Errant Angels

by Stuart Fifield

  ‘Did I tell you about our next project … for our concert in two months’ time?’ she asked, smiling at the group. Several confused expressions were raised from the printed pages of music to focus on her. ‘When we take tea… Oh, Gregorio, I must talk to you, too… Where was I? Oh yes – the new project. You must not forget to remind me to tell you all about it. As usual it will be a fundraising event, but this time the charity we will be helping is completely different to the usual. It is really quite exciting.’ Immediately, her fingers resumed their intimate contact with the keyboard, picking up the accompaniment at the exact spot where she had suddenly stopped. Not a beat had been lost; her questioning outburst had simply put the notes into temporary suspended animation. Indeed, it had been such a fluid motion that the singers, who had only just released their lungs of un-needed air, were taken completely by surprise. Gregorio Marinetti’s normally warm baritone was the first voice to be heard. However, on this occasion, he valiantly tried to sing the smooth vocal line on little more than a quarter of a lungful of air. It was a technique the members of COGOL had all learned to do, as the Contessa’s behaviour grew more and more erratic with the passing years.

  As the rooftops of Lucca became engulfed by the warm embrace of the evening, the music room continued to fill with the melodies of Verdi, Puccini, Mozart and Humperdinck as, under the Contessa’s direction, COGOL continued to work through the programme for their approaching concert. Il Conte continued to look down appreciatively from behind his gossamer net and Carlo continued to growl softly to himself on his chair. And then, without any warning, the doors to the music room suddenly burst open to reveal Elizabeth. She was struggling with a large tray, on which was an assortment of tea things arranged in a haphazard fashion.

  ‘’Twas sounding most malodourous, to be sure,’ she said as she strode purposefully across the room in the direction of the piano. ‘Maladies of the great masters, so they are. But ’tis getting late and you need to have this, if you’re after having it at all. Herself knows Elzeebit can’t be doing well when it gets too dark,’ she said as she hefted the heavy tray and its clinking, quivering contents up to the piano and onto the heavy fringed cloth that covered the bottom half of it. ‘Herself might remember ’tis because of the contracts I’ll be having,’ she continued, ignoring everyone in the room and, once relieved of the burden of the tray, pointing towards her eyes, her fingers in a ‘V’ shape.

  ‘Yes … how thoughtful. Thank you, Elizabeth. That will be all,’ said the Contessa, resigned to the interruption. They had almost finished, anyway. ‘Surely the electric light must be of some help to you, Elizabeth?’ she added. Even if she had felt any irritation at the sudden, unannounced arrival of the tea things, she had learned from long experience that she was totally powerless to do anything about Elizabeth’s perception of things. ‘Angeli miei, let us stop there and take some tea,’ she continued, without giving Elizabeth an opportunity to respond. ‘Bravi. You have all worked so hard tonight.’

  The Contessa’s singers closed in about the tea tray and proceeded to impose some form of order on the jumbled contents. They had all developed a taste for tea over the years of their involvement with COGOL, which was just as well, as coffee was never on the menu. Elizabeth had retreated back across the room and was about to close the doors behind her, when she stopped in mid-action and glared at the group around the piano.

  ‘And there’s none of them briskets, you’ll be noting … only what’s left of the cake.’ She grabbed the handles of the doors. ‘The bit he didn’t get!’ she muttered, thrusting her chin out in Carlo’s direction. Then she closed the doors with a bang.

