by James Runcie
‘But I suppose he might know someone who does. With his contacts – he must know quite a few people after all his investigations.’
‘He does,’ Sidney’s best friend replied. ‘Which is why he is so clear about the differences between right and wrong; good behaviour and bad.’
Hildegard tried to calm her anxiety by taking Anna to the antique carousel in Piazza della Repubblica and the children’s museum in the Palazzo Vecchio. Francesca’s mother had also offered to teach them how to make pasta. It was important to keep active, even if Anna found the excursions tiring and kept complaining that she was either too hot or feeling cold. The solution, her mother found, was to keep stopping either for ice cream or hot chocolate. It was an expensive way of going about things but it was preferable to being cooped up at the vicarage with nothing but worry.
Meanwhile Sidney was questioned by Inspector Luigi del Pirlo in the offices of the carabinieri in the Pitti Palace. Lydia Huxley from the British Institute acted as translator.
The inspector asked why Sidney was in Florence, how much he knew about painting, and why anyone would want to remove the portrait of Battista Sforza.
‘I didn’t take any painting.’
‘You were seen with it.’
‘That is true.’
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did you like it?’
Sidney was now distinctly bolshie. ‘I admired it. But I don’t need such a painting. I don’t want one. Why would I steal it?’
‘That is what we need to decide.’
‘The whole situation is ridiculous.’
‘Life is absurd. You were wearing a cloak.’
‘I don’t think that is a crime.’
‘Are you a Communist?’
‘No, of course not. Why do you ask?’
Before marrying Hildegard Sidney had been arrested and interviewed by the Stasi on suspicion of being a spy and so to be accused now of something as minor as theft was petty in comparison, but the humiliation rankled. He remembered Leonard Graham telling him that Tolstoy believed time and patience were the strongest of all warriors. Although he was not sure that he agreed with the sentiment, he did not have much choice.
‘Communism is very popular in Italy,’ the inspector continued. ‘They believe everything should be shared. They are like Christians without faith in God.’
‘You are not a Communist yourself?’ Sidney replied, wishing that Keating was with him.
‘I am apolitical. I only have opinions about crime.’
‘And could they, like the politics of certain people, sometimes be mistaken?’
‘I’m the man asking the questions.’
‘And am I allowed to ask any myself, Inspector del Pirlo?’
‘If they are interesting. If, for example, they are about the case, and who might be responsible for the theft.’
‘I am not so sure about that.’
‘Then please, Canon Chambers, desist while I get on with my job.’
That evening Hildegard begged Francesca to intervene. The housekeeper agreed to talk to her brother. ‘He knows people.’
‘You mean he can stop this?’
‘He may need money.’
‘We don’t have any money.’
‘But your friend has.’
‘Amanda?’
Francesca nodded.
‘Does everyone know that?’
‘Some people. She dresses well. She has talked to the director of the Uffizi. She makes an impression. It is easy to see she is rich.’
Hildegard began to realise what was going on. ‘You mean this is a trick to make money? That Sidney’s been framed knowing that Amanda will bail him out?’
‘I don’t know. In my country some people want money all the time. It’s not so nice.’
‘It’s never nice.’
Francesca lit a cigarette. ‘You will need cash,’ she said.
The director was busy. No one could say where he was. Amanda knew that this was nonsense. She walked up the main marble staircase, through the galleries, along the Vasari Corridor, down the far stairs, past the conservation workshop and into a small library. On her last visit Alfredo Verga had unwisely confided that this was where he retreated in times of difficulty. He had said so almost flirtatiously. Amanda had resisted the opportunity of making an inappropriate assignation while remembering the location.
Not that she was expecting any special treatment now.
She spoke in Italian and surprised the director by immediately suggesting that the theft was an inside job masterminded by Nico Tardelli, who was now being protected by the carabinieri and, most likely, the machinations of his daughter.
‘But anyone who knows about art would have taken both paintings. They are a pair. Signor Tardelli would not be so incompetent.’
‘Perhaps it was an act of opportunism.’
‘Then how can they all be in it together? If one man suddenly decided . . .’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You see why it is more likely to be your friend? Is he really a priest?’
‘Of course he is.’
‘It would be a good disguise. A priest can go anywhere. He has the key to many doors and no one notices his movements.’
‘He’s not like that at all.’
‘Then why is Canon Chambers being so evasive?’
‘How do you know that is the case?’
‘I am kept informed. That is all.’
‘Keeping quiet is unlike him, I must say. Sidney is not short on opinion.’
‘Then perhaps a little imprisonment might do him some good.’
‘I can’t let you talk like this. What have you done with the companion portrait of Federico da Montefeltro?’
‘It is locked away. I made sure that we did so as soon as we discovered that Battista Sforza had been taken.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘This is not a good time; with all the damage . . .’
‘Please, Alfredo, for old times’ sake.’
‘I cannot remember any old times. Certainly not any good ones.’
‘That is ungallant.’
‘I will make it up to you.’
