked it that no one could ever guess, from how they were with each other. It was a – kind of a game, for her. Her secret life. That’s why they met somewhere else, out of the castle. Sure, he was old, that didn’t seem to bother her, though. She wasn’t in it for love. And she got such a kick out of it. He’d come up for lunches, give his spiel and she’d wave him off back to Florence.’
‘Back to Florence?’ Him? ‘Hey, listen,’ Cate said with alarm, knowing that the man was right there, lording it in the music room, that she’d be serving him his dinner the minute this call was over. The growing realization that Beth was right; of course it would be him. Loni Meadows had simply gone to the top. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Totally I’m sure.’ Now it was Beth’s turn to be patient. ‘It was him, the lord and master. Niccolò Orfeo, of course. She wanted to be queen of the castle, didn’t she?’
Queen of the castle. And Cate stared up at the window where Sandro Cellini had stood, until eventually Beth’s voice came back at her. Caterina? Are you still there?
The dining room in which they sat, like a parody of an old titled family, was nothing like as grand as the library: housed in some kind of extension, low-ceilinged, ill-lit, with dull, institutional furnishings. Sandro caught Orfeo looking around himself with disdain, as if disowning the modern addition and all it represented; Sandro supposed it had been part of the deal to accommodate the guests. Health and hygiene regulations, perhaps, and Orfeo didn’t like to be reminded that this was no longer entirely his home.
Sandro bided his time for a bit; they ate in silence. He could see Luca Gallo eyeing him nervously from the far side of the oval table. They were waited upon by the sallow, shy girl; Nicki, Gallo said, introducing them. He’d hoped for Caterina but she spent most of the time in the kitchen, only appearing at the door with clean dishes for Nicki, darting him a glance. At one point he heard her phone ring in there, heard her talk in muttered tones. He supposed that wouldn’t usually have been allowed, but there was altogether something ersatz about the formality of the set-up, the table hastily laid at Orfeo’s imperious insistence even though it was the cook’s night off. Eventually, aware that he had to call Mascarello back at ten, Sandro addressed Orfeo.
‘You were in Florence?’ he said. ‘That night?’ And the old man looked at him from under heavy brows, his tanned face threatening outrage.
It seemed as good a way as any to broach the subject. Of course, he knew Orfeo had been in Florence on Thursday night because he had seen him drop his son off at school at eight o’clock that morning. Or did he? Under two hours to the castle, in a fast car. But it was the flaw, the thing that held Sandro back from making an outright accusation; it was the thing that didn’t make sense.
She died on her way to meet her lover. Orfeo was her lover, ergo he must have set out to meet her. But he had been in Florence at around eight the morning after she died and fresh as a daisy. Sandro didn’t know how they made their arrangements to meet, but he assumed it would be by phone. And where was her phone?
‘What do you mean?’ said Orfeo menacingly, knife and fork poised. Luca Gallo made a sound of protest, but no one looked at him.
Take it slowly, Sandro told himself: make sure you’re sure. ‘Just asking,’ he said blithely, taking a bite of the rolled veal. Cold, but good. He pushed away the thought of Luisa, and her dishes in the freezer. ‘The weather was bitter, wasn’t it? Not a night to be on the road.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Gallo, ‘Count Orfeo never comes up at night; anyway, certainly not during the winter.’ He looked across at the man hopefully, trying to please. Orfeo eyed him narrowly but only grunted.
‘Road’s terrible,’ he said dismissively. ‘I suppose she was driving too fast.’ He forked a mouthful of stuffed zucchini into his mouth and chewed.
Unable to detect even a trace of regret in the man’s voice, Sandro felt himself seethe with frustration and dislike. How had it worked? Had they merely made use of each other? Was there not even affection? Or was this all in his mind?
Something sprang into Sandro’s head. ‘I – ah – encountered your son, the other week,’ he said, on impulse, holding a smile as he willed Orfeo to look up from his plate. Not a nice impulse; a desire to upset. ‘I’m based in Florence, you see.’
