by Rhys Bowen
I could see what he meant. It was a perfect little chapel with a carved altar at one end, statues of saints in niches, and several large paintings on the walls.
“Look at these,” Renzo said, holding up the match to the nearest painting. “They are magnificent. So lucky that the German soldiers didn’t find them. They looted any art they could get their hands on.”
The match went out. I waited halfway down the steps until he had struck another, then came to join him. It smelled damp. A chilly draft curled around our feet, making it feel strange and spooky. I moved closer to Renzo. “Any sign of my father?”
He had advanced around the room. “There is a door over here. Perhaps it leads somewhere where your father could have hidden.”
He wrestled with the bolt and opened it. It would only open a foot or so.
“The passage behind it must be blocked,” he said.
“Let me see if I can squeeze through. I’m slimmer than you,” I said.
“Be careful.”
I squeezed around the door. “You were right,” I said. “The passage behind is blocked, but there is something stopping the door from opening. Wait a minute. Light another match for me.”
Renzo did so. I bent to pick up the object that was lying at my feet. “It seems to be a painting,” I said. I struggled to lift it as it was jammed so completely between the door and the massive pile of rubble. “I can’t budge it,” I called back. “Let me see if I can move some of this rock.”
As I tried to clear rocks away, more cascaded down to join them. I was in danger of starting a small avalanche and trapping myself behind that door. “It won’t . . . ,” I began, giving the painting a savage jerk. Then I almost fell over when it came free in my hands. “I’ve got it,” I yelled triumphantly.
“Pass it through to me,” Renzo said.
As I went to do this I had a sudden sense of fear. Was this all part of a plan? He’d take the painting and shut me in, and no one would ever find me. Ridiculous, I told myself. I had to start trusting again sometime. I had to believe, to take a leap of faith. I handed him the painting. As I squeezed myself out around the door, I heard him gasp.
“We’ve found it, Joanna. It’s their beautiful boy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
JOANNA
June 1973
We carried the painting over to where the sunlight came down the steps.
“Oh.” There was nothing more I could say. The radiant child, laughing as he held his chubby little hands out to the fluttering cherubs—I had never seen anything more exquisite.
“So they were down here,” I said. “And I bet they hid that painting away so that nobody could steal it before the war was over and they could come back to rescue it.”
“Yes,” Renzo said. “That must have been true. Behind the door of a passage that went nowhere. And only someone as thin as you could squeeze around. Quite safe where nobody would ever find it.”
“As you say, quite safe,” said a voice from above. Cosimo stood at the top of the steps, his large shape blotting out the sunlight.
“Father, how did you get up here?” Renzo asked.
“With difficulty, but I made it. I drove up in the Land Rover and hauled myself up the steps. I wanted to make sure you were safe after the earthquake.” He was speaking calmly, evenly, but I could hardly breathe. “Hand the painting up to me, boy.”
“It’s magnificent, Father. There are other paintings down here, but this one—this is the most beautiful I have ever seen.” Renzo started up the steps with the painting. “Look. Isn’t it magnificent?” He held it up to Cosimo.
“It is indeed. We must decide what should be done with it. Now come up quickly.”
I looked up and saw that he was now holding a gun. “The young lady will have unfortunately had an accident. She was warned about coming up here. So dangerous.”
“What are you talking about, Father? Put that thing away,” Renzo exclaimed. I could hear the shock in his voice. “Why are you behaving like this?”
“She has been asking too many questions,” Cosimo said. “She wants the truth about what happened in the war. Why does she ask these questions?”
“I told you. I wanted to find out about my father,” I called up to him.
“No, I don’t believe you. There was no English airman. Sofia ran off with a German.”
“No, she was taken away because you betrayed her!” I shouted up the stairs. Renzo was still standing halfway up the flight, between me and Cosimo.
“That is not true. I loved her. She spurned me, but I took in her son because of my love for her.”
“I think you wanted her land,” I said. “You felt guilty so you took in Renzo.”
“You talk rubbish,” Cosimo said. “Get up here now, boy.”
