'Let's hope this is it.'
They were on the side of the hill behind the Belvedere fort and twice already the Marshal's driver had lost his way in the dark and attempted driveways that turned out to be the wrong ones. Then he'd had to back out precariously on to the narrow, winding Via San Leonardo. This time they had better luck. A longer drive lined by the silhouettes of cypress trees which turned out, as the caller had explained, to be not really a driveway at all but a rutted country lane running past the side of the Villa Torrini. Their headlights picked out a gate on the left.
'Can't see any lights . . .'
The driver pulled up and opened his door to shine a torch on the gate. It was a large wooden gate, painted green, with a brass plaque saying TORRINI. It was padlocked and gleamed with drops of rain in the torchlight.
They drove on and turned in behind the house, stopping the car on a wet dirt track. There were lights showing here. Two windows of the villa and one small window in what looked like a converted barn a few yards away. It was one of the odd things about Florence which the Marshal had always liked, the way the city could often end abruptly and you were in the country.
'You can wait for me here.'
A faint drizzle touched his face as he got out, and the night air smelled of rotten leaves and wet grass. It was very quiet and the Marshal's footsteps were loud on the paved court in front of the door. Ghostly lemon or orange trees in huge pots were shrouded in polythene on each side. He pressed the lighted doorbell but he could already hear heavy bolts being drawn inside. She was bound to have heard his arrival. A rattle of keys. Then a pause, perhaps for second thoughts, before a low-pitched woman's voice asked, 'Who is it?'
'Carabinieri, Signora. You called us.'
'Oh dear . . . ' More rattling keys. 'I'm so sorry, you'll have to wait a minute. I can't find the other keys.'
He heard her walk away from the door, with a stick if he wasn't mistaken. She was still murmuring to herself in distress, 'Oh dear . . . Giorgio's right, I get worse . . . Oh, where can I have . . .'
Good job it wasn't cold. Some sort of creeper was growing all over this side of the house. That's how you knew this wasn't the real country, you could see too well at night. The sky wasn't properly dark because of the city nearby. Out in the real country, if there wasn't a fullish moon, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face but you could see stars, millions of them. She was coming back . . . More keys.
'Ooh . . . ! I'm so sorry. This is what getting old means . . .'
She was still undoing a series of locks. Eight turns each!
At last the door opened and a tall, dignified woman looked out at him. 'Oooh, I am sorry, I really am. I always intend to put them in the same place so I can find them but something always happens. The telephone rings or something and I go off with them in my hand and there we are. You will forgive me?' She looked at him anxiously.
'Of course. We all do these things . . .'
He expected to step inside on this line but though she did open the door a little wider he was left where he was. She was dressed very neatly, all in grey.
'Giorgio's right, I should be more organized about things. The older you get, the more important it is. You can't improvise, you know, at my age. I don't know what you must think . . . Do forgive me.'
A second absolution accompanied by a slight forward movement at last gained him entrance and she apologized for keeping him on the doorstep.
'Giorgio's always telling me, and he's right, he says "Stop talking just every so often and think what you're doing," but of course I forget—then, you know, living alone . . .'
He followed her into a long room divided into dining-and sitting-room by an archway. Without looking round much he was aware of pale colours, soft carpets under his feet, great comfort and solid wealth. He was also aware of a great deal of smoke.
'Do sit down and I'll explain everything and then you can decide what to do—if you don't think I'm just being a foolish old woman. I always sit here, you can see . . .'
The corner of a large pale sofa. A little stack of paperback books was balanced on the arm, and cigarettes, a gold lighter and a glass with a bottle of whisky were on the low table drawn up before it. The Marshal took the armchair opposite her, settled his hat on his knee and waited. He knew from experience that you had to let people tell things in their own way and their own time and if it turned out that she was simply lonely and fearful and in need of reassurance, then so be it. The only trouble was that the rumblings of his neglected stomach must be audible.
'You've a lot of books,' he remarked loudly to cover one particularly noisy protest. The wall behind her was covered in them, floor to ceiling.
