‘Me too.’ I slipped my hand inside the robe and fondled her breast.
‘Some things are better if you have to wait for them.’
‘Provided you don’t have to wait too long.’
‘Go on doing what you’re doing,’ she gasped, ‘and I’ll have to take another shower.’
‘I could join you.’
She gently lifted my hand away and pressed a finger to my lips. ‘Later.’
I have little memory of what Salvenini told us that evening. Maxim Gorky, Hugh Walpole, Compton Mackenzie, Jean-Paul Sartre, Thornton Wilder, Norman Douglas, Graham Greene, Gracie Fields: they all received a mention, I think. The possibility of an introduction to Greene, Salvenini’s close neighbour in Anacapri, was held out to us at some stage: a ripe fruit we failed to pluck. If he was disappointed by our unresponsiveness, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he guessed we had only each other on our minds. Perhaps Francis and Luisa guessed as well. Perhaps it was plainly obvious. They’d all been young once. Whereas we’d never been old.
If I could choose one night from my whole life to live over again, it would be that night at the Villa Orchis with Vivien, the French windows of her room standing open to the soft island air, moonlight rippling across her body as I wrapped my arms around her. There was a single moment of rapture and incredulity as I climaxed inside her for the first time that in some part of my mind I realized even then would never be surpassed.
The week that followed passed in a haze of sensuality. By day, Vivien and I swam and walked and explored the island. By night we made long, languorous love and slept late into the morning. I was hers and she was mine. It was a taste of heaven.
Our hosts could hardly have missed the ample evidence of how intimate our relationship had become, but never drew attention to it or interfered in any way. As perhaps befitted partners in an unconventional marriage – assuming as I did that Vivien was right about Paolo’s role in it – they appeared genially tolerant of us, if not approving. ‘We were put on this planet to enjoy what it has to offer, my boy,’ Francis said to me one evening. ‘Everything it has to offer.’
A similar sentiment was expressed by Countess Covelli when she met us in Capri one afternoon and offered us tea at her villa as a reward for carrying home the bags she’d accumulated during a tour of the town’s smartest boutiques. ‘I adore the company of young people,’ she said as we reached her elegant, secluded residence, the Villa Erycina. ‘It helps me remember what it was like to be young myself.’ She smiled at us deliberately. ‘Young and in love, of course.’
It was true. We were in love. Well, I certainly was. And Vivien had given me every reason to think she was too. But neither of us had actually declared our love. It had taken a third party to do that. I suppose I was afraid it was simply too good to be true. And Vivien? My belle dame sans merci, as her brother had called her? Or someone who merely shared my fear? I didn’t know which she was. I still had to find that out.
The Villa Erycina was smaller than the Villa Orchis, but architecturally more distinguished, with fluted columns, high, vaulted ceilings and gleaming marble floors. The countess, it became apparent as she gave us a brief tour of the house before tea on the terrace, had no patience for clutter. All was restraint and order – comfort on the level more of a hotel than a home.
The most personal touches were an array of silver-framed photographs on the drawing-room mantelpiece. Children of two or three different generations – to judge by their clothing and hairstyles – were variously pictured, some formally in a studio, some casually grouped in a domestic setting. The woman at the centre of one such group was clearly Margherita several decades younger. And the stiff-backed, handsomely sleek man pictured separately in evening dress was, I guessed, her late husband.
‘Si, si,’ said Margherita, nodding in confirmation. ‘That is Urbano.’
‘Francis told me how he came to die,’ I said. ‘It was … a sad story.’
‘Yes.’ She gazed at the photograph for a moment. ‘But not so sad as if I had been married to a Fascist.’
‘You must be very proud of him,’ said Vivien.
‘Of course. But I am still angry with him sometimes also. For leaving me to live the rest of my life without him. For having to explain to his grandchildren why they cannot know him. Perhaps I should have listened to my mother. She advised me not to marry him.’
‘What did she have against him?’
