by Amy Myers
‘Who do these chaps belong to?’ I asked casually.
He shrugged. ‘For hire, Jack.’
‘By anyone in Plumshaw?’
‘Now how would I know that?’
So the answer was yes. ‘Andrew was caught out of his depth,’ I said.
‘But I don’t believe that’s the case, Jack.’ Harry nodded sagely. ‘Word gets around, you know. Bad do about that fire,’ he added.
‘If it’s not “these chaps”, any idea who did it? What’s the gossip?’
At that he looked shy. ‘Not my place to speculate, Jack. You know me.’
I did. Whether he knew or not, he was bowing out of the situation – which meant his hands were clean, or shortly would be. Harry then decided he had another appointment and left me with Jackie, although he kindly commented as he left, ‘You know, Jack, progress is like charity. It begins at home. See what I mean?’
I thought I did and I didn’t like it. He was confirming my reluctant conclusion that it was Andrew himself who had burned the pub down. It was true that although his wife had been present, their young son had conveniently been away and Andrew had discovered the fire himself. Moreover its seat had been at the other end of the building from where they slept.
All circumstantial evidence of course, but if I believed what George Makepeace had told me about his job offer to Andrew, I had a nasty feeling Harry could be right. And yet it didn’t entirely satisfy me. After all, George Makepeace wasn’t the only person who might see the benefit of removing the Hop and Harry from the battleground of the access road to the new development. All sorts of people and businesses might have wanted to spur the discussion onwards.
I walked back along the bridle path, conscious that, despite a pleasant chat with Jackie, my visit to Harry had opened up yet another problem rather than providing a stepping stone to the truth. Not unusual where Harry is concerned, and I supposed I should be grateful for the nudge about Andrew’s involvement. I cheered myself with the thought that this line would be for the police to follow up, especially as the insurance company would be down on them like a ton of bricks if they didn’t do so. And they too would be investigating other interested parties.
And then there was the matter of Floria. When Louise arrived home, I tackled her immediately – or as immediately as was possible given that we had a lot of loving reconciliation first.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘tell me about Floria. Who is this gorgeous-sounding woman? Tell me all.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’ I yelped at this let-down.
‘I really don’t. I just remembered overhearing Giovanni mention that name to Maria. He shut up like a clam when I came in. Not family,’ she added, somewhat wryly I thought.
‘Laugh, darling, laugh,’ I advised. ‘Did you get any idea of when this lady was around?’
‘No – yes, I had the impression it went way back.’
There’s nothing like a Monday morning for gloom. On this one, I had a late start, since I had to run an urgent errand for Len, picking up a battery. Louise had left early as usual, so I couldn’t badger her any more about Floria or anything else. Not that I thought she was hiding anything, but the mind can often produce nuggets one by one if it so chooses.
When I returned and checked my phone, it seemed everyone wanted to speak to me at once. Dave Jennings had rung. Martin Fisher wanted to speak to me urgently. The Comptons had put in their claim and so had Bronte and Stephanie. I’d even had a call from George Makepeace.
My adrenalin shot up to maximum. Something significant must have happened. I rang Dave Jennings first, as he might provide the easiest path to finding out what it was.
‘Heard the news?’ he asked me, unhelpfully.
‘No. I’ve been out for a while.’
‘Get back in. Brandon’s arrested someone for the Plumshaw murder. Jamie Makepeace.’
‘Which murder?’ I was racing this information through my mind in top gear.
‘Andrew Lee’s.’
‘And Hugh Compton’s?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
My mind stopped at a pit for quick refuelling. This didn’t mean that Jamie was in the clear over Hugh Compton, I reasoned, only that Brandon didn’t have enough on him to go for it. That implied he had plenty over Andrew’s murder. I couldn’t see it, however. Not Jamie. No – rethink that, I thought. I could see it if Jamie had flown into one of his hot-headed rages, but that could not apply to two murders. I could see why he might also have had a go at Hugh, if he believed that Hugh was behind Bronte being cut off without a penny if she married him, or if they had had a row resulting in Hugh withdrawing the offer of Puddledock Cottage. Why kill Andrew though? Because he had evidence that Jamie had killed Hugh? It fitted, but it didn’t convince me.
