Still, what he wished for his garden was charming and I created it for him on paper.
An enclosed space clustered with trees and plants. Butterflies wing through the air, a frog sits on a stone, a mouse scuttles. A pomegranate dips from a tree, an apricot settles plumply against the wall. Lavender, rosemary, lilies and blue borage crowd the beds. Fragrance that seduces visitors into enchantment.
We began the marking-out and the digging in the autumn. That moment of transition between paper and the earth is always momentous.
I look up, past the clutter of paints and paper, and out of my window. Rome is there, clustered with buildings, seething with its inhabitants. Its colours flash. Its noises curdle in the ear at night. Its beauty is undercut by decay. Living here is a magnificent experience but it can be hard.
Hot skies, the screech of vehicles, faces sheened with sweat, the unexpected and intoxicating scent of a fig tree on rounding a corner, the constant ripple of Romans on the move, a wet piazza in winter, a small fountain in a narrow street … I have tried hard to pin down the Eternal City but none of these capture its spirit.
CHAPTER TEN
WHY DON’T YOU LET ME HELP WITH THE NINA LAWRENCE papers?’ said Paul Cursor in his charmingly diffident way. ‘I’ve time to spare.’
According to his file, which as chief archivist she had access to, Paul was in his late fifties, had worked at the Espatriati for thirty years and had never showed signs of wishing for promotion, which suggested someone who was happy in their skin. ‘That’s above the call of duty,’ she said, not really requiring help but anxious to get to know him.
Paul was in charge of the Medieval department of the archive and an expert on the depositions made by the pilgrims that had streamed into the city.
He had, she decided, a serenity and inner contentment that made him a comfortable person to spend time with. Plus, having been at the Espatriati for so long, he knew how to work the system.
‘You’ve been kind to me,’ she said.
He seemed neither pleased nor displeased. ‘Why would I not?’
Lottie could think of several reasons, not least that it had come to her ears that Joey Haines, who worked with Paul, had railed against Lottie’s appointment.
Paul was generous with the gossip.
‘Rats were running around here when I first came. I didn’t mind them, but they were a danger to the papers and had to go. I got quite fond of one. Mimi … I think she was female. I arranged to trap her and let her go by the river before the Grim Reaper moved in.’
Lottie pried open the flaps of the first box, lifted out the notebook and confessed that she had already begun reading it.
He assessed its size and bulk. ‘That’ll take a bit of time.’
‘Paul,’ Lottie began laying out the material in sequence, ‘if Nina Lawrence was murdered, how come the police had all her papers? Shouldn’t the British Embassy have dealt with them?’
‘Who knows?’ he replied in his easy way. ‘Maybe, if the case went nowhere, there was an agreement to meld what they had and deposit it with other archival material.’
They logged each of the papers on the online records and placed them into the in-house box files, ready to be taken down to the archive in the basement.
‘Item: birth certificate,’ said Paul. ‘Name: Nina Maria Lawrence … Born in Peterborough General Hospital, 29 September 1940. Mother: Lucilla Maria Risi. Father: Charles Nigel Lawrence, factory owner.’ He stopped typing. ‘Looks like her mother was Italian.’
Next up was a letter dated 1 December 1981, from a London solicitor who specialised in tracing relatives of the deceased. It stated that no living relatives had been traced for Nina Maria Lawrence but there was a will that had been drawn up in May 1977 and he was including a copy.
It was a minimalist document in which Nina instructed that she wished to be buried in Italy and her effects were to be sold and the money divided between a charity set up to preserve olive trees in Tuscany and the national collection for narcissi.
‘Strange,’ said Lottie.
Nina’s world was almost totally unpeopled. Instead, the drama of flowers and their forms, their scents, their beauty and fragility had offered her sustenance. In death, she had rewarded them.
