The Tuscan Child(67)

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” I said. “I only wanted to know the truth. But it seems now that I never will.”

We started to walk together. “Do you think the police will let me go soon?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Who knows? I think it must be quite obvious to anybody but an idiot that you had no reason to kill Gianni and that you were certainly not strong enough to have put him into the well. But unfortunately some of our policemen are idiots. But don’t worry. We will do what we can for you, I promise. Such treatment should not happen to a stranger.”

Our footsteps echoed back from the walls on either side of the narrow street. In the distance we could hear laughter, and someone had started playing an accordion. Voices were raised in song.

“They seem to be enjoying themselves,” I said.

He nodded. “In a place like this people expect little and are delighted by small things. Not like in London, where one must spend money to have a good time and nobody ever laughs. In the restaurant where I worked it was as silent as the grave. People whispered. Nobody laughed.”

I thought about this. “That’s true,” I said. “If someone talked or laughed loudly everyone would look at them.”

“And yet you live there.”

“I have to finish taking my bar exams,” I said.

“Bar? You wish to work making drinks?”

I laughed then. “No, that’s what we call the exam to become a lawyer. Called to the bar. Silly, isn’t it?”

“So many silly expressions in English,” he said. “I was constantly puzzled about what people meant. So you take the exam to become a lawyer?”

I nodded. “And when I have passed . . . if I pass, then I can practice law wherever I want. But I haven’t yet found a place where I feel at home.”

“Not where you grew up?”

I shook my head. “I never felt that I really fitted in,” I said. “My father came from a noble family. He was Sir Hugo Langley. We owned a beautiful big house called Langley Hall and a lot of land before I was born, but my father had to sell everything because of the taxes owed on the estate. So we lived in the lodge and he was the art teacher at the school that took over our house.”

“That must have been hard for him,” Renzo said, “to be reminded every day of what he had lost.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was. My mother was from a less noble background and was quite happy to look after us. But she died when I was eleven, and after that life was quite bleak. I attended the school, but the rest of the girls were rich. And they were not interested in their studies. They either teased or despised me. So no, I don’t think I’d want to go back there.”

“So we both grew up without a mother. It is never easy. There is always something missing,” he said. “Sometimes I used to wake up from a dream that my mother had kissed my cheek as she used to when I was sleeping.”

“Your mother clearly loved you,” I said. “Do you really believe that she would just abandon you if she didn’t have to?”

He stopped, staring out ahead of us to the laughter and song in the piazza. “It is what I have been told. What everyone believes,” he said. “Now I’m just not sure.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE





JOANNA


June 1973

We had reached the alleyway where Renzo’s old house stood. Renzo sensed me looking at it. “Do you think we should take a look at my house and see if there was possibly anywhere that someone could have been hidden?”

“But won’t the occupants all be at the feast in the piazza?”

He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Exactly. What better time to look around?”

“But we can’t go in without permission. And won’t the door be locked?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Nobody in San Salvatore locks their doors. Any stranger would have to enter the town along this street and would be noticed. And nobody here would rob a neighbour. It is against our code. Come on. Let us give it a try. If we are caught I will say that I am showing the young lady from England where I used to live. No harm in that, is there?”

We hurried down the alleyway and Renzo tried the handle on the front door. It was made of carved wood and looked very old. The door swung open easily.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Renzo called. His voice echoed up a stairwell. There was no answer. He gave me an affirming nod. “Let’s go.”

First he walked me around the ground floor. A formal living room at the front looked on to the alleyway. It was full of heavy, dark furniture and felt oppressive to me. At the back was a dining room that had a wonderful view over the vineyards that sloped down to a small valley and the olive groves that climbed the hill beyond. I went over to the window and looked out. Yes, he had been right. The window opened to the sheer drop of the town wall—not a place where one could climb in. Next to this was a very old-fashioned kitchen with a big cast-iron stove and copper pots hanging in a row. And on the other side of the kitchen was a room that now contained easy chairs and a TV set. So San Salvatore had entered