"Yes. Lately, since the upset, I think Inga has been keeping him sedated most of the time. Oh, what a fool I am!"
Penny looked at her with curiosity. "I sort of gathered you did not get along too well with your father, yet you seem very concerned about him."
Maria's face became sullen. "Well, that's true enough. When I was little, oh, it was wonderful then, he used to want me with him the whole time, but when I got a bit older, then it was nothing but the damn boys, boys, boys, all the time. I didn't seem to count any more; nothing I ever did was right. The only time he ever seemed to notice me was when he'd bawl me out. So..."—an expression of satisfaction spread over the vivid face—"I gave him plenty to bawl me out about. I was almost glad when this happened. It was almost like the old days again. He needed me, I'm sure he did—and now..." Her face puckered again.
"So you love him very much," Penny murmured. Maria nodded, her eyes blinded with tears.
"Enough to help me get to the bottom of this affair? For I think that is what is upsetting your father."
"You mean about Zeb Grange?"
"No, about the body in the bog. I think your father knows who it is. If you could get him talking again, he might be able to help us."
Maria looked at her in the dim light in startled silence. "I could try..." she faltered. Very gently she shook the huge arm. "Poppa, Poppa," she whispered, "it's me, Maria, I've brought a visitor for you."
The dark eyes slowly opened, straining to focus through their drugged fog, and there dawned in them a terrible gleam of frantic hope. The eyes turned painfully and focused on Penny's diminutive figure, but the wild gleam died to be replaced with an awful blankness; if ever Penny had seen Death appear in a man's eyes she saw it now, and recoiled from the terrible message.
"Poppa," Maria went on excitedly, "this is a detective, Dr. Spring, and she wants us to help her with what I was telling you about the other day—the man they found in our bog? You and me together. We can, can't we. Poppa?"
The awful glare still fixed on Penny, the heavy eyelids came down and slowly opened again. Maria gave a little gasp. "He says 'no'!" Then the eyelids came down again and remained shut.
"If I could talk to him when he isn't sedated, I think I could convince him..." Penny started to say, when the door opened and Annette's slim figure was outlined against the brighter light of the hallway. For a moment she just stood there, then came purposefully in. "What are you doing? What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.
Maria started to bluster. "I brought Dr. Spring to see father. I thought it would cheer him up to see a new face..."
Annette advanced into the circle of the bedside light and Penny could see she was coldly and furiously angry. "As usual you take a lot too much on yourself, Maria. You'd better go. I will stay with him now. Dr. Spring, I understood you were going to pack. Ann is waiting for you downstairs. Perhaps you should do that. Good-bye." Her tone was cutting, the hazel eyes hard and unforgiving.
Maria started to open her mouth to argue, but Penny seized her arm and squeezed; a strategic retreat was in order. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry," she muttered and propelled the unwilling girl toward the door.
Once outside she relaxed her grip but said urgently, "That was most unfortunate, but from now on, Maria, you'll have to be extra careful. Say nothing about what you have told me to anyone, keep a very close eye on your father, and if the chance comes get him talking again, but do it in secret. Also, be sure and check with the doctor on the drugs Inga has been giving your father; she is only a nurse, after all, and may not know as much about it as she thinks she does. Do your brothers sit with your father ever?"
"Steven does sometimes, but Alexander is so busy that he only pops in for a few minutes at a time, when one of us is there."
"And how does your father seem then, any different?"
Maria hesitated for a moment. "I can tell a lot from Poppa's eyes, and up to the last upset I would have said that what he was feeling for Alexander was—pity."
"Pity!" It was the last thing Penny had expected. 'Can you explain that?"
"Well, I put it down to the fact that he does have all the business worries now, and of course Wanda is such a constant pain in the neck."
"And with Steven?"
Maria shrugged, '"I don't know, really. Even though he's always made such a big thing about Steven being the elder, Poppa has never been as close to him as to Alexander. Steven's got a lot of the cold New England blood of the Chases in him"—she smiled suddenly—"and, as such, has always been a bit of a mystery to us hot-blooded Italians."
