Dorothy Eden (17 page)

And all that had happened was that Miss Squires had discovered that Mrs. Dix’s husband, the long-lost major, had come home. She had left the office one evening but, on her way to Victoria station, had found she had forgotten Tom’s fish, so had gone back. The street door, in Mrs. Dix’s careless way, had not been quite latched and she had gone in quietly. But there had been a light on the stairs, and from above she had heard voices raised.

“You’re telling me you won’t do it? But of course you will. You will be my obedient wife, as always…”

Then there had been silence, and Miss Squires, overcome by some strange revulsion, had fled.

The voice, she said, had been pleasant enough, but the words had opened up a vista of possibilities that had filled her with alarm and apprehension. She had finally persuaded herself she must have imagined the conversation, but had plucked up courage to mention the matter lightly to Mrs. Dix the next day.

“I must have been having hallucinations last night. I forgot Tom’s fish and came back for it, and I thought I heard someone upstairs saying he was your husband.”

Mrs. Dix’s eyes, she said, had been so stricken that she had been ashamed she had raised the subject. For Mrs. Dix swore she had been completely alone, as she always was, and what Miss Squires had heard had been merely a play on the radio. Mrs. Dix had it turned on loudly, because after she had had two or three drinks she didn’t seem to hear so well…

But in spite of being ashamed of her foolish imagination, Miss Squires had been extremely perturbed when Kate kept on worrying about that lost child, and then when Mrs. Dix had died she had been quite terrified. For, before the police had come down to her cottage to question her as to her employer’s habits, the telephone call had come, the low, menacing voice telling her what would happen to Tom, her precious and only living possession, if she should tell anything at all that she may have discovered, or think she had discovered.

So she had been too cowardly to talk to Kate the other night. And now she was terribly sorry.

William stopped pacing up and down, and put his pipe aside.

“You’ve had quite a time, haven’t you,” he said kindly. “Would you like some tea? I’ll get my secretary to make it. While she’s doing that I’ll ring Kate in Dorset. That will settle that matter.”

It was Kate’s stepmother who answered the telephone.

“You want Kate. Oh, is that you, William? But Kate’s not here. She left to catch the ferry last night.”

“Where to?” William asked sharply.

“She was on her way to Rome. Didn’t she tell you? What’s the matter with her, William? She was in the strangest mood. Couldn’t settle to anything. Didn’t even notice my new chrysanthemum that I’m particularly proud of. It won the prize—what’s that, dear?”

“Did she tell you where she was planning to stay in Rome?”

“Oh, no, not a clue. She was completely vague. Said she was looking for a face to sketch. What was she talking about?”

“She’s doing a rogue’s gallery,” said William. “Look, I must go now.”

“William, Kate isn’t running away from you, is she?”

“My God, no! She’d better not be.”

“So it is true,” said Miss Squires, looking up at William with her sad, owlish gaze.

“I’m afraid so.”

“What will you do?”

“Follow her. What hotel did she stay at when she was last there?”

“The Romano.”

“That’s the first clue. She will probably go back there. Now listen, here’s what you have to do. Don’t attempt to go back to your cottage at present. Go to my flat. I’ll give you the keys. No, I’ll take you myself. It’s not luxurious, but you’ll be all right there for a day or two. My housekeeper will look after you. I’ll tell her you’re doing a research job for me. And she adores cats.” William knelt to put his finger playfully in Tom’s basket. He withdrew it hurriedly and sucked it.

For the first time a glimmer of a smile appeared on Miss Squires’ worried face.

“He’s very naughty. He hates that basket. Mr. Howard, you’re being awfully kind. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Not at all,” he said absently. “It’s you who ought to be thanked. We’ll do that later. Kate and I,” he added.

A
T THE HOTEL THEY
remembered her. This was the first pleasant thing that had happened since the commencement of her long journey.

“Miss Tempest! How nice to see you back so soon,” the dark-eyed clerk said in impeccable English, and a little of Kate’s tiredness and frowstiness melted away.

“I’m afraid I haven’t booked.”

“No matter. It is the off season. The tourists go home. You would like your old room?”

“Yes, please. If I may.”

