Shadows of the Past (13 page)

Exhausted, Alva slid down into the bed, wrapping the coverlet about her. It was a dream but if it was, why did it seem to be so real?

Later coaxing herself from bed, she showered and changed into fleecy sweat pants and matching hoodie. The maid had brought her coffee and warm rolls, she drank the coffee and picked at the roll but she was anxious to be outside.

There was no one around, the house seemed so silent but not ominously so. The clock in the hallway told her it was only ten o’clock, the servants were probably having their morning break. As if to prove her assumption, a tinkle of laughter drifted up from the kitchen. Once outside she walked swiftly to the disused buildings adjacent to the swimming pool.

At her touch the door swung open. The day outside was gloomy so there was not much light inside. The window frames were grey with dust. Brushing her hand along the wall she sought for the light switch and on finding it, clicked it on. The light flickered as if the bulb were about to go out, then it settled.

It was grim inside. The once beautiful tiles were chipped and grubby, scuffed with a hundred or more shoeprints. There was soil here and there. A sack of something or other had been chewed by vermin and spilled something on to the floor. Touching it she realized it was merely fertilizer and nothing sinister. In each and every comer, huge spiders’ webs hung, rather beautiful in the light, thin and delicately spun but empty of any captive.

Moving deeper into the room she saw there were three doors on the far side. Crossing to them she opened the first, it led down to a flight of stairs but it was dark, and a smell of rot and damp wafted up. The switch when she clicked it, did not light the bulb that precariously hung from a beam only slightly above her head. The stairs were stone and quite steep. There was no way she was going there to explore.

The other doors led only into storerooms, empty of anything but dust and an air of decay. Cold shivers ran down her spine and she backed away. She had to get out, she felt unable to breath, her throat had become constricted, it had to be the dust — she coughed but it brought no relief. Turning she collided with something solid; she stepped back, gasping, her back slamming into the rim of the door. She almost lost her balance and toppled down into the dark flight of stairs. A strong hand clasped her wrist.

‘Contessa, are you all right?’

Weakly she looked up at last. It was Carlo.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, trying to sound imperious.

‘I saw you come here. Forgive me, Contessa, but I knew about the stairs and I was worried for you.’

The stairs. He mentioned the stairs particularly. Did he know of her past, had Luca told him that she had been almost insane and had tried to kill herself by throwing herself down the stairs? If he had she felt she would never forgive him. It was a lie and even if he believed it to be true, it was between them and not anyone else.

But of course, everyone that worked in the house had to know what had happened. The servants would be bound to gossip; it was probably a way of life to them. Yet it was maddening nonetheless.

However, in as calm a voice as possible she said. ‘I cannot see why that would worry you.’

‘When I first came and inspected this place, Contessa, there was no light bulb. I was not certain that someone had come and put a new one in. I thought you could have had an accident if you explored in the dark.’

‘Believe me, Carlo, if there had been no light I would not have even crossed the room. I’m scared of rats!’

‘There are rats but Antonio put down some poison. However, you can never be sure that they will take it.’

‘God!’ She looked up at him. ‘Let’s get out of here. Have you been down the cellar?’

‘Yes, but not to the end … ’

‘What do you mean — not to the end?’

‘There is a narrow passageway. I am not sure where it leads. I wanted to explore myself but I hadn’t a powerful torch. Do you want me to see where it leads?’

‘No, that’s not necessary; I can ask my husband when he comes back.’

They went back across the garden. They crossed to the loggia and when she came to the doors to the sunroom, she said she would go in there. Perhaps in the afternoon she would go out riding, she would let him know.

‘Of course, Contessa. I am at your service.’

He bowed his head and departed silently. He was strange and yet he exuded something that gave her a little confidence in him. Perhaps it was that which made it important that he did not know of what she had previously been accused.

She rang for coffee and it was the happy smiling Claudia who came and brought it.

‘Claudia, I was in the storerooms next to the indoor pool. There was a door and a flight of stairs that leads to a cellar, but there is a passage as well. Does that passage come into the house?’

Claudia laughed. ‘Oh no, Contessa, it leads to the shore. You know the fort of course — you will come out there. You must have forgotten, Contessa, that the conte’s ancestors were pirates and villains!’

Alva put a hand up over her mouth — of course, she recalled someone telling her that.

‘So they used that for bringing in contraband of some kind?’

‘
Sí
, Contessa. But many, many years ago, long before the conte was born! But in the war, the last war, of course, it was used sometimes by the partisans. But they were good, you understand, Contessa?’