“No, Father. Put that gun away. Joanna knows nothing that can harm you.”
“Ask him who killed Gianni Martinelli!” I shouted before I realised that it would have been wiser to stay silent. My voice echoed around the crypt. “Gianni was the only one who knew the truth about what happened.”
“What truth?” Renzo demanded.
I glanced at Renzo, trying to decide whether to remain silent, whether I could trust him to protect me from his father.
“Gianni liked to run messages and spy on people,” I went on, speaking fast and in English. “He saw the massacre. He saw that Cosimo betrayed the partisans to the Germans.”
“No, that can’t be true. It can’t,” Renzo said.
“Get up here instantly, boy!” Cosimo bellowed. He was waving the gun.
“I’m not going to let you shoot anyone, Father. Have you gone mad?”
“And I’m not going to lose everything I’ve worked for all these years.” I heard the click as the gun was cocked.
“No,” Renzo said. “I’ve suspected things about you, but I’ve stayed quiet out of loyalty. But not this. You are not going to harm her.” He dropped the painting and bounded up the rest of the flight of steps. I picked up the painting as it came bouncing down toward me. The beautiful boy smiled at me. I clasped it to me as I made my way up the steps. Over my head I could hear grunts and an animal-like growl. Renzo and Cosimo were locked in combat. Renzo was taller, but Cosimo was a big bull of a man and still very strong despite his stroke. Renzo had his hand on Cosimo’s wrist, trying to make him drop the gun. It went off, the sound of the bullet ricocheting from the walls. Pigeons fluttered upward, alarmed. Renzo and Cosimo were staggering on the uneven floor, slithering over rocks and beams. Cosimo tried to slam Renzo against the wall. There was a grunt and a howl of pain, but Renzo didn’t let go.
I had reached the top of the steps and started to creep around the outside of the wall toward the front door. I was close enough to see freedom ahead of me when I heard a shout.
“Hello up there? Anyone there? Joanna?”
Cosimo hesitated for a second. I fled out through the door to see Nigel Barton standing at the bottom of the steps. His face lit up and he waved when he saw me.
“Hello, Joanna. They told me you’d gone up here, so I thought I’d come and surprise you with the good news. But is everything all right? I thought I heard what sounded like a gunshot. But of course it might have been—”
“Nigel,” I interrupted as I came down the steps as quickly as I dared. “Run back to the village and get help. There’s a man with a gun. Go.”
Nigel’s mouth opened in surprise. “Are you sure? There really is a man with a gun? Then come down to me right now and I’ll get you away from this awful place.”
“Nigel, run!” I shouted. “Don’t wait for me.”
At that moment Cosimo staggered out of the door. The gun was still in his hand. I looked around for Renzo but didn’t see him. My heart was thudding so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath. Cosimo took aim and shot at Nigel but missed. The bullet pinged off the rocks. Nigel gave a little shriek of terror and fled down the last of the steps and into the woods. Cosimo now aimed the gun at me. “This
time I shall not miss,” he said.
There was a sound from deep within the earth. Pebbles bounced down the steps. The rock on which Cosimo was standing started to tilt. Cosimo turned to move out of the way, but his bad leg buckled under him. “Renzo, help me!” he called.
Almost as if in slow motion the chunk of hillside gave way. Cosimo grasped wildly at air. He screamed as he fell down the cliff face, his body bouncing among pieces of rock and pebbles. Renzo appeared in the doorway. Blood was running down one side of his face. He staggered toward me. “He knocked me out,” he said. “His own son. Are you all right?”
I nodded, still not able to find words. “He fell,” I said at last. “The rock collapsed and he went . . .”
Renzo made his way cautiously to the edge of the parapet. Cosimo’s body lay far below, half-covered with rock and turf. Renzo crossed himself. “He was an evil man, I know that now,” he said. “But he was always good to me. The best of fathers. May he rest in peace.”
“You fought for me,” I said. “You wouldn’t let him kill me. You were very brave.”
