Property of Blood

by Magdalen Nabb

  ‘It’s nothing. I mean he’s not what you could really call ill. It’s migraine. He gets it when he’s under stress. He can’t stand light or noise so it’s no use trying to talk to him. I can tell you everything you need to know.’

  He noticed that she made no apology for having disappeared from his office when he’d asked her to wait. Perhaps she hadn’t understood and, in any case, though not reduced to a rag like her brother, it must be remembered that she must be equally upset. No doubt she had a stronger personality. She was certainly coping better.

  ‘Surely there’s something your brother could take for the pain?’

  ‘There is but it’s a really strong cocktail of painkillers and the doctor comes to inject him with it. The trouble is it knocks him out completely for about fifteen hours and so he won’t do it. He won’t leave the phone. He wants to stay awake, which is ridiculous since I’m here.’

  ‘Yes. But try and persuade him. There’s no point in either of you sitting by the phone. Nobody will contact you here because of your phone’s being tapped.’

  ‘The phone’s tapped? Already?’ Round and round went the diamonds, flashing bright as her feverish eyes.

  ‘I’d say it will be before the day’s out and, for all the kidnappers know, it could have been done days ago. That’s a very elegant desk set. Was it your father’s?’

  “Yes, and my grandfather’s before that. My father left it to me. You might expect he’d have left it to Leonardo but I was his particular favourite. All the furniture in here was my father’s. This was his room.’

  The Marshal could well imagine that the wife wouldn’t want it after what he’d put her through, but the daughter, according to Giorgio, had a sense of family duty. Now he knew why the whiteness of the drawing room was odd. A room in a Renaissance palazzo should look like this one, with furniture of the period. The other was clean-lined and very modern looking. Among the many expedients for her own survival as well as that of her two children, no doubt the sale of antique furniture had played a part. Poor woman, it must have been a long time before she could afford all that modern white stuff.

  ‘Signorina, it is most likely that your mother’s captors will make contact with you and your brother by having your mother write to you. The letter will almost certainly be sent to a close family friend—This man Patrick …?’

  ‘Hines. He’s flying in from London tomorrow evening. I’m picking him up from the airport.’

  ‘Yes. But would he normally be arriving now? Would your mother expect him to be here?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t to come over for the Milan show because there’s so much to do over there for the New York fashion week.’

  ‘She won’t write to him then. Her closest woman friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. She had a lot of friends but I was always telling her she never gave them any time because of being so taken up with her work. They invited her to lunches and on outings all the time but she never was very sociable. She practically wore a furrow between her office and the workrooms downstairs. I felt it couldn’t be good for her health to drive herself so hard. I don’t know which one she’d write to—and what if whoever it is gives the letter to Leonardo instead of me? Then we won’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I hope to have talked him round by then. In the meantime, there are two things you and he must do together—when he’s well enough: Think of three questions to which only your mother can know the answer. You’ll understand, I’m sure, that we have to know your mother is alive.’

  ‘She could be dead already, couldn’t she? That’s what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t distress yourself. It’s very unlikely. They know they have to furnish this proof so it’s in their interest to keep her alive and well at this stage.’

  In the hope of distracting her from the idea of her mother’s being already dead, he said: ‘That’s a beautiful photograph of you on the wall. They all are. We’ll soon have you relaxed and smiling like that again, you’ll see. Is this you on the horse?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t ride anymore. That photograph there in my ballet dress is my favourite. It was taken last year. I had to give up dancing because of the demands of university.’

  ‘It’s a very striking picture of you. Signed, too, I see.’

  “Yes. By the photographer. Gianni Taccola’s very well known in Florence. He used a set of photographs of me in an exhibition of his and gave me this one as a present. He used the word you used—striking—and he said it was lucky I had no ambitions to be a model like Olivia because nobody would use me. People would notice me instead of the clothes. A model has to be quite good-looking but she’s got to be a mobile coat hanger more than anything. I did a litde modelling to help Olivia out but I really didn’t care for it—We can’t manage! We won’t be able to manage without her!’

