Season of Storms (24 page)

x

IT
took some time, once I had reached my room, to recompose my thoughts. Splashing my face with cool water, I frowned at the mirror, replaying the scene in my mind—only this time I rewrote my lines so that for every one of Daniela’s remarks I had the perfect comeback, not so rude as to sink to her level of bitchiness, but classily sharp, in control. The more I rehearsed it, the better the scene became, and the more satisfaction I felt, though I would have been happier had I been able to do it for real, when it counted.

Still, I thought, it didn’t matter.
She
didn’t matter. And as for Alex, she was welcome to him, with my blessing. I washed my hands of the pair of them.

As I went through to my sitting-room the faint sound of Daniela’s laughter drifted upwards from the terrace and I pulled the window closed to shut it out. Almost immediately, a nearer, more appealing laughter echoed from the landing. Looking out, I saw Poppy and Den at the head of the stairs. Den was holding a flat cardboard box in his hands.

“Hey, you’re back,” he said, seeing me. “Great. Care to join us in a friendly game of Chutes and Ladders?”

“Snakes and Ladders,” Poppy corrected him.

“Whatever,” said Den. “We’re just on our way down to the dining room—figured the table down there was the best one for game-playing. How was your trip?”

“Fine. Oh, hang on a minute, I’ve got something for you,” I said, remembering as I looked at Poppy. Pushing my door all the way open in invitation, I turned back into my sitting-room to hunt for my handbag.

Den followed, intrigued. “What, you brought me a gift?”

“Not for you,” I said. “For Poppy.”

The child hovered in the doorway, her dark-eyed face a mix of curiosity and doubt. “For me?”

I’d found the handbag, and the little parcel that had caused me so much trouble today. “That’s right.” I passed it to her with a smile. “We went round a few of the shops in Sirmione, and I saw this and thought you might like it. It’s nothing too fancy, but—”

“For me?” she repeated, as though she hadn’t quite taken it in.

Den gave her a nudge. “Well, open it.”

Her small hands tore the tissue-paper, easing off the ribbon, and the seashell necklace slithered out into her waiting palm. She stared. “It’s beautiful.” From the way she held it up and looked in wonder at the tiny tinkling shells you’d have thought that I’d given her diamonds. “Thank you so much.”

Such genuine appreciation, I decided, made the trouble all worthwhile. “You’re very welcome.”

“Wait till I show Mother,” she said, slipping the necklace over her head as Den, beside her, pushed his lower lip out in a pout.

“And there’s nothing for me?” he asked. “Typical.”

I smiled. “Maybe next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that. So you went all that way to go shopping?”

“And sightseeing.”

“Well,” he confided, his amused gaze meeting mine in conspiracy over Poppy’s head, “you’ve put someone on the warpath, so I hope that it was worth it.”

An hour ago I’d have told him straight out that I hadn’t intended to go in the first place, that I’d been tricked into going by Rupert, and that Daniela had a right to be upset. But coming fresh from the encounter on the terrace I felt less sympathetic. I said, “He’s not wearing a collar and lead that I know of.”

Den grinned, as the mention of collar and lead pulled Poppy’s attention away from her necklace. “Are you talking about the dogs? I got to play with them today. We saw the kennels, didn’t we, Den?”

“We did indeed.”

“I don’t think Max and Nero like it in the kennels,” she went on. “Not when they’re used to the house.”

Den explained that the kennels were nearly a part of the house, and that Alex likely only put the dogs there when he planned on being out all day. “And anyway, he’s home now. They’ll be able to come out.”

Not so long as Daniela was out on the terrace, I thought—the greyhounds would have to stay somewhere else, out of her way. Which was probably, I conceded, not such a tragedy for the dogs after all. Better to stay somewhere else than to have to put up with the woman’s presence.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“They abandoned us, didn’t they, Poppy? Took off into town to have tea at the Grand Hotel.”

“And they didn’t take you?”

