The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  She, too, looked startled for a second, then her face broke into a smile. “Joanna, my dear. I hadn’t expected you so soon.”

  “I came as soon as I received the telegram.”

  “I wasn’t sure we were sending it to the right place. Your father had several addresses for you, but we thought the firm of solicitors would find you.”

  “Thank you. Yes, they called me when the telegram arrived.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I am so sorry to be the bearer of such sad news. Do come in.” She stepped back to allow me to enter the black and white marble-tiled entrance hall. Inside felt delightfully cool. Miss Honeywell shut the front door behind her.

  “I was supposed to be in Italy right now, but I had some important meetings with the board of trustees and so I am stuck here,” she said as she went ahead of me, her high heels tapping on the marble floor. “But it could have been worse. We are certainly experiencing some lovely spring weather, are we not?”

  She was doing what the English did. When anything embarrassing or emotional threatened to come up, one discussed the weather. Always a safe topic.

  “Are you planning to go away at all this year?” she asked.

  “No plans as yet,” I replied, certainly not about to admit to my current impecunious state.

  We had reached the door of her study. I remembered it well, staring at that brass plate on her door—“Miss Honeywell, Headmistress”—and trying to breathe before I knocked and went in to face my doom. Now she opened the door and smiled at me again. “Do come in,” she said. “Take a seat. I’ll see if Alice is around to bring us tea. As you can see, the place is pretty much deserted. Only a skeleton staff. Everyone else is gone for the Easter holidays. In fact, it was lucky that I always take a morning walk myself or your father might not have been found for days.”

  She picked up the phone on her desk and dialled. I watched her drum long red fingernails impatiently before she spoke: “Ah, Alice. Good. You’re still here. I’ve Miss Langley here and we’d like some tea. Yes, in my office. Splendid.” She put the receiver down and looked up at me with a smile as if she had done something rather clever.

  “Where were we?”

  “My father,” I said. “You said you found him lying in the grounds?”

  “I did. Quite a shock, I must admit. I was out with Bertie, my cocker spaniel, and he ran ahead and started barking. Well, he has a knack for finding disgusting things like dead birds so I shouted at him to leave it, and when I got there I saw it was a man lying face down in the grass. I turned him over tentatively and it was your father. Quite dead. Cold and stiff. So I ran back to the house and dialled 999. They’ve taken him off to the morgue and I expect they’ll conduct an autopsy.”

  “So you don’t know what he died of?” I asked tentatively. “He wasn’t . . . I mean . . .” I couldn’t say the word “murdered.”

  She looked horrified. “Oh no. Nothing like that, I’m sure. There wasn’t a mark on him. Natural causes, I’m sure. In fact, if he hadn’t been so cold and white, you’d have thought he was sleeping. Heart, it must have been. Did he have a weak heart, do you know?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “You must yourself know that my father was a very private person. He never discussed anything that might be in the least personal. And I have to confess that I haven’t spoken to him for some time. If he had been in poor health, he would never have told anybody.”

  “I had noticed he was rather more remote than usual recently,” Miss Honeywell said. “Depressed, maybe.” She paused. “I always thought of him as an unhappy man. He never quite got over the loss of his status and property, did he?”

  “Would you?” I asked, my hackles rising on his behalf. “How would you feel if you had to live in the lodge of your former home and watch schoolgirls trooping through the rooms where you had grown up?”

  “He need not have stayed,” she said. “There were plenty of things he could have done. I gather he was a talented artist before the war. Up and coming.”

  “My father? An up-and-coming artist?”

  “Oh yes.” She nodded. “One gathers he exhibited at the Royal Academy. But I’ve never actually seen one of his paintings, other than posters he did for school events and scenery for our plays. Competent, clearly a trained artist, but certainly not unusual.”

  “I had no idea that he ever painted,” I said. “I knew he had studied art, but I never realised he had been a real artist. I wonder why . . .” I was going to add that I wondered why he stopped, but I answered my own question before I said the words—because his world had come crashing down around him.

