Why?
Why any of it, I thought impatiently. Why any of it. The questions in my mind, and the bloody handkerchief and the bit of sweet that had made me so sick and the enigmatic looks on the faces of Predelli and Pineider? Why the fingerprints in the dust, and Peter Fox staying on because he was concerned about me …
The sun blazed in and I was suddenly weary of it. I got up, drew the french windows together, slatted the blinds. I ripped off my shirt and shorts, pulled down the counterpane and lay in darkness, trying to put thoughts out of my mind. Years ago, as a child, I had done this. After a punishment, or a scolding by a teacher at school. Now I must forget about it, I had thought then, and so I thought now.
I must forget about it, and when I woke it would be in a different frame of mind.
Chapter Ten
I woke when Lucrezia knocked on the door of my room. “Signorina?”
“Come in.”
She opened the door and told me that someone was on the telephone for me. “A gentleman,” she said, withdrawing.
I got up, slipped into a robe, went out to the drawing room. Lucrezia wasn’t there: I assumed that she had gone away to give me some privacy. I picked up the receiver, and it was Peter Fox.
He said, “Can you talk?”
“Yes, I’m alone.”
“Well, then. Listen, Barbara, I’ve been busy. I had the cookie tested at a lab. You’re a very fortunate girl. Let me tell you what the lab technician read to me from his Pharmacology textbook. I wrote it down. Are you listening?”
“Yes, of course, what is it?”
“I’m quoting,” he said. “Quote: Nux vomica was introduced into Germany in the 16th century as a poison for rats and other animal pets. Its use as a rat poison persists to this day and, as an ingredient of “rat biscuit,” strychnine is a source of accidental poisoning in children. Strychnine was first employed in medicine in 1540, but it did not gain wide usage until two hundred years later.”
“Unquote,” Peter said. “You nibbled on a rat biscuit, damn it, for God’s sake, and it’s a wonder that little girl didn’t pop one into her own mouth,”
I said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said impatiently. “It’s a reputable laboratory, of course I’m sure.”
“But it wasn’t meant for me,” I said quickly. “It was for the dog.” I thought about it. “But, Peter, maybe it was meant for rats!”
“There’s a slight possibility of that,” he conceded. “However, if it was used habitually, why didn’t the dog eat a biscuit before? Animals are canny; besides, if that kind of thing was in regular usage on the grounds, your aunt, or Elizabeth Wadley, would have conditioned the dog. It doesn’t wash, Barbara. Nevertheless, you might, discreetly, ask about it.”
“I could pump the gardeners,” I said.
“Do that. And now there’s something else. I had a test run on the handkerchief. As I said, I’ve been busy. And I found out something puzzling. Your aunt’s blood type was O, which is what most of us have. I consulted the coroner who was called in when the Contessa died. But the blood type on the handkerchief wasn’t the same. According to the technician at the lab, there are three other types, to wit: A, B, and AB. The type on the handkerchief was AB.”
“But that’s — ”
“The same type as Mrs. Wadley.”
I looked nervously about, but I was still alone, and rather breathless. “How do you know Elizabeth’s blood type?”
“She was in the hospital a year and a half ago, for tests. I found that out and learned, at the same time, her blood type. The same as that on the handkerchief that was in the little girl’s basket.”
“But what could it mean?”
“I keep asking myself that,” he said. “I have two theories, both of which might be way off base. Listen, can we have dinner this evening?”
“Yes, I’d like to see you, since all this throws me for a loop. Why don’t I meet you at the Piazza de Repubblica? I’ll take the car, and tell Elizabeth I’m visiting with someone I met in Rome. Wouldn’t that be better than having you come here? She might begin to wonder.”
“Agreed. Yes, I’ll look for you, under the arcades near the post office, at seven this evening.”
• • •
He was pacing up and down and, as I walked toward him after parking the car, I saw several ladies of the evening wiggling their hips in his direction. I thought why not, Peter was a most attractive young man. That I didn’t vibrate to him meant only that there was an element missing, that his ilk was over-familiar to me. He was just another American man with good credentials, and I seemed to be looking farther afield.
