Death in Autumn

by Magdalen Nabb

  'There was a problem at the college,' she said finally.

  'Drugs?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did he run away?'

  'I've already told you he is travelling.'

  'Did he run away before the term ended? I can find out for myself,' he added to save the lawyer trouble, 'if you prefer it.'

  'He left shortly before the end of term, yes. He had important examinations. Unfortunately, he's always been highly strung.'

  'Apart from the problem of exams, was he unhappy?'

  'My grandson has always had every comfort and every consideration. And if I may be allowed to mention it, I'm here to see that my daughter-in-law's affairs are properly settled and the family's interests protected, not to discuss my grandson.'

  Which presumably meant that now Hilde Vogel was dead and had left some money behind her she had at last become part of the family.

  'Is there a will?' the Captain asked Heer.

  'Yes. She left everything to her son apart from a small legacy to a man named Querci. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about him but I imagine we'll be able to trace him.'

  'We know who he is,' was the Captain's only comment on that.

  'And if the boy leaves no heir, or if, for example, he didn't outlive his mother, was any provision made for that?'

  'I advised my client to make such a provision. Should the son have failed to outlive his mother, this man Querci was to inherit. The estate was not entailed and once the son inherited, any further decisions rested with him.'

  'Wouldn't a will like that be contested in the case of Querci's inheriting?'

  'It could be, by any close blood relative, but I understand that my client had none.'

  'Have you explained the situation to the Signora here?'

  'I have.'

  'If the boy inherited and died without making a will, would she inherit from him?'

  'Quite probably. As far as I know, there would be no other claimants.'

  'Have you also discussed that with her?'

  'We have discussed all possible contingencies, though that particular one was touched on only briefly.'

  'I see. Avvocato Heer, I have reason to believe that Christian Vogel died here in Florence before his mother, possibly from an overdose of drugs, though I have no proof of that. Unfortunately, the state in which the body was found will make his identification extremely difficult and also distressing. I'd be grateful if you would accompany the Signora when we take her to the Medico-Legal Institute.'

  'By all means.'

  'Thank you. Might I ask if you knew your client's father, the owner of the villa near Greve?'

  'Yes, I did. I acted for him when he bought the house. In fact, it was only through her inheriting the property that I came to have his daughter as a client.'

  'He left a will?'

  'No, he didn't. It was only on my insisting that he gave me her address as his next of kin. He was very careless about his affairs and, as far as I know, had no interest in his daughter.'

  'What did he live on?'

  'On the income from some shares which his daughter also inherited. It was very little and certainly not enough for the upkeep of a place the size of his. I imagine the place must have been neglected.'

  'You never saw it?'

  'No.'

  'How often did you see him?'

  'Very rarely.'

  'Did he take himself seriously as a painter, as far as you can judge?'

  'I couldn't say. I got the impression it was a certain way of life he was interested in. He never spoke about his painting much and I doubt if he ever made anything from it.'

  'When was the last time you saw him?'

  'He sent for me when he was taken into hospital. He was in a very bad condition and I understand his liver was irreparably damaged.'

  'He drank?'

  'Very heavily. I had last seen him some years previously when the ten year limit was up on the payment of conveyance taxes on the villa. He was already in bad shape then.'

  'And when he died you contacted his daughter?'

  'Yes. She was surprised at first to have inherited the villa, until I explained that there had simply been no will and she was his only relative. Apparently she had made considerable efforts to make peace with her father when she arrived here but had been firmly rebuffed.'

  But she'd never admitted it, the Captain mused, not to her mother-in-law to whom she had always given her father's address. Not even to Querci, to whom she had pretended he was dead.

  'I wonder, in that case, how she knew where to find him, given that he had no further contact with his family after walking out on them.'

  'She knew he was in Florence, or was fairly sure of it. The family had taken holidays here and he had always expressed a desire to live here. I gather she asked for help at the German Consulate and they got in touch with the Foreign Residents' Department at the Questura.'

  Had Christian had to go through the same procedure to find his mother? The Captain strongly suspected not.

  'Would you ask the Signora if her grandson, when informed about the money sent by his mother, asked for her address?'

  It was obvious that the question displeased her.

  'He did.'

  'Did you give it to him?'

  'I did not.'

  'But he could have got it from the bank?'

  'He could have done, yes.'

  'Did you quarrel about it?'

  'I've already pointed out that these questions regarding my grandson seem to me to be irrelevant.'

  'Unfortunately, Signora, I have reason to believe that your grandson did come here to find his mother. We have evidence that a boy named Christian was staying in her villa. The boy disappeared during the summer and a body was subsequently found which could well be his. If I have troubled you with so many questions it was only in an attempt to verify that possibility. Had you been able to tell me that your grandson was at home, alive and well, I would have been able to spare you the distressing business of trying to identify the body and clothing of the boy we found dead. I'm very sorry, Signora, but that's now going to be necessary.'

  Again that slight trembling of the lips.

  'I'm sure you're mistaken.'