“But certainly. You will be staying a long time?” The dark, liquid eyes rested on her with genuine pleasure.

“No, not a long time. Probably just a day or two. It depends on some business I have to do.”

“Ah, signorina! There are better things to do in Rome than business.”

“I absolutely agree. But it can’t be helped.”

The high-ceilinged room on the third floor, the circle of red carpet making a brilliant pool in the middle of the bare floor, the brass knobs on the bed, the wardrobe big enough to hide in. And if one stuck one’s head far enough out of the window, the view of the via Vittoria Veneto, with its sidewalk cafés, gay umbrellas and acacia trees.

Kate had the momentary illusion that nothing of the last fortnight had happened. She had arrived in Rome to get Francesca, and nothing would go wrong. They would reach London safely; Mrs. Dix would welcome them, smiling her cosy smile and offering them chocolates; Rosita would be waiting eagerly to receive her daughter; there would be no tragic body of the young man, who had cast his exciting shadow momentarily over her life, fished out of the Tiber…

If only this were so. If only she could be gay and carefree. But instead of bathing and resting, and then strolling down the via Veneto enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, still warm and golden, she must now set her mind at rest by going at once to the house off the Appian Way to see Gianetta.

Once again, like a repeat scene in a badly edited film, she took a taxi and asked the driver to wait. The house, in the narrow, poor street, seemed even more squalid than she remembered it. Again she was conscious of eyes behind the dark windows of the houses on both sides. A taxi would not often come down this street. It would be a matter of great interest and suspicion, perhaps, when it did.

She had to wait a few moments after knocking on the door. It flashed through her mind that she seemed to have been spending a lot of time over the last few days knocking on doors and wondering, with this sick beat to her heart, who would appear. Supposing, as in Rosita’s room, a completely strange person opened this door?

But, no. It was Gianetta. She remembered the thin, dark woman in her faded cotton dress very well. She was overjoyed that for once the right person stood before her.

“Gianetta!” she cried, holding out her hand.

But the woman moved back a step, her dark eyes flickering from Kate to the taxi, and then back to Kate again. There was no recognition on her face.

“You remember me! Kate Tempest from London. I came to get Francesca.”

The woman shook her head slowly. Her face was tight with suspicion.

“
Mi perdoni,
signorina.” Then she added in her careful English, “I do not remember ever seeing you before. Why have you come here?”

“But I came to get Francesca!” Kate cried. “Less than two weeks ago. You must remember me. Or if you don’t you certainly know Francesca.”

“Francesca? Who is she?”

Kate had a moment of complete unreality. Was she really standing here before the door of a shabby Italian house, while its tenant backed farther into the darkness of the small rooms behind the open door. Rather frantically she searched in her bag.

“Look, Gianetta, you’re simply telling lies. Here’s your letter saying you were worried about Francesca. Now what about that?”

The woman took a quick, suspicious glance at the sheet of paper, then she peered closer.

Her head came up, and this time there was no doubting her sincerity.

“It’s written in
Inglese.
I cannot write
Inglese
. What does it say?”

“Gianetta, you’re not telling the truth. You speak English, you must write it.”

“No, no. I only learn to speak, not to write. My husband taught me when he lived. He was a bookseller.”

“But here’s your name at the bottom. Signed Gianetta.”

The woman’s eyes flicked down at the sheet of paper, then up again. She had her thin, brown hands clasped tightly against her breast. There was fear in her face, distinct fear.

“I did not write it, signorina. I tell you truthfully.”

It almost seemed that she was speaking the truth. But the fear in her eyes made Kate’s heart turn cold.

“Then if you didn’t write this letter, Gianetta, you still must know something about Francesca. You’re her nurse, after all. Is she really with her father, and is she all right?”

“You keep saying this name, Francesca. I tell you I do not know who you talk about. You must have come to the wrong house, signorina. Letters I do not write, women I do not know.”

Her voice was growing bolder now, and rather angry. But the fear had been there. Kate hadn’t imagined the fear.

“Francesca isn’t a woman, she’s a child. She wore a white dress and a blue bow in her hair. She had her doll, Pepita.” It seemed she had made this description hundreds of times, and no one had really listened to her or believed her. “Of course you know who Francesca is.”