“Well, Poppy was sleeping,” said Den with a shrug and a look that told me he had volunteered to stay behind and babysit. “And I didn’t feel like walking all that way.”

“I see.” I wouldn’t have minded playing Snakes and Ladders with the two of them, but the dining room, where they intended to set up the game, was a little too close to the terrace for my liking. “When did everyone leave?”

“About an hour ago.” Interpreting my tone of voice, he checked his watch. “They’re probably still there, if you wanted to catch up with them. Of course, it would mean leaving
us . . .
”

“Would you mind?”

“Nah. We’ll make our own fun, won’t we, Poppy?”

She nodded, but her faintly disappointed look prodded me to promise, “I’ll challenge you both to another game later, though. Say after dinner?”

“You’re on,” Den said, holding me to it. “But be warned, I’m damn good.”

He was good at a few things, I thought, as I watched him disappearing down the stairs with Poppy, noticing their natural and easy interaction and how quickly he restored her happy mood. I wondered whether Den had any children in New York. He might have been, as he proclaimed, a wash-up as a husband, but I fancied he would make an all right dad.

From where he sat he saw the boy at play, a lonely figure pushing toy cars round the garden path.

It shamed him, in that moment, that he had not been a better father. True, the boy had been Francesca’s doing—her desire, her child to raise, but still, the fact that he could look now at his son and feel no love disturbed him greatly. He felt the way he felt whenever someone that he knew returned from visiting a land he’d not yet seen—a nagging sense that he’d missed out on something.

It would be different, he decided, with his second child. His melancholic mood was washed away by this new flood of expectation as he closed his eyes, recalling how she’d told him late last night, in bed, and how he’d placed his hand upon her belly, still so flat, so soft, and felt a wave of wonderment roll over him, as overwhelming as the sea at rising tide. And then had come the fears: he was too old, he was too selfish, he would fail her . . .

But she’d only smiled and held his hand against her and, still smiling, slept, and he had watched her till the dawn had slowly filled the room with light—a new day, ripe with promise.

Yes, he thought now, opening his eyes to look once more upon his son at play below him in the gardens—yes, it would be different, this time. He had learned from his mistakes.

xi

ACROSS
the courtyard, Max and Nero peered at me hopefully through the wire of their runs. They looked rather lost in the long stretch of kennels that must, at one time, have been home to thirty or more dogs. Max woofed and wagged his whip-like tail so hard I felt compelled to cross and speak with him.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” I said as he poked his long nose through the wire in search of my hand. “Just hang in there, it won’t be much longer. I’m sure he’ll come let you out soon.”

If I’d known how to unlock the gates, I might have let them out myself, if only for the momentary satisfaction I’d have gained from knowing they’d frighten Daniela. But the best I could do was give Max’s smooth snout an affectionate scratch before I turned and took the steps down to the drive.

It seemed a much shorter walk out to the main road, I thought, when one wasn’t lugging suitcases. At least I had a fair idea this time what direction I should go in. The Grand Hotel in town—that’s where Den said the others had gone for their tea, and I’d seen the Grand Hotel from the water this morning. Alex had pointed it out as we’d passed, and its distinctive tall tower ought to make it easy enough to find once I got down to Mira.

The road itself was practically deserted. I heard the mosquito-like whine of a Vespa that had just passed by, heading uphill, but that was all. Still, I kept prudently to the edge of the road, facing whatever traffic might approach me on the left-hand side. The verge was bright with buttercups and daisies, set off further back by a handful of plum-coloured blossoming trees that had come into bloom since I’d last passed this way.

I was so absorbed in looking at the trees, I nearly didn’t hear the car.

Then, too, it came on quickly. So quickly, in fact, it had all but gone by me before I reacted by sidestepping into the verge. I nearly lost my balance, but the bright red Mercedes whizzed past in a spray of dust and gravel, unconcerned.

