by Teresa Crane
‘Well, of course, you can’t possibly stay here alone. I won’t hear of it. Come, my dear, I’ll pack a bag for you. It will be much the best if you join me at the Continentiale for a few days, at least until after the funeral. The place is really quite comfortable and I’m sure I can get you a special rate – I am Signor Donitello’s longest-staying guest, after all. You’ve suffered a tragedy, a terrible tragedy; you need people about you, people to help you, to share your grief. You mustn’t stay here to brood, you really mustn’t. So come along, my dear, chin up. Come and tell me what you want me to pack for you.’
Dazed with grief Carrie allowed herself to be crisply bullied into leaving the house. Once settled in the hotel, however, she found the sense of horror and confusion heightened rather than eased. At least the villa had been familiar, and associated with Leo. Now she found herself amongst strangers and in strange surroundings. And no matter how kindly the strangers and how pleasant the surroundings the dreadful, almost surreal sense of loneliness, of isolation, was simply made worse.
She fled to Maria.
‘He tried to kill me. Maria – he was going to kill me! I saw it in his face. And then—’ she had begun to shake again. She clenched her hands together to stop their trembling, ‘And then, he stepped back. Over the edge. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop him!’ She buried her face in her spread hands. ‘It was horrible. Horrible!’
Maria said nothing. There was a terrible and impotent sympathy in her eyes. She looked very old today; frail and fatigued, her desiccated skin all but colourless.
Carrie lifted her head. ‘Why?’ she asked, for the hundredth, perhaps the thousandth time. ‘Why?’
Maria shook her head. ‘The blood was bad.’
‘No! I don’t believe that. Maria, he loved me – I know he did. That’s why he couldn’t do it.’
‘He wanted the house for himself, cara. If you had died he would have inherited it.’
‘No. I’ve thought of that. But, Maria, it simply doesn’t make sense. He had the house – and everything in it. I told him, he could take anything he wanted. He could have had it all, simply by asking. He knew that. I loved him. I would have given him anything he asked.’ She shook her head in despair. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she repeated.
Maria leaned her head back tiredly upon the cushion, closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Perhaps you will never know, cara,’ she said, softly. ‘Perhaps you will never know.’
Carrie came to her then, knelt beside her and took the claw-like hand. ‘Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about what I’ve told you. Please, Maria, promise me. I couldn’t bear it.’
The small head moved in assent. ‘I promise.’ The old woman’s eyes were still closed.
Carrie looked at her in sudden concern. ‘Maria? Are you all right?’
The eyes opened. ‘I’m old, cara. Old and tired. I have seen too much.’
Carrie tightened her grip. ‘Maria, come and live with me. In the villa. I can take care of you, you’ll be much more comfortable.’
‘No,’ Maria shook her head, still resting upon the cushion. ‘I am too old for such changes, cara. Much too old.’
‘It would help me, Maria, to have someone to care for. Someone else to think about.’
To her surprise the faintest of smiles touched the thin mouth. ‘You will have, cara. You will have.’
‘No. I’ll never love anyone ever again. I know it.’
‘Ah, the young!’ Maria said, gently. ‘How fierce they are.’
*
Maria did not attend the funeral. The day was a beautiful one. The tiny cemetery, shaded by cypress trees, lulled by the sound of the river, was, to Carrie’s surprise, packed with mourners, most of whom she was certain had never even met Leo. It was Mary Webber who pointed out that in this expatriate community, it was simply not the done thing to miss a fellow-Englishman’s funeral. In consequence Carrie found herself once again surrounded by well-meaning strangers, mouthing thanks for their quite genuine condolences, accepting invitations to vaguely timed lunches and dinners, and with little time to dwell upon the occasion. It was only after the simple service, held in the tiny chapel at the top of the hill, when the coffin was carried to the quiet corner of the churchyard that was to be Leo’s final resting place, that the enormity of what had happened hit her again, with a force that brought a wave of nausea and a sudden dizzy roaring of blood in her ears. She stopped for a moment, swaying, fighting faintness.