The woman shook her head stubbornly.

“And you I have never seen in my life before. You say I lie. It is you who lie, signorina. I ask you to go.”

“But I waited in that room!” Kate protested. “I can tell you exactly what you have in it, a table, three chairs, some rush matting on the floor, a plaster statuette of the Virgin above the door—”

The woman gave a faint smile. “You are saying what is in every house on this street. Knock at all the doors and ask for this Francesca. Someone may know what you want. But not me.
Scusi,
signorina, I am busy, I must go.”

She was shutting the door. “Gianetta!” Kate cried in despair. “I’m trying to help Francesca. This letter says she needs help. And it has your name on it.”

“There is more than one Gianetta in Rome, signorina. Go and find another one who can help you. It is not me. I know nothing that you talk about.”

The door slammed in her face.

The taxi-driver was grinning at her sympathetically. He did not speak English so could not have understood what was said, but he knew she had been snubbed. How much worse than snubbed, fortunately, he could not know. For apart from the fact that Gianetta had been most deliberately and outrageously lying when she denied any knowledge of Francesca, it really seemed that she may not have written the letter. And if she had not written it, who had? Was Francesca really in trouble, or had the letter been a trick to get her, Kate, to Rome?

Because Rome was an easier place than London in which to do strange things to English citizens. It would matter, but not too greatly, if the body of a foreigner were found in the Tiber…

She got back into the taxi and told the driver to take her back to her hotel. He backed to the corner and turned with a flourish, in a fast circle that threw Kate against the upholstery and even caused the blasé Italian pedestrian, used to the fast and furious driving of motorized vehicles, to look around.

It was then that Kate caught a glimpse of the yellow watchful face beneath the pulled-down hat brim.

Well, there was her shadow back again. She almost waved him a friendly greeting. She hoped he was a good traveller, or he may have cursed this inconvenient and unexpected journey to Rome. But of course it would not have been unexpected. He had probably known about it before she had known herself.

The letter must have been a trick. Gianetta must have been lying to a certain extent—it
couldn’t
have been an hallucination that she had gone there to get Francesca, the rather stout, solemn child in the party frock—but she had not been lying about the letter. Kate was almost certain of that.

So someone else had written it. Who? And why?

She sat in her hotel room pondering the next step. There was an obvious one. To look up the Torlinis in the telephone book and ring them all, one by one.

Or go to see them.

But the thought of more inhospitable doorsteps leading into strange and hostile houses made her flinch. Suddenly she wished she had told William of this impetuous journey. She could have telephoned him from Dover just before the boat sailed. He could not have stopped her at that stage, and if he didn’t in thorough exasperation wash his hands of her altogether he might conceivably have caught a plane to Rome. She would not have been afraid to stand on hostile doorsteps if he were beside her. Belatedly, she was realizing that.

The light was dying. The sky was primrose and the evening mild. If it were not for the Torlinis and their mysterious child she could have gone on a leisurely tour of the fountains, or sat in a café on the via Vittoria Veneto sketching the faces of the passers-by, the priests in their brown habits and Biblical sandals, the street urchins, large-eyed, barefoot and cheerful, the old women in their narrow, economical, black dresses, the laughing young girls with their boy friends…

Reluctantly, because of the mild, lemon-coloured evening, not because of her apprehension, she picked up the telephone book.

At the same moment footsteps came down the corridor. They stopped outside her door. There was a brisk knock.

“Come in,” Kate said, startled.

The door opened. And Johnnie Lambert was saying in his hearty voice, “Surprise, surprise!”

“Johnnie!”

“So we meet again. How are you, darling? Did you get my flowers the other day?”

“Yes, I did. It was sweet of you.”

“Mrs. Dix, the slave driver, didn’t give me a chance to be home for five minutes. You were partly responsible for that.”

“Me?”

“Yes, with that kid you lost. But let’s talk about that later. I say, it’s grand to see you again. After you walking out on me in Paris and cancelling your air ticket. When I saw your name in the register downstairs I couldn’t believe my eyes. They said you got in this afternoon. I’ve just arrived back from Florence. Couldn’t have a nicer welcome than finding you. Let’s go and have a drink.”