‘Yes, I’m sure they were. Thank you, Claudia, I had forgotten all about it.’

Claudia looked serious at once. ‘But you will not go and use it, Contessa, it is dangerous. The conte said it must never be used as it is so dangerous. It could collapse, it is so old. He has forbidden everyone to go there.’

‘Goodness, Claudia, I would never go down there. Heavens, I don’t like confined spaces underground. I could never be a miner!’

‘Good, but I know how adventurous the contessa is.’

‘Not when it comes to dark passages that go underground, Claudia. I do promise you that.’

Later, she did go riding and requested that Carlo would accompany her. She was a little uneasy about going out alone and besides she knew that Carlo would attempt to follow her, and she preferred him where she could see him.

On the ride she told him about the cellar and the passageway and when they reached the shore, they raced their horses towards the tower.

‘I remember being out here on my own. I saw the tower and the stairs that led down. It made me uneasy but I could not remember why. I still can’t, but perhaps it was because I knew about its rather shady past. I am quite imaginative and perhaps I had pictured all kinds of evil deeds going on down there.’

‘I should think it was just a way to store contraband, Contessa.’

‘But you never know. Pirates were not the kindest of souls,’ she smiled up at him.

‘You could be right then. Still, it’s good it makes you feel uneasy, that way you won’t be tempted to go and explore the passageway.’

‘Not now that Claudia has told me about it. And you shouldn’t go down there either; she says it’s not safe.’

‘Very well, Contessa, I will not explore it. At least not until the conte is back.’

‘I’ll race you to the headland,’ she said, turning her horse. It was wonderful and exhilarating to be out and free, galloping through the wavelets, feeling the wind on her face, its fingers tugging through her hair — it made her feel glad to be alive once more. It was this that she needed, this feeling of normality.

It was not a fair competition for Carlo let her win. Of course he would do so — she was, after all, the Contessa Mazareeze and he was her bodyguard. He could not know that to her a competition was a competition, no matter who was taking part. By the time they were riding side by side she felt too happy even to mention it. In fact her whole body glowed with a kind of unrestrained joy that made it completely unnecessary even to speak.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rosa d’Casta
— when the woman announced herself on the phone Alva pondered on what she could possibly want. She remembered the woman as being completely self-centred and practically ignoring Alva at the dinner party. Rosa had sent flowers to the hospital and Alva had written a note of thanks. She rather hoped that that had not been seen by Rosa as a gesture of wishing to strike up a friendship, but when Alva asked politely how Signora d’Casta was, the woman ignored the greeting and launched in, rather hysterically, with the statement that she had to see Alva.

‘Believe me it is so important,’ she emphasized.

‘Well, what is it about?’ Alva murmured, holding herself back a little.

‘I cannot come there,’ Rosa said, ignoring the question. ‘You must come here to my villa, and you must come alone. Do not tell anyone that you are coming here!’

‘I’m sorry. Signora but after what I have been through … ’

‘If you think that is the end of it you are madder than I thought!’

Well, hardly an encouraging statement — Alva reeled slightly from it, feeling a film of perspiration break out on her upper lip.

‘Listen to me! It is so important. I know that your husband is away. I was very close to his wife, you know, we were friends … I know more than you can imagine and if you want me to help, you will come here and listen to me.’

‘Why don’t you come here?’ Alva asked, recovering slightly. If anyone was deranged then she was certain it was the d’Casta woman.

‘I cannot, walls have ears — isn’t that what you English say? And believe me at the palazzo that is more so than anywhere. It is a place of secret passages and hidden doors.’

Well that was true, she supposed. Already Alva had discovered that there was a door behind a wonderfully carved panel in her room. Luca had shown it to her; he had said it was where one of his ancestors visited lady houseguests who had fallen under his spell.

‘Charming!’ she had said. ‘I hope you never use it!’

‘Well, I could use it to come to you … but its entrance is not in my bedroom … ’

‘Thank goodness for that. If you ever ask me to change rooms when we have guests I warn you I will be terribly suspicious.’

Rosa’s voice interrupted her reverie. ‘Are you listening to me, Alva? I am not joking, I assure you, you are in danger, believe me I know plenty of things.’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘About Luca and his first contessa. Renata’s mother. Things are not what they seem … ’

‘I don’t really want to know,’ Alva said, but a cold band had started to tighten inside her. She felt a shiver as if someone had walked over her grave. This was ridiculous — was the woman implying that Luca was not what he seemed. She remembered how Rosa d’Casta had been all over him at the dinner party. Hardly the actions of someone who loathed, or was afraid of the conte. Alva realized that the woman could be trying to cause trouble.

