Shadows of the Past (15 page)

‘Perhaps we could have some tea,’ Alva murmured to no one in particular but the maid obviously took it on herself to go and order it.

It was Claudia who brought it in. They had sat in silence as Alva had merely stared at the carpet unable to bring herself to relive those horrid moments.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said not for the first time. ‘I can’t do it … give me a moment.’

‘Take as long as you like. It is important that what you say is accurate,’ the commissario said.

‘Take some tea,’ Luca urged, pouring some into the thin white china cup.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the cup; folding the offending hand in the other she rubbed it, as if this would end the tremor. Oddly, it worked. She took up the cup and sipped the pale brown liquid.

‘You must think I am an idiot,’ she said to the commissario.

‘He thinks no such thing, Alva; you have been through so much. People understand that.’

‘Tell me, Conte, do you think the two could be connected. What happened to the contessa and what happened to Rosa d’Casta?’

Silence hung in the room; it was there even in the tiny dust motes that floated in a beam of sunlight.

‘I don’t see how it can,’ Luca said. ‘They have no connection. They were not friends; they shared no mutual secrets, or did you,
cara
?’ He turned and looked at her kindly.

‘No, of course we didn’t. I couldn’t stand the woman.’

There was a gasp from somewhere, maybe herself or Luca or perhaps the commissario. She realized when the words popped out that she could practically be condemning herself.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ve said it; I won’t try to explain it because I can’t. I met her for what I thought was the first time at the dinner party. She came late with some feeble excuse; she monopolized my husband all evening and was rude to everyone else. But for doing that I would not invite her again. I don’t think it warranted my going to her home and battering her over the head with some terrible instrument.’

‘You were jealous of her?’

‘Of course she was not, what is she to be jealous of?’ Luca snapped.

‘No, not jealous exactly, I was annoyed with her. But I think I am rather used to women trying to steal my husband from me. I think it happened a lot. It did, didn’t it?’ she shot a look at Luca.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know really … but perhaps … ’

She warmed to his modesty; he did not want to admit that women found him irresistible … Ping, there it was — another little dart letting light into her dark mind.

‘Anyway, this isn’t relevant,’ she put her cup back on the saucer. ‘Now … now I think I can tell you what I found when I went into the drawing-room.’ Tugging the cashmere shawl close around her, she started her description and did not stop until she told him about running from the house and of sitting in the car and not being able to remember the emergency number.

‘Then, when I started to ring the palazzo, the police arrived. I don’t know how they knew what had happened … ’

But the commissario was not going to reveal that, he ignored the statement, saying.

‘No one was at the villa; there was no car, there was nothing?’

‘No one was there, there wasn’t a car, at least I didn’t see one.’

He sighed.

‘You see how difficult it is conte. The Contessa passed no one on the road, apart from the
paesano
, the police coming the other way also say they passed no one and yet someone had been and killed the
signora
.’

‘But they could have escaped before the police set off.’

‘The police were in the area. They had been to visit someone over a traffic accident. When the servant, Maria, heard the screams she ran away. To the villa that is just beyond the
signora
’s home. They telephoned and the police were there in seconds, as the contessa has confessed.’

‘I can see it looks strange,’ Alva said, trying to sound calm and reasonable but her heart had started to go like an express train. It looked as if she could be accused of what she had not done. The evidence was certainly not fanciful.

‘But the girl … Maria, I think you said … when she saw me she left the car and said something … the policeman was very rude to her but she pointed to me and said … what?’

‘That the person was a man. She had caught a glimpse of trousers, but you were wearing trousers.’

‘But she did not see my wife’s car!’

‘She saw no car but as you know, Conte, since you own the property, that there are huge bushes across the courtyard where people often parked because it offers shade. A small car would not be noticed there. The contessa could have put her car there and then have been driving away just as the police arrived.’

‘I was facing the wrong direction. My rear was to the police car, I had not turned around as I would have done if I were coming from the bushes.’

The commissario was staring at her now. She had not missed the sarcasm when he had said that ‘
since you own the property
,’ to the conte, as if that implied that perhaps Rosa d’Casta was allowed to live there because she was more than a friend.