Other papers included a certificate of residence for Rome, several hotel bills, two for hotels on Lake Como, one for a hotel in Naples and a bill for a restaurant in the port of Bari, dated as far back as 1970. There was also a stack of letters in their envelopes tied up with twine. Finally, there was a fading photocopy of a poem, plus a photograph of a group of walkers in shorts, hats and sticks, one of whom, a small, slight figure with shoulder-length hair, might have been Nina. On the back had been written in smudged biro, ‘The Lake Walkers’.
Lottie used her magnifying glass to study the photo. Nina – if it was her – had turned her head away, presenting a tanned shoulder to the camera.
She siphoned dust from a bill for a hotel in Naples … Double Room with Bath, 2 nights, dated June 1975. ‘Double room. Do you think she had a lover?’
Paul glanced at the photograph. ‘Double rooms are cheaper. The group probably shared.’
Lottie recollected the lesbian poems found in Nina’s rooms.
Paul grunted as he eased apart two postcards stuck to each other. ‘Siena Cathedral.’ He held it up. ‘And a photograph of a Roman sword.’ He showed it to Nina. ‘A gladius, no less – the sword that conquered the world.’ He placed them written side up on the table. ‘To go back to your question, and thinking about it, my instincts tell me that, by sending the papers over here, the authorities were getting shot of a problem.’ He sat down at the keyboard. ‘Does the case worry you?’
Lottie didn’t answer directly. She squinted down at the postcards, which had the same handwriting and were signed, Your girl x. ‘But it’s sad that she was alone in her death. In life, too, it seems.’
Paul’s reply elevated him even higher in her estimation. ‘It’s copeable with.’ He stopped typing. ‘My partner left twenty years ago and my family and I have not been in touch for years. I like it that way.’
At one end of the scale was the medieval Duchess of Palacrino, who had herself walled up. At the other was Paul, living a peaceful life without a companion.
‘What’s terrible is dying at the wrong time,’ Paul observed matter-of-factly. ‘Too young, or with small children. Work unfinished.’
‘I’ll go with that.’
She read out from the postcard dated 1 December 1970: ‘“For you, a Christmas song. ‘I saw three ships come sailing in with red sails … come sailing in on Saturday in the morning.’ Sing my song, my darling.” What on earth is all that about?’
‘Lovers? They say odd things.’
‘She never sent them, though. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in the papers. There might have been a wife somewhere in the picture.’
Paul chuckled. ‘Could be.’ He glanced at the postcard of the gladius. ‘Was Nina planning to skewer her?’
They turned their attention to the second box.
‘But this has been opened,’ exclaimed Lottie. ‘Who would that have been?’
Paul shook his head. ‘No idea.’
A predictable miasma sifted up from the jumble inside. Inserting gloved fingers, Lottie eased out the top tranche of contents and laid them on the table.
‘Police papers,’ said Paul.
Lottie did the preliminary sort. ‘Mostly. Reports. Diagrams of the murder site. Names and addresses.’ She skimmed down the page. ‘A list of contacts made by the police. Forensic report. Information about the funeral.’
‘Autopsy?’ said Paul.
‘Can’t see one.’
The police report on the funeral was bald, merely stating the date, time and location of the burial. It noted that the Reverend Hayter performed the ceremony in the presence of a representative from the British Embassy and a Bishop Dino Battista and his lay assistant. Attached with a paper clip was a black-and-white photograph of
a grave labelled: Lawrence, Nina Maria. Protestant Cemetery.
Paul shut down his laptop. ‘I’ve got a few police contacts. Would you like me to try to find out if they still have anything on Nina?’
For a second, Lottie felt powerless to respond.
Imagine dying in the darkness by the river, she thought with a terrible empathy, and the final sensations of being alive … the smell of dank water, of cold earth beneath frantically scrabbling fingers, of hot blood filling up the mouth.
‘Lottie?’
Paul was smiling at her: pleasant, helpful, benign. Lottie looked up and his expression switched to concern. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course. Yes.’
Regulatory ropes tied up what could be known about murder investigations. Among other things, this was the basis of ordered existence, of the rule of law … of keeping anarchy at bay. ‘Can you do that?’
He shook his head as if to say: You will learn. ‘I could also take you to the Protestant Cemetery if you like,’ he said, holding up the photo.
