by Mark Mills
He felt oddly calm as he edged his way through the gap in the high yew hedge. In fact, it was the first time he had ever entered the memorial garden free of any apprehension or disquiet, he realized. Maybe it was the pain racking his body. It was certainly the closest thing he had ever experienced to what she must have felt at the end.
Whatever curious affinity he had cooked up for himself and Flora, she was having none of it.
She offered no solace, just a blank and stony stare.
He told himself not to lose heart. She had done this to him before, rebuffing his advances, then allowing him close. Antonella and Harry had both sensed it in her—she liked to tease. She was exactly as Federico had cast her in stone all those centuries ago.
He walked the circuit slowly, aware that it was the last time he would ever do so. He waited and hoped. In vain. Half an hour later he found himself back at the amphitheater, dejected, rejected, his final tour complete.
He ran his fingers over the inscription on the stone bench: anima fit sedendo et quiescendo prudentior. The Soul in Repose Grows Wiser. Yet another clue left by Federico Docci. How many had he left in all? Just the right amount for his crime to go undetected for almost four hundred years. It was an impressive piece of judgment on Federico's part—worthy of admiration, even—and it was easy to picture Federico applying the same rigorous subtlety to the murders themselves. Why else had he not been brought to account? He saw Federico nursing his ailing wife till the bitter end, the distraught husband, perfectly in character. And he saw Maurizio, the distraught brother, squeezing out a tear to deflect the suspicions of a stranger.
That's how good you had to be to get away with it.
He was alert now, in the grip of a new clarity, the implacable logic tightening around him.
Maurizio knew for a fact that Adam had visited the top floor, because Maria had told him so. He might well have assumed, therefore, that Adam had discovered the bullet hole in the wooden boards and that he'd recognized it for what it was—the linchpin of a case against Maurizio. All Maurizio had to do was remove the pin and the wheel would fall off.
Maurizio was still in character, playing a role. Short of killing Adam, what else could he do other than talk his way out of suspicion? There was to be no confession, not even the slightest admission of guilt.
An innocent man would not have shown up for dinner. Offended by the wild accusations leveled at him, he would have snubbed Adam on his last night at Villa Docci.
Adam waited, baited his hook, and when an opportunity presented itself, made a last desperate cast. This he did in the cellar, where Maurizio had gone to select the wine for the meal, and where Adam joined him moments later.
"I'm sorry."
Maurizio turned. "Yes, you said."
"I just have one more question, though."
"Don't do this."
"What happened to the gun?"
"What gun?"
"Emilio's gun."
"My father destroyed it."
"Really?"
"That's what he said."
"Did you see him do it?"
He wasn't afraid to push; a guilty man couldn't afford to push back. And Maurizio didn't. He examined the label of a dusty bottle and made for the door. "I think we should join my mother," he said flatly.
"She knows what he did with the gun. And with the bullets he took from the body."
An innocent man would have carried on walking, not stopped and turned at the door.
"That's right, he had the bullets removed. They're behind the plaque in the chapel—Emilio's plaque—along with the gun. Your father put them there. Your mother thinks it was the act of a man losing his mind. I think he knew. I think he worked out what happened up there."
Maurizio's eyes were impossible to read, sunk in two pools of shadow cast by the bare overhead bulb.
"You say you did nothing. He did nothing. Not then. But he did leave clues. And he did leave proof—ballistic proof that Emilio was shot with his own gun." He paused. "If you don't believe me, ask your mother."
"Oh I believe you," said Maurizio evenly. "If she told you they are there, they are there. But why do I care? I don't. I only care that you leave this place."
Dinner, inevitably, was a living hell. The worst thing was the abrupt farewell with Antonella, who clearly wanted to make more of their last evening together. What could he do, though? He had no choice. The moment Maurizio excused himself and headed back to the house by the farm, he too was obliged to call it a night. It wasn't hard using his injuries as an excuse, but it was hard enacting an emotional farewell with Antonella when his mind was on other matters altogether.