It could be true, Alva thought, the woman could have been his mistress. After all, they had been separated some time and he was a man who — Wildly, she looked at him, was that it? Was that why the commissario was suspicious of her — because the murdered woman and Luca had been lovers? In a place like Santa Caterina things were never kept secret for long, she knew that only too well.

There is that — you were only sitting in the car, you had not started the engine and you were not where you should have been had you wanted to hide yourself. Unfortunately, contessa, your fingerprints are the only other ones in the room, you touched the body, and you had blood on your hands … ’

‘It came off the shawl when I lifted it and I touched Rosa’s neck to find a pulse.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Luca exploded. ‘Do you really imagine my wife could do that? Look at her, she is so frail … ’

‘One blow could have felled the woman and then while she was down she could have been beaten senseless.’

‘
Could
have been,’ Luca picked up on the ‘could’ that seemed to add doubt to this theory.

‘Our experts believe that is what happened. The
signora
was struck, she fell to the floor and then continued to be beaten. We know this because she had put up her hands and they were covered with bruises … ’

‘Oh my God,’ Alva gasped. ‘That is so — ’ She started to shake again, her imagination illuminating the scene in her mind. She put up her hands behind her head as if it were she who was warding off the terrible blows. ‘That poor woman, what could she have known, or done to make someone hate her like that?’

‘Hate? Yes, it did look as if someone really hated her.
A woman’s kind of hatred
.’

Alva looked at the commissario, feeling helpless. A wave of tiredness hit her, her eyelids fluttered, if she let herself she could drift away. Was this why she had been saved from the sea, just so that she could now be accused of murdering someone? Better to have drowned, or for her to have died when the car tried to run her down, or even when she had allegedly
fallen
down the stairs. The brief bout of happiness she had clawed back was now eroding fast. It was as if someone with a motive wanted to punish her … but for what?

‘No weapon has been found,’ the commissario murmured. ‘And you Contessa would have had no time to hide it somewhere where it would not be found. I do not think it was you. I might be overruled when the evidence is examined once more, but I doubt it. You have no real motive, if you did not like the woman, well then I do not like many people but I would not beat them to death. And as the conte has consistently pointed out, you have been a victim yourself. I believe it is a conspiracy but how and why I do not know. However, I do assure you I will find out.’

*

If only that were the end of it, Alva thought, in the wake of the commissario’s departure. But it was not to be. A deal had had to be struck, or an arrangement made, as the commissario put it.

Luca held her close to him, they were sitting on the sofa and the afternoon sun had fled the sky. Neither had bothered to light lamps, preferring the dim glow of late afternoon.

‘I don’t like it,’ Luca said, not for the first time.

‘I don’t like it much either, Luca, but if it brings the rats from their nests then I am all for it. Do you think it could all be connected as he suspects, that somehow Rosa and I shared a secret?’

‘I wish I knew for certain but I really doubt it. You had nothing in common with Rosa. I think it a coincidence.’

The commissario had asked them both not to say anything about Alva’s ordeal, not to let anyone know that as far as he was concerned he believed her story. The less said about it the better it would be. He would talk with the magistrate, of course, but if the real killer thought he was in the clear, he might yet overplay his hand. If suspicion still rested on the contessa he might even try to speak with her to find out just what she knew.

‘But you must be careful. You must never go anywhere without protection,’ the commissario told her. ‘No matter who calls or whatever they tell you. You could be in real danger, Contessa.’

‘I think I am in danger whatever,’ she had said. And when she had said the words she was amazed how less afraid she felt. There was nothing she could do about it, but she could protect herself. She would not go out without Luca or Carlo. No one would tempt her again, no matter what they said they had to tell her. Fear had put her on the alert; it had sharpened her senses. She would be strong and she would use the adrenalin pumping through her to good advantage.

‘Someone believes I know something and Rosa knew something too. But the two might not be connected. You know, I rather gave the impression to Antonio that I was well again, that I remembered things … ’

‘Antonio? But why should what you told him matter?’