He left with a friendly, cooperative wave of his hand.
At the original job interview, the director, Valerio Gianni, beautifully suited, diplomatic, rattling with impressive contacts, had explained the funding arrangements. The archive had been set up with dollars and hefty injections of British sterling, a proportion of which had been ring-fenced to fund internships and junior posts. The financial administration was dealt with by professionals and the trustees met on a regular basis.
‘We aspire to do our bit for scholarship, the underprivileged and the young,’ he had said. ‘We depend on you all to set the highest possible standards.’
She had been disconcerted then that Valerio Gianni felt the need to spell out what was engrained into her professional life. Now, as Paul set about shaking his police contacts, she realised she was sailing close to the line.
When Lottie walked in, she found Tom leaning on the French doors chatting to Concetta, who was wielding a professional brush around the pots on the balcony. Her dark hair gleamed, perhaps with a touch of oil.
They were animated and at ease with each other, and to witness it gave her a small pang. They had known each other so well and had been rooted in the same place for so long.
Tom looked round and stretched out a hand. ‘Hello, Lottie.’
‘You must let Concetta go home, Tom.’
Concetta continued to sweep. ‘Signora, I’ve tried to clean the terrace but it’s not easy.’
Tom’s hand tightened in warning on hers.
‘The lavender, Signora, you are not treating in the right way.’
‘Really?’ said Lottie, torn between irritation and fascination.
The lavender to which Concetta was referring was Lavandula dentata, a low-growing variety. ‘You should be cutting back all of the growth when it gets dry,’ she said, ‘leaving only the green shoots. Then, you will always have lavender.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Lottie. ‘Tom and I can take over.’
Tom released her hand and vanished.
‘The Signorina Clare was happy to have me in the evenings.’
Lottie closed her eyes briefly and chose a new tack. ‘Do you have a family, Concetta?’
‘Sí.’
‘Husband? Children?’
‘No husband. One daughter, Orietta.’ She gathered up the broom and the dustpan. ‘She has a daughter and another baby on the way.’
Lottie went in for the kill. ‘But you work such long hours for us. You can’t see much of her. We should give you more time.’
Concetta stood upright. ‘She doesn’t live in the city. I visit her on Sundays.’
‘Have you always lived in Rome?’
‘Where else is there to live, Signora?’ Concetta removed a pot with a blood-red pelargonium off the table and repositioned it on the balcony.
Lottie itched to snatch it back. ‘Did you ever hear about an Englishwoman who was found murdered down by the Tiber? Some time ago. In nineteen seventy-eight?’
‘No, Signora.’
Lottie regarded the pelargonium thoughtfully. ‘It was all over the press for weeks. Did you hear nothing about it?’
‘If she was killed down by the river, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But why would I care about an Englishwoman, Signora, when there are so many Romans who die?’ She undid her apron strings. ‘I’ll go home now.’
She had a smile on her lips, but whether it was malicious or good-natured was impossible to tell.
Tom and Lottie ate dinner and discussed an email from Peter containing a quote from an article. ‘My knowledge of Italian politics has rocketed from 0 to 100 per cent,’ he said. ‘Overnight. Thanks to you.’
In Italy the Republicans emerged after the war, which was providential as the Americans declared they would refuse to give any help at all to any Communist government. Thus, the conservative Christian Democrats remained in power for over fifty years, doling out state largesse and neglecting to collect taxes, until various scandals and crises toppled them. Into the vacuum stepped Forza Italia, headed up by Silvio Berlusconi. Was he a saviour? Many sources allege that the same old carousel of bribery, corruptions, jobs for the boys and sparse tax revenues whirl merrily on.
‘Is that fair?’ asked Lottie.
‘Who knows? Probably some truth in it.’
Switching subjects, Lottie showed Tom a photo of Nina’s postcards on her phone and read out the message. ‘“For you, a Christmas song. ‘I saw three ships come sailing in with red sails … come sailing in on Saturday in the morning.’ Sing my song, my darling.” Rather lovely but odd, don’t you think?’