I dutifully returned the rest of the calls, but they all had the same information they thought I should know. Bronte was the worst to handle. She was in tears and insisted I prove Jamie innocent. He was, she told me over and over again.
Stephanie had her own angle. ‘Hugh seems to have been forgotten in this concentration on Andrew’s murder. Find out what’s happening, Jack,’ she demanded.
‘I’ll do my best.’ What else could I say?
‘Do so. He’s a loose cannon that boy and Bronte’s well out of that mess. Hugh was having second thoughts about letting her have Puddledock Cottage. When my father dies she will have it anyway, and Hugh thought she should wait because that awful man Nan was making such a nuisance of himself. Jamie and Bronte were set on having it though, so don’t let the police overlook that for a motive.’
I had my chance because, instead of answering my call, Brandon came to see me in the afternoon. He didn’t choose the Pits this time. ‘I’ve forgotten what gardens are like,’ he remarked, looking round mine appreciatively.
‘Is your wife the gardener in your home?’ I asked.
‘Elaine has to be. Gardeners need to be on a regular beat like Uniform. No use dashing out for ten minutes at a time.’
This was unusually personal for Brandon and I murmured something about Louise adding her loving touches to my basic efforts.
‘You’re a lucky man, Jack. Go gently,’ he added, to my astonishment. Advice too! We were indeed breaking new ground. ‘You told me she knows Giovanni Donati,’ he added.
‘Yes. Any change there?’
‘That’s what I came to tell you. It’s going through the channels now. It’s odds on he’ll be released, charges dropped. For your ears only,’ he emphasized.
Good news at last. ‘Does that mean Jamie will be in the clear?’
‘Not yet. We need DNA. The rest of the evidence is iffy. He’s no alibi yet – says he was at the fête but we can’t pin down any witnesses to exact times.’
‘I saw him myself, must have been about three-thirty. But that doesn’t rule him out from your point of view.’
‘No. First he denied being at the pub at all. Someone saw him there around two o’clock and then he admitted he went there to collect some stuff for Andrew, couldn’t find him and left. When we challenged that, he finally confessed he saw Andrew, realized he was dead and took fright.’
‘That would tie in with his being het up, to say the least, when I saw him. What about the Compton case? Any link there?’
‘We’re working on it. Can’t tie Jamie Makepeace into the arson case either, although I’m pretty sure whoever torched the place killed Lee as well. I don’t see George Makepeace in that light.’
‘Nor do I. Then who?’ I had a feeling that the answer was staring me in the face, but I couldn’t put a name to it.
‘Nothing yet. We’ve got till tomorrow evening unless we ask for an extension on Jamie Makepeace.’
‘And Giovanni? Any idea when?’
‘Sorry, Jack. Don’t get the champagne out yet, but have it ready.’
We did get it out in fact. When I had brought Louise up to date after she reached home, she decided we ne
eded to cheer ourselves up with a bottle of Prosecco.
‘I’ve been thinking about this Floria,’ she began, somewhat tentatively. ‘How would you feel if we invited Ricardo over here and asked him about her? We could ask Maria too,’ she added hastily, perhaps seeing warning signals in my expression. ‘Ricardo could pick her up. You could ask them anything you want then.’
Dumbfounded, I wrestled with myself. Did I want to see Ricardo and Maria here with Louise, which would make me an outsider? Then I remembered Brandon’s advice: go gently.
‘Why not?’ I forced myself to reply. I couldn’t tell any of them the news about Giovanni, so if he was released there would have to be another celebration. As for this one, I would at least be playing on home ground. I told her the news about Jamie though, emphasizing he’d been arrested for Andrew Lee’s murder, not Compton’s.
The gathering was arranged for Saturday lunchtime. It wasn’t going to be an easy one, but I had to realize it wouldn’t be easy for Ricardo either. He must have dressed with great care to look so splendidly casual, I thought as they arrived. His designer shirt and chinos, together with Maria looking her best petite self in black, sent out a signal that they intended to be on the winning side in Louise’s eyes, which meant I had to be on the lookout for point scoring.