  ‘No, no, no. You won’t have to manage without her. We’ll bring her home. Try and keep calm now. You’ve been doing so well and we’re going to need your help.’ So much for trying to distract her. ‘And now I need you to give me a piece of her clothing, something worn rather than laundered. Will you do that?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She rose and went towards the bed head, where she pressed a bell. After a moment, the Filipino maid tapped and came in.

  ‘Yes, Signorina,’ she said, sniffing loudly. Her cheeks were still wet and she made no effort to control or conceal her weeping.

  ‘Take the Marshal to my mother’s room and give him what he asks you for.’

  The Marshal frowned. ‘It might be better if you came, too.’

  ‘I want to see how Leo is.’

  ‘Of course …’

  There was nothing to do but follow the weeping maid, who led him to the end of a polished dark red corridor and up two grey stone steps into the end bedroom. As he expected, it was a room full of light and air. Here, too, there were photographs, a wall almost entirely covered with them, in silver frames and all of them of Leonardo and Caterina. There was one of the two of them together as small children. The Marshal examined it closely. He had never in his life seen such beautiful children. It was little wonder the Contessa had had them photographed so often. A black-and-white enlargement stood out among all the colour. The daughter in a gauzy ballet frock, her slippers and coiled plaits of hair shining, the rest as insubstantial as a shadow. It couldn’t have been taken that long ago, either.

  ‘Is the signorina a dancer?’

  ‘Long time she is dance. Stop now. Must study exams. University.’ The maid pulled a face through her tears.

  ‘Yes, it’s a shame,’ he agreed, looking once more at the lovely photograph, ‘but, of course, these days all young people need qualifications …’

  The maid, if she had understood him, didn’t answer.

  The winter sun shone in between high muslin swags, and the big, new bed had a pale, silky cover. Perhaps the smooth emptiness of that bed so long unslept in was too much for the maid, because she burst into even louder howls.

  ‘My signora! My signora! Oh, what will happen to me now?’

  She was so small that, with her short, straight hair, she seemed more a little girl than the young woman she must surely be, and the Marshal automatically placed a comforting hand on her head and stroked it.

  ‘Come on now, come on. It’s going to be all right.’ He had enough experience with such things to check at once. ‘You’re not worried about your documents and so on, are you? If you are, I can try—’

  ‘No!’ She all but screamed at him. ‘My signora do everything for me and do my work permit. Everything! I cries for my signora because they kill her!’

  ‘No, no … We’re going to bring her home. Now listen to me: We have special dogs who will help us find your signora and you must help the dogs by giving me a piece of clothing for them. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Signor.’

  ‘Something the dogs can sniff at and then … do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Signor.
’

  The Marshal sighed. He understood that she would answer Yes, Signor’ if he asked her to jump out of the window and would then continue to stand rooted to the spot as she was doing now. He also understood that this sort of thing was why his Captain had sent him here. He’d try once more and if he failed, he’d try and send her to fetch the daughter back.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Silvia, Signor.’

  He gave her his big white handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you, Signor.’

  ‘Unfold it. Dry your eyes.’

  ‘Yes, Signor.’ She doubled it up, put it in her overall pocket, and dried her eyes with her hand and sleeve.

  ‘Now then, Silvia, your signora’s clothes. Clothes …’ He looked around him but there wasn’t a scrap of clothing in sight.

  Silvia opened one of a long line of gold-and-white wardrobe doors. This was progress.

  ‘My signora hundreds of clothes,’ she wept proudly. ‘Hundreds …’ She went on opening and suddenly yanked out something long, frothy, and very transparent.

  ‘This one when Mister Patrick come from States. My signora very sexy for Mister Patrick—oh, my signora…’ She collapsed in tears again, remembering reality. The transparent frothy thing fell from her small hands.