I am like my aunt, I thought and, rather than surprise, I felt a kind of warm pleasure. That I wanted to be different, to be not run of the mill but apart from the regular and the mundane. I thought of Gianni’s dark, long-lashed eyes, and wished —
Well, never mind, I told myself. I was having dinner with a nice, decent American gentleman, and I would enjoy myself. He saw me approaching and held out a hand.
“How are you, Barbara?”
“Fine, have you been waiting long? I’m a bit late.”
“Don’t think about it. I was early. I thought we’d go to Sabatini’s. Okay with you?”
“Fine with me.”
He tucked my arm in his and we walked, through the noisy, crowded, narrow streets to the Via Panzani. It was a large ristorante, with four dining rooms and an authoritative maitre d’hotel, who handled the stream of guests with an experienced hand. We had a drink at the bar, while waiting for a table, but the din of voices surrounding us made confidential conversation impossible. We simply sat and drank and at last were summoned to a table, where we had another drink and then studied the menu.
“I know what I’m having,” I said.
“The scampi?”
“Yes.”
“Me too. And now we’ve decided that, how are things back at the ranch?”
“Puzzling.”
I told him about the finger tracks in the overlay of dust, and about Francesca’s proseletyzing visit. “It’s all very complicated,” I said. “And then you call about blood types. I don’t know what to think.”
“I do,” he said. “I think you should get out of there and stay somewhere else.”
“You mean leave the villa? Why, I wouldn’t think of it! Why should you even suggest such a thing?”
“Because I feel your timing’s bad. There’s something going on there … or there was something going on there. And — ”
“But it’s nothing to do with me!”
“I’m not so sure.”
I laughed. “I’m only a visitor! Peter, you’ve been a wonderful friend, finding out those things, and of course I’m intrigued with the status quo. It’s a funny little mystery and it certainly has me wondering. But I’m only a bystander. Of course I’d like to get to the bottom of … whatever there is to get to the bottom of. It’s a very natural interest in my great-aunt … wouldn’t you feel the same? But as for me, why I’m only a — ”
“A visitor,” he said, interrupting. “Yes, I know, you said that before.” He drained his drink glass. “How long do you intend to stay?” he asked.
“For another week.”
“By that time I’ll be gone. This is not a vacation for me, it’s a business trip.”
“I shall certainly miss you.”
“I wonder.” He put his glass down and looked into my eyes. “I simply dislike so much going home and leaving you here. I’ll worry. Can you understand?”
I knew, then, that he was “putting me on notice,” as he had said before. That he was drawn to me, and was letting me know it. A few weeks before it would have meant something to me … a man like this, interesting, solid, substantial and, yes, kind. But all I could think of was Gianni’s dark eyes.
“Don’t you dare worry,” I said. “What is there to worry about? I’ve earned this vacation and I mean to enjoy it.”
“All right,�
� he said. “But if I want to worry, I’ll worry. I take it as my right.”
And at the concern in his eyes, the frown on his face, I felt a little humbled. If I wanted, I could hold out my hand and then, I was almost sure, he would declare himself.
But all I could think of was Gianni’s dark eyes …
• • •
When we left Sabatini’s we walked to the Via Porta santa Maria, for cognacs at an outdoor cafe. There was a pianist, on a platform, a violinist who strolled, and a singer. It was very Italian. I was asked my preference by the heavy-browed fiddler. “La Golondrina,” I said, and Peter laughed. “That’s Spanish, Barbara.”
It didn’t matter. The Spanish number was played, and sung, bravura style. The melting strains filled the night. “Buona notte,” several patrons said, in a friendly way, as we left, Peter throwing down a few thousand lira on the table, a big spender. We would be welcomed with open arms if we showed up there again, I knew.
“It was a beautiful evening,” I said, as we walked back to the Piazza de Repubblica. “Thank you, Peter. For a glittering, enchanted evening.”