In unspoken agreement, he and I did the macho thing: we shared the barbecuing, wielding our tongs like true knights of old, stabbing away with great pleasure at the innocent victims before us. Louise made the salads and dessert and Maria sat there glowing with joy at seeing Ricardo and Louise together. Clearly she thought I would be history if her darling Ricardo wanted Louise to return to him.
All seemed to be going well, however. No one asked when Giovanni would be released, to my relief, and at last, when Maria was fully replete with desserts, I was able to ask the big question: ‘Who was Floria, Maria? You mentioned her to me once.’
In a trice Maria presented her obstinate face. ‘I did not. I do not know.’
‘Ricardo?’ Louise asked firmly.
He was standing with a piece of toasted cheese at the end of a barbecue fork which he waved like a samurai sword. ‘It is not important, Louise.’ He was pointedly ignoring me, but clearly ill at ease.
‘It is family,’ Maria roared.
My call. ‘Giovanni is in prison. Unless you tell me everything you know, whether it is about the Comptons or your own family, he will remain there and it will be your fault.’
Tough but true. I thought at first I would get the barbecue fork stuck in me, but an encouraging smile from Louise to her former paramour worked. Maria picked up on that and surrendered, albeit not happily. ‘Enrico know her,’ she said, glaring at me.
‘The ancestor of the owner of La Casa?’ This cousin was omnipresent.
‘Si.’
‘Who was Floria?’ I demanded, hopeful that I might slowly be getting somewhere.
‘Enrico died five years ago. I know nothing.’
I slumped in despair and Louise, bless her, took over. ‘Please tell him, Maria. You might be the means of saving Giovanni.’ She too was ignored.
Then Ricardo decided to score a point. ‘Tell him, Mama.’
Even then she wouldn’t budge. ‘I do not talk about Giovanni’s lady friends.’
Louise had another go. ‘Floria could not have been one of Giovanni’s lady friends. If Enrico knew of her she was much more probably Giulio Santoro’s lady friend.’
‘Family matter,’ Maria snapped again. ‘Giulio married man.’
Ricardo then stepped up for his big moment of glory. He squatted down at her side, cream chinos dangerously near somewhat muddy lawn. ‘Papa is in prison, Mama. If this Floria would help, you must speak.’
‘She will not help.’
Ricardo’s even bigger moment. He stood up on his manly feet, looking the picture of the heroic warrior and annoyingly free of mud. ‘Then I will go to ask Papa.’
‘He not know either.’
Time for me to rise to my own manly feet. I’d had enough. ‘Tell me, Maria, or I stop helping Giovanni. They will charge him with murder and he will be away from you for months, years.’
She was almost swayed, but I wasn’t going to get my moment of glory. ‘What shall I do, Ricardo mio?’ she pleaded, clasping his hands.
‘Tell him, Mama.’
Mother and son gazed at each other in torment. Mother gave in and Ricardo got the glory. That’s life. Worth it, I suppose. ‘Floria,’ she told us, ‘was Giulio’s girlfriend.’
‘Not his sister as you said when you first mentioned her?’
I received a withering glance. ‘No. His girlfriend in the war.’
Promising, I thought. ‘Could she have had anything to do with the Alfa Romeo story?’
She shrugged. ‘I do not know.’
Unless she had, I couldn’t see what relevance she would have. Floria might be a massive red herring and I had put myself through this agony for nothing.
And then Ricardo swept back on to the battleground, obviously determined to win more laurels. ‘Enrico would have known more about her.’
‘Pity he died five years ago,’ I snarled.
Maria was beginning to look bored. ‘I ask Umberto,’ she snapped.
‘Why would he know?’ It seemed highly unlikely that he would know details of the love life of his grandfather’s brother-in-law.
‘Enrico lived with Umberto. Very close.’
FIFTEEN
La Casa. Everything seemed to be pointing to La Casa. Did the Comptons know about Umberto Monti’s family connection with the Santoros? I began to wonder. They certainly knew there was a connection of some sort. Did Peter know about Floria?