‘My dear,’ Mary Webber’s arm was firm about her shoulders, ‘lean on me. That’s right. Close your eyes for a moment. Mr Wallace – a chair for Mrs Stowe, please. Quickly.’
‘No,’ Carrie shook her head a little to clear it. ‘No. I’m all right, I really am. I’m sorry. I just felt a little faint, that’s all.’
The other woman did not relinquish her grip. Carrie lifted her head and the world rocked again. She squeezed her eyes closed. ‘I never faint.’ Her voice sounded distant. Detached.
‘There’s a first time for everything, my dear. And in this case it really can’t be counted surprising—’ Mary Webber broke off, rather suddenly. Then, ‘Good heavens!’ she said, a faint, disapproving shock in her voice. ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered!’
‘What?’ Carrie asked, bemused.
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing at all.’ The briskness was forced. ‘I just thought I saw someone, that’s all. Must have been mistaken.’
But Carrie had opened her eyes, and this time the world had steadied.
And through the crowds she too saw the figure that had arrested Mary Webber’s indignant attention. Tall, slim, elegant, dressed entirely in black, her face hidden by a wisp of black veil, Angelique stood, unmoving and graceful as a statue, watching as Leo’s coffin was carried slowly, shoulder high, through the sunlit cemetery. Then as if feeling Carrie’s eyes upon her, very slowly she turned her head, lifted the veil to reveal the cold, beautiful, pale-skinned face. For a moment it was as if the two of them were alone.
Carrie shivered.
‘Come, my dear,’ Mary Webber was gentle, ‘they’re waiting for you,’ and she ushered Carrie towards the grave and the last farewells. When Carrie turned her head again, Angelique was gone.
*
She knew that, sooner or later, she would have to go home; that, sooner or later, she had to confront the emptiness, the loneliness. The unanswered and unanswerable questions. For three days she allowed herself to listen to Mary Webber’s persuasions, but then she knew that enough was enough; she would have to face the house. There would never be an easy time; it might as well be done now.
She arrived at the villa in the late afternoon, as the sun clipped the edge of the mountain and the long shadows started to fall across the valley. It was very warm. Maria’s nephew, solemn and courteous, handed her down from her seat. They had not been able to communicate during the tortuous ride up the mountain, yet she had felt his sympathy, and as, after saluting her with a dignified nod of the head and a quiet ‘Arrivederci, Signora’, he swung himself back up onto the cart and clicked his tongue at the stolidly patient mule she felt a sadness to see him go. She stood and watched him move out of sight under the thick green canopy of the chestnut trees before turning with heavy heart to the door and fitting the key in the lock.
The first thing she smelled as she pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway was cigarette smoke.
Fresh cigarette smoke.
Carrie stood rooted to the spot, heart hammering.
Upstairs, clearly and distinctly, a door shut, clicking sharply.
‘Who’s there?’ Her voice cracked a little. She cleared her throat. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked again.
Footsteps clipped upon the floorboards of the landing. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs, stood for a moment looking down at her before starting slowly down the stairs.
‘What are you doing here?’ Fear turned to a sudden, shattering fury. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here? How dare you come i
nto my house.’
Angelique paused, halfway down, narrow white hand on the banisters. The smoke from the cigarette she held drifted about her. She was wearing a white silk blouse tucked in at her narrow waist to softly flattering black slacks. About her neck was a casually tied scarf, a scarlet splash, red as blood against the skin of her throat. She looked as always, cool and beautiful.
Carrie almost choked with rage. ‘Get out of my house. Now!’
The dark head shook. ‘Oh, no. I think not.’ Her voice was husky, and attractively accented. ‘I think it’s time we talked.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. Not now. Not ever.’