“Moron!” I called after it, steadying my stance as I brushed the blown hair from my eyes. More indignant than injured, I cautiously edged to the side of the road again, soldiering on downhill, round the next bend.

I didn’t recognize the thing for what it was, at first. In fact, I think my first thought was that someone must have thrown their rubbish from a passing car, a heap of clothes . . . and then I took another step, and I could see the clothes weren’t empty.

They contained a man—a man who lay facedown, half-buried in the verge, one arm outstretched as though he’d tried to break his fall. He was still breathing when I reached him.

“Oh, God.” I crouched to see how badly he’d been hurt. One leg looked definitely broken, twisted round below the knee so that his foot jutted out at an unnatural angle. And the red stain in the grass beside his ribs was spreading steadily. His face was turned away from me. I touched his hair, I don’t know why—from instinct, I suppose. The human need to give an injured person comfort. “It’s all right,” I said. “You’ll be all right. I’ll go get help . . .”

Which was meant, of course, to soothe him, but my words came out so panicked and so urgently I can’t imagine that they did him any good. Besides, he likely didn’t understand, as I was speaking English.

But he heard me. As I made to stand, he moved his head and tried to move the outstretched arm that I now saw was broken, too, and bleeding. It must have caused him unbelievable pain, but he moved it anyway, and then with a supreme effort brought his head all the way round as though compelled to look at me.

I knew him, then. The hawk-faced man.

I caught my breath, and felt my eyes grow wide with recognition and surprise, while his glazed over. I had never seen death before, not like this—never watched somebody’s face while the life left their body, nor heard the rattling breath that stopped midway, unfinished. I suppose I’d always thought that death would either be violent or peaceful, but this one was neither. It shook me rather more than I’d have wanted to admit.

I don’t know how long I stayed kneeling there, staring in shock. It might have been a minute or an hour. I only know the sound I heard next, and what snapped me from my stupor, was the sound of Rupert’s voice. Not the words, not distinctly, but only the voice, the calm familiar timbre of it just as I remembered it when, waking as a child, I’d heard him talking in the sitting-room with Bryan.

I did stand, then, and looked towards the sound. There was blood on my hand from where I’d touched the dead man’s hair, and I held it out stiffly away from my body as though I had touched something dirty. I wasn’t aware at that moment of crying, but something felt warm on my face and I must have looked a fright because when Rupert finally did come into view, with Nicholas and Madeleine behind him, he took one startled look and immediately quickened his pace, reaching my side out of breath and concerned. I went into his arms as if I were still seven years old.

“There now,” he stroked my hair. “Hush, it’s all right.”

And then Madeleine and Nicholas were there, and I was telling all of them, in a strangely flat voice that sounded nothing like my own, exactly what had happened, and then Madeleine stepped away a little and said, “Oh, my God,” or something like that, and Nicholas asked, “What?” and she replied, “Well, darling, look who it is,” and he moved to look, too, and he swore.

Turning my head against Rupert’s shoulder, I frowned in their direction, trying hard to keep my gaze from drifting downwards to the body of the hawk-faced man. “You know him?”

Madeleine nodded, her dark eyes upset. “Yes, of course. It’s Giancarlo. Teresa’s Giancarlo.”

xii

THE
breeze had grown teeth. I drew my knees up tighter to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, blocking as much of the wind as I could with my back. I could have put my jacket on, but it was underneath me at the moment, serving as a makeshift groundsheet, keeping out the damp and protecting my trousers from grass stains. Feet braced against the angle of the sloping hill, I sat looking down on the theatre below me, tucked peacefully into its hollow.

I wasn’t entirely sure what instinct had driven me here—I had only intended to take a short walk in the gardens, to get away from everyone and clear my head, but my feet had developed a direction of their own and I’d found myself here, with the circle of sheltering pines at my back and the soft blowing grass and the wooden roofed stage sitting silent beneath me.