"I have one more question to ask you, and don't be offended by it, I just have to clear some ground. You are very much with and of your generation—have you ever used drugs?"
Maria grinned knowingly at her. "Oh, I've smoked plenty of pot in ray time, in fact I nearly got bounced out o£ college for it."
"How about pills?"
"I've popped a few," she admitted, "just to be maty with my first husband, he was a great pill-popper. But I could not get on with them, they made me sick to my stomach, so I cut out on them."
"And your brothers?"
"No way! They'd have been too afraid of Poppa."
"How about Wanda? You know the signs—have you seen them on her?"
Maria became serious. "It has crossed my mind," she admitted. "Those wild swings of mood she has. Could be her frustrated artistic temperament, of course ... she was a class-A nitwit to give up her career on Alex's account ... but, yes, she could be a user. Though God knows how shed ever get hold of the stuff in this household."
Penny said nothing, but reflected that this was an answer she could readily supply. "And how about Inga?"
"Heavens, no! Inga's a health freak. Lectures on smoking, drinking, drug taking, etc., etc., to order. Always jogging and working out. She wouldn't go near the stuff. No, her only vices are eating—which you may have noticed she does a lot of—and Steve, poor lad, Steve'll never be without his mum while Inga's around ..."
Ann's clear voice came floating up the stairs. "Is that you, Dr. Spring? Are you ready to go?"
Penny started guiltily. "In just a few minutes," she called back, and with a reassuring nod at Maria scuttled off to fling her things in a bag.
On the short ride back to the cottage she apologized to Ann for the delay, then added, "Look, my dear, if it will make things awkward for you up at the house having me stay on, I wish you'd say so. I can easily go to a local motel, you know. I don't want to make any trouble for you with the Dimolas."
"No, I'm sure they understand," Ann said in an absent voice, "and actually, with everything that's been going on, I'm glad to have some company in the house. It gets so lonely in the winter."
The loneliness of the dark, pine-enshrouded cottage emphasized her words as she shut off the engine. The sea mist had come again, and Penny was reminded forcibly of her first encounter with it as they unloaded the bags and groped their way to the darkened house. Ann fumbled with the keys and, flinging open the door, reached inside to put on the lights. "I'll be so glad to see little Penny tomorrow..." she began to say, when she stopped dead, and Penny peering over her shoulder saw the cause: the visible parts of the cottage were in considerable disarray.
"You haven't been back here, have you?" Ann asked uncertainly.
"No," Penny said, and there was a trickle of fear up her spine, "not since we left together."
"Then it looks as if someone has ransacked the place," Ann quavered, and there was an edge of panic in her voice. "What on earth could they have been looking for?"
CHAPTER 13
Sir Tobias Glendower—that archaeologist extraordinary— was feeling not unpleased by the turn of events. His Italian trip so far had not lived up to expectation; the problems he had been invited to solve on his Italian colleague's dig he had found existed mainly in the mind of the latter and had been rapidly dealt with. The weather had not been up to par, he had found no thrilling new vintages, and he had been missing Penny
's stimulating, if irritating, company more than he cared to admit. Now, after that momentous transatlantic call, his vacation had taken on new life and purpose, and he conveniently swamped any guilt feelings he had had about not following her to America by the stronger feelings of annoyance and being put upon by her demands. From now on, if anything untoward happened, he could firmly put the blame on her.
Transportation was no problem since he had driven in his own car from England; the Bentley was old but comfortable and trouble-free, which suited Toby excellently on all counts, for he was not mechanically minded. It purred under his accustomed touch as he drove southeast from Bologna over the old Via Emilia of the Romans, the long line of the Apennines stretching into misty blue distances on his right band. Imola was new territory for him, though he knew its history in a vague sort of way: devastated by Justinian for some obscure reason, rebuilt by the Lombards, an independent commune in the Middle Ages (had it been Guelph or Ghibelline?—he didn't really know), finally part of the Papal States under the iron hand of the Borgias. He was a little uncertain where he should start his strange hunt, but felt that a small place would easily yield its secrets to his questing eye. "This time," he told himself firmly, "I shall start where any scholar should start— with the records. That was my big mistake in Pergama. If I'd checked the written sources at the beginning we wouldn't have had half as much trouble."