'Oh yes, I read all day. The trouble is I smoke all day, as Well. Can I offer you . . . ?'
'No . . . No, I don't, thank you.'
'I shouldn't myself, Giorgio's always telling me . . . But there aren't many vices open to me at my age so I enjoy my cigarettes and a glass or two of whisky in the evening. If you'd like some, perhaps you'd get yourself a glass. That cupboard there.'
'No, no. Thank you.' He had never touched the stuff in his life.
'It takes me so long to get up with this wretched stick. Oh, it's a bad business getting old. You don't feel any different inside—I don't, anyway—so it's like being imprisoned in a body you hardly recognize as your own. I wouldn't mind dying. I'm serious. I can't enjoy myself and I'm neither use nor ornament to anybody else. That's why I enjoy Celia's company. She makes me feel I am useful. Giorgio says she's just being kind but even so. We exchange books—she writes, you see and she reads as much as I do and I love to read English novels. Now, tell me the truth, how many people can you lend books to and know they'll come back? Can you name one friend?'
'Well, I don't . . .'
You see? Are you sure you won't?' She lit a fresh cigarette. 'Celia's the only one—you can understand it of course, her being a writer. These are for her.' She tapped the pile on the arm of the sofa.
The Marshal watched her, waiting. He wasn't really following her discourse about books. It was one of the things that annoyed his wife, that he got left behind when people were telling him things. He was still thinking, now, of this woman imprisoned in her own body. Her grey hair was nicely waved, her eyes deep blue. You could see she had always been very good-looking. She wore no make-up or jewellery.
'So you tell me. What do you think we should do? I know Giorgio would say I'm being neurotic but he's away and he won't find out until he telephones me at his usual time tomorrow. He was furious about me calling the priest.'
The Marshal, caught out, tried to cover his inattention.
'You thought a priest was needed as well as—'
'A priest! Not in this house. No priest sets foot in here unless I lose my wits completely. I've seen too many of my women friends fall into the hands of the priests and I told Giorgio, I said, it isn't as though they were after anything other than your money—might be more interesting! What do you think? Anyway, I don't want you to feel I'm hurrying you, but don't you think we should do something? I've tried telephoning five or six times—Giorgio would say I'm being a nuisance and they don't want to be disturbed, but you can't know who it is until you pick the phone up, can you? And you see how I'm handicapped. I did think of going and knocking on their door but in the dark I'd probably fall. All I want you to do is go and look, try and make them hear. They are there, you know. Their ear's parked there and there's a light on. If you look out that window you'll see it.'
The Marshal got to his feet and went to look out at the darkness. He made out the paved court he had crossed, his car and driver and the lighted window of the converted barn.
'Who are these people and when did you last see them?' He was still looking out.
'Celia, I told you. Celia and her husband Julian. They're in there. I saw them come home together with some shopping about half past five. I went to the door—I wasn't being nosey, I would never do that, but she'd brought me some fresh milk. We f
ixed to have a drink together and exchange some books between about six and half past— well, it's nearly nine o'clock and they don't answer the phone! Oh, I'm being a foolish old woman, aren't I?'
The Marshal really didn't know.
'Which light is it that's on?'
'The bathroom light. I saw it on when I closed my shutters and I thought: There's Celia having her bath—she likes a long lazy bath with a glass of something beside her. Even so, when she hadn't turned up by a quarter to seven I opened the shutters and looked—well, you don't stay in the bath for over an hour and so I started phoning. You can't say it isn't odd.'
In the Marshal's experience people were odd but he didn't say so. He did say, more to calm her anxiety than anything, 'It's possible they've fallen asleep, left the light on.'
'I know what you really mean.' As she said this he turned to look at her, surprised. 'But there hasn't been anything like that between them for some time. Celia tells me things and I listen to her. Whatever Giorgio says, it can be a help when someone listens.'
'Yes. Yes, it can.'