‘I so want you to believe me, Alva! I know we did not get off to a good start but I do have your interest at heart. Remember the stairs, when you allegedly fell down, do you recall how you nearly died, Alva? Do you believe it was an accident?’

‘I don’t know what it was, but I do know that I never made a suicide attempt,’ Alva said.

The woman had fired the right bullet: it met its target, Alva’s desire to know the truth of what happened before she ended at the foot of the stairs. Curiosity vied with loyalty to Luca. Whatever had happened she could not believe that Luca had anything to do with it. There was no reason for Luca to do such a thing and, besides, instinct told her that Luca was a man to be trusted. However, the realization that she might learn something was too irresistible. She had to go.

‘I don’t know where you live? I can leave now but it might take me some time to shake off my bodyguard.’

‘It is not hard to find my villa. As to your bodyguard, might I suggest that you … ?’

*

Lying did not come easily to Alva. Having to explain to Carlo that she had a headache and that she would spend the morning resting was a miserable experience. As it was, she avoided the man’s eyes, busying herself in the kitchen, making a tray of tea things and brushing aside Claudia who wanted to do it for her. Yet everything had to be carefully done so that no one would suspect.

Once in her room she took from her wardrobe a black track suit, covering her silvery blonde hair with the hood of the jacket and feeling that it was all a little dramatic. However, Rosa d’Casta had assured her that she would not reveal anything unless Alva came alone.

Fortunately, she made the outside of the house without any problem. Crossing to the garage she met one of the stable boys but he knew nothing and merely acknowledged her. In the garage she mulled over which car to take and in the end took the small Fiat. It was a car that the servants often used to go into the village or down to the port. If anyone saw it gone they would assume someone had taken it and would hardly call a roll call of everyone on the estate to see who was missing.

Congratulating herself on her cunning, she drove slowly down the drive and beyond the gates. Once she reached the road that Rosa d’Casta had told her to take her confidence ebbed a little. It was a steep narrow road; the higher she climbed the narrower it appeared to be. On one side the land fell away down to the sea, the area covered with scrub, rather like the maquis in the south of France. On the other side there was a higher cliff, at the top a villa or two and then nothing.

Holding her foot to the brake she climbed slowly and carefully, hating the sound of rough stones breaking under the wheels.

As she turned a bend she almost skidded as she pulled up for a large brown dog. It was lying at the side of the road and for a moment she wondered if it had been hit by a car. Hesitantly, she unwound her window and called to it softly. It merely gazed at her with its huge soft brown eyes. The tinkle of bells sounded on the still air and she remembered the reason for the dog. Around the bend came two men with a herd of goats, the coats of the animals long and glossy, their expression haughty, as they were herded down the road. That was what the goat herders did; they sent the dog ahead to warn oncoming traffic that the animals were being brought down from the high hills.

The men touched their caps as they passed by the side of her car and one murmured. ‘
Buon giorno
, Contessa.’ She nodded and smiled, she had not wanted to be seen but the two men were hardly likely to rush to a telephone and tell the people back at the palazzo that the contessa was driving somewhere alone. The island had its own ways, her husband was their employer but islanders did not know everything that went on.

Thankfully, she came to the last turn and the road evened out. High on a promontory at the very peak was the pink villa that Rosa d’Casta leased. Alva recalled that Luca had told her it had been Rosa’s home for many years but no matter how close she had become to Luca and his first wife, she had not been allowed to purchase the villa. Besides, she had a house that she owned in Florence and to where she usually went in the winter. However, this time she had stayed for longer than usual.

The gates were thrown back. Alva drove through, deciding to park right outside the front door. There was no other car around so there had to be a garage. The front door was open, but between that and the entrance hallways was a glass door that was firmly closed.

Alva saw a bell pull on the stonework by the open door and pulled on that. Its clanging sound echoed back to her. Stepping into the small vestibule she went up to the glass door. There was no pattern on the glass and so she peered through, but the hallway was rather dark. There was no light filtering in from a window. Stepping back she rang the bell again and wondered whether Rosa had servants or not.

Thinking the woman might be at the back of the house, or perhaps in the garden, she wandered along the front of the house. There were windows, but they were shuttered, she could see no gate or entrance that would lead her to the back. There was just a high stone wall at the end of the house. Puzzled she went back to the front door, stepped inside and after ringing the bell waited once more.