As he drove into the outskirts of Imola, however, the first misgivings stirred in him; it was far bigger than he had imagined. He passed some factories for agricultural implements, a large pottery works, and a larger natural gas installation. In fact Imola had all the earmarks of a bustling North Italian manufacturing center. With unerring instinct he drove toward the ancient heart of the town and with some difficulty found a parking spot for the Bentley in the busy, narrow streets. "Hmm," he instructed himself, as he uncoiled his lanky, stooped frame from behind the wheel, "get the feel of the place—a good move number one!"
He dutifully inspected the medieval citadel, a couple of fifteenth-century palazzi and the late Gothic church of Saint Domenico. He skipped the cathedral (rebuilt in the eighteenth century) and made for the museum where he looked at a fine ceramic collection, some indifferent paintings, and a sad jumble of early antiquities. As he gazed at a case full of Roman bric-a-brac it occurred to him that he had seen no sign of the medieval tower featured in the rather fuzzy photo that had come over the teleprinter. He cast a glance around for the most amiable-looking of the museum guards, knowing from past experience that they were often more than willing for a chat to relieve the aching boredom of their job. He selected a round-faced, portly, fair-haired man for his prey, approached him and offered the photo. "Per favore, dove il torre?" he asked. The guard peered at the fuzzy outlines of the photo, a puzzled expression on his face. "Non e qui," he said cheerfully.
"Not here! But this was taken in Imola in 1944," Toby protested.
"It's not here," the guard said, firmly this time.
"But it has an inscription right on it. Colle d'imola, 1944!"
"Oh, Colle d'Imola," the guard corrected. "Well, that's not here." He jerked his head vaguely over his shoulder. It's about ten kilometers up in the hills, a small village." He looked at the photo again. "You were here in the war then?"
Toby shook his head; although he did not look it, with his silver hair, spindly shanks and his face of an aged baby, he had been too young for World War II. '"Where would I find the local records?"
This appeared to stump the guard. "Records?" he echoed. "What kind of records?"
"Oh, land records, births, marriages and deaths—that kind of thing."
The guard shrugged. "The municipal offices, I suppose, but they do not go back very far. They were all burned by the Germans."
"Oh dear!" Toby said dismally, his dreams of instant success shattering. "Are you sure about that?"
"Quite sure." The guard was cheerful again. "Imola was in the thick of things; the Germans took it, the Americans took it, the Germans took it back, the Americans came back again and the partisans were in and out fighting everyone. Oh, it was a bad time here and no mistake!"
"And how about Colle d'Imola—would their records be there or here?"
The guard shrugged. "I don't know. Why don't you go there and ask. You speak Italian very well," he added encouragingly.
"Is there an hotel I could stay in up there," Toby asked.
A delighted expression came into the guard's face. "No hotel—only here are hotels—but you perhaps could stay with my uncle Enrico. He runs a little inn in the village. He does not cater to tourists but he just might put you up. You like good Italian wine? My uncle, he has a good cellar." He winked.
Toby's small ears pricked up. "Has he indeed! And how might I find him?"
The guard told him and added, "Tell Enrico, Giuseppe sent you—he will treat you well."
Toby thanked him and offered a tip which was brushed gracefully aside with "It has been a pleasure to talk to you, signore. Give my regards to my uncle."
To be thorough Toby checked in at the local municipal offices, only to find that the guard's fears had been correct. All old records, with trifling exceptions, had been destroyed during the war; the only ones available were from 1946 onward. On the records for Colle d'Imola they were a little vague; some were kept in the village, others here, and they could neither find them nor tell him anything more. With the sinking feeling that his task was going to be a lot more difficult than he had anticipated, Toby thanked them and, after a brief consultation with his road map, set off for Colle d'imola.
At least, he reflected, small places usually had long memories and that might be in his favor, and equally, since the village was off the well-beaten tourist track, if the Dimolas had been there fairly recently they and their activities might be well remembered.