Ah, he liked Antonio and trusted him. After all, he was the one who had lied about her throwing herself down the stairs, but he was the one that Luca had believed instead of her.

‘Perhaps he said something to someone else or it was repeated elsewhere and whoever wanted to harm me heard it and panicked.’

‘It seems unlikely,’ Luca said softly. ‘Besides, Antonio is not a gossip. No, it does not come from here. It is someone, somewhere, who does not care whether you have remembered or not. They are just afraid that you might remember.’

‘All right,’ she whispered, letting him believe what he wished. Anyway, Luca could be right. If she carried a secret then she was a danger while she lived because if she regained her memory she could expose them. Better that they did not take the risk of her memory returning. They could not wait for that to happen, they had to act before it did.

‘It’s cold,’ she said, snuggling against him.

‘I think it is time we lighted the fire would you like that? A real fire … come here,’ he held her to him tightly. ‘My poor brave, Alva, you should not have to go through all this.’

‘I know, I should just live a normal life, but it seems I’m not destined for that. And yes, Luca, I should love a real fire … and a glass of wine before dinner … I want to chase it all out of me, Luca and just enjoy this night … ’

‘Then that is what you will do, let me call for Guido … ’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Alva had vivid dreams. She awakened slowly, as if not wanting the reality to intrude. Luca lay on his side beside her. He was sleeping, his face worry free, and looking younger in repose, the concerns and worries he had for her obliterated by deep sleep. Her dreams had gone further back than her time with Luca. She had dreamed of her parents. For the first time since she had been run over, she saw their faces. Her mother was like her, blonde and small and delicate, her physical attributes hiding the toughness inside her, her dad was taller, darker, with friendly blue eyes.

They were always busy — kind and friendly but not particularly doting. They wanted to save the world; their interests and ideals meant she had to share their love with all the things they passionately cared about. She was lonely as a little girl, and then when she went to school she had had to fend for herself. She had been seven at the time. There she found love with Chloe and it was to Chloe’s home that she went when her parents were abroad at Christmas and Easter.

Chloe’s parents were conventional parents and they had been so good to her. When Chloe died they retreated into themselves and she remembered them telling her, on one of her visits, not to come and see them again. She reminded them too much of Chloe and the happy times. It hurt so much when Chloe died that it was better they did not see Alva. It broke her heart a second time but she respected their wishes, only later learning that they had gone abroad to live, to try to make a new life. Now, remembering those happy times when she was a child, she hoped that they had found something to salvage from their broken lives.

Lying back against the pillow, she closed her eyes, going over so many small treasured memories that seemed to shoot through her mind. There were little explosions of light, her mind was a shooting star … Aunt Beatrice, hateful woman, so cold and resentful of having to look after the child her sister and her husband had orphaned.

She could have refused but there was the money. Her parents had insurance and a house that was sold at the right time when property values were racing away. Had Aunt Beatrice had control of the estate? When Alva came into her majority perhaps there was very little left. Luca seemed to have hinted at some time that her aunt had charge of her finances. Perhaps any money had been spent — after all, her school was expensive; she never missed a school trip and if she wished to go away with Chloe and her parents, Aunt Beatrice had never refused. There was money to keep her while she was at university. She seemed to recall her aunt saying there would be enough for her to buy a small property of her own. Yet she did not remember if she had bought a house, or what had happened to the proceeds of any sale.

Luca stirred, his eyes opened slowly; turning, he propped himself up on his elbow gazing up at her. ‘You look flushed, Alva, are you all right?’

‘Yes and no, I had vivid dreams last night.’

The words spilled out of her, explaining what the dreams had caused her to remember. He sat up and hugged her to him, running a hand through her hair.

‘I wanted to tell you but I did not think it right. You told me all this — about that dreadful woman. There was money, Alva, but we could not get our hands on it, although we tried.’

‘So she stole from me?’

‘Appropriated perhaps is the word. I think she enjoyed herself but it would be difficult to prove. It would have meant lawyers and court cases and you did not think it worthwhile.’

‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘But that is not what someone tried to kill me for was it?’