When no one came she pushed the glass door, it swung open. Apprehensively, she stepped into the hall; there was a sweet smell of jasmine but it was artificial as if it came from a scent spray or furniture polish.

Gingerly she moved through the house, calling out ‘Rosa?’ as she went. There was no sound. Directly in front of her there was a heavy wooden door — it was very dark in the hallway and she thought she would have had to have a window put in somewhere to let in light, but then conceded that perhaps it was beautiful and cool on steamy summer days.

Opening the door partly, she peered around. It led into a sitting-room. Again it was rather dim as the shutters at the windows were closed.

The tiled floor echoed her footsteps back to her. It was a huge room, beautifully furnished with a chaise longue and sofas covered in pale blue silk. As she moved across the room the sole of her shoe felt as if it were attaching itself to a gluey substance. She looked down. Something had spilled on the floor but she could not make it out … was it wine? But no, it was too thick. ‘Rosa,’ Alva called, rushing across the room. Her feet encountered a pale rug in front of the shutters. Quickly, her fingers trembling, she unhooked the bolt on the shutters and flung them back. Vivid light spilled into the room, highlighting the substance she had trailed through. Across the carpet there were bright red footprints; mesmerized, she stared at them for a long moment. Her heart started to thud against her chest and, placing a hand there, she pressed hard as if this would still the rapid beat.

The substance she had walked through was scarlet, it trailed across the room … it spattered across a pale wood occasional table, to the right of the table was a bundle, like a pile of rags.

Crossing the carpet in the direction of the heap of rags, her feet slid on to the tiled surface once more and she almost skidded. Bending down she put her fingers into the substance and then quickly jerked upwards. Her finger tips were covered in the liquid, only it was not liquid as such, rubbing the tip of her thumb over the red stuff, she at once recognized it as blood. A little gasp escaped from her; turning again, she stared at the rags,! or what she had thought were rags. Going closer, she saw it was a shawl of vivid reds and blues and it covered the head and shoulders of a body. Pale fawn trousers were on the lower half of the body and spots of blood were there too.

Her body shaking now, she bent, pulling at the shawl, it slid away easily enough … there was dark hair spread out over the floor. The back of the head looked like squashed, soft fruit. There was pulp and something greyish spilling out … tiny fragments of pale pith, that later she would realize were bone.

Realization was slow to come and she just stared at the battered head of Rosa d’Casta and then she gagged, dropped the shawl and turned away, only seconds later to turn back to put her bloodstained fingers to the woman’s neck. Rosa’s flesh was still slightly warm but there was no pulse. The woman was dead.

Fearful for her own safety, Alva backed away, stumbling out of the room and out into the hall, only to stop and lean against one of the wooden panels in the dim hallway. She listened. There was absolute silence apart from the loud thud of her own racing heart.

Police — ambulance — her head was empty of numbers: she could not think what the emergency number was. An image of the woman’s head flashed before her eyes; she felt bile rise up in her throat and, as well, a terrible pity moved through her. Quickly, she shook the vivid picture out of her mind, heading determinedly for the door. Once outside she sought for breath, for calm, and went and got into her car, careful to lock all the doors.

On the seat next to her was her mobile phone. She might not remember the number of the emergency service but she knew by heart the number of the palazzo. Carlo would know what to do …

Before she finished putting in the number there was the sound of a car — a siren. Looking in the mirror she saw the familiar shape of a police car drive too quickly through the gate, only to brake as the driver saw the Fiat. The squeal of brakes was deafening but he somehow managed to turn the wheel and collide not with her but with a cluster of terracotta plant pots that shattered on impact.

Before she could get out of the car they were on to her, guns in hand, trying to open the car door, ordering her to get out, not to try anything.

Timidly she unlocked the door; before she could open it one of the policemen dragged it open. She held her hands, palms up, as if to say calm down but the policeman took no notice and dragged her unceremoniously from the car, turning her around and patting her down roughly.

She wanted to say, ‘How dare you?’, but she knew that would antagonize them so she merely acquiesced without saying anything.

The other policeman suddenly seemed to recognize her. He said in rapid Italian. ‘
Dio Mio
, it is the contessa.’

‘
E allora
!’

The man searching her body with more enthusiasm than necessity suddenly let her go. Turning around she glanced at the police car. There was someone huddled in the back.

‘Show me your hands!’ the policeman now demanded. Palms turned up she revealed the damning evidence of blood.