The road shook off the tattered outskirts of Imola and began to climb steeply into the Apennine foothills, and he could soon see the rose and ocher roofs of the village peeping out through gaps in a very decrepit medieval fortification wall that encircled it on its hilltop. He could still see no sign of the tower. There was a yawning gap in the walls where the original gates used to be and he drove through it into an archetypical little sun-drenched village square, a small fountain dribbling halfheartedly in its very center.
One side of the square was taken up by a small palazzo, its sixteenth-century face much pockmarked by shell and bullet scars and most of its shutters closed. Sticking up from one corner of it he saw what was left of the tower, showing like a huge broken fang, the whole of its upper part destroyed. The rest of the square bore similar marks of destruction; old stone facades patched and repaired with brick and stucco, old roofs interspersed with ones of newer, less decorative, tile. There were some gaps where wild flowers and weeds ran riot over rotting beams and timbers. Colle d'imola had evidently never quite recovered from the devastating steel hand of modem warfare.
He located the small inn sign hanging over an equally scarred and patched building in the square opposite the palazzo. There were ordy two old Cinquecentos parked in the square, and he felt absurdly conspicuous parking the Bentley in front of the inn. His arrival had not gone unremarked, for, in an instant, a small gaggle of children appeared apparently out of nowhere and stood gazing in wide-eyed amazement as he climbed out. Never at his best with children, he glared threateningly at them with icy blue eyes and rumbled, "The first one who touches that car will grow horns—understood?" There was a communal nodding of heads as they retreated a step or two backward, and with another glare at them he ducked under the low portal of the inn.
Inside, apart from the age-old fragrance of wine, the twentieth century had triumphed completely. Bright red plastic-topped tables stood around surrounded by sticky lookmg varnished chairs, but it was evident from the wear on the brightly patterned floor linoleum that the patrons of the establishment spent most of the time propped up at the wooden bar, which was the only item in the place that had an olde
r, more substantial and battered look. Even here the hand of the twentieth century was evident, for, angled high in one corner of it, was a small television set. The place was completely empty, and only when he got to the bar and stood peering uncertainly around did the bead curtain that stood off to one side of it part and a small portly man emerge. He looked at Toby with a hard, unfriendly eye. "What can I do for you?"
Feeling ridiculous, Toby muttered, "Your nephew Giuseppe sent me. He thought you might be able to put me up for a few days."
"We do not cater to tourists. There are hotels in Imola; you would be more comfortable there."
"I am not a tourist," Toby persisted, "I have some business in Colle d'Imola and I would prefer to stay here. I understand from Giuseppe that you have a fine cellar."
The man relaxed a little but his face was still guarded. "Oh, you like wine, signore? What can I get you. We have..." and he named several indifferent wines that Toby was well aware were popular and overpriced vintages foisted off on tourists.
Toby brought his big guns to bear. He looked disappointed and then said dehberately, "Well, no, my taste runs more to a good Barolo, preferably the '70 or '72 vintages, or possibly, if that is too far north for you, some Lambrusca. Or a Sangiovese—'77 was a good year there, but that's a bit new—I don't suppose you have any of the '60 vintages left? Or, even better, I would like to try a good local wine if such exists."
Enrico looked at him with dawning respect. "I see you know your wines," he said grudgingly, and after a moment's hesitation produced a dusty unmarked bottle from under the bar. "Perhaps you would care to try this." He poured some of the blood-red liquid into a glass and pushed it across the bar to Toby, who picked it up, looked critically at its color, sniffed its bouquet, took a small sip and rolled it expertly around his tongue and then took a bigger sip. His round blue eyes went a little rounder behind his glasses. "Mm," he said thoughtfully, "a cross between Barolo and a Lachrima Christi, but more full-bodied and with a taste of, mm, let's see, mountain flowers. Very good." He looked questioningly at Enrico, whose face broke into a delighted grin. "Yes, it is the soil around here. The old Lombard vines and the soil make for full-bodied wines ...." The ice was broken. He poured himself a glass and held it up to Toby. "See the color—the color of good blood! Salute!"
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