The other woman resumed her slow descent of the staircase. ‘But I want to talk to you, Carrie Stowe,’ she spoke the name as a curse; and with the same sudden shock she had experienced in the square in Bagni all those weeks ago Carrie once again recognised that she was encountering real hatred. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
At the foot of the stairs Angelique dropped her cigarette on to the wooden floor and very deliberately ground it out with her heel. Then she lifted her head, and once more Carrie had to force herself not to recoil from the sheer malevolence in the great, dark eyes. ‘About the fact that you and I both know who killed Leo,’ she said. ‘I want you to tell me about it. All about it. I need to know. I’m sure you understand?’ Without waiting for an answer she turned and walked along the passage that led to the kitchen. Carrie stood for a moment, still shaking with shock and rage, before following her. When she entered the room Angelique was standing by the open door, lighting another cigarette.
The taller woman turned. ‘Well?’ she asked, very softly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Angelique made a small, scornful sound. ‘Why play games? You killed Leo. We both know it.’
‘No!’
The other woman took two quick steps to the table and slammed her open palm on it, fiercely. ‘And I say yes! You killed my Leo. You killed him!’
‘No! It isn’t true. It isn’t!’
‘Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie!’
They were suddenly screaming at one another, faces distorted and on the verge of tears.
‘I’m not lying. I swear it!’ Carrie folded her arms across her breasts, gripping her upper arms, forcing herself to be calm. ‘Angelique, listen to me. I didn’t kill Leo. I didn’t. He—’ she stopped.
‘What?’ Angelique had become still, the lovely, luminous eyes fixed upon Carrie’s face. ‘What did Leo do?’
‘He tried to kill me.’
To Carrie’s horror the woman threw her head back and laughed. ‘Well of course he did! That’s what he took you up the mountain to do. Are you really so stupid?’
‘Why? Angelique, why? Why would Leo want – why would he need – to kill me? Please, tell me.’
There was a small, venomous smile on the pale, lovely face. ‘You don’t know,’ Angelique said. ‘You still don’t know.’
Carrie shook her head numbly.
Once again the laughter.
Carrie covered her ears with her hands. ‘Stop it. Stop it!’
Angelique rested her hands upon the table, leaned forward, a predator, tooth and claws bared. ‘What I want to know,’ she said, softly, ‘what I intend that you shall tell me, is what went wrong? How did you kill him? A man so experienced in death?’
‘I didn’t! I keep telling you Angelique – he killed himself. He just stepped back. Off the ledge. Yes, he was going to kill me. I’m certain that was what he intended. But he couldn’t.’ The words that had haunted her since the day on the mountain rang clear in her head, as if Leo were beside her, and speaking. Love. Whoever would have believed it possible? ‘He loved me,’ she said, quietly. ‘He told me so. He killed himself because he loved me.’
‘You’re lying.’ Angelique’s voice was flat, implacable. ‘You’re lying, you bitch.’
‘No. I’m not. I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have. I loved him.’
‘Love? You? You little fool! You don’t know the meaning of the word!’ For a moment, the mask slipped, and Carrie glimpsed the suffering, the utter despair.
‘We both loved him,’ she said, quietly. ‘I know that. But I didn’t kill him, Angelique, I swear it. I’ve told you the truth. He loved me. And because of that he died.’
Angelique straightened, the mask in place again. She stood for a long moment in silence, drew on the cigarette, threw back her head to blow smoke to the ceiling, watching Carrie through half-closed eyes. ‘You must be a jinx, my dear,’ she said, at last, softly and with mocking spite. ‘The men in your life seem to die with quite monotonous regularity. Don’t they? Doesn’t that strike you as being a little – strange?’
Carrie stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
Angelique said nothing.
‘Angelique, what do you mean?’ Carrie’s heart had begun to beat heavily, slow and suffocating.
The other woman kept her gaze steady and that hateful smile was back; deadly, vindictive. Knowing.
‘Arthur’s death was an accident,’ Carrie said. And even she heard the sudden, awful uncertainty in the words.
Angelique shook her head.