“There’s a song,” he said, and his eyes, very serious, gazed into mine. “Some enchanted evening. Once you have found her, never let her go …”
And all I could think of was Gianni’s dark eyes.
• • •
I was at the villa shortly before eleven. I parked the car in the driveway, let myself in and, after locking the front door, went to my room. I got out of my clothes, brushed my teeth and, with a last look at the fragrant night outside, crawled into bed. I was asleep almost immediately, and dreamed of a dark-eyed young man with a cleft in his cheek. He was holding my hand as we floated over the Arno, like two birds, and he was pointing out the places of interest.
“There’s the Duomo and see, signorina, the belltower? What time do you want it to be?”
“I want it to be forever,” I said, my fingers entwining with his. “No real time, just forever, Gianni.”
“Then it shall be so,” he said, and held up a hand. And time stopped, and the sun became an immovable bright spot in the sky, and the earth ceased its revolutions, and it was forever, eternal, without ending. “Thank you,” I said, kissing him. “Thank you, Gianni, for making me immortal.”
Chapter Eleven
When I went out to the garden for breakfast, the gardener Pietro and his son Emilio were working away. There was a ladder, atop which was the young boy, slicing away at vines that covered the roof of the villa. Elizabeth, sitting at the garden table, was looking up, her eyes haunted. I thought, she’s remembering, remembering Mercedes on top of the ladder. And then the fall.
“… in a quite horrible position …”
Mercedes, lying on the ground, with a broken neck.
She saw my comprehensive look and shrugged. She knew what I was thinking. And I knew what she was thinking. “Have some of this lovely jam,” she said quietly. “It’s quince, rather difficult to get here. But as I said, that superb British shop has everything.”
I spread some on my roll. “Isn’t it good.”
But I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the ladder. Pietro was calling up instructions to his son. And the boy followed directions. Finally he climbed down, and the two wheeled a barrow, filled with lopped-off vines, round the side of the house. When they had gone I pushed back my chair. I couldn’t help myself; that ladder held a terrible fascination for me. I stood beside it and looked up. Pictured myself there, on the topmost rung … and the ladder swaying under me … the plunge downwards …
I turned abruptly.
And my organdie morning coat caught in a nail that protruded from the ladder. It made a big rip. “Damn,” I said, feelingly. It was a costly bit of frou frou; I had bought it for my trip.
“Serves me right,” I said to Elizabeth. “Look what I’ve done.” And then I saw the blood. I parted the torn material and looked at my arm. The nail had gouged my skin, and blood was running down my shoulder.
“Here,” Elizabeth said, and handed me a linen napkin.
“I can’t use that. I’ll go inside and get some tissue.” The new robe, I could easily see, was ruined. Torn, jaggedly, and stained with blood. So much for the money I spent on it, I was thinking disconsolately … and then I happened to look up and see Elizabeth’s face.
It was as white as chalk. Well, she had a naturally fair, English skin to begin with. But now … well, she had a kind of paper pallor … and she looked a little sick.
“Good heavens,” I said. “It’s only a superficial cut, Elizabeth. I’ll just go in the house and attend to it. I’m just upset about my robe.”
I walked across the lawn, briskly, holding my hand over the bloody gash. I must ask Lucrezia for some iodine, I was thinking. That nail was rusty.
I was already inside the house when I stopped abruptly.
Thoughts are visual: in my mind, as vividly as if it had been painted there, I saw the stained handkerchief of my aunt. That darkened bit of cambric …
Oh, I thought. Oh …
When Mercedes had fallen from the ladder.
And hadn’t bled, had broken her neck, but hadn’t shed blood. Yet Eleanora had found her handkerchief, stained with red …
I stood, in the dimness of the house, thinking. My mind was racing on, reconstructing a scene I hadn’t been part of, but picturing it, seeing it …
Supposing that Elizabeth had reached out, looking up and, angered by an earlier squabble, enraged at her own impotence, taking revenge …
I saw it clearly. Elizabeth putting a hand out. Shaking the ladder, in a moment of frenzy … sending my great-aunt to her death. And had caught her hand on the rusty nail.