‘Really?’ Orfeo’s voice was scornful, but he looked up sharply. Barked a laugh. ‘Can’t imagine that.’ He turned to Luca Gallo and said, ‘What about cheese?’
‘A job,’ said Sandro, knowing this was thin ice, where client confidentiality was concerned. ‘Following a girl whose parents were worried she’d got in with the wrong crowd.’ He’d phone Giuli, he decided. After Mascarello.
Orfeo was glaring at him with suspicion. ‘Alberto’s crowd? Who is this – girl?’
‘A girl from a nice family,’ said Sandro. ‘Her father has a chain of shops.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Orfeo, looking down his nose with something like amusement. ‘One of those. Well, Alberto’s a good-looking boy, he’s entitled to have his fun. At his age – well.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘Clearly she won’t be around for long, this shopkeeper’s daughter.’ Leaned forward. ‘You can set your employers’ minds at rest. Alberto might be putting it about a bit – ’ and his mouth twitched, unpleasantly ‘– but he’s no fool.’
The shy girl set down a plate of cheese between them and Orfeo peered at it critically, as if Sandro had left the room.
Sandro reached for his glass of wine when what he would have liked to do was punch the man; it slopped in the glass. Good wine; the same Morellino that he and Luisa had drunk last night. Was it only last night? He felt overcome suddenly with disgust and weariness.
‘Really,’ he said flatly. ‘Well, it would be nice to be able to reassure them.’
Nicki bobbed in between them, trying to clear. ‘Should I bring coffee?’ she asked Gallo nervously. Orfeo waved a hand at her, irritated, and she took fright, hurrying back into the kitchen.
Sandro turned to Luca Gallo, impatient suddenly with having to be discreet.
‘Dottoressa Meadows left – immediately after the meal, on Thursday night,’ he said, and Niccolò Orfeo made a grumbling sound of disdain. Sandro held Luca Gallo’s gaze.
‘She did,’ Gallo replied, pale.
‘Were you there – at that meal?’ Sandro persisted. ‘Did she say anything, to give a clue as to where she was going?’
‘I stayed only for the antipasto,’ said Luca Gallo, trying a smile. ‘I – ah, I had work to do.’ A grunt from Orfeo. ‘And to be hone
st,’ Gallo went on, ‘it’s not really my – ah – my area of expertise. Dinner party conversation. All a little too combative for me.’
‘Under Dottoressa Meadows, you mean?’ Nicki came back in with her tray of coffee and slid a cup and saucer in front of each of them before scurrying away.
Gallo looked alarmed, as though he’d given away more than he intended. ‘Well – I – ’
‘Didn’t suffer fools gladly,’ interjected Orfeo from under his thick grey brows. ‘That’s what you mean.’ Ruminatively, as if oblivious to how insulting it sounded, ‘And she didn’t understand the value of a good servant.’
Meaning Luca Gallo. Sandro had to look down at his plate, not wanting to see the humiliation in the man’s eyes.
‘She – well. She liked to engage in debate,’ said Gallo bravely. ‘She enjoyed a strong opponent. Some of the guests find that kind of – engagement uncomfortable. We should respect that.’
It was the first time Sandro had heard anything like criticism from him. ‘Really,’ he said, unable to conceal his interest, but Niccolò Orfeo had also registered the comment and under the stare he was now directing across the table at the man he clearly considered to be not much more than a butler, Luca Gallo was already backing down.
The girl was back again. ‘Digestivi?’ she asked, and apparently grateful for the interruption, Luca turned to smile at her, shaking his head.
‘It’s all right, Nicki,’ he said. ‘We’ll manage. You need to get home, don’t you?’
‘Not for me, anyway,’ said Sandro abruptly, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve had enough.’ It sounded rude, and he made no effort to correct the impression.