They retraced their steps back along the corridor, through the conservation workshop and into a temperature-controlled storage facility protected from all elements. Entering the room was like pulling back the steel gates of an enlarged prison cell.
‘It is here,’ the director announced. ‘I think someone has wrapped it in paper for extra protection. That is unusual.’
‘Do you mind opening it?’
‘I do not have anything to cut the string.’
‘Then let me.’ Amanda reached into her handbag, produced a pair of nail scissors, and unwrapped a decorated Florentine tray.
The director was horrified. ‘What is this? The painting was here. I left it safely. Someone must have moved it.’
‘Or taken it.’
‘I will fetch Nico. This is impossible.’
‘It seems not,’ Amanda replied. ‘And it would be even more impossible for my friend Sidney Chambers to have taken it considering the fact that he is already in police custody. Will you please telephone the carabinieri and drop your ridiculous charges?’
Alfredo Verga was having difficulty concentrating. ‘That is not the most important thing.’
‘It is for me.’
‘We must get help.’
‘I will help you and,’ Amanda added, ‘if you are lucky, Sidney will too. He is something of a detective. But first you need to secure his release.’
‘I will tell the carabinieri that the companion piece has been stolen. After I have given them the facts you may be able to persuade them to release your friend. It will not be easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘They will have to be made to think it is their idea. It will be hard if they have not made another arrest. They do not like to be in a situation where there is no one to blame. Especiall
y now. You will need garbo.’
‘And what is that?’
‘It is our way of making things right; pretending nothing bad has happened, that all this was meant to be. It is the way we make our troubles disappear.’
‘And how will I do that?’
‘I believe 100,000 lire is the usual sum.’
‘What?’
‘To be sure. My word is not enough.’
‘You should be ashamed.’
‘Those men are very badly paid.’
‘That’s because they are always on strike.’
‘I wouldn’t advise you to make a fight, Signora Kendall. Be very gracious, be very beautiful and give them money. What is it? About sixty of your pounds? It’s not so much.’
‘It’s the principle I object to.’
‘Oh, principles,’ the director answered quickly. ‘Only the rich can afford to have them.’
As he waited for developments to take their course, Sidney wondered how much Christian patience he was expected to demonstrate. Would a loss of temper help or hinder the situation? It was not that he was uncomfortable, and the carabinieri were perfectly polite, even nonchalant about his captivity, but the plain fact was that this was not how he had intended to spend his holiday. He knew that Hildegard had been bold the last time he had found himself in such a situation, but that had been in East Germany when she was on home turf. Amanda too could be pretty forthright, but how would her English temperament go down with the Italians, and would the Etheringtons help? Had they, for example, managed to contact the British Embassy and would an ambassador be of any use?
He was mightily relieved to hear Amanda’s voice in the reception area of the police station. He also thought he could hear Francesca, and presumed that Hildegard had stayed at home in order to protect Anna from what was being described as il più grande malinteso.
Inspector del Pirlo was hardly going to handle any dirty money himself and so the appeal and the bribe went through one of the carabinieri, Marco Rossi, who told Amanda that he was thankful because they were all too busy dealing with the after-effects of the flood to worry about a harmless English priest. Twenty thousand families had lost their homes, fifteen thousand cars had been destroyed, and nearly all the small traders hit by the disaster were unlikely to be able to resume business. This was a far greater tragedy than the loss of a painting.
The inspector was, however, reluctant to take any personal responsibility for Sidney’s freedom and announced that the accused would first have to be handed over to the state police for questioning in their offices near the Botanical Gardens. It was an inevitable moment of bureaucracy and so, after a protracted negotiation, Sidney and Amanda, accompanied by yet another couple of carabinieri, were asked to make their way to a different part of Florence, one that had previously been something of a Garden of Eden but now looked as if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had ridden all over it.
This further level of red tape was an inconvenience likely to require additional unofficial payment but at least Francesca’s boyfriend, Umberto Camilleri, worked for the state police. He asked Francesca if the prisoner was likely to steal anything else.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. He is a good man. Like Padre Tim.’
‘Padre Tim. Why do you always talk about him?’
‘I want you to look after his friend.’
‘He should be with the local police.’
‘We were sent to you.’
‘By del Pirlo? I understand. He wants nothing to do with this any more. His nose is so clean he wipes it more often than his arse.’
‘There’s no need to be crude. Signor Chambers is a priest.’
‘He won’t understand.’
‘He is a clever man.’
‘Normally this would be complicated, bellissima . . .’
Francesca smiled. ‘Umberto, please. We can have dinner.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Why not?’
And so it was that Umberto Camilleri organised Sidney’s parole with Giovanni Tardelli of the Municipal Police in the Palazzo Vecchio.
Francesca’s brother was as handsome as his sister. Sidney guessed that he was the only son in the family, the eldest, and the most favoured, and almost certainly keen on a quiet life. He could tell, as Giovanni spoke to his sibling, that the policeman was already asking if she might share some of the workload so that he could spend time with his friends. It was clear that the curfew he had been instructed to impose would be lightly implemented.