  “They say artists are temperamental, don’t they?” Miss Honeywell said. “Highly strung. And of course he was from a high-born family, too. Inbreeding among the aristocracy does make for instability.”

  “You don’t think he took his own life?” I asked sharply, the anger that she was suggesting my father had been somehow mentally unstable fighting with my own feelings of guilt that were threatening to engulf me.

  She gave me a sad little smile. “If he had wanted to end his life, he would have had no reason to walk into the middle of the woods to do it. He could just as well have finished it at home. No one would have been there to stop him. Besides, as I mentioned, there was no sign of distress about him. Nothing like poison or a gunshot wound.” She paused, looking out of the window to where a starling had landed on a rose bush. “Of course, I rather suspect he had been drinking more heavily lately.” She turned her attention back to me. “Oh, I’m not implying that he was drunk on the job or anything, but the groundskeeper did report that empty bottles went out with the rubbish, and Miss Pritchard, the history mistress, did bump into him in the off-licence buying Scotch.”

  I was tempted to ask what Miss Pritchard had been doing in the off-licence, but wisely stayed silent. “I expect we’ll find out the cause from the doctor who conducts the autopsy,” I said. “Not that it matters, does it? He’s dead. Nothing can bring him back.”

  “I’m so sorry, my dear,” she said, sounding almost human. “It must have been a great shock to you. He wasn’t old.”

  “Sixty-four,” I said mechanically. “Not old at all.”

  “He was very proud of you, you know.”

  I reacted to this with surprise. “Proud of me?”

  “Oh yes. He talked about you often. How well you had done at university and how you were soon to be called to the bar.”

  This was completely unexpected. My father had resisted my desire to go to university. His attitude toward women belonged to the prewar era, to a time when he was the son of Sir Toby Langley of Langley Hall and life consisted of house parties and dances and fox hunts. A good match was made for girls, and they became mistresses of their own fine country houses. He refused to see that in the post-war era, girls like me had to make their own way in the world and could expect no help from their families. A good career was essential. And so quite without his help I had sat the entrance exams to Oxford and Cambridge and, as a backup, to University College London. I had been shattered with disappointment when I hadn’t secured a place at either Oxford or Cambridge, but I had got into UCL. A good second best, I suppose. It had never occurred to me at the time that a headmistress’s recommendation would have helped get me into an Oxbridge college, and I’m sure Miss Honeywell hadn’t been flattering in her letter about me, if she even wrote one at all.

  A government scholarship paid for my tuition, and I worked all summer at a seaside hotel as a chambermaid to pay for my room and board. While others of my generation had held protest marches, love-ins, and sit-ins, and chanted, “Make peace, not war,” I had worked diligently. And so I had graduated with an upper second degree—not the first I wanted, but still pretty good. I then hoped to become a barrister.

  Miss Honeywell must have been reading my thoughts.

  “You are presumably working for the firm of solicitors to which I sent the telegram?”

  “That’s right.” I saw no reas
on to tell her that I wasn’t working there at the moment, nor the reason for my leave of absence. “I have been articled there and hoped to take the bar exam this summer, but it will now have to be in the winter. They haven’t said whether they’d like me to stay on once I’m fully qualified.”

  “An interesting practice?”

  “Not particularly. A lot of conveyancing and wills and the sort of routine stuff one gives to juniors.”

  “I should have thought a barrister was more your style,” she said, staring at me keenly with those little bird-like black eyes of hers. “You always did like to plead your case, and you could be quite persuasive.”

  She broke off as an elderly maid came in with a tea tray. It was properly laid with a flowered bone china teapot, a matching milk jug and sugar basin, two cups, two saucers, and a plate of biscuits.

  “Should I pour, Miss Honeywell?” the maid asked, but I noticed she was looking at me. When my gaze met hers she blushed and looked away.

  “No, thank you, Alice. I’m sure we can manage,” Miss Honeywell said, dismissing her with a vague wave. She picked up the silver strainer and placed it over a cup as she poured. “Ah, lapsang souchong,” she said. “She knows my preference. Do you take it with lemon or milk?”