“I couldn’t believe he’d do it,” I said. “I knew his dealings were not always straight. But I had no idea . . . but that’s not true. When I learned about Gianni’s murder, somehow I sensed he was responsible. But the partisans in the war . . . he really was evil, wasn’t he?”
I put my hand gently on his arm. “But he was your father and you loved him. I’m sorry you had to go through this. Come on. Let’s get you back to the town and have this cut stitched up.”
“Don’t forget our beautiful boy,” Renzo said.
“As if I could.” I realised I was still clutching the painting to me. Renzo helped me down the steps, and we made our way toward the valley, where we were met by several men running toward us.
“There was a mad Englishman,” one of them said. “We did not understand what he was shouting about, but he said something about Joanna and a gun so we came and . . .” He stopped when he saw Renzo with blood streaming down his face. “Where is this madman with a gun?”
“It was Cosimo,” Renzo said. “He tried to kill Signorina Joanna. We fought. He hit me with the gun and knocked me out.”
“Where is he? He must be stopped,” one of the men said.
“He’s dead. He fell from the heights. The hillside collapsed and he went plunging down.”
The men crossed themselves. I noticed that none of them said, “May he rest in peace.”
Then their gaze turned to what Renzo was carrying.
“We found this in the crypt under the monastery.” Renzo held it up for them and they gasped.
“Magnificent. A work of the old masters,” one of them muttered.
“I remember that there were fine paintings in the monastery before the war,” the oldest man said. “We thought the Nazis had taken them all.”
“There are more in the crypt,” Renzo said, “but none so fine as this.”
“Will it make San Salvatore rich, do you think?” one of them asked.
“How can you talk like that?” another man snapped. “This belongs to our heritage. It belongs in a museum in Florence.”
“Florence? Why not Lucca? Is Lucca not as good as Florence?”
And they were off in lively dispute. Renzo grinned at me. We started up the hill to the village. The doctor cleaned Renzo’s cut and put three stitches in it. “You were lucky you did not lose your eye,” he said. “Or bleed to death from the vein in the temple.”
“Yes, I was lucky,” Renzo said. There was a note of bitterness in his voice.
At that moment there were raised voices outside the door, and the doctor’s wife came in looking worried. “There is a mad foreigner outside,” she said. “He claims he is the signorina’s lawyer and—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish because Nigel burst in. “Oh, there you are, Joanna. Thank God you’re safe. What on earth was going on up there? What madman was shooting? Have they caught him yet? Mafia, I suppose. The whole place is teeming with gangsters, so one hears. Let’s get your things. I have a car. I’ll drive you back to Florence and we can go home.”
“It’s good of you, Nigel,” I said, “but as you can see I am quite unhurt. And as for the man with the gun, he is dead.”
“Thank God,” he said. “Can we go now? We can take the night train back home.”
I glanced at Renzo, who was looking rather pale, with the row of stitches making a black line above his eye. “I don’t think I’d be allowed to leave right away,” I said. “I’m sure there will be an inquest at which I’ll have to testify.”
“Not if you are out of the country before the police come,” Nigel said.
“But I want to testify,” I said. “I think it’s important that this business is sorted out. It has to do with my father, you know.”
“Oh, I see.” His face fell. “Well, I suppose I had better stay, too, to defend you in court, if necessary.”
I looked at his earnest face and had to laugh. “Nigel, are you qualified to practice international law? I’m sure I won’t need anyone to defend me because I was a victim, not a suspect. And Signor Bartoli here can translate for me.”
Nigel looked at Renzo, then back to me.
“So you don’t want me to stay, just in case?”
“It is very kind and I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I’d like to get everything sorted out before I come home, and I’m sure you’d rather go back to England.”
“Well, if you really don’t want . . . Oh, all right.” He looked crestfallen.
“It was extremely kind of you to come over here so quickly after I telephoned Scarlet,” I said. “I suppose she was worried that I was in trouble with the law.”