In less than three weeks I’d be down on that stage, I thought, trying to persuade the people watching me that I was someone else, to make them set their knowledge of reality aside and trust illusion—to convince them there were walls where none existed, that a ghost could walk and talk among the living, that my character’s emotions were as genuine and worthy of involvement as their own. The actor’s art was, after all, a study in deception.

I’d grown comfortable with this, and with the fact that, in the theatre, things were never what they seemed. A door that appeared to lead out to a street really only opened onto a tiny curtained corner of backstage; sunrise was simply a trick of the lighting; the chilled gin and tonic the butler delivered was only room-temperature water.

But that was the theatre. I didn’t like being deceived off the stage. And I didn’t like knowing that Alex had lied.

I was thinking this, resting my chin on my knees, when the cold bluntness nudged at the back of my neck.

I didn’t jump. I froze. And then the cold thing gave a questing sort of snuffle and I twisted round to face the dog that owned the nose. I might have expected that it would be Max, the flirtatious one, his long brindled snout only inches from my face, his mouth half-open in a doggy grin of self-congratulation, looking pleased that he had found me.

Nero, never so bold, had stayed further back. Beside the man who stood against the circle of the trees.

As Alex came forwards I turned my back to him again, sparing a scratch on the ears for the dog who had come round to sit by my side. His master either didn’t recognize the snub for what it was, or didn’t care. A pair of long denim-clad legs stepped within my peripheral vision.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said Alex.

There seemed little point in responding, so I didn’t.

He sat, half-turned towards me with one arm slung across his up-drawn knee, as Nero collapsed with a grunt on the long grass beside him. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

“Yes, well, I figured that dinner was off,” I said, not looking up. Which was truthful enough. Teresa had, understandably, not been in any condition to make anything, and the house had been in chaos when I’d left.

“We managed with cold ham and pasta,” he told me. “Rupert helped. He’s quite a good cook.”

“Yes, I know.”

He paused, in reaction I think to the shortness of my answer. Then he said, “We did leave some for you.”

“I’m not all that hungry, thanks.” Pulling a few blades of grass from the ground I chose the longest one to toy with, sliding its smoothness through my fingers and wrapping it with precision round my thumb. Alex watched me a moment, then shifted to look down where I was looking, at the stage.

“It must have been a shock,” he said, “to find Giancarlo’s body.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Unpleasant.”

“Yes.” I took a breath. “Of course, I didn’t know it was Giancarlo.”

Alex shrugged. “You couldn’t have. You’d never met him.”

I stayed silent, but my silence spoke. I felt his gaze return; heard the frown in his voice as he prompted me, “What?”

The blade of grass snapped in my fingers. I threw it away. “I didn’t know it was Giancarlo,” I repeated, “but I recognized the man.”

“How did you—” he began, then stopped as though a thought had just occurred to him.

I turned my head then; met his eyes. “I’d seen him three times, actually, although the first time I couldn’t see him clearly, it was dark. You were with him on the terrace,” I said, watching him remember. “And the second time, you met him in your study. And today in Sirmione.”

“Celia . . .” Alex said.

“You lied.”

He looked away, and yanked up a handful of grass himself, sifting it absently into the wind while he thought.

Unable to leave it alone, I said, “You said you hadn’t heard from him—you said so to Edwina. And you let Teresa worry . . .”

“No.” He set me straight on that. “Teresa knew. Perhaps not right away, but she was told.”

Thinking back, I did remember that the day I’d seen the hawk-faced man going into Alex’s study, Teresa’s mood had brightened and she’d lost her air of melancholy, lost the furrowed lines between her eyebrows. “But why tell the lie at all?”

“Because I promised.” I couldn’t tell from his voice whether his impatience was directed at me or at the situation. “Giancarlo asked, and I promised.”