  The Marshal picked it up. It was obviously freshly laundered and of no real use to him.

  ‘Laundry,’ he said, getting a grip on her shoulder. ‘Where is your signora’s laundry? Her washing?’ She had probably washed every scrap after ten days. She looked unhappy about it but led him into the bathroom, all white and gold and very large.

  A laundry basket! He opened it without much hope but a couple of lacy scraps of underwear lay at the bottom. He helped himself.

  Silvia was horrified and a crescendo of “My signoras” followed him as he returned to the bedroom, slipping the underwear into a polythene bag from his pocket. He felt almost as bad about it as she did. A total stranger pawing her signora’s intimate clothing—unwashed intimate clothing—with his big clumsy hands! He was glad to get away from her tears and squeaks of protest and find his own way back to the white drawing room.

  Leonardo was talking very quiedy into the phone, his free hand holding his forehead. His sister was perched on the arm of the sofa beside him.

  ‘All right. I’ll come down.’ He hung up.

  ‘Leo, you can’t possibly. It’s ridiculous! I’ll go down.’

  But he picked up his jacket and put it on cautiously as if any sudden movement would increase his pain. He stroked her arm gently, calming her. ‘They need me. I’ll be all right.’ He got to his feet and, seeing the Marshal, said, ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Please don’t worry. I can see you’re in no fit state to talk to me. I’ll come back when you’re better—but, excuse me, surely your sister’s right. You can’t be thinking of going anywhere?’

  ‘Only down to the workroom. Otherwise they can’t get on. Will you walk down with me?’

  ‘Of course.’ If only because he’d probably need to hold him up. The Marshal had never seen anyone look that ill and be on their feet. Yet he started, albeit unsteadily, down the broad staircase.

  ‘Don’t you want the lift?’

  ‘Sorry. The noise, movement… I can’t.’

  They made it down the stairs but as they crossed by the fountain the young man stopped, swaying. The Marshal steadied him.

  ‘My mother… oh, God, I don’t know anymore what’s best…’

  ‘It will be all right. If you’ll let me talk to you. If you’ll trust me.’

  But the Marshal realized he was talking to himself. The young man’s deep-set eyes were blank. He could no longer hear or move.

  ‘Help me …’

  ‘I’m here to help you, believe me—’

  ‘No. Ambulance.’ He doubled up to vomit into the grass and in silence laid himself down very carefully on the broad stone ledge of the fountain.

  ‘And how is he now? Have you heard? Open that flask, Salva, will you, since you’re standing there.’

  Teresa passed him the bottle opener and the Marshal grasped the neck of the straw flask. T rang the hospital just before I shut the office. They say he’s out cold and will be until tomorrow.’

  ‘Poor thing. I never heard of migraine being that bad.’

  ‘He was blind when the ambulance men got there and had no feeling in his hands or feet. They thought it was something worse but, luckily, his sister had explained to me.’

  ‘What’s she like? Get out of my way, Salva, I want to get to the sink. Is she beautiful like her mother?’

  ‘Sort of beautiful, but different.’

  ‘What did you say her name was?’

  ‘I didn’t. I can’t remember. Do you remember the Contessa then? You were still living down home in the days when the fashion shows were here.’

  ‘Seen her at the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, don’t panic. I haven’t been spending your entire salaiy on the sort of hairdresser she must go to. No, in the magazines—one in particular, I remember, did a big feature on her, a sort of famous people at home thing, you know. I remember one photo of her dressed in beige cashmere, very casual, and a little dog curled up beside her on a white linen sofa in a room that was all white. I remember thinking two things: one was that she must be older than me and yet she looked like a model, just perfect.’

  ‘She was a model once.’

  ‘And then I thought I can just imagine what our two would do to that white room. Call them, will you? It’s ready.’