Hildegard held her husband tightly when he returned to the vicarage, and confessed how worried she had been. Sidney tried to laugh it all off, saying that he had known far greater scrapes in the past, but it was clear that he had been rattled by events. It was also not over yet. He still had Francesca’s brother in attendance.
And there were other concerns. Anna was listless, perhaps even feverish, clinging to her little rabbit as she lay, half-awake and half-asleep, on the couch. Hildegard was worried that their daughter was sickening for something. ‘It must be the damp and the cold.’
‘Will she be all right?’ Sidney asked.
‘I think so. She’s tired. I have been creating a lot of distractions.’
‘I am sorry. Has she enjoyed them, do you think?’
‘She likes the ice cream and the hot chocolate. And the Italians do love children. But it’s not been easy.’
‘We always think of Italy as hot and romantic, but here we are: wet and miserable.’
Anna’s cheeks were flushed. Hildegard looked to her husband. ‘I should carry her up to bed. Could you ask Tim, or Francesca, to call a doctor? It’s best to be on the safe side.’
Sidney stood up. ‘Of course. I’ll do it now.’
‘Signore.’ The policeman smiled.
‘Ah yes, Giovanni, you will have to come with me. Let me find Tim. And your sister too. La bellissima Francesca. We need a doctor. And, while we are waiting, I think we might just go and see the Etheringtons at their hotel.’
‘What for?’ Hildegard asked.
‘It’s a little idea I have. It won’t take a minute . . .’
‘But, Sidney . . .’
‘Don’t worry, my darling. It’s on the way to the doctor.’
‘You’ve just got home.’
‘I’ll be less than an hour. And I’ll be back before he arrives. I promise.’
He kissed his wife, blew another to the sleeping Anna, and then he was gone.
Giovanni Tardelli was amused by his prisoner’s desire to risk further trouble. First he drove to Luigi Cannavaro’s practice and made sure that the doctor would be able to make a house call. Then he went to pick up Amanda from her hotel and finally they made their way to the Villa Tolomei. It was, at the very least, an excuse to show off his new car on the hairpin bends of the Via di Santa Maria a Marignolle.
His driving was even more terrifying than his sister’s. He honked his horn and joked as he saw a group of colleagues travelling in the opposite direction. ‘There was this peasant who lived on a narrow road up in the mountains,’ he told Amanda. ‘One day, he saw a carload of carabinieri driving backwards up the mountain. “Why are you driving backwards?” he asked. The men replied: “Because we’re not sure we’ll be able to turn around up ahead.” Later, the peasant saw the carabinieri driving backwards down the same mountain. “How come you’re still driving backwards?” the peasant asked. “Well,” the driver replied, “we found a place to turn around.”’
‘Yes, that’s very amusing,’ Amanda observed unconvincingly and Giovanni repeated the punchline just in case she had not understood. ‘“We found a place to turn around.”’
She had opted for the back seat, anticipating the fearsome nature of the journey. ‘Sidney,’ she announced, somehow hoping that a conversation with her friend would allow the driver to concentrate on the road, ‘this is an inside job, I am sure of it.’
The response from her friend was in archaic English. ‘Exercise vigilance, Amanda. The convey
or of this mode of perambulation comprehends something of the language in which we confabulate.’
‘There is no need to sound like Henry James. I am not saying anything he has not heard already.’
‘Although it would perhaps be something of a blunder, albeit a minor one, to allow our companion to hazard any estimation of our investigative procedures. “Cum vulpibus vulpinandum.”’
‘Are you enjoying this?’ Amanda asked.
‘On the contrary, given the circumstances in which we find ourselves, it behoves us to exercise the kind of caution of which our chauffeur is perhaps . . .’
‘ATTENZIONE!’ Amanda shouted as Giovanni narrowly missed a farmer with his donkey and cart.
‘Si figuri,’ the driver replied before accelerating round the next corner.
After only eight minutes of this hair-raising drive they arrived at the Villa Tolomei and were shown into a large reception room which looked out on to a formal but storm-damaged garden. Sir William was seated at a desk and was using the hotel stationery to write a letter to his son. ‘He’s at Eton. Clever chap. Chip off the old block, I’m proud to say.’
His wife was reading that morning’s edition of La Nazione. ‘We were just discussing your plight, Sidney. Such an unfortunate misunderstanding.’
‘It could have happened to any of us,’ Amanda replied, looking round and wondering if they were going to be offered something to drink.
‘Any of us who were actually there,’ said Sidney. ‘Anything interesting in the news?’
‘It’s all flood, flood, flood. Nothing much about the Uffizi. The library was hit the worst. We tried to help there too, but the destruction was terrible. Complete chaos.’
‘Isn’t there an English paper?’
‘We sometimes read the Herald Tribune but it’s far too American. This helps with my Italian. I try to look at it every day. I think I may have told you that before. Keep my hand in, you know?’
Sir William signed off his letter and turned from his chair. ‘It’s fortunate that we left earlier, otherwise we might have found ourselves in a similar pickle.’
‘Have you been back to the gallery?’ Amanda asked.