They kissed by her car, resolved to write to each other, and that was it—she was gone.
HE HAS TO COME. HE HAS TO COME.
It was an annoying and persistent little mantra. He would shake it out of his head only for it to barge its way back in again a few minutes later.
After fighting it for three hours, he wasn't just bored, he was exhausted. And hurting. The aspirins were wearing off. It didn't help that he was hunched in a tight recess at the back of the altar.
He unfolded himself from his hiding place and lay flat on the stone floor, arms at his side. It struck him that he was not alone, that both Flora and Emilio lay close by, stretched out in exactly the same fashion, and it gave him comfort.
He stared at the roof, barely discernible in the faint light from the lone candle on the altar—just a dim mesh of beams and crossbeams. He imagined it being built, men high overhead on wooden scaffolds, hammering the structure into being, the blue vault of a summer sky above them.
He closed his eyes, picturing it, and felt himself drifting off to sleep. He snapped upright, shunted himself back beneath the altar, huddling on his haunches, knees against his chest.
He has to come. He has to come.
Maybe he's already been, then gone away. Maybe he saw the ladder lying on the ground against the wall of the chapel, the one pushed over by Adam after he'd clambered through the window. It had been an awkward maneuver, but a necessary one, Maurizio being unlikely to enter the chapel unless the door was locked from the outside, the key safely beneath its rock.
Christ, he wanted a cigarette. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone so many waking hours without one. There was that production of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler at the Cambridge Arts Theatre, over three hours of excruciating student overacting unbroken by an interval, although the blond girl from Newnham playing Hedda had been very easy on the eye. What was her name again? She had a brother at Corpus Christi with a claret-stain birthmark on his neck . . .
He was awakened by a rasping noise. He recognized it immediately as the mechanism of an old lock groaning in protest. He stiffened, straining his ears. He heard the creak of hinges. And then whispers.
He hadn't come alone! He'd brought someone with him. Or something. Something shuffling, scampering. A dog padding around, getting its bearings, sniffing out the dog-history of the place. Not good. Bad.
A male voice hissed a command, calling the animal to heel. But for how long? A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, making a quick sweep of the interior, casting the shadow of the altar against the back wall.
Adam cowered. He hadn't entered the chapel through the door, so there was no scent for the dog to pick up on, not unless it went wandering. He knew the dog—a collie with a bunch of other stuff thrown in, young and skittish, but hardly an attack dog. He could remember being pleasantly surprised that Maurizio and Chiara didn't feel the need for a pedigree animal.
Another sound now, off to his left. A bag of tools being laid on the ground. A hand rummaging inside. Then silence. Followed by a scraping noise. Maurizio working away at the join around the plaque. Best to wait awhile before surprising him.
The dog had other ideas.
He didn't see it until it appeared right in front of him, wagging its tail and panting. Good game, but I found you, it seemed to be saying.
He tried to push
it away. It licked his hand and let out a small yelp.
"Ugo."
Definitely Maurizio's voice.
Ugo gave a couple of merry barks and the flashlight beam swung around to the altar.
Adam cut his losses and crawled out from his hiding place, squinting into the light. He turned on his own flashlight and fired it at Maurizio's face, blinding him back. After a moment's standoff, they both lowered their beams toward the floor.
Adam stroked Ugo's head, a gesture intended to give the impression that he was relaxed and in control. Maurizio's body was braced as if for a fight, his face as pale as ashes. The screwdriver in his hand looked far from innocent.
"Why are you here?" he asked darkly.
"I don't know."
"Why?" insisted Maurizio.
"I didn't have a choice. I had to find out."
Maurizio turned suddenly and used the screwdriver to prize the plaque free of the wall. His torch revealed nothing behind other than bare, raw stone. There was certainly no gun, and no bullets.
"Very clever," muttered Maurizio. "Very clever."
Instinct told Adam to keep his own confusion to himself. Where the hell was the gun?