It seemed an odd sort of request for an employee to make, and an odder one still for an employer to grant, but then I didn’t know how long the two men had known each other, or on what terms. I didn’t know much about Alex at all, really. Certainly I’d never seen his face take on this particular expression, the skin at the sides of his mouth and his eyes etched with weary lines that told me that Giancarlo’s death had hit him on a level that was personal.

I didn’t press the issue. I simply sat there, head down, stroking Max’s head, and felt the distance spread between us.

Alex took a breath as though he meant to make a statement, and then let it go again without a word. He flicked a sideways glance at me, too quickly for me to read any emotion in it, but I felt his hesitation. He was measuring the risk, I thought, of telling me a secret.

At length he drew another breath and said, “It’s rather a long story.” But his tone of voice implied he was prepared to tell it to me, so I waited. He stretched himself out on the hill, leaning back on his elbows. “The night Giancarlo first came home, the night you saw us talking on the terrace, he was explaining to me where he’d been all day. I was angry with him, you understand, for not having done what I’d asked him to do; for leaving the three of you stranded at Desenzano. I assumed he’d been drinking—something he hadn’t done for a long time, or else I never would have sent him down to fetch you in the first place—but he swore that this wasn’t the case. He’d been playing detective. You have to understand,” he said, “Giancarlo is a very loyal man.” And then he caught himself and paused, rephrasing in a quiet voice: “He
was
a very loyal man. Loyal to me, and to Il Piacere. He was born here, he’d lived his whole life here, he hadn’t ever gone away like I had, so I imagine he felt more connected to Il Piacere than I ever did—more protective of the house and what was in it. He wasn’t overly pleased with my decision to give the estate to the Forlani Trust. Seeing Il Piacere pass out of my family was not a thing that he looked forward to, but on the other hand he was happy to see the place finally restored, and to know that the furniture and artworks would be kept intact and cared for by the Trust. He was not an educated man, Giancarlo, but he had a connoisseur’s soul. He was born with it, born with a passion for beautiful things.”

He paused again, but because I sensed that he was leading up to something I said nothing, only nodded once to show that I was following.

He said, “A while ago, about a week before you came, Giancarlo got it into his head somehow that things were being taken from the house. He said a few objects had been moved or were missing, and that he wasn’t the only one who had noticed. I took a look myself, but I saw nothing out of place. Giancarlo, of course, blamed the Trust, but I tried to make him see how unlikely that was. The Forlani Trust is a highly respected organization—I couldn’t see that they’d risk their reputation stealing items that would, in a few months, belong to them anyway. Still, just to set my mind at rest, and on the theory that you can’t ever be too careful, I phoned my friend—the one who put me on to the Trust in the beginning—and I asked him if anything had gone missing during the work on his villa, and he said no, he hadn’t had a problem. And of course, none of our own staff would have done a thing like that.”

I arched a speculative eyebrow. “Not even the maid that took off for no reason, and went to Milan?”

“Especially not her. She was
very
religious, that one—never said anything bad about anyone, never told lies. And she’d never have stolen. Her conscience would not have permitted it.”

My eyebrow, of its own accord, moved higher. “And she was going around with
Pietro
?”

“Yes, well, I was just coming to Pietro, actually. He was the reason you didn’t get met at the station. Giancarlo was on his way to the car, ready to leave for Desenzano, when he saw Pietro going into the garage—‘skulking,’ in Giancarlo’s words—looking as though he didn’t want to be seen, and carrying a bag, a kind of rucksack. Giancarlo,” Alex told me, “didn’t like Pietro.”

I didn’t blame him, and said so. “Pietro isn’t exactly a likeable man.”

“They’d had words before, on more than one occasion. Over what, I don’t know, but Giancarlo didn’t like him. So when Giancarlo saw Pietro with the bag, it made him instantly suspicious. He was sure he’d found his thief. And instead of driving down to Desenzano to meet your train, he took the car and followed Pietro. They ended up in Sirmione.”

Where we’d been today. I found that I was curious myself about Pietro and his rucksack. “And what happened?”