‘No.’ His hand tightened on her soft blonde hair, its silvery colour shining out against the brown of his skin, and he threaded her hair through his fingers, as if it were skeins of silk. ‘The idea of your aunt hiring a hit man is a rather bizarre image. I want to laugh at it as a ludicrous idea, but it isn’t funny,
cara
.’

‘Oh, but it is. I know what you mean. Now that I can see her, small and thin, without my mother’s prettiness. The older sister, resentful of the younger one. I don’t think it was me she hated, but my mother. No, I don’t think she would harm me in a physical way and, as you say, she wouldn’t know how.’

They lay in silence for long moments; beneath her ear she could hear the steady beat of his heart. Luca … it came again that feeling of overwhelming love that had moved her years ago. She stayed where she was, still enjoying the feeling, bathing in the luscious feelings down deep inside her. Head over heels, that was what it was. After that first meeting when he had rubbed her up the wrong way, the second had been more electrifying. She remembered it as if it had always been there, as if she had never forgotten him.

He called to ask her out. At first she prevaricated, only changing her mind when it seemed he was going to give up. They drove out in the country somewhere, a small inn, away from the political crowd. A mind-numbing shyness had come over her; she could not eat, could not talk, only able to respond to what he was saying with monosyllabic words.

‘What is it, Alva? Am I boring you?’ he had asked at last, slightly exasperated by her inability to be herself.

‘On the contrary,’ she had said.

‘I am sorry, I do not understand?’

She had babbled then, going on about a book she had read where the heroine said. ‘I can’t breathe quite right when I’m with you.’

‘
The Last Tycoon
,’ he said. ‘F Scott Fitzgerald’s wonderful but unfinished novel.’

‘Gosh, how did you know that?’

‘You think I wouldn’t because I am an Italian?’

‘No, it’s just that you don’t look like the type of man who would read books.’

How he had laughed. He had thought that really funny. ‘I do it all the time,’ he confessed, ‘with all the travelling I do, long plane trips, lonely hotel rooms … ’

He took up her hand that was resting on the table, holding it lightly in his own. ‘And perhaps I could say the same thing, only … perhaps it is the opposite … I breathe too much when I am with you.’

Luca, she thought, again. How did you come to fall in love with me? I was so stupid. But she did not ask. Dare not, knowing that Luca when he had a mind, could be brutal with the truth and she was afraid of what the answer might be.

‘Let us go riding today,’ he said. ‘It is a perfect winter morning.’

‘How do you know, the shutters are closed?’

‘I feel it in my bones.’ He left her then, gently parting from her, going across the room and opening the shutters. Sure enough, thin winter sunshine drizzled itself into the room.

‘There, I knew I was right.’

‘Then we will.’ She lay back and stretched. ‘But after coffee and rolls … mm, Luca … everything is going pear-shaped but I feel so happy today … is that wrong?’

‘Of course it isn’t wrong. You deserve that feeling of happiness, Alva, so enjoy it.’

*

She had a flash of memory, it was just after Renata had arrived and it was momentous.

Renata chased away her happiness. Her arrival came with a fierce squall that had windows and doors rattling. Trees were bent backwards, and plant pots fell over. A winter storm, Luca said, and it could last for days.

Renata was not impolite but cold — or rather, cool, Alva amended. She spoke when spoken to by Alva but did not initiate conversation herself. They met mostly at mealtimes, at least the girl came to table and although she picked at her food, she was not rude.

She missed being beautiful. Alva noted that about her: attractive, striking certainly, with that thick dark hair, albeit brutally styled, and flashing dark eyes, but her features were very strong; her nose dominant in a small, high-cheekboned face. Her lips were thin too, although the lower had a curve that showed that somewhere inside her there was warmth and humour.

She dressed beautifully, having a sense of style that belied her nineteen years. Modern but classic was her style but she could certainly put things together and wore clothes well.

Coming across her in the sitting-room, Alva said, ‘It was kind of you to send me the fruit, Renata. I did appreciate it.’

Renata looked up, her lips forming a little pout as if she were mulling over something.

‘It wasn’t my idea. My father told me to do it.’

