by Teresa Crane
‘Believe me.’
‘He loved me. He did! He told me so.’
‘But my poor Leo always was a liar, didn’t you know that?’ Angelique leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded. ‘He told you, did he not, that he loved his grandmother?’
Carrie stared at her numbly.
Angelique shook her head. ‘He hated her. Hated her for leaving everything to you and to him, nothing. He told you, of course, of his gambling debts? Ah, I see not. Poor Carrie, there does seem to be a very great deal you don’t know, doesn’t there?’ She let the silence linger. Beyond her Carrie caught a glimpse of the great bird of prey wheeling and turning in the still sunlit sky. ‘He told you he had been to his grandmother’s grave, did he not? A pilgrimage of love?’ The woman laughed, softly.
Carrie turned away, closing her eyes for a moment, leaned against the table. ‘I guessed he hadn’t,’ she said, ‘when I talked of the cemetery. He got everything wrong. He obviously hadn’t been there.’
‘Ah? So perhaps you aren’t always quite so stupid? Why did you not challenge him?’
Carrie bowed her head. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass him. I didn’t want to let him know I’d caught him in a lie. It was such a small, silly lie. It didn’t seem to matter.’
Again the soft laughter. ‘How wrong you were. How wrong. Tell me; what else did you guess? What else did you not challenge?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you for instance know that it was Leo who found your grandmother’s clothes, Leo who put them in the wardrobe? And then pretended to discover them, encouraged you to wear them?’
‘Why? Why would he do that?’
Angelique shrugged. ‘A game. That’s all. just a game. He wished later he had not; after you had read those stupid books, after you had met the old woman, you came to identify too closely with your grandmother. The game was spoiled.’
‘A game,’ Carrie whispered.
‘Yes. A game. And tell me, the pot that fell from the balcony?’ Angelique shook her head mockingly. ‘It might have killed you, might it not? Do you really believe in so many accidents?’
Carrie closed her eyes for a second. There was a long moment of silence. Carrie lifted her head. ‘What else don’t I know? Is there more?’
‘Oh, yes. There is more.’ Angelique pushed herself from the doorjamb, slipped her hands into the pockets of her slacks. Smiled. ‘But you’ll never know what it is. Never. That, too, is my consolation. You killed Leo. And you’ll never know why. I hope it haunts you for the rest of your days.’
‘Angelique, I didn’t—’
But the woman had turned, and was gone. Carrie heard her footsteps on the flagstones, on the steps and then, faintly, on the gravel.
Just before the footsteps faded, she thought she heard an echo of laughter.
*
She tried not to believe it, tried to tell herself that Angelique had lied out of bitterness, a desire to hurt. But the more she thought about it – and she thought about it almost obsessively – the more uncertain she became. That Leo would have had few qualms about killing Arthur she did not doubt. And the time-scale fitted Angelique’s story; Arthur had been dead for two days before his body was discovered; it had taken another twenty-four hours for the news to reach her. There was no doubt that Leo could have done it, and still managed to return, as he had, to be with her. And, worse, the things he had said the day that he had died on the mountain now made a dreadful sense. ‘Isn’t it reasonable to try to take the things you want, the things you need, using the methods the world has taught you?’ And then ‘To find yourself so tainted, so fatally flawed, that you know you will inevitably destroy the very thing you most love?’
The very thing you most love. These were the words that, through all her agonising, she returned to time and time again. The very thing you most love. Angelique had been right; perfectly obviously there had been many, many things about Leo she had not known. Hateful things. Hurtful things. But in one particular, no matter what Angelique might profess to think, Carrie knew she was wrong; Carrie had not killed Leo. He had chosen to die rather than harm her; and that could surely only mean one thing. He had loved her. In his own strange, contradictory, complex manner he had loved her. If Carrie were certain of anything, it was that; and the knowledge at least made the burden she carried easier.