  At the foot of the piano, where Elizabeth had unceremoniously deposited her burden of the large tea tray, Renata di Senno suddenly caught a whiff of the rotten eggs again. With a flash of diamonds she raised her hand to her nose in an attempt to block the smell. Something was going to have to be done about the little beast. Things had gone on for quite long enough. Assuming the role of the perfect hostess, she poured a cup of tea for the Contessa and moved towards the keyboard to put the hot drink on a cork mat, which the Contessa kept next to the piano’s music stand; it would not do to leave a ring on such an expensive instrument. As she did so, she walked past the chair on which Carlo lay snoring, undisturbed by Elizabeth’s interruption. Renata was somewhat surprised and more than a little perplexed to find that the air in the immediate vicinity of Carlo Quinto lacked the unpleasant hint of the sewers she had detected at the foot of the piano. In fact, apart from the gentle sound of grumbling, the air around the little beast was filled with nothing more unpleasant than that which is associated with the freshness of a pleasant sum mer’s day out in the countryside. Renata turned and retraced her steps to the foot of the piano to collect her tea, which Julietta Camore, with artificial generosity, had poured for her. As she stood stirring her tea, it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t the unpleasant little dog that was sharing the results of its internal gaseous problems with everyone within reach. Perhaps it was the equally unpleasant maid. Of course, nothing could be said in the Contessa’s presence. In any case, whilst this trivial little conundrum had occupied Renata’s mind, or more correctly her nostrils, the Contessa was explaining her latest idea for their next fundraising project. It was something to do with horses and donkeys in Egypt.

  No sooner had the Contessa finished than the doors burst open once again to reveal an angry-looking Elizabeth, her face a picture of atmospheric disturbance, her chest heaving with the effort of having had to negotiate the stairs once again, so soon after bringing up the tea tray.

  ‘The new one’s here now!’ she snapped between wheezes. ‘Elzeebit has brought her straight up to yourself, as instraticted…’ The last word was lost in a fit of coughing, as she waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss the entire company, turned on her heel and lurched away. Her place in the doorway was taken by the quintessential concept of the fair English Rose.

  ‘Good evening, Contessa.’

  ‘Welcome. Yvonne, my dear, do come in and meet everyone,’ said the Contessa, advancing from behind the piano. ‘Angeli miei, let us welcome Yvonne Buckingham. I am sure that our new member’s musical ability will enable her to rise to any future challenges.’

  Riccardo Fossi felt his member tingle at the thought. A new object for his insatiable appetite had crossed his sights.

  8

  The Contessa’s rehearsal had gone well and she was confident that, with another rehearsal still in hand, COGOL would be well and truly prepared for their forthcoming gala concert. The singers had left the Contessa’s spacious apartment and had gone their separate ways, returning to the reality of their everyday lives in the world beyond the music room and the escapism of opera. In Via Antonio Mordini, close by the old Roman amphitheatre, Riccardo Fossi sat in the semi-gloom of the street lights. He was nervously tapping the varnished wooden steering wheel of his new Alfa Romeo, as he glanced repeatedly in its wing mirrors. Suddenly, the catch on the passenger door clicked, the door swung open and the car was immediately filled with the subtly heady fragrance of Renata di Senno’s very expensive perfume.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he hissed as he turned to kiss her passionately.

  ‘Riccardo!’ she replied, fighting him off, but only after she had enjoyed the thrill of his mouth touching hers, ‘can I at least get in and put the seatbelt on?’ She closed the door and clicked the seatbelt into position. ‘Okay … let’s go,’ she said as he turned the ignition key and the car purred into powerful, expectant life – very much as he had become aroused and full of expectation at her appearance. ‘Benito has had to go away. He phoned me this afternoon just after lunch and said he was leaving for Montecatini and would be back tomorrow. That’s a stroke of luck, isn’t it?’ she said, placing her hand on the inside of his thigh.

  ‘You mean to say that the assistant state prosecutor has the time to go to Montecatini and take the baths?’ asked Fossi, laughing.


  ‘No, it is something to do with the two murders in Lucca, you might remember, a couple of months back. Anyway, it does not concern us,’ she said lightly, as she brushed her fingers over his arousal, before returning her hand to his inner thigh. ‘That is of far more interest to us wouldn’t you say, amore?’

  Renata di Senno had been married to her husband for nearly twenty years. As his star had steadily risen within the justice department, her sense of fulfilment with their union had diminished. She still felt great affection for him, but affection given and received was not enough for this hot-blooded COGOL diva. It was the sense of incomplete physical fulfilment which had eventually driven her to wander beyond the spacious confines of the grandiose Villa Legge, perched on the hills to the north of the city. The name of the marital home said it all – the Villa of the Law. Physical relations had become as routine and boring as a predictable court case.