‘I see. Well, he shouldn’t have forced you to do that, but it was kind of you to take the trouble to do as he asked. You could have refused.’

‘I could have,’ she said.

Alva smiled a little.

‘What’s funny?’ Renata demanded.

‘I was thinking that you are a lot like your father. I think that
he
finds it impossible to lie as well.’

‘You think so?’ Renata shrugged. ‘But I do speak my mind,’ she added.

Instead of retreating, as she did when coming across Renata anywhere, Alva went and sat in the easy chair. Guido had been to light the fire and it roared in the grate. The day was dull and although it was only three o’clock it was turning dark outside.

‘Did you … were you very friendly with Rosa d’Casta?’ Alva asked. Only that day at lunch had she heard Renata asking her father if there would be a funeral and where and when it would be. He had told her in Firenze — Florence — she had left a request in her will to be buried with her family.

Renata was a long time answering. As the seconds ticked away to minutes, Alva thought that perhaps she had pushed too hard. That Renata was not yet ready to have a conversation with her. That the frigid politeness should have given her the clue that Renata would never be friendly towards her, nor accept her marriage to her father.

At last she did speak and her words caused an implosion inside Alva.

‘
I hated the bitch
.’

Alva tried not to gasp but failed.

‘Shocked? Well you shouldn’t be shocked, Alva, you know how I hated you. I can hate with a passion, you know.’

‘I don’t know how you hated me, Renata, I don’t remember.’

‘That’s good, if you ask me. If you did remember then you would not be sitting there calmly talking to me.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Alva admitted. ‘I’m not a saint.’

‘No, you’re not,’ the girl admitted quietly. ‘But she was a whore,’ Renata went on in a reasonable voice. ‘A pimping little whore. She and my mother … they were the best of friends. Oh, everyone thought that — but I knew what happened at the villa and in Firenze.’

Alva stared at the girl. Renata left her seat and came to stand over Alva. ‘Are you shocked? You’ve gone very pale, Alva. They both were, Silvia and Rosa, whores. You know why my mother was always there — up at the villa? To meet her lovers! She thought I didn’t know, that I thought she was working. Oh, she was working all right but it had nothing to do with her art!’

‘Renata I don’t think you should — ’

‘Tell you? Why not? Didn’t my father ever tell you about
her
, his first contessa? How she had all these men, she and Rosa. Oh, so classy on the outside but such bitches on the inside. I hated her for what she did to my father. The humiliation she poured on his head!’

As she stood, Alva watched, transfixed, and she saw the girl crumble before her eyes, the little body folding into itself, the great wracking sobs that came from her. There were no tears; it was too late for Renata to shed any tears — all Renata could do was let out these great wracking sobs.

Alva left her seat, gathering the girl to her. At first she struggled from the embrace and then she settled, as if Alva’s soothing voice had a calming effect.

‘It was not your fault, Renata, you must not blame yourself … you were a child … you could not have done anything … ’

‘I thought you would be the same … that you would find other men, that you had found other men … ’

‘Renata, how could I have found other men with that big lump on my tummy? But I understand — oh, Renata you have no idea how much I understand.’

They sat in the dimming light, finding some kind of comfort in the flickering firelight. Renata let everything out; it was as if once she started she could not stop. The humiliation of being used by her mother, for Silvia had used her daughter. If Luca thought she was out with her daughter then she would not be up to her usual carrying-on.

‘He did not care what she did in Firenze, but she brought it here, to the island. He did not want that … I knew that but I thought he would not believe me. And I was tom, not knowing who to turn to. Should I betray my mother, would they both never forgive me? I was so confused.’

‘Renata, you were twelve years old, you should never have had to carry that burden. It was too much.’

‘It was a relief when she died but I felt … I felt so guilty. I was quarrelling with her, you know what that road is like, if I had not been arguing with her she might still be alive. It was my fault she died.’

‘You must not believe that, Renata. It happened, it was an accident, and it was not your fault. If you were arguing then your mother should have stopped the car.’

‘She hit me, turned away from the road and slapped me hard and then we were going down, the car turning around and around, bumping, crashing … I can still hear her screaming.’