She did not see Angelique again, neither at the house not in Bagni; to Carrie’s relief after that single visit the woman had vanished, as if she had never existed. Only her words stayed to haunt Carrie, and her reference to other secrets, other lies, about which Carrie knew nothing. Carrie, determinedly, shut her mind against the thought. Any other secret, any other lie, could only be painful. It was, she told herself, best not to know. There was in any case, she thought, no possible way to discover what they might be.
She was wrong.
One morning, some three weeks after Angelique’s visit she forced herself to face the tower room for the first time since Leo’s death; and discovered, tucked neatly under the bed, a painfully familiar small leather suitcase.
She put it on the bed, brushed the dust from it, stood looking at it for a very long time. Her eyes burned suddenly, and she blinked fiercely against tears. This had been the only piece of luggage Leo had ever carried; it had gone with him when he left her, come back with him when he returned. It had stood in the corner of the room when he had made love to her that day six or seven weeks ago – a lifetime ago – in the bar at San Marco.
With gentle fingertips she stroked the scratched leather that he had touched, slipped her hand about the worn handle, where his hand had so often been. Then with suddenly determined movements she pulled the thing towards her and clicked the catches open.
Five painful minutes later, she found the letter.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Signora Stowe.’ The dapper, expensively dressed young man advanced upon Carrie, footsteps crisp and echoing upon the marble floor, ‘Welcome to the gallery of the Lasale brothers.’ He took her hand in thin, soft-skinned fingers, bowed over it, brushing the knuckles with his lips. Carrie, with hard held restraint, resisted the temptation to snatch it back. The sleek, pomaded black head lifted and she found herself the recipient of a wolf’s smile. ‘I am Giuseppe Lasale. We were very pleased to receive your letter.’ Again the sharp gleam of teeth. ‘I understand you had our name from Signor Swann?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had hoped he might come with you. We had wondered what was happening, we had not heard from him for so long. Please, come upstairs to the office. You would like a glass of wine, I’m sure?’ He led the way through the gallery towards a sweeping marble staircase, the strong, flamboyant scent of the haircream marking his passage. ‘You enjoy Florence, Mrs Stowe? You know the city well?’
‘No, I don’t. Know it well, I mean.’ The lonely journey, the sight of the lovely city that last she had so happily visited with Leo had been a harrowing experience. Nothing but a dedicated determination to discover what lay at the root of Leo’s actions would have brought her back to this place. ‘I’ve only visited it once before, and that briefly.’
‘It’s a beautiful city. You are staying long?’
‘No. No, I’m not.’ Carrie had stopped, her attention arrested by a painting.
The young man came back, stood by her side. ‘It’s very fine, no?’
Carrie nodded. The lean-faced young man in the portrait looked out from his frame, brooding and powerful. The fingers of his clasped hands gleamed darkly with jewelled rings, gold thread glittered on shoulder and sleeve.
‘You are interested in art?’
Carrie shrugged a little. ‘Interested, yes. Informed, no, I’m afraid. Is this by someone famous?’
The faintest flicker of a smile brought the unsettlingly sharp teeth to her notice again. ‘Yes,’ the young man said, softly. ‘It is indeed by someone famous. They all are. Now,’ he laid a hand upon her arm, ‘please. We have a glass of wine, and we talk. Yes?’
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br /> The room into which he showed her was palatial, the high ceiling a masterpiece in itself, a miracle of carved and decorated beams and plasterwork. A great gilded mirror above a marble fireplace – filled at this time of the year with flowers – dominated the room, and the view from the tall windows, of the city with its spires, its campaniles, its ancient roofs and the majestic dome of the Cathedral, was breathtaking.
‘Please. You take a seat.’ The young man indicated a large carved wooden chair upholstered in worn velvet that Carrie found herself thinking would not have been out of place in any self-respecting palace. She accepted the slender-stemmed glass she was offered and gingerly sipped its contents, half afraid to put her lips to the fragile, beautiful glass. The wine was magnificent.