  I didn’t happen to like China tea either way, but said, “Lemon, please,” because I thought this was the right answer. I had become adept at sensing what people wanted to hear. I watched her pour the amber liquid into fragile china cups. How civilised this all was. A life so different from mine with rides on packed Tube trains and dinner from the Indian takeaway when I could afford it. And all the while my father was lying dead on a slab in the morgue. I decided I had endured polite conversation long enough. I dropped a slice of lemon into my tea and took a sip. It was too hot to drink, so I put it down.

  “With regard to my father, I’m not sure what happens next,” I said. “Should I arrange with the vicar for a funeral?”

  “You should presumably visit the morgue first,” she said. “They won’t release the body for burial until they have signed the death certificate, and if there is an autopsy or there are any kinds of questions, then that could take several days.”

  She offered me the plate of biscuits. I rejected the chocolate digestive, not wanting to end up with it melting on my fingers, and instead opted for a custard cream. I nibbled delicately while I tried to put my thoughts in order. I hadn’t considered being here for several days. I really hadn’t thought things through at all, rushing out to take the next train from Waterloo, just knowing that I needed to be at my father’s side—even though he was beyond help.

  “Might I have the key to the lodge?” I said. “It seems a little far to keep going up and down to London.”

  “Of course,” she said. “You’ll want to go through your father’s things anyway, and you could get a good start.” She opened a drawer and took out a big, old-fashioned key, handing it to me with solemnity, as if she was presenting someone with the keys to the city. “Oh, and Joanna,” she added, “I don’t mean to rush you, and I want you to take all the time you need, but I should point out that your father was allowed the use of the lodge only as long as he was employed by the school. I have a new physical education teacher and tennis coach coming this term. He’s also a man, and I would like to house him suitably far away from the girls. One can’t put temptation in their way, and he is quite good-looking.” She met my gaze and smiled. “You know what it’s like with a flock of girls and an attractive young man.”

  I couldn’t find anything to say or return her smile. All I wanted to do was escape from that perfect little room, from her self-satisfied smile.

  “Do you have prospects in that direction?” she asked. “Any wedding bells on the horizon?” I saw her glance at my left hand.

  “No,” I replied. “No wedding bells.”

  “Still the ambitious career woman, I see.” She smiled at me again. “So if you could have your father’s belongings moved from the lodge before the start of the summer term, I’d much appreciate it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HUGO

  December 1944

  He came to with a start as something tickled his cheek. He brushed at it in alarm and saw it was only a stalk of grass bent over by the wind. He propped himself up, taking in the cold, damp soil around him, the rows of neat olive trees stretching up the hillside. It was still not quite light, but from what he could make out, the sky above him was leaden grey, heavy with the promise of rain. There was already a fine, misty drizzle coating him with a layer of moisture. He felt a tug jerk him over backward and almost cried out in alarm until he realised he was still attached to his parachute that now lay flapping on the ground like some kind of wounded bird. He fumbled at the catch, the gloves on his hands making his fingers clumsy, and eventually felt it release. He pulled away the harness and tried to sit up. His head swam with nausea as he looked around, trying to make his brain obey him and decide what course of action he should take.

  The parachute billowed out as the wind hit it and threatened to blow it away. That would never do. He grabbed at the strings, attempted to stagger to his feet, and collapsed in pain again. His leg simply wouldn’t hold him. He dragged the parachute toward him, reeling it in, and fought with the wind to roll it up. It was amazingly light, and he managed to do a reasonable job of stuffing it back into its pouch.

  Once he had safely stowed the parachute, he sat, clutching it to him, looking around and assessing the situation. The hillside around him was planted with rows of olive trees. Round little trees with feathery leaves. Not much chance of hiding among them. The first real woodland—although now mostly bare at this time of year—was at the top of the hill several hundred yards away, and he had no way of knowing if it was the start of a true forest or merely a thin stretch of trees bordering another farm. Clouds hung down over the hilltops, but as they swirled and parted he noticed beyond the trees a rocky outcropping rising with the ruins of what looked like an old fortress on it. That might be a promising place to hide, at least until he had time to assess his wounds and decide what to do next.