  'I sincerely hope so.'

  'You must be mistaken. My grandson ... he would have had documents with him, his passport . . .'

  'No documents were found. It's possible that death was caused by an accidental overdose of heroin and that his papers would have been removed by his companions to avoid any involvement. I have already asked Avvocato Heer to accompany you when we go to the Medico-Legal Institute. Perhaps you should try to eat something first.'

  'No. This misunderstanding must be cleared up immediately . . . immediately. Wait . . . you said he disappeared in the summer?'

  'Yes. We only found the body recently.'

  'But that would mean—' Her face had reddened and her fists tightened around the black handbag on her knees.

  'I'm afraid it does mean that identifying him, even for you—'

  But she was interrupting, talking rapidly to the lawyer without giving him time to translate. When at last he managed to stop her he said:

  'She wants to know, if it is her grandson, whether he must have died before his mother.'

  Only then did the Captain begin to understand her reticence about the boy.

  'A month before.' He saw and understood her relief as she heard the translation.

  'Had he become violent?'

  'He had begun to demand money, a great deal of money.'

  'Did he threaten you in any way?'

  'He . . . stole from me. Despite all my efforts he . . . even my Chinese vases, they were my mother's and he knew, he knew how I valued them and he stole them because I'd refused him money. I was trying to help him and he stole the very things that . . . They weren't the most valuable things in the house. He did it to spite me and I was trying to help him. There was no one I could turn to, you see. No man in the house, no one
whose advice I could ask, and I'm an old woman, too old to know how to cope with a thing like that.'

  'You couldn't be expected to cope, Signora. He needed professional help.'

  'Professional help? Mainz is a small provincial city, Captain. If anyone had found out ... I wanted to protect him. I'd always tried to protect him.'

  'Did all this begin when he was eighteen? When you told him about his mother and the money?'

  'I .. . perhaps. I hadn't thought of it but it must have begun about then. Though he had always been difficult, secretive. I was wrong, then, to tell him. I've always tried to be fair, to do the honest thing, but in this world the dishonest people always come off best. If you knew what I've suffered in this past year! It was almost a relief when he went. I didn't know him any more, he'd become a stranger, almost a monster.'

  'Were you afraid of him?'

  She didn't answer at once. She was shaking her head as though wanting to deny it and her thin hands were fumbling at the clasp of her handbag. 'I beg your pardon.' She had got the bag open but seemed to have forgotten what she was looking for. Two big tears were rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, making pink runnels in the white powder.

  The Captain passed her a folded white handkerchief and she accepted it, dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose.

  'I just wanted him to be successful and happy, to have a clean respectable life like his father. You do understand?'

  'I understand. Signora, it would be very helpful if you would identify your daughter-in-law, but if it would be too distressing for you to look at the body of the boy we found we can establish whether or not it is your grandson through his dental records. It's what we would have done in any case had you not come to see me.'

  'But that would take time . . .' She was twisting the damp handkerchief between her fingers, forgetting to wipe the tears that continued to flow.

  'It would take time, yes.'

  'Then I'd rather know now, while I'm here. If you'll just give me a moment to pull myself together . . .'

  'Of course. Would you like to eat something before we go?'

  'I couldn't, no. I'd like a glass of water.'

  'I can have some brandy sent up if you'd prefer it.'

  She shook her head.

  The Captain rang for the water and then went next door. The Marshal was sitting, still and impassive. The boy, now bolt upright in his chair, looked frightened and agitated. Perhaps the telephone call to his home had made him more aware of the reality of his situation. When he saw the Captain he jumped to his feet.

  'You can't keep me here, you'll see. My father's arriving tomorrow!'

  The Captain ignored him, asking Guarnaccia, who stood up slowly, 'Has he eaten something?'

  'Coffee and a sandwich.'

  'Then let's go.'

  They drove out to the Medico-Legal Institute in two cars, the Marshal travelling in the second one with Sweeton. When they left the mild warmth of the broad sunlit piazza and began to climb the steps in the cold shadow of the big building the boy suddenly stopped.

  'You can't force me to go in there if I don't want to.' He said it, unthinkingly, in English. The Marshal, though he had understood anyway, said nothing. He simply blocked the boy's retreat with his much greater bulk and they moved forward again.

  The chilly, marble-floored entrance hall smelled depressingly of formaldehyde.

  'Keep him here for the moment.' The Captain indicated a shiny wooden bench. 'We'll deal with the identification of the woman first.' He went to speak to someone at the reception window and after a brief wait a porter led him off down a long corridor, followed by the old lady and the lawyer.

  'Sit down,' the Marshal said to Sweeton, but he himself remained standing, his big eyes on the boy who looked as sick as if he had already seen a corpse.

  The others weren't gone very long before the porter returned.

  'This way.'

  When they joined the group in the storage room it was discovered that there had been a mistake. The boy's body had been removed to the dissecting room on another floor. They were taken up by a different porter who told them, 'The Professor's starting work on it when he gets back from lunch.' They stepped out of the lift on a corridor where the smell was much stronger.