Margherita laughed fondly. ‘She said he was a man of principle. She said he could not be relied on to put his family first. And she was right. But that was partly why I loved him. For his sense of honour. The last thing he said to me was, “It is better to be betrayed than to be a traitor.”’ Tears glistened in her eyes. ‘Forgive me. That is enough about the past. Let us go and have tea.’
I wanted to ask Margherita how the count had been betrayed, but she obviously preferred not to dwell on the subject, so I left it there, confident as I was that Francis would satisfy my curiosity.
I wasn’t disappointed. The count, Francis later told me, had only reluctantly gone into hiding following the Germans’ restoration of Mussolini in September 1943. Margherita had, after much cajoling, persuaded him to take refuge with a distant relative near Vicenza, while she laid a false trail by decamping with the children to their holiday home in San Remo. ‘But someone tipped the Germans off and Urbano was arrested. Margherita was allowed to visit him in prison before his execution. She told me once how infuriatingly philosophical he’d been. She said it was almost as if he was glad to have been captured, as if he considered hiding from the Germans … undignified. A true gentleman, even to the end.’
Vivien and I spoke of Oliver less and less as the days slipped past deliciously. We didn’t forget him, of course. But he’d drifted into the dead’s natural habitat of unvoiced memories and neither of us, I think, wanted to risk breaking the spell Capri had cast on us by recalling too often the supposed reason for our presence on the island.
That reason seemed more than a little ridiculous now, anyway. Francis obviously had no better idea than we had why and how Oliver had ended his life. I asked one day to see his famous mineral collection and he happily obliged. As I knew from Vivien’s description, it was housed in a large four-drawered cabinet in his study. He pulled the top drawer open and drew my attention to the zeta cipher straight away.
‘Can’t resist showing off my classical education, I’m afraid,’ he laughed. ‘Has Vivien told you she found the pig’s egg I gave Oliver in his bedroom at Nanstrassoe House?’
‘She mentioned it, yes,’ I replied nonchalantly.
‘I still don’t understand what he meant by that question he had you ask the first time we met, you know. That evening at the Carlyon Bay. You remember?’
I assured him I did. ‘Will you be wanting the pig’s egg back?’ I asked.
‘No, no. I have several. I keep only one sample of each mineral in this cabinet. The choicest examples.’
The specimens were carefully laid out and labelled. Quartz. Biotite. Muscovite. Tourmaline. Haematite. Limonite. Cassiterite. Luxullianite. And humble kaolinite – good old china clay. Fascinating stuff if you were interested in mineralogy or crystallography – which I wasn’t. I peered at the painstakingly mounted lumps of rock, but saw only lumps of rock.
‘The Duke of Wellington’s sarcophagus in St Paul’s is made of luxullianite, you know. The Victorians were very keen on it. Ah, there’s my pig’s egg.’ It was slightly larger and more finely formed than the one Oliver had left in my father’s car. But it bore the same telltale zeta. ‘Hard to know what all the fuss is about, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s not the most eye-catching piece in your collection, admittedly. Did Oliver choose a pig’s egg specifically? Or did you choose it for him?’
‘Er … I’m not absolutely sure.’ Francis’s memory seemed curiously fallible on the subject. ‘I believe … he chose it. Of course, I couldn’t offer him the pick of the whole collection. Quite a few of th
e specimens are unique.’
‘Are they all from Cornwall?’
‘By no means. This part of Italy has much to offer. I have a particularly fine example of vesuvianite, for instance. Here, let me show you.’
He slid the drawer shut and opened the next one down. More rocks met my gaze. I began to wish I hadn’t asked to see the collection in the first place. It had told me nothing.
It was a relief, in a way. I didn’t really want to turn up any clues to whatever Oliver had been trying to accomplish. I was in love with Vivien. I believed she was in love with me. We were good for each other. We were happy together. And our future looked brighter if her brother was left to rest in peace.
But that wasn’t for me to decide. As I was soon to find out.