'You see, I'm so afraid of wasting your time, but I'd never forgive myself if something turned out to be wrong and I—'
'Don't worry, Signora. You did quite right. Just sit here quietly and finish your drink while I go over there and see if I can make myself heard.'
'Wait . . . ' She struggled to her feet. 'There are keys to the barn somewhere . . . Celia always says if there's an emergency or even should she lose her keys, you know, and I'm sure I can lay my hands on them . . .'
It took, as expected, some time.
The Marshal accepted the keys, forgave her, and stepped outside.
The driver, seeing him, started up the engine.
'No, no . . . Come with me. Something wrong in the barn there.
Though he hadn't said so until now, he was just as sure there was something wrong as the Signora Torrini was. It was too quiet, for a start. In a place like this you should hear someone turning the page of a book, at least the odd remark spoken from room to room. And then, that bathroom window. He didn't like that bathroom window. It was lit up but it wasn't steamed up. Nothing you could quite put your finger on.
'Ring the bell.'
After two or three rings they looked at each other. The driver, a wide-eyed young recruit from Sardinia by the name of Giuseppe Fara, said, 'Shall I break the door down, Marshal?'
The Marshal took out the key from his pocket and opened the door.
Once inside, he pounded on the inner surface of the door and shouted, 'Carabinieri! Anyone there?'
There was no answer.
'See if you can find a light switch.'
After some fumbling about, Fara found one. It was a pretty room, square and colourful with a terracotta floor. One side was set up as a kitchen, the other had bright rugs and wicker armchairs. A giant pot held bulrushes and tall feathery stuff. There was a big country-style fireplace, brought there, no doubt, from some peasant's cottage. The Marshal approached it. The logs had settled into the wood ash but they still glowed faintly. The room was warm.
'Should we go upstairs, Marshal?' Fara indicated the spiral wood and iron staircase in the corner.
'You wait here.' He saw both disappointment and relief on the lad's face as he began his climb. The staircase wasn't built for someone of his bulk and he went slowly. Upstairs, the square space had been divided into a small bathroom on the left, the light on and the door ajar, and a bedroom to the right. That door, too, was slightly ajar but the room was in darkness. The Marshal pushed open the bathroom door.
There was no steam. The room was cold, the red water cool with a pinkish foam on it. The room didn't smell of death but of a flowery perfume, the bath foam, presumably. The woman in the bath was dead, her head lolling towards the Marshal, half way into the water. He couldn't see, of course, with the water so clouded with blood, but it looked like a standard sort of suicide, wrists cut in the bath. It wasn't his business to go any further so he descended the spiral staircase carefully.
'Woman's dead in the bath,' he said to the boy's inquiring look. 'Can you see a phone?'
'On that little table by the fireplace.'
He phoned the magistrate on duty and then Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti for technicians and a photographer. Then he started wandering about the room, his large, slightly bulging eyes taking everything in. Young Fara watched him, not wanting to show his ignorance by asking what they were looking for. If he had, the Marshal couldn't have told him. He just stared at everything, his mind elsewhere.
At one point he remarked loudly, 'Where the devil's the husband taken himself to, anyway?'
'Did you check the bedroom . . . ' The lad tailed off, thinking he was out of line saying it, but then there was a loud bump directly above their heads. It startled both of them and the lad's face paled. It was really to cover his terror that he dashed up the spiral staircase first. The Marshal, understanding, followed, only murmuring, 'Be careful, don't go in.'
The lad obeyed. He pushed the door with one finger and found the light switch. The two of them stood there staring in silence. They saw what had made the noise, a Chianti flask thudding to the floor. It was leaking its last red drops on to a white goatskin rug.
'Is he dead, d'you think . . . ?'
The Marshal strode forward and turned the bearded face up. It flopped back on the counterpane when he let it go.
'No,' he said, 'he's not. He's drunk. Very drunk.'
CHAPTER 2
'If you've taken your samples can we let the bath water out?' It was a doctor the Marshal had never met before and he was doing his best not to be in his way, conscious of his bulk in the small bathroom.