Damn it, he thought, damn, damn; he was itching to challenge the man, but somehow, with Luca Gallo there, he couldn’t bring himself to.
You were her lover. Where were you when she was dying?
‘I need some fresh air,’ he said, as Luca half stood, politely.
And as Sandro looked at it, the door to the kitchen opened a few centimetres, then wider. Caterina was looking at him intently through the space. She moved her head a fraction to the side, and her eyes, but unfamiliar as he was with the geography of this great stone prison he could have no idea what she meant. Hesitantly he tried to indicate cautious assent. The door closed, just as Gallo seemed to register that he was looking towards it.
‘Tradesman’s entrance,’ said Orfeo, without looking at either of them. He reached for the Armagnac.
‘Don’t be too long,’ said Gallo as he opened the big studded front door for Sandro. And turned to hurry back to the dining room, an expression of weary patience on his face.
‘Hold on,’ said Sandro, putting out a hand to detain him. ‘About the phone?’
‘Phone?’ Gallo looked blank, then wary. ‘What phone?’
‘Orfeo said something about a phone,’ said Sandro. ‘Just after I left you in the – whatever that big cold room is. Library.’ He could almost feel its chill from here, through the dark music room, colder than the air outside the front door. ‘Whose phone? Loni’s phone?’
‘Look,’ said Gallo hurriedly, ‘please. Just drop it. Leave him – this is nothing to do with him.’ He seemed desperate. ‘You really don’t understand, do you? He’s a powerful man. For eight years the greater part of my job has been keeping Orfeo on an even keel, stopping him from upsetting the guests, dealing with his threats to raise the rent, his tantrums over the gallery extension, the studio. How could this be anything to do with him?’
Gallo looked anxiously towards the dining room, then back at Sandro. ‘Listen,’ he hissed. ‘Do you really think – the man lives in the eighteenth century, for heaven’s sake. I don’t think he even has a computer. You’re supposed to be looking for someone who sent an anonymous email, aren’t you?’
Sandro looked at him. Sighed.
‘All right,’ he said, but there was a warning in his voice. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. I’ve – there are things I could have said tonight, you understand. But I didn’t. But if you thought I’d be a tame detective, you and Mascarello – well. I believe in thoroughness. Even if people get upset.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Gallo, his face drained. He held the door open on the wintry night. ‘Fine. In the morning.’
As the door closed behind him and Sandro stood in the snow and felt the cold around his ankles and tried to work out which way to go around the intimidating grey flank of the castle, his phone rang. It was Giuliano Mascarello.
Chapter Eighteen
TEN MINUTES PASSED, TWENTY, while Cate hovered between the sink and the back door, watching for Sandro Cellini. Had he understood? Nicki ferried the few plates from the dining room to the dishwasher, giving Cate increasingly wary looks.
‘Getting cold,’ she said pointedly, nodding at the door to the outside, standing a crack ajar. Cate had positioned herself in front of it.
‘Really?’ Fanning herself. ‘I think it’s stuffy.’
Vincenzo had called just as things seemed to be getting heated next door, just as she would have liked to listen. From the little she’d seen through the door, Sandro Cellini didn’t like Count Orfeo one bit; she was fairly sure, too, that he already suspected something. All Cate wanted was to get him alone and tell him what she knew; only the longer she had to wait, the more painful and complicated Beth’s little story became in her head.
Her first impulse had been to get rid of Vincenzo as hurriedly as possible: if Loni had been there the sound of a staff mobile ringing during dinner – and being answered – would have been grounds for a serious bawling out as soon as the guests disappeared.
‘Sorry, V’cenz, darling,’ she had begun, feeling sick at herself. ‘I can’t talk right now – ’
But he’d paid no attention; he’d been drinking, she’d quickly realized. His voice slurred; it seemed as though everyone was drunk tonight. Cellini wasn’t: just one glass, he’d had. Could she trust him?