  Riccardo Fossi took his eyes off the road and flashed a broad grin at her. He was reminded of their unspoken conversation around the Steinway – the talk involving Renata’s stretching exercises – and that boost to his ego pleased him enormously. So much so that he had to squirm in his seat to ease the pressure in his trousers. The other element that pleased him was derived from the potential danger of having a protracted affair with the wife of the assistant state prosecutor. This added frisson brought both physical and vocal heights to their energetic passion. If Assistant Prosecutor di Senno found out that his wife was having it off with one of Lucca’s most highly respected accountants that would be bad enough. What would make it even worse – or more exciting, depending on your point of view – would be for him to discover that his wife’s lover was also discreetly involved in highly organized crime – lucrative, financial crime of the most subtle kind. Fossi found sailing that close to the strong arm of the law a big turn-on.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road, amore,’ cooed Renata as the car sped through the northern city gate, ‘we don’t want to waste this opportunity by ending up at the hospital, do we?’

  9

  Saturday dawned clear and bright. Nearly every morning in Lucca dawned clear and bright – even in the winter months. The flood of tourists had quickly choked Via Fillungo and would do so for the greater part of the day. In Café Alma Arte the Gaggia had been looked at yet again, but still managed the occasional spit and splutter in protest of its workload. Verriano had managed to navigate the early part of the morning without any further accidents and Gregorio Marinetti counted off another day on the calendar; only five days remaining before the screen would be collected and his financial status would improve.

  Outside Lucca, up in the hills, Assistant State Prosecutor di Senno had returned from Montecatini to find his wife dutifully supervising the activities of the cook in the kitchen of the Villa Legge. He had spent the whole of Friday in Montecatini, reviewing the details of certain cases and had become somewhat apprehensive when he had learned of Rome’s growing interest.

  ‘Benito, caro,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the mouth, ‘come… Let me fix you a glass of something.’

  He followed her as she walked through the kitchen and out onto the broad terrace that ran along the south side of the villa. The views out and over Lucca were almost as splendid as were the diamonds on her fingers.

  ‘A glass of wine, beer … or perhaps something stronger?’ she asked, crossing to a small bar at the far end of the terrace. ‘Did it go well?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘You were gone for a long time.’

  She did not mention that it would have been helpful for her to have known the previous day that business would be keeping him in Montecatini for another night. As it was, she had not been able to capitalize on the opportunity.

  ‘No, I do not think it did,’ he said. ‘It is all too uncomfortably similar to the cases we had here in Lucca two months ago.’

  He had removed his tie and jacket, which he flung casually onto one of the cane chairs, before flopping wearily down into one of the others. One thing Benito di Senno could not be accused of within his marriage was keeping his wife out of the picture. Of course, he was far too discreet a professional to tell her everything, but what he felt he could tell her was more than enough to make her feel something special, someone important.

  ‘You mean those two murdered women?’ she asked, passing him a glass of ice-cold beer.

  He nodded once and took the glass from her. ‘There is no proof as yet, but yes; there was another young woman who had been strangled. But this time she had been raped first. That is what is different from the two women who were strangled here in Lucca. This recent victim was an innocent tourist who was presumably visiting the Baths … from Germany. Thanks for this, cara,’ he paused and took a long draught of the beer. He looked tired. ‘Rome has become involved. “Potentially diplomatically embarrassing” was how they put it this morning.’ He took another mouthful of the cold beer. ‘The Carabinieri are going to be looking into this latest case as well. The diplomatic element makes it far too serious to leave it to the polizia to get to the bottom of … apparently. That is Rome’s opinion, not mine.’

  Renata looked at her husband with mild curiosity. Although she benefited materially from his hard work and position, she had never understood what made a person spend their life working with something like the law, which was a concept she found lifeless and impersonal. She had always been excited by the enjoyment of her singing – not to mention the recent enjoyment of Riccardo’s regular, throbbing arousal, which was even more memorable than hitting a brilliant high C at the end of an aria. All poor Benito had to contend with was one boring criminal case after another and a large criminal element that seemed to have learned nothing from past police successes.