The red water gurgled slowly away, spluttering and choking as it went. The doctor carefully lifted one of the woman's feet, the heel of which was blocking the plughole. 'Otherwise we'll be here all night. Photo?'
The photographer's flash got busy as the body appeared out of the water. Then it stopped and they looked at each other.
'Well, that's a turn-up . . . ' The doctor picked up one wrist and then the other. Not a mark. 'Not so much as a scratch. Well, all that blood came from somewhere. Can we turn her? Got all your photos?'
'Fine by me.'
'Marshal?'
The Marshal had taken all the notes he needed before they arrived. He nodded.
The three of them turned her over.
'Ah. Well, not what you'd expect, of course, but explains the bleeding at any rate.'
A wine glass lay broken under the body and had made two very deep cuts in one buttock and a number of scratches on the lower back. One triangle of glass was still deeply embedded in the wound it had made.
'That's not our cause of death. I wonder . . .'
The Marshal, too, was wondering. Sometimes people fainted in the bath, though he'd never come across such a thing himself—anyway weren't they usually old people? It was one thing to faint, but when you felt yourself drowning wouldn't you come to? Start to struggle? Somebody feeble might not save themselves in time but this woman . . .
'How old do you think she is, Doctor?'
'Forty-five-ish, I should think. I'll take her temperature now I've got her turned over. Time of death likely to be a problem for you?'
'No. No . . . She was seen earlier and then the husband . . ;'
Considerable noise was coming from the bedroom where young Fara was battling to bring the drunken man to his senses without much success.
'Could have been drunk like him, I suppose . . .'
'Well, I can't give you an official opinion on that at this stage, but I doubt it.'
'Hmph.'
'Probably an accident.'
Fara's now desperate voice was eliciting nothing more than faint groans next door.
'I'll bring him round for you,' the doctor said, 'as soon as I've finished here.'
The Marshal took to wandering about the house again, though his wanderings were not as random now as before. He looked, no
t very wholeheartedly, for a suicide note. He found a desk whose top right-hand drawer contained the passports of Celia Rose Carter, born in Great Britain in 1947 and Julian Forbes, also British, born in 1959. He frowned and opened the woman's passport again.
'Eh, Marshal? What do you think?'
He realized that the technicians who were packing up their equipment at the kitchen end of the room had been talking to him and he hadn't heard a word. He looked at them blankly. 'I'm sorry. Wasn't listening.'
'It was nothing. Find anything interesting?'
The Marshal looked down at the passport again but all he said was, 'It's her birthday . . .'
'Don't worry about me, I'm fine.'Julian Forbes rolled back on to his stomach and added carefully, 'Just tell people I've fallen asleep on one of the beds.' Once again he was sleeping like a baby. Fara looked at the Marshal for help but the Marshal was no expert.
'We might have to let him sleep it off . . .'
The doctor came in, drying his hands on a linen towel.
'Let's get miladdo awake, then.' He approached the bed and turned Forbes on his back. With the rather hairy back of his still damp hand he rubbed Forbes's mouth and nose briskly. Forbes opened his eyes and at once the doctor swung him upright. The drunken flush on the cheeks drained away.
'Going to be sick . . .'
'Be my guest.' The doctor tipped some dried flowers out of a jar on the floor and Forbes vomited a good litre of red wine into it. Passing the jar to Fara, the doctor suggested, 'See if the technicians want a sample of that—and make some coffee while you're down there. He's all yours, Marshal.'
The doctor returned to the bathroom to clean the splashes of vomit from himself. The Marshal stood beside the bed, looking down. Young as Forbes was, he was losing the hair on his crown. The hands held to the temples, no doubt in the hope of containing a headache, were long-fingered and pale.
'Christ, I feel terrible! What's happened? Not a road accident—I never drive. Celia always drives . . .'
'You get drunk very often?'
'No, I don't.' His voice was peevish. 'It just affects me badly sometimes, that's all. Now what the hell's going on? Who are all these people?'
The Marshal at the Villa Torrini Page 2