‘Hi babe,’ Vincenzo had said, drawling cheerfully; in the background Cate could hear the sounds of the biker bar beneath her old place.
‘They told me you’d moved out,’ he’d said, and she’d heard that the cheerfulness was masking something else. ‘You never said. I thought it’d be a day or two. A week at most, then we could – ’Querulousness had crept in.
‘Not permanent,’ Cate had said, pleading. ‘Look, V’cenz, it’s all just a bit crazy here at the moment. When things settle down – ’
Coming back in at that point, Nicki had given her a curious glance, before setting down the half-cleared platter of zucchini.
‘They want to know if there’s cheese,’ she’d whispered.
Cate had put a hand over the receiver and pointed wordlessly at the larder door. Nicki disappeared, emerging with a red-skinned pecorino and a nub of grana. It would have to do.
Vincenzo had been talking over her, his voice coming and going tipsily, and she had imagined him looking around the bar as he spoke. ‘Yeah, you said that before. I bet it’s crazy. It’s big news in Pozzo, you know, your lady killing herself.’
‘She didn’t kill herself.’ Cate had heard the sharpness in her voice.
‘Well, whatever. You know what I mean, babe.’
Don’t call me that, Cate had thought. ‘Big news?’ she’d said tonelessly. Had they nothing better to gossip about?
‘Big Simone came in, full of it,’ Vincenzo had said. It came to Cate that he’d decided to blame her for not being able to do this more often, hang out with his gang of lads, the boys he’d grown up with. Even though he was the one who wanted to settle down.
‘Big Simone?’
‘Works at the Liberty,’ Vincenzo had said. ‘Ha, now you’re interested, aren’t you?’
‘V’cenz,’ Cate had said wearily.
He didn’t seem to have heard her. ‘He’s the night porter at the Liberty.’
‘The hotel,’ Cate had said slowly. The hotel where she’d seen the castle’s car, the Monster, parked at seven
one morning, out at the front.
‘Yes, the hotel,’ Vincenzo had answered with exaggerated patience. ‘Where your lady – your dead lady – was a regular guest. She always came in late, on her own, her companion arriving a little later, in a car with Florence plates. Older guy, with a nice expensive tan and a moustache.’ He’d mused for a moment. ‘Funny thing is, he didn’t book any room that night, Simo says. The guy thought they didn’t know him, but they did.’
‘Or maybe he just didn’t care,’ Cate had said absently. ‘He’s not a man who cares about the little people, Mr Orfeo. I mean, Count Orfeo.’
There’d been a silence, only the din of raucous Saturday-night drinkers at the bar in the background. ‘You knew about this?’ and Vincenzo’s voice had been petulant.
‘Sort of,’ Cate had said carefully. ‘Well, we knew she – did you say, he didn’t book a room that night?’
‘Whatever,’ Vincenzo had replied angrily. She could see how it looked; perhaps he thought they were having orgies out here. Little do you know, she’d thought.
‘Caro,’ she’d said, with a last attempt at conciliation, ‘don’t – ’but he’d hung up.
The conversation seemed, all in all, like a nail in their coffin. Orfeo’s, or hers and Vincenzo’s.
In the dining room Nicki was dithering over the tray of digestivi. Looking from the door Cate tried to catch Sandro Cellini’s eye; she thought he’d understood. But there was no way of knowing. She went out to the bins: no sign of him. There was music drifting up from Michelle’s studio.
When she came back in, Nicki plonked herself in front of Cate, untying her apron.
‘Luca said I could go,’ she said, peering into Cate’s face. Behind the firmly closed door quiet voices came from the dining room, but the investigator’s wasn’t one of them.
Cate frowned. ‘Sure,’ she said distractedly. ‘Off you go.’
Nicki faltered. ‘You were going to walk me home.’
Cate exhaled. ‘Sure,’ she said, only this time with resignation.
A Murder in Tuscany Page 23