  He swivelled around to look down the hill. The rows of olive trees ended in a small depression, and on the other side the ground rose again, this time planted with rows of what looked like vines, although they were dead and brown intertwined sticks at this time of year. Beyond them, on the ridge, ran a row of black cypress trees looking like soldiers standing at attention through the mist that clung to the hillside. A road, he thought, remembering a time when he had painted scenes like this. Where the cypress trees ended, the top of the hill was crowned with woodland, and above them he could make out the tiled roofs of a small hill town. A square church tower rose above the roofs, and as he watched he heard a bell tolling six.

  He stared at the hill town, wondering what sort of reception he’d get if he headed in that direction. Having lived in Italy he was hopeful that the local people would not be too fond of Germans. But then Germans might be occupying the town. It was a risk he couldn’t take—at least not until he knew more.

  A sudden awful shriek made him jump before he realised it was a rooster greeting the dawn. A second answered it. A dog barked. The village was coming to life. He needed to move before he was discovered. He started to crawl forward, using his hands and his good leg, dragging his parachute pack beside him. He dared not leave it behind—it would certainly give him away. And besides, a parachute might be useful—a future shelter if it rained or snowed, maybe? He wondered if he’d go faster if he stood up and hopped, steadying himself with tree branches. A crutch, he thought. I need a stick to make a crutch, or maybe a splint would work if the bone is broken. His going was painfully slow. The olive trees seemed to go on forever. He kept turning to look back to see if anyone was coming. The snort of an animal made him freeze and drop down to the earth. As he scanned the horizon, he spotted a horse and cart leaving the village along that high road. He heard the creak of wheels and the horse snorted again. He wa
tched as it passed between the cypress trees, but it was going away from him, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he returned to his weary task.

  A stiff breeze picked up, rustling the olive branches and sighing through the grass, masking faraway sounds. He felt horribly thirsty, his mouth parched and dry, and wished he’d had the sense to bring his canteen with him. Or his flask of brandy—that would have been most welcome. The woods were closer now, but he needed to stop. His strength gave out and he sat, leaning his back against a sturdy olive trunk, out of sight of the village, and closed his eyes. He felt horribly weak and realised he might have lost a lot of blood.

  “I don’t want to die here,” he muttered. He made himself picture home. He was riding up to Langley Hall on a lovely summer day. The horse chestnuts were all in blossom. The air was perfumed with newly mown grass and the scent of roses. He reined in the horse to a trot as a groom came out to meet him.

  “Good ride, Mr. Hugo?” he asked as Hugo swung himself down easily from the saddle and handed over the reins.

  “Splendid, thanks, Josh.”

  Up the steps and in through the front door. His father sitting with the newspaper in the breakfast room, looking up with a frown. “Been out riding, have you? In my day, one changed out of riding togs before one came to breakfast.”

  “Sorry, Father, but I am devilishly hungry. How are you today?”

  “Not bad, considering. Still short of breath going up the stairs. Still, it’s to be expected, isn’t it? If you’ve been gassed your lungs are bound to be defective.”

  “Beastly war. Made no sense at all.”

  “I doubt that war ever does, but we don’t seem to learn, do we . . . ?”

  Hugo pulled his memory away from that conversation, and from the image of his father’s hacking cough and gradual fading away. Think of your wife, Brenda. Think of your son. He tried to picture them, but already the images were blurred and indistinct, like old photographs. How many years since he’d seen them? Four. Almost half of Teddy’s life. When he’d left, Teddy had been a timid little boy, clinging to Nanny’s skirt. Now he’d be nine. Hugo had no idea what he looked like or what he was doing. Letters only arrived every few months, most of them blacked out by the censor so that they said almost nothing—“Teddy is doing well and sends his daddy love”—leaving Hugo to wonder whether Teddy had been sent away to prep school yet, whether he liked playing cricket, whether he had turned into a good rider . . .