When the woman with the broken neck lay on the grass, Elizabeth, whimpering incoherently, had snatched up Mercedes’s handkerchief and bound her bleeding hand in it …
And now she was mistress of the manor.
Her face, when she saw my reddened arm …
Like a specter. The red mouth a gash in her shocked face …
I had Lucrezia cauterize my arm. It hurt like the very devil, and then she put a bandage on it. I didn’t go outside again. I didn’t want to look into Elizabeth’s face. I was afraid of what I might find there. I said I would lie down for a while, and I did. There was no formal lunch hour, and it wasn’t until siesta, just a bit after twelve, that I left my room. Lucrezia said, cheerily, that the signora was napping, and how was my wound?
I said it was throbbing a bit but that I guessed I’d live. And quietly, I went out to the garden, where I heard, from the other side of the gate, the sound of a child singing. I knew it was Eleanora, and I knew I wanted something from her. The ladder was gone, for which I was grateful, and I went into the house again and changed into the peignoir I’d worn that morning.
Then I went back outdoors and looked through the gate at Eleanora. I had taken something from my handbag, as a lure, and now I whistled softly to the child. She looked up, saw me, and scrambled up, skipping through the dividing gate.
“Signorina …”
“What are you doing, dear?”
“Sleeping.” Her mischievous eyes challenged me. “I am supposed to be sleeping. But I don’t care to.”
“I have a present for you,” I said.
“For me?” Her eyes were eager. “What?”
I held my hands behind my back. I had a Kennedy half dollar, saved for years … but if it would serve the purpose now, I could bear to part with it. “Want to guess?” I said.
She stood on one foot.
“A turtle.”
“A turtle?”
“Because I want a turtle.” But she surmised it was not that. How could I have known she wanted a turtle? She had a certain hard realism. “A doll?” she hazarded. “A picture book?”
“No. Come here, darling, I’ll show you.”
She followed me, her yellow dress starched and ironed. Her sturdy legs would one day be beautiful, as she would be. Those
exquisite, flowery eyes …
“Where shall we sit?” I asked her.
“Under Paolo’s tree.”
“All right.”
We made ourselves comfortable there, underneath the twisted pine. And then I gave her the silver half dollar. She drew in her breath. “Ah, che bella, bella,” she said. She didn’t have any idea of what it meant, but I told her. “One of our presidents,” I said. “And when he died, they — ”
She listened to the story, big-eyed. “It’s not for spending,” I said. “It’s for keeping. It’s the nicest thing I could think of to give you.”
“Ah, signorina,” she breathed. “This is very, very nice. Grazie, grazie.”
“Can you visit for a while?”
“Certainly, signorina.”
I talked aimlessly for a bit, telling her about American children, American schools, and so on. And then switched the conversation to the subject of my late aunt.
“You liked her, didn’t you, Eleanora?”
“Yes,” she said and then, forthrightly, “Even so.”
“Even so? What does that mean?”
“Because they didn’t.”
She had opened her basket again, and was fondling the silver piece I’d given her. “Who didn’t like her, Eleanora?”
“Mama, and Papa, and Nonna and — ”
She dropped the half dollar and parted the grass to pick it up again.
“But you were fond of her.”
“Yes, and Gianni too.” She looked up, a lovely, bright smile on her face. “I love Gianni, don’t you?”
“He’s a very nice person.” I feigned indifference. “It’s too bad the others didn’t like your friend the Contessa.”
“Yes, too bad,” she said, but philosophically. “But of course she took everything away from us.” She lifted her head, serious. “They said she did. She had no right to have our house. But signorina, we live here! I am very happy. Why didn’t they want her here?”
“Maybe because once upon a time this whole place belonged to your family,” I said gently. “Don’t you think it must have been that?”
“But it belongs to us,” she said reasonably. “Doesn’t it?”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 75