  ‘So, now I think I should go into town and file some reports about Montecatini and see if anything else has come in.’

  ‘Must you?’ whined Renata. ‘How long will you be gone? I have prepared a meal for us,’ she said, wondering how far the cook had got with it. ‘It is such a beautiful day and I thought it would be nice to go for a stroll.’

  Riccardo Fossi had told her that he had to go to Torre del Lago for the day to visit his aged aunt, so there was no chance of a repeat matinee performance of Thursday night’s frolic.

  ‘I am sorry, tesoro,’ he said, picking up his jacket and tie before bending down and kissing her, ‘but you know what they say about time and crime waiting for no man. I’ll take a quick shower and then I’ll be off.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’ asked Renata seductively. ‘I could wash your back for you … or anything else that might need a tickle.’

  He smiled apologetically at her and shrugged. Then he put down his glass, turned and walked into the house.

  Twenty minutes later, Renata di Senno stood on the terrace watching her husband drive away in the direction of the city. Behind her, she heard a cough, followed by the cook’s voice.

  ‘Does the signora wish me to make the lunch into dinner?’ she asked.

  As Assistant State Prosecutor di Senno parked his car in the yard of the prosecutor’s office, the bells of the duomo sounded out across the city. It was lunchtime and the business community would soon be shutting down for the afternoon’s heat-escaping siesta. That was the way it had always been in hot Mediterranean countries, as far back as anyone could remember.

  Further along Via Fillungo, Gregorio Marinetti heard the distant sound of one o’clock fade through the streets outside the air-conditioned tranquillity of his shop. He dunked yet another biscotto – the seventh so far – into his latte, as he continued to battle with a quandary.

  He dunked his eighth biscotto as he surveyed his domain. What concerned him was the question of the Venetian screen, which he had just ‘acquired’ and now resided in secret in his lock-up out in the country. In his mind’s eye he saw once again, strategically placed on the central panel, the winged Lion of St Mark. He also recalled that the beast looked more malevolent than perhaps such a noble symbol of a great city
should. He ascribed that to the circumstances under which the lion had found itself in his shop in the first place, circumstances under which he had been obliged – for the first time in his life – to cross the fine borderline from respectability into the shady region of illegality. He dunked a ninth biscotto. They were only small and besides, he wasn’t counting.

  He had hoped that no one had noticed the screen in his shop that previous Thursday, but such a hope had been shattered at the Contessa’s rehearsal that same evening, when she had asked him if it had perhaps been a screen she had seen in his shop. He had nearly choked on his tea, but had managed to recover his composure before dropping the cup loudly back onto its saucer.

  ‘Screen?’ he had asked feebly. ‘Alas, no, the Contessa is mistaken. I haven’t had a screen in my shop for a very long time. They are rather rare at the moment.’

  ‘But then what was that I saw through the window? It looked like a dog or something painted on it. It was very dark and depressing … in the centre of your shop.’

  ‘Scusi, Contessa, but what is “depressing”?’ he asked. They were speaking English.

  ‘Gloomy and drab,’ she replied.

  Gregorio understood gloomy, but was not sure he fully understood drab. He nodded anyway, whilst thinking furiously for a way around this unexpected problem.

  ‘The Contessa must have seen the panel I recently acquired on behalf of an esteemed client in Florence,’ he replied smiling, his voice teetering on the brink of betraying it for the lie that it was. ‘Sadly, it was in a state of very poor repair and was only a single panel, but my client had his mind set on it, even allowing for the poor condition. The Contessa could not have seen the chair behind it, which was propping it up.’

  ‘Oh … that’s a pity. You say that you have a chair for us, which is good. And I have that table over there. It’s quite light and easy to get down the stairs. But we still need a screen for our Figaro,’ continued the Contessa. ‘It is an important prop and we can’t really do without it.’