He looked puzzled now. “I don’t know what telephone call you are speaking about. I went to Scarlet’s flat last week to find you, and since I learned where you were in Italy I arranged to take a few days off and bring you a piece of good news myself.”
“Good news?”
He smiled now. “Yes. Your paintings.”
“My father’s paintings? They are worth money after all?”
He shook his head. “No, not your father’s paintings unfortunately. I’m talking about the family portraits. We had them cleaned and then one of them warranted further inspection by experts—the portrait of your ancestor namesake, Joanna Langley. It turned out it was painted by Thomas Gainsborough. A hitherto unknown portrait by him.”
“Gainsborough? Are you sure?”
He nodded excitedly. “Once the painting was cleaned, the signature was quite visible in the lower corner. And there is a reference in his diary that a J. L. came to sit for him and had good bone structure.”
“Golly,” I said.
“Golly indeed. It is a major find. It could bring a serious amount of money at auction. Several hundred thousand pounds at least.”
“Several hundred . . .” I couldn’t even stammer out the words.
He nodded. “At least.”
I was about to say “Golly” again but swallowed it back.
“So do I have your permission to put it up for auction at Christie’s?” Nigel said. “I think we should get the wheels in motion right away while the discovery is still newsworthy.”
For a moment I was tempted to keep it, to have my lookalike gazing down at me from my wall. But then my sensible nature prevailed. “Oh yes. Absolutely.”
“Jolly good. Well, that’s that, I suppose. I’ll see you back in England, then,” Nigel said awkwardly. “And if you need anything, here is my card. Don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything you have done.”
He blushed like a schoolboy.
After he had gone and Renzo and I came out of the doctor’s office, Renzo gave me a questioning look. “That Englishman, he is your boyfriend?”
“Oh gosh, no. He’s my father’s solicitor. He was handling the estate. And one of the paintings is valuable. Isn’t that amazing?”
/>
“He likes you, I think,” Renzo said. “Do you like him?”
“I’m sure he’s a very nice person,” I said, “but not my type.”
“Good,” Renzo said. He picked up the painting from where it lay on a side table. “I suppose this should be delivered to the mayor. He will decide what should be done with it.”
I stared at it with longing. I knew I would have to give it up, but I didn’t want it to be so soon. “Could we not keep it, at least until things have sorted themselves out?”
Renzo was also gazing at it. “I think we can. We will take good care of it, won’t we? I am not sure now if we should call the Ministry of Art and Antiquities. After all, it was the property of the monks.”
“Do you think any of the monks are still alive?”
“I know that several were killed trying to resist the occupiers,” he said, “and the others will be old men now. But they were Franciscans. This part of Italy is crawling with Franciscans. It will be up to them whether they wish to donate the painting to the state and have it shown in a gallery like the Uffizi.”
I nodded, my head trying to come to terms with famous paintings both here and in England. It was almost too much to take in, given the shock I was still feeling.
“Do you still plan to drive to Florence?” I asked.
“Oh, Florence. I had forgotten all about it,” he said. “No, I will telephone the wine dealer, and he will have to wait.”
I realised that the wines and the olives and all of Cosimo’s businesses now belonged to Renzo. I wondered if he also realised it.
“Will you come to my house?” he asked. “We both need a glass of wine, I think.”
“Yes, please.”
We walked through the village. Renzo brushed aside questions that had already filtered through the village grapevine. He told people he was upset and needed to be alone and poor Joanna was shocked and could not talk. We left the village street behind and went up a straight gravel driveway lined with cypress trees. Inside wrought-iron gates, not unlike those of Langley Hall, was an imposing Venetian-style villa. A fountain played in the courtyard surrounded by orange and lemon trees. Pigeons fluttered at the lip of the fountain. We entered into a marble foyer. A female servant appeared, and Renzo gave her an order I couldn’t quite understand. Then he led me through an ornate drawing room and out on to a terrace beyond. A grapevine on a trellis gave shade. Renzo offered me a wicker rocking chair. I sat. Below us the panorama of the landscape spread out as far as the eye could see.