Tom was slow to respond. ‘What date?’
‘December nineteen seventy.’
He peered at the phone. ‘The gladius was the weapon of the Roman foot soldier. Maybe Nina was into Roman history.’
‘Paul’s taking me to the Protestant Cemetery tomorrow to see her grave.’
Tom got up from his chair. ‘Lottie, don’t get too hung up on this case, will you?’
‘You’ve met Signor Marcello?’ Paul asked Lottie in the taxi.
They were on their way to the Protestant Cemetery as Paul had promised.
‘Works in Reception and looks as though he hates the world?’
‘That’s the one. For years he ran an illicit coffee shop with his son in a room off the lobby.’
She thought of all the papers in the archive. ‘What would the insurance have to say about that if something had gone wrong?’
‘Insurance is the least of their worries. Father and son bypassed rules and regulations for years. Then Marcello made an enemy who tipped off the authorities, which meant Valerio Gianni had to put a stop to it. There was epic sulking until they ambushed a stand in the shop opposite. Now they have a cracking business.
‘The Espatriati doesn’t have to worry about it, we have the coffee and Marcello makes his money.’ He seemed pleased by the neat formulation of the Italian compromise. ‘You require obstinacy to live in the UK. In Italy it’s humour and toughness. And serpent-like flexibility. Actually, serpent-like cunning.’
A breeze smelling of pine blew over her bare arms from the taxi window and Lottie laughed. ‘Love it.’
She turned the subject to Nina Lawrence. ‘Did you ever hear anything about Nina’s murder?’
They had reached the entrance to the cemetery. ‘Yes,’ he said, paying the fare. ‘There was still a bit of gossip about it when I first arrived. It was a sensation at the time.’
‘Justice wasn’t done, was it? No one followed it up.’
‘Possibly.’ He stood aside to allow her to enter.
‘No one should be alone in death. Or in life.’
She spoke more passionately than she intended, and he sent her a look as if to say: Are we really talking about Nina? ‘I do remember it was said she was killed by a jealous lover.’
Inside, the cemetery was cooler than on the streets.
Greeting them were r
ows of peaceful, lichen-flecked, ivied gravestones outlined against a backdrop of Italian cypresses and pomegranate trees that fringed the perimeter. A watery light filtered silkily over the scene. Save for distant traffic, the cemetery was wrapped in silence.
Perhaps it was having fallen in love with Tom, perhaps it was the essence of the city infiltrating her consciousness, but walking down the path, she was aware of other presences. A protest rose from the graves of those whose lives had been cut short, a silence heavy with a longing for home and the cruelty of being dead.
The legibility of the inscriptions varied. Some were readable, others only just. In the main, the graves were well tended, and their clipped neatness provided a contrast with the sprawl of the vegetation.
Lottie pushed back a strand of ivy creeping across the stone guarding a child’s grave. ‘“Never forgotten”,’ she read.
‘Where are we heading?’ asked Paul.
She showed him a copy of the black-and-white photograph and the coordinates for the grave’s location, and he pointed to a heavily shaded corner. ‘Over there.’
The vegetation massed thickly in that area and they were forced to search for the stone. Eventually, a corner of it became visible and Lottie set about tackling the moss and debris covering it. There it was: Nina Maria Lawrence, 1940–1978. No comforting inscription. No genuflection. No promise of afterlife.
Lottie ran her fingertips over the lettering – and a kinship sparked from the carving through to her. ‘Why were you killed?’ she asked the stone. She looked up at Paul. ‘Do you think someone heard that she had a supposedly valuable medieval miniature? Or was it a mugging gone wrong? A rapist who took fright?’
Paul said, ‘Lottie, Nina’s dead.’
‘It’s not a bad place to be if you are dead,’ said Lottie. ‘But, if you are here, it singles you out. Forever the stranger, with a stranger’s religion. Them and us.’ She looked round at Paul. ‘Am I allowed to take photos?’
Two Women in Rome Page 10