The young and wolfish Signor Lasale settled himself opposite her. ‘Signor Swann, he is well?’
‘Signor Swann is dead.’ She never afterwards knew how she found the composure to speak the words so collectedly. ‘An accident in the mountains a few weeks ago.’
‘Ah, Signora, I am so sorry. A tragedy, for such a one to die so young.’ The hard, dark eyes had sharpened. ‘He was – a friend?’
‘He was my cousin.’
The smooth head nodded. ‘I see. And, he had spoken of us? Of our, shall we say, shared interests?’
She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. ‘No. He hadn’t spoken of it. I found a letter, after he died. That’s when I wrote to you.’
‘I see.’ The atmosphere had changed; there was a wariness, a small prickle of tension in the air. The young man rose, carried his glass to the window and stood with his back to her looking across the city. Eventually he turned. ‘So. You don’t know of the arrangement that we had with Signor Swann?’
‘No.’ she said, bluntly. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
He nodded, thoughtfully.
‘Signor Lasale, what is this all about? The letter I found – your letter – was cautious, but it did mention a very large sum of money. What was your connection with my cousin? What was this – arrangement – you had made?’
The man still said nothing. He picked up the bottle from the table and walked to where she sat. ‘Another glass of wine, Signora?’
‘No, thank you.’ She set her glass down, and rose. ‘Signor, I insist. If my cousin was dealing with you in respect of something from the Villa Castellini – and I can put no other interpretation on the letter I found – then I have to tell you that in fact he had no right to do so, not without my agreement. The villa and its contents are mine. If you wish an “arrangement” as you call it, then, whatever it is, it has to be with me.’
He stood watching her for what seemed a very long time, one long, very clean and too-well-manicured nail tapping against those sharp teeth. Then, as if coming to a decision he straightened, briskly, and put down his own glass. ‘Come, Signora,’ he said, ‘I have something to show you.’
Carrie followed him out into the corridor, down the wide staircase and through to the back of the gallery, where he drew aside a curtain and opened the door it disclosed. Stepping through it at his courteous invitation she found herself in a very different atmosphere than the quiet and elegant gallery. This was a workshop, or perhaps more accurately a studio. The air was pungent with the smell of turpentine and of the sweet and oily scent of paint. As she hurried to keep pace with her escort she glanced about her. Though the large room was empty of any human occupancy several easels were set about the room upon some of which half-executed paintings rested. There were tables upon which paint-stained rags, palette knives and pots and jars full of brushes of all shapes and sizes vied for space.
‘This way Signora.’
Another door; and this time she found herself in a huge room that was flooded with light. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that fell through the tall, open windows. Again, the purpose of the place was immediately obvious. This was a sculptor’s studio. In the yard outside rough slabs of stone and marble were stacked. To one side of the room stood a bench upon which several small busts and statues stood, some of them covered with sheets, and in the centre of the floor the figure of a woman, rough-hewn as yet, but nevertheless already wonderfully lifelike was emerging from a block of marble as if being liberated from her prison of stone.
Again she was given little chance to take in her surroundings. The young man led her swiftly the length of the room to a wooden door that was barred and studded with iron. He drew a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and pushed the small, heavy door open.
This seemed to be some kind of storeroom. It was darker, and very cool. It took some moments for Carrie’s eyes to adjust to the dim light. Paintings were stacked neatly along one long wall, and everywhere there were statues, covered with dust sheets.
The young man took her arm and guided her to the far corner of the room. Carrie watched, puzzled, as he reached to pull the shrouding sheets from a group of statuary.
There was a very long, very still silence. Carrie looked at the statues. The young man, hard eyes veiled, looked at her.
‘I don’t think I understand,’ she said, at last.
These figures did not look new; on the contrary they might have been as old as those that stood in the arbour in the garden of the villa. And they were, in every apparent respect, identical. The nymph’s hands reached to catch the water, her head turned to smile at the dolphins that tumbled at her feet. Beside her the little water carrier shouldered his jar. ‘I don’t understand,’ Carrie said again; and even as she said it, knew that she did, at least in part.