FIFTEEN
THE FIRST STRAW in the wind was an announcement by Paolo one morning that there’d been an attempt to break into the villa during the night. Splintered paint and wood around the French windows that led from the drawing-room on to the rear terrace suggested someone had tried to force the doors open. There was also some trampled ground in the shrubbery near the part of the wall where the gradient of the alley on the other side made it easiest to climb over.
Francis pooh-poohed the idea, dismissing the evidence as inconclusive and advising us not to worry. Luisa followed his lead, albeit with less conviction. Paolo seemed miffed not to be taken seriously and did a lot of shrugging and muttering. I joked to Vivien that someone might be after Francis’s vesuvianite.
A couple of days passed without any further attempt and I for one forgot all about the incident. Then a morning came when Francis and Luisa headed out early, bound for Naples. Francis had a monthly appointment at a private clinic in the city with a cardiologist (‘He listens to my ticker and tells me it hasn’t stopped yet – money for old rope, of course, but it keeps Luisa happy’) and Luisa always used the occasion, she told us, to visit some favourite shops and remind herself there was a world beyond Capri. Paolo was also going to Naples, where apparently he had friends and relatives to catch up with. He drove them down to Marina Grande in the Alfa Romeo: the thrumbling note of its engine and the clanging of the gates as Paolo closed them were what woke me, though Vivien slept on peacefully beside me.
I dozed lightly for twenty minutes or so, then decided to surprise Vivien by bringing her breakfast in bed. Patrizia wasn’t in yet, so we were alone in the house. I threw on a dressing-gown and espadrilles and went downstairs.
I was halfway along the hall, ambling towards the kitchen, when I passed the open door of the drawing-room. I caught a blur of movement at the edge of my vision and swung round.
What I saw momentarily rooted me to the spot. There was a man outside on the terrace, crouching by the French windows, holding a crowbar. He was wearing a scruffy brown suit and trilby and had frozen in the act of attempting to prise the doors open. He’d seen me just as I’d seen him. And we recognized each other. Except that I could hardly believe the evidence of my eyes.
‘Strake,’ I gasped. I simply couldn’t credit it. But it was true. Gordon Strake was there, in front of me.
He moved first, jumping up and taking off across the lawn at a lope. I covered several yards after him across the drawing-room before I remembered the French windows were locked, then I turned and ran for the front door.
By the time I’d made it round to the lawn at the back of the house, Strake had vanished. I followed in the direction I’d seen him take. The lawn was bordered by ilex bushes, some as big as trees, with branches extending over the top of the boundary wall. There were enough bent and broken stems to suggest Strake had exited that way. I scrambled up on to one of the stouter branches and peered over the wall. There was a street-lamp bracket within reach that he’d probably used as a handhold. But there was no sign of him. He could have gone up the alley or down and I knew it forked a short distance ahead. Going after him would have been hopeless, even if I’d been wearing more than I was. I retreated to the house.
I woke Vivien with coffee and the full, perplexing story. She was understandably incredulous.
‘Strake? Here? That’s crazy.’
‘I agree. But it was him, Vivien, believe me. Without a shadow of a doubt.’
‘What can he possibly want?’
‘I don’t know. It beats me. Something in this house, though. That’s clear.’
‘But what?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe Francis knows. Strake did serve under him in the army.’
Vivien sat up suddenly, spilling some of her coffee into the saucer. ‘This is about Oliver, isn’t it?’
‘Whoa. We don’t—’
‘No, it is. Strake was following him. We only have his word for it that Oliver hired him. Maybe he was working for someone else.’
‘But who?’
‘Uncle Francis? Maybe that’s what Oliver was trying to tell us by planting the pig’s egg.’
‘Why would your uncle want to have Oliver followed? And why, if Strake was working for him then, would he be trying to break into his house now?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was something more than exasperation in the way Vivien looked at me then. There was a hint that she knew I wanted her to let the mystery of her brother’s death lie – and why. For a sickening moment I was afraid of losing her. Then she softened. ‘I just don’t know, Jonathan,’ she said, clasping my hand. ‘It’s inexplicable. But there is an explanation. There has to be.’