From great reluctance, Maria was now determined that I should meet Umberto at the very first opportunity. Having dissuaded her from setting off to La Casa right that very minute, we agreed to ask Umberto when it would best suit him for me to arrive. Tuesday was his choice. Ricardo would be unable to come with us – what a shame! – as Umberto had chosen a weekday afternoon during that precious interval between the last of the lunchers’ departure and the preparations for evening dinners commencing. Ricardo had smugly kissed Louise’s hand on leaving on the Saturday, devotion pouring out of his eyes. Louise picked up on my reaction and had giggled.
‘Old times, Jack,’ she said, after he and Maria had roared off in the Stag down Frogs Hill Lane. ‘They don’t go away, they just get superseded by better ones.’
This cheered me up greatly and it was with a light heart that I set off to La Casa on Tuesday. The sun was shining, it was June, and although Louise could not come with me, I would be seeing her that evening. I could almost convince myself this was a day off and nothing to do with the Plumshaw case. I’ve often found, however, that days off pay off. Unexpected gems of inspiration and information seize the opportunity to emerge without competition from everyday preoccupations. Given that the paths of the Comptons and the Santoros had crossed in Italy, and its present generations had clashed over the Alfa Romeo, I might even find that proverbial crock of gold.
Even if it only turned out to be a good pasta.
‘Bravo, Jack. You are here!’ Maria was all smiles for me today and proudly presented me to Umberto. He was roughly the same age as Giovanni, but shorter, stouter and, it became clear, jollier, whether by nature or profession.
‘I ask Umberto about Floria,’ Maria told me, even as I was ushered to a table with a feast of tea and delicious cake on it. ‘He knows nothing.’
Well, that was a great welcome. ‘Thanks a bunch,’ I said wryly. At least I’d get a slice of that cake.
‘Do not worry, Jack.’ Umberto clapped me heartily on the back. ‘Maria jokes. I know some but my grandfather knows much more.’
I was relieved, but plunged back into confusion. ‘Enrico di Secchio is still alive?’
‘No, but he leave behind many interesting tales. Photos, letters. He lived here with Mamma for two years before he died and often he talk of his great fri
end, Giulio. The friend of his youth. We all have friends of our youth, yes?’
I agreed, though I could think of one or two I was glad to have left behind.
‘And it is good,’ Umberto continued, ‘that Maria is married to Giulio’s grandson. She is a good cook, yes?’
‘She is.’ No argument about that. Giovanni travelled a great deal but was never so happy eating away from home as he was at Maria’s table.
‘I tell you what I know about Floria,’ Umberto continued. ‘I am surprised when Maria tell me you want to know about her, because it is long ago and how can that be why Giovanni is in prison?’
‘I don’t know that it is the reason. But there are undoubtedly missing ingredients in the story behind this case so it is useful to check the original recipe.’
Umberto chuckled. ‘You are right, Jack. So I tell you because this is for Giovanni.’
Maria’s eyes promptly filled with tears, and Umberto hastened to console her with a large slice of cake before beginning his story. I received one too. ‘My grandfather Enrico,’ he began, ‘is a son of the Conte di Secchio. The family supports the monarchy, which in 1938 meant supporting Mussolini. Very wealthy family then. Enrico buy the car for Giulio and they are great friends. They both serve in the army during the war, and then after the armistice there is a new government under the king and Badoglio. But only in the south has it any power because in the north the Germans come and the new government is not strong enough to oppose the Fascists who have power again. Giulio became a Partisan in the mountains, but Enrico stay in Parma where he must pretend to work for the Fascists, although he really works for the Partisans. As did Floria. She was a messenger taking provisions and other supplies to the Partisans in the mountains. She was more than a messenger though; she stayed with the banda and helped them fight when she could. She was brave, she was funny, she was gentle, she was beautiful. That’s what my grandfather said. Giulio fell in love with her. This was not good because he had a wife and a child at home, but it happens.’
Maria snorted her disapproval and I squeezed her hand.