Maurizio sat himself down on the end of a pew. There was something defeated about his body language that Adam found hard to square with the man, so he kept his distance.
"Well, now you know."
"Why?" asked Adam. "He was your brother."
"It happened. I don't have to explain to you."
"Because of all of this ... a house, some land?" He wanted to believe that something else had played a part—a clash of ideologies, anything other than simple greed.
"But you made sure. With his own gun?"
Maurizio didn't reply; he stared at his hands, as if they alone had been to blame for his actions.
"Where was Gaetano?"
"He arrived as the Germans were leaving. He was coming upstairs when he heard the shots." Maurizio raised his head and added flatly, "There's nothing you can do."
"I can tell your mother."
"Yes. And she will do nothing."
"How do you know?"
"Because I won't permit her to."
"Oh really?" scoffed Adam.
A slyness crept into Maurizio's smile. "You're an intelligent boy—work it out."
Even in the half-light Adam could make out the cold and creeping cunning in his eyes. Maurizio seemed to be saying he was ready to add matricide to fratricide, if that's what the situation called for.
"It's your decision."
Ugo's sudden bark sounded like a triumphant cry, applause for the brilliance of his master's devilish strategy.
"Zitto," spat Maurizio. But Ugo had no intention of remaining silent. He barked again, bounding toward the door of the chapel.
Maurizio moved with impressive speed, but the door still swung open before he got there.
Maria stepped into the chapel, shielding her eyes from the glare of Maurizio's flashlight.
"Maria ..."
Maria pulled the door shut behind her, her face set in stone. "I heard everything."
Maurizio's eyes flicked back and forth between her and Adam, searching for a connection. Adam could have told him there was none, if Maurizio hadn't figured it out for himself.
"What are you doing here?"
"Listening."
"Who for? My mother?"
Maria didn't reply, but her silence seemed to speak to Maurizio.
"Who, then?" he asked. "Antonella?"
Again, Adam saw nothing in Maria's face that constituted an answer. Maurizio clearly knew how to read her better. "Of course ... she knows it will come to her if I don't get it," he said, his tone suggesting that the pieces were now falling into place for him.
Adam, on the other hand, was struggling to keep up, his mind reeling, trying to process the information.
He gave up the fight when Maurizio added, "Whatever she's giving you, I'll give you more." "She's giving me a lot."
"It's nothing."
Maria took her time before replying. "I want a house of my own. Not an apartment. And I want money."
"How much?"
"Enough so I don't ever have to worry again."
"It's yours," said Maurizio.
Adam didn't intend to speak. The English words just exited his mouth. "Maria, what are you doing?"
She glanced at him, her expression ashamed but resolute. "What about him?" she asked Maurizio.
"What can he do? He's leaving tomorrow. He already knows he has no choice."
Maria nodded again and made for the door.
"Maria . . ." pleaded Adam.
She stopped and turned. "What? Who are you? What do you know? You know nothing." She thrust a finger toward the villa. "All my life my father worked for her, and what did he get? Nothing. What will I get? Nothing. That is the way it is. All I want is to die beneath my own roof and pay for my own funeral. Is that so much to ask? Well, is it!?"
Maurizio made a calming gesture with his hands.
"Who are you?" Maria went on. "You're a child. You know nothing."
In the silence that followed her departure, Adam reached out a hand to steady himself against a pew. It wasn't enough. He had to sit down.
Maria was right. He knew nothing. He was entirely out of his depth. He looked up to see Maurizio standing over him, nothing triumphant in his look, just a quiet certainty.
They left the chapel together. Maurizio locked the door and placed the key in his pocket. He raised his face toward the stars, then turned his gaze on Adam. "I mean what I said about my mother. It's your decision."
Sleep was out of the question. He didn't even try. He sat on the terrace and chain-smoked. Bewilderment and an overwhelming sense of his own naïveté battled for possession of his head. He was unable to absorb what he'd witnessed. He knew there had been a trade—Maria had sold her silence for a hefty price—but what was all the talk of Antonella?