‘It was! He fell down the stairs.’
The smile widened a little.
‘I tell you he fell down the stairs!’
Angelique’s hand hit the table so suddenly and so sharply Carrie all but jumped out of her skin. ‘You silly little bitch! An accident? An accident? My God, Leo said you were naive. He didn’t ever tell me how stupid you are. How could he have borne it?’
‘Stop it! Get out of my house. You hear me? Get out!’ There was an edge of hysteria in the words.
‘Tell me this, my silly Carrie,’ Angelique was completely in control now. Her husky voice was very low, totally calm. ‘Where was Leo when your husband died?’
‘He was here. Of course he—’ Carrie stopped.
Angelique shook her head again, still smiling. ‘Think again, little fool. Think again. I asked not where Leo was when news of your husband’s death arrived. I asked, where was he when he died?’
There was a very long moment of silence. ‘With you,’ Carrie whispered. ‘I thought he was with you.’
Again the shaken head.
‘No,’ Carrie said. ‘No!’
‘Yes.’ The word was flat and brooked no denial.
The sun was well behind the mountain now; a shadow had fallen across the door. The cooking fires of San Marco were sending their fragrant message to the sky. A dog barked.
‘Leo killed your husband,’ Angelique said. ‘He broke his neck. And threw him down the stairs.’
Carrie dropped her face into her spread hands. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’
‘Believe me. The banisters were broken, were they not? And a stair rod at the top of the stairs. Leo did that too. He was experienced in such things. He knew he must make the accident,’ she put a dry emphasis on the word, ‘look authentic. Your husband was a big man, was he not? Much taller than my Leo. You see? He told me. Why do you cry? You wanted him dead, did you not?’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’ The word was absolutely implacable. ‘Face yourself, Carrie Stowe. Even Leo, in his own way and by his own code, was a little more honest than that. Was that, perhaps, why you killed him? Did he tell you he didn’t love you? There is, they say, no fury like a woman scorned. It would not be the first time that even such a man as he has been taken by surprise at a woman’s sudden strength in such circumstances.’
Carrie lifted her head. ‘No! Why won’t you listen? No Angelique, I didn’t kill Leo. I keep telling you – I swear it – he killed himself.’
‘So now we are even; for now I don’t believe you.’ The woman’s voice was perfectly controlled. ‘He would never have done such a thing. I know it. He was a survivor. If nothing else, he was that. Always. Don’t expect me to believe he had changed so much.’ She flicked the cigarette throu
gh the open door out on to the terrace.
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Carrie said.
‘It is my only consolation.’ The other woman’s voice was soft.
‘Leo? Leo killed Arthur? So that I would inherit the house?’
Angelique watched her.
‘And then tried to kill me because—’ there was a certain awful logic appearing in this nightmare of an equation, ‘because—’
‘Because he was your only relative, and because under Italian law – you had made no other arrangements – the house would have come to him.’
‘But he had the house. He knew I would give him anything he asked.’
Angelique turned and walked to the door, stood surveying the peaceful scene. ‘Well, perhaps, or perhaps not. Or maybe, little bitch – has it not yet occurred to you? – maybe he did not wish to share it with you? Perhaps he wished to share it all with me? Have you not thought of that?’ She stepped through the door, and turned, her face in shadow, the light brilliant around her. ‘Tell me, did Leo ask you again to marry him? After he returned?’
Numbly Carrie shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Of course not. Because he realised he did not need to. Because he had come to understand that already, by the tie of blood, he was your only living relative, so there was no need to commit yet another crime.’
‘What do you mean? What other crime?’
‘The crime of bigamy.’ The woman paused, savouring the moment, watching her. ‘Leo couldn’t marry you, little bitch, though even that, to begin with, he was ready to do. He could not have married you because he was already married. To me. To me, my so silly Carrie. To me.’ She pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. ‘And do you think that any man who had me would leave me for you?’
‘I don’t believe you.’