Alex shrugged. “Giancarlo wasn’t sure. He saw Pietro go into a shop, a jeweller’s shop, and come out again, still with the bag, but Giancarlo said he thought the bag looked different somehow, emptier. He couldn’t prove anything, though. That’s what he wanted to talk to me about, that night. He wanted me to let him have some time to investigate, to look for evidence. I’ve known Giancarlo for a long time, and I knew he wouldn’t let this go until he’d done it, so I said all right. It seemed harmless enough, for a few days, to let him pretend to be off on a binge while he played at being a detective.”

Interpreting his tone, I said, “But you didn’t expect him to find any evidence, really?”

Again the shrug. “There’s nothing missing from the house that I can see. And this thing between Pietro and Giancarlo, it was personal, so no, I didn’t take his accusations very seriously. I figured he’d be back in a week or so, when he didn’t find any proof.” Beside him Nero shifted, and laid his head along his master’s thigh, his dark eyes rolling to regard me with a studied lack of interest. Alex went on, “But he didn’t come back. Only that one time, the day that you saw him coming to the Veranda della Diana, and that was only to ask me for money so he could rent a room in Sirmione.”

They must have had a very close relationship indeed, for an employer and employee, I decided, for Alex to humour Giancarlo to such an extreme. “So it was Giancarlo you were meeting today, then—it was him you went to see in Sirmione.”

“I meant to. He’d phoned me yesterday; he wanted me to come and see the jeweller’s shop, the one he’d seen Pietro going into. He said it was important. I went . . . the shop was closed for Easter Sunday, and Giancarlo never showed. I waited outside in the street for an hour, and then I gave up and came looking for you at the grotto. No point wasting the day.”

I was frowning. “But he was there.”

“Who was?”

“Giancarlo. He was there in Sirmione. I saw him myself. I bumped into him, actually.” And I told him about the outdoor restaurant in the open square, and how I’d collided with Giancarlo as he’d passed.

Alex frowned in his turn. “And which way was he heading?”

“Towards the dock, I think, but I’m not really sure . . . there were so many people coming off the hydrofoil, the square was pretty full. He might have turned off down one of the alleys.”

“Either way, that would put him going in the opposite direction from the jeweller’s shop. I wonder why?”

The only person who knew the answer to that, I thought, was Giancarlo, and he was beyond telling anyone. I’d been trying not to think about that body in the dust, but I thought of it now. It was hard for me to picture someone running down a man along the road like that without the driver knowing . . .

Shattering the silence, I asked, “Alex, what sort of car does Pietro drive?”

“A Fiat Panda. Why?”

“I just wondered. A red Mercedes passed me on the road a minute or so before I . . . well, before I found Giancarlo. It was going awfully fast. I wondered if it might have been the car that knocked him down.”

“You told the police this?”

“I mentioned it, yes.” They had noted it down before leaving. They hadn’t stayed long at the scene.

“It wouldn’t have been Pietro,” he said, very sure. “A tourist, maybe. Lots of people come down here for the Easter weekend—you can tell them by the Audis and Mercedeses and the Porsche 911s.” His mouth quirked. “If Pietro started driving a Mercedes, on his salary, even I might be convinced that he was up to something.”

When I didn’t respond to that, he changed the subject, looking out across the rise of land opposite, towards the distant mountains. “We’re losing the light,” he said.

The evening was settling down into dusk with a creeping inevitability, stealing the colour from all that it touched as it spread out its mantle of flat bluish-grey. Another half-hour would bring darkness.

The breeze blew past me, stronger, colder. At my side Max raised his head and sniffed.

“I suppose that we ought to head back,” Alex said, sitting upright.

“Yes, I—”

Max interrupted by springing alert to all fours with an ear-splitting bark. Nero, taking the cue, rose as well, pointed nose to the wind as though testing a scent. His low growl was much more unsettling to me than Max’s barking.