‘I agree. But how do we find it?’
‘Well, we tell Uncle Francis what happened this morning and see what he says. What else can we do?’
‘Nothing, I suppose. Meanwhile we’d better stay here. Strake might try again if he sees us leaving. He probably saw Paolo drive Francis and Luisa away and reckoned that left the house empty. We don’t want him thinking he’s got a second chance.’
‘You think he’s watching the house?’
‘It wouldn’t be easy without showing himself. But it’s possible, I guess. He’s a sly customer.’
‘Oh God.’ She put her cup down and gazed at me sadly. ‘I’ve felt so … carefree … this past week. And now …’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she sighed. ‘I only wish I knew whose fault it really was.’
I kept watch while Vivien took a bath. I’d opened several ground-floor windows by now – the house would have been an oven otherwise – but I didn’t expect Strake to return. He wouldn’t have fled in the first place if he’d been willing to tackle me. But the fact that he’d attempted to break in had sullied the tranquil atmosphere of the Villa Orchis. It was no longer the haven it had seemed.
Patrizia’s arrival restored a measure of normality. I didn’t tell her what had happened, partly because her English and my Italian just weren’t up to it and partly because her cheerfulness was so comforting. It pushed Strake and whatever sinister forces he represented back into the shadows.
Then the telephone rang. I left Patrizia to answer it. No one ever called me at the villa. But this time, it transpired, someone had.
‘Per te, Jonathan,’ she said, waggling the kitchen extension. ‘Per te.’
I took it in the drawing-room. My first thought was that it was Mum or Dad, checking to see all was well with their little boy. My first thought was wrong.
‘You gave me quite a fright, sonny. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘Strake?’
‘I reckon you and me can do each other a favour.’
‘I’m not doing you any kind of favour.’
‘You might change your mind when you hear what I’m offering.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘You know the Bar Due Mare, by the junction at the western end of town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meet me there at noon.’
‘Why? What—?’
But I was talking to myself. He’d hung up.
‘You have to go,’ said Vivien, when I told her what he’d said.
/> ‘It could be a trick, to lure me away from the villa.’
‘Gordon Strake doesn’t frighten me. I’m sure Patrizia would be more than a match for him, anyway. This is our chance to find out what’s going on, Jonathan. We have to take it.’
She was right, of course. I knew that. And so, apparently, did Strake.
He’d chosen, perhaps deliberately, just about the noisiest spot on the island. The roads to and from Marina Grande, Marina Piccola, Capri and Anacapri all met in the tight intersection at the very door of the Bar Due Mare, beneath the looming peaks of Monte Solaro and Monte Cappello. Lorries, buses, taxis, private cars and scooters contested the narrow junction, with a bus stop and a filling station adding to the congestion. Exhaust fumes swirled, horns blared, engines roared. It was the closest Capri could boast to Neapolitan mayhem.
Inside the Bar Due Mare wasn’t much more peaceful than outside. Vivien and I’d drunk a couple of thirst-quenching Cokes there one afternoon without feeling the least inclination to linger. Strake was waiting for me at a table in the corner, slurping a beer and dragging on a roll-up. He didn’t look like a tourist in his cheap suit and faded trilby and he didn’t look like a local either. He looked, in fact, exactly what he was: a man up to no good.
I bought a Coke and sat down next to him. ‘How do, sonny,’ he greeted me.
‘What are you doing here, Strake?’
‘It’s Mr Strake to you.’
He wasn’t going to get a mister out of me. I ignored the rebuke and reminded myself that this derelict china clay salesman was no tough guy, whatever he pretended. ‘Why were you trying to break into the villa?’
‘Why d’you think?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘No. ’Course you can’t. Well, it wasn’t to admire the nightingale’s taste in curtain tassels, I can tell you that.’
It took me a second or so to realize that by the nightingale he meant Luisa. The implication that he knew her was strangely disturbing. I decided it was time to assert myself – as best I could. ‘I’m willing to tell the police about you, Strake. OK? You should understand that.’
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