‘Come.’ The young man was brisk again. He threw the dust sheet back over the statues, turned and led her back into the gallery and up the stairs. Once in the office he poured wine and handed it to her. She took it with no thanks, held it, watching him, waiting. He poured his own wine, sipped it, set the glass upon the table. ‘Are you coming to understand, Signora?’ he asked at last, softly.
‘Not entirely – but,’ she stopped. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did Leo – did Signor Swann – get in touch with you? Or did you contact him?’
He shrugged. ‘We contacted him. The name you see – Swann. It is unusual. And we have our methods of tracing people.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
He pulled out a cigarette case, opened it, offered it to her with a questioning expression. She shook her head. Looked down into the amber depths of her untouched wine as with neat movements he extracted a cigarette, tapped it upon the lid of the box and lit it. ‘For years there had been rumours,’ he said. ‘Rumours of the kind that we listen to. When the old man died we followed them up.’
‘And found the statues.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they very valuable?’
‘Signora Stowe they are almost priceless. In America they will fetch a fortune.’
‘America,’ she said.
‘Yes. That’s where the money is, Signora. We already have several interested buyers.’
‘But – if they are what you say they are – it’s illegal to export such things. Isn’t it?’
He blew smoke to the ceiling.
‘So. The plan was to substitute the new ones for the old, and smuggle the originals out of the country?’
‘Smuggle is not a good word, Signora.’
‘It’s the honest one.’
He shrugged.
‘Explain to me, Signor; why did you even bother to contact my cousin? Why didn’t you simply steal the statues before anyone arrived?’
‘Signora, please!’ the words were pained, almost shocked. ‘Be careful what you say. The Lasale brothers are not thieves. We are reputable dealers in fine art. Yes, on occasions such as this we—’ he spread narrow hands ‘we may evade the law a little. The law is ridiculous. Everyone does it. But steal? Ah, no. That is not our way. We made our bargain with Signor Swann. The replicas were almost ready. And then we heard no more.’
‘Becaus
e I arrived out of the blue.’ She remembered, suddenly, a rain-soaked packet of cigarettes lying in the arbour; the arbour her cousin had said he did not remember and had not visited; and another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. ‘What an idiot I’ve been,’ she said, quietly. And then, after a moment, ‘Tell me, Signor. just how old are the statues?’
He sipped his wine, his face impassive. ‘Very well, Signora Stowe. Since as you say it appears that we must deal with you now, I shall be honest.’ He ignored the wry lifting of Carrie’s brows. ‘We have reason to believe the figures are very old indeed. In fact it is virtually certain that they came from the excavations at Pompeii.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Ah, yes. More than possible. A generation ago anything was possible. It is only now, for our sins, that we have these busybodies to invent restrictions and pass laws.’
‘And would anyone who had some knowledge of such things suspect how valuable they were if they saw them?’
He shrugged. ‘Any such person would know how fine they were, yes. And any close inspection would cause interest.’
She heard, in memory, a distant grumble of thunder. And her own words to Leo: ‘Next time I’m in Bagni perhaps I’ll see if I can find someone to come up and look at it.’ Was that when he had decided that she had to die? He would have known – must have known – that much as she loved him she would have had no part of this, even for him.
‘What were your arrangements with Signor Swann?’ she asked, quietly.
‘The same as we always make under these circumstances. The same as we are ready to offer you. The deal is fifty-fifty. And as I said, there is a great deal of money involved. You are going to be an extremely rich young lady, Signora Stowe.’
She set her untouched wine on the table and straightened to face him. ‘No, Signor Lasale. I’m not. Because neither you nor anyone else is going to touch those statues. Make your squalid little deals with others, not with me. If you want to sell damned statues sell the ones downstairs.’ The rage that burned in her was so great that she trembled with it.