  First thing next morning the Marshal called the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital from his office. Leonardo Brunamonti, they told him, was still sleeping but would probably be awake for the doctors’ rounds at eleven after which he would leave. The Marshal decided to be there with the excuse of driving him home and that, in the interest of privacy, he would go in his own car so as not to take a driver.

  If the young man was surprised to see him, he was not nearly as surprised as the Marshal.

  ‘I wouldn’t have known you.’

  ‘I’m all right now. Once I’ve slept, it’s all over.’ The cadaverous creature of the day before was now a handsome young man with large greenish brown eyes, and if his expression was still troubled it was also alive with sincere gratitude. ‘I ought to knock myself out the minute my vision starts going, before the headache even begins, but I couldn’t… you understand.’

  ‘Of course. It’s too late now but, as I told your sister, your vigil was pointless. Nobody will ring. My car’s right here. I hope I wasn’t taking a liberty, coming for you like this, but I’d like to talk to you …’

  ‘I’m glad you came. The truth is, it was Patrick—Patrick Hines—who really insisted on our going it alone. He’s American and doesn’t trust the authorities here. Excuse my saying so but—’

  ‘Don’t worry. It happens.’

  ‘His feeling is, you see, that a private detective would be working only in our interests but that your first priority is arresting the kidnappers.’

  ‘It’s true in part,’ admitted the Marshal, ‘but you can’t imagine we’d consider a case successful if we lost the victim.’

  ‘No, but you’d maybe take more risks …’

  ‘When you meet Captain Maestrangelo you will not be able to imagine him taking a risk. Oh, nobody’s going to object to your bringing in your man as long as he collaborates with us. Can I just ask you to talk to the Captain and the Prosecutor first? Does that seem reasonable?’

  ‘More than reasonable. To tell you the truth, it’s a relief to me. I don’t see how we could have managed alone.’

  ‘You couldn’t. Nobody can. If you’ve seen cases where they appeared to, it is only an appearance.’

  ‘I suppose so. Can I ask you a favour? Would you stop a moment? I haven’t had a breath of air for ten days and when I get back I’ll have to go straight to the workroom. I don’t want to waste your time …’

  “Y
ou won’t be.’ He might have recovered from his headache but he was still too distressed and distracted to notice that the Marshal had taken a very long route, climbing the Viale Michelangelo although he was permitted to drive through the centre of town. He felt he had Leonardo Brunamonti’s full attention and couldn’t be sure he would keep it once this Hines fellow appeared on the scene. He parked below the statue of David and they got out of the heated and sun-warmed car to gasp at the icy blast that hit them.

  They walked along by the marble balustrade in silence. Below them was spread a tapestry of red roofs and glittering white marble, and the river, smooth and full, was a deep olive green. Huge, brightly coloured tour buses were parked in the piazza and tourists leaned on the balustrade to steady their cameras, the wind flattening their furs and reddening their noses.

  The Marshal pursued his usual policy of interrogation. That is, he kept quiet. Leonardo breathed deeply for a while and then his gaze drifted up to the right and the dark snow-speckled hills on the horizon.

  ‘She hates the cold … She was always telling us about her first years here, how she suffered from chilblains and had no idea what they were—you can imagine, coming from California. It’s the floors—stone, marble. In America the houses are carpeted … They’ll keep her somewhere sheltered, won’t they?’

  The Marshal avoided his earnest gaze. ‘It’s in their own interests to keep her alive and well. They have to prove it. You’ll hear from her before long.’

  ‘It’s just that—I’ve never followed these things that closely but I’ve heard of people kept in holes—Hear from her? They’ll let her write or something?’

  ‘Write, yes …’ He didn’t correct the ‘let’. His eyes, too, were drawn towards the northern hills, their sharp contrasts softened by his sunglasses. Dark, inhospitable hills. Some people thought them beautiful, going on about wild orchids and asparagus, impenetrable woods full of boletus mushrooms weighing kilos, truffles and bristling pigs. Such vast, savage landscapes, such picturesque flocks of sheep, such coolness in midsummer.