She knows it will come to her if I don't get it.
He hadn't misunderstood Maurizio's words. Or Maria's response to them. He ran their exchange over and over in his head— feverishly testing it, challenging it—until the creeping dawn light had dimmed all but the brightest stars. Then he got to his feet.
Nearing the farmhouse, he stopped briefly to admire the new sun stretching its pale fingers over the hills. If he hadn't delayed for that moment, he would have been walking across the yard, caught in the open, when the door at the top of the outside staircase swung open and Fausto stepped from the farmhouse.
Adam dipped out of sight behind the corner of the barn. Fausto! It wasn't possible. He resisted the urge to check, certain that his eyes hadn't deceived him, wishing that they had. What was Fausto doing creeping from Antonella's house at dawn?
He hurried around the back of the barn. From the corner of the farm buildings he had a broken view through a cluster of cypresses on the track leading to San Casciano. Fausto passed along it, grave and pensive, slightly stooped. Adam followed, sticking to the trees.
Fearing detection, he was obliged to fall behind when Fausto reached the outskirts of San Casciano. Twice he almost lost him in the labyrinth of streets. The third time, he did lose him, but by then he had a pretty clear idea of where Fausto was headed.
The Pensione Amorini wasn't yet open for business. The shuttered windows of the ground floor allowed him to skirt the building undetected. He slipped into the back garden through the door in the stone wall. The kitchen was at the rear of the building, its windows giving directly onto the garden.
He could hear voices and the clatter of crockery. Peering cautiously around the window frame, he saw Signora Fanelli loading up a tray with plates and bowls. Her back was to Adam, which meant he had a clear view of Fausto's left hand resting lightly on her arse. Signora Fanelli turned her head and kissed Fausto briefly on the lips.
He walked to the bar in the Piazza Cavour as if in a trance. His head throbbed, his ribs pulsed with pain, and he was jittery f
rom lack of sleep. Unsurprisingly, the coffee didn't help.
He picked over the evidence of his own eyes, desperate to find fault with it. He couldn't. Antonella had claimed not to know Fausto, yet she clearly did know him. Signora Fanelli and Fausto's relationship had appeared to be one of vague acquaintance, yet there was obviously much more to it than that.
Slowly, strand by sticky strand, the web they had spun to ensnare him came into focus. He couldn't see all of it, but he could see enough of it. Fausto was the key. It was Fausto who had first fired his suspicions about Maurizio with an apparently throwaway comment two weeks before. Fausto had backtracked, yes, but just enough to remove suspicion from himself while keeping Adam's interest alive. La Capannina in Viareggio had come from Fausto, just as the key to the top-floor rooms had come from Antonella. Christ, she had played it well, refusing him once before offering it up. And why had she offered herself up to him at the thermal spring? Because she thought he was leaving the next day? Because his work wasn't done yet, and she needed him to stay? The answer was obvious, impossible to ignore.
Maria too had played her part, fueling tensions with Maurizio, raising the temperature. There had been no need to tell Maurizio about Adam's visit to the top-floor rooms, but she had done so. According to Signora Docci, it had also been Maria's idea that Adam wear Emilio's dinner jacket to the party, the cause of yet more antagonism with Maurizio.
The evidence stacked up by itself. Almost every memory he turned to supported the case against them. Even his seduction by Signora Fanelli could be made to fit, and he felt sick to the pit of his stomach when he thought about it. He had been guided and steered since his very first night in San Casciano.
But why him? He had figured it out by the time he'd drained another cup of coffee.
Maurizio needed to be exposed, dethroned, if Villa Docci was to pass down Antonella's branch of the family. She had evidently set her heart on the place, but all she had to work with were her suspicions about Maurizio's involvement in Emilio's death. She also knew that Maurizio was far too wary to fall into a trap laid directly by her. So she'd used a puppet. She had pulled the strings and Adam had danced. And everything had gone according to plan until the very last moment.