  'In here.'

  'Just a moment.' The Captain drew the man aside to speak to him. 'We think it may be this woman's grandson. If the body could be partly covered so that she doesn't see that the head . . .'

  'That's all right. I brought him up myself. The cover's still on. Do you want the clothes sending up? It will save you some time.'

  'Yes, if you can manage it.'

  'I'll just check that there's somebody here to look after you.'

  He opened the door of the dissecting room.

  The waiting group had barely had time to glimpse one corner of the dissecting trench straddling a trough in the centre of a tiled floor when John Sweeton doubled over as if about to vomit. He didn't vomit. Instead he swung round, butting the Marshal in the stomach, and fled down the corridor, his head still low.

  'I'll see to him.' The Marshal had foreseen his flight, if not the blow to his stomach, and had already checked where the staircase lay. The corridor was a dead end. He ran heavily after the boy, who skidded to a halt when he found no exit, turned to see the Marshal bearing down on him and crashed through a door on his left, slamming it behind him. There was a metallic clang followed by a splintering of glass on a tiled floor. When the Marshal reached the door he found it bolted on the inside.

  The porter joined him.

  'What's in there?' the Marshal asked him.

  'It's just a store room. It takes some people in funny ways. He'll likely calm down if you leave him be for a bit.'

  'He can't get out through there?'

  'It's just a store room. There's no window in there even.'

  'Leave me alone, I'll see to him.'

  'If you're sure you can manage.'

  'I'll see to him.' When he was alone the Marshal knocked softly on the locked door.

  'No!' the voice was hysterical and almost unrecognizable. 'You can't make me go in there.' You've no right!'

  'And you've no right to shut yourself in there,' replied the Marshal stolidly.

  'I'm staying in here as long as I want and you can't stop me!'

  'I can break the door down.'

  'You'll be sorry for this when my father gets here!' It was a child's voice saying childish things and the Marshal was pretty sure the boy was in tears.

  'Your father won't get here until tomorrow. Are you going to stay in there till tomorrow?'

  'I don't care what you say, I don't want to see him and you can't force me!'

  The porter reappeared by the Marshal's side. He was carrying some clothing wrapped in polythene bags.

  'You don't seem to be calming him down.'

  'I'm not trying to calm him down,' growled the Marshal.

  The porter left him.

  'Listen to me,' said the Marshal loudly, his mouth close to the door. 'If you go on behaving like this you'll find yourself in worse trouble than you're in already.'

  'I'm not in trouble! You can't prove anything and my father—'

  'I said listen to me! Nobody knows yet how that boy died but if you go on like this we'll have every reason to think that you had something to do with it.'

  'You're lying! You don't believe that, I had no reason to do it!'

  'And how should we know whether you had a reason or not? You're giving us a reason to arrest you and after that, father or no father, it's going to take us a long time to prove what you did or didn't do—and you won't find prison any more comfortable than where you are now.'

  When there was no answer the Marshal bumped his shoulder unhappily against the door which he had no intention of breaking down.

  'Get away!' the boy shrieked.

  'Open this door!'

  'Wait . . .' There was a scuffling noise, a crunching of glass, and the door opened slightly.

&nb
sp; Instead of letting the boy out the Marshal pushed his way inside and shut the door again.

  'What are you doing? Let me out of here!'

  'A minute ago you wanted to stay inside.'

  The room was dark except for a faint grey light coming from a ventilator connecting it with the one next door. The boy had backed into the far corner between wooden shelving full of glass bottles, some of which he had smashed when he blundered in there. The Marshal could feel a lot of broken glass underfoot and a gleaming metal bucket was overturned in the middle of the floor. The room stank of disinfectant.

  He took a step forward.

  'Get away from me!' The boy was holding one of his hands as though it was hurt but it was impossible to see in the gloom whether or not it was bleeding. The Marshal picked up the overturned bucket and put it to one side.

  'Don't come near me, I'm warning you—if you touch me . . .'

  'That's enough . . .' The boy's pale face was just visible. His staccato breathing was that of a distressed child exhausted by crying. The Marshal was distressed himself. The only answer to this boy's problems was to get him home to his parents and offdrugs. But he had already got himself in too deep for it to be that simple. It was too late, that was the trouble. It always was too late If he had spoken his mind that night before they arrested Querci . . . But Querci had done what he did and nobody could change that. You couldn't do much to help people when it came down to it, and on top of that they looked at you as though you were the villain, like this boy was doing now. It would soon be Querci's turn to look at him in the same way. Well, he had wanted to frighten the lad and now he had.

  The Marshal wasn't very good at the part he had decided to play and he stood there in the small dark room wondering what to do next. But the boy saw only the menacing bulk before him, its silence making it more menacing than ever.

  'If I tell you what happened to Christian . . .'

  The Marshal didn't trust himself to speak.

  'You won't touch me . . .?'

  'Tell me his name.'

  'His name? I don't know, I swear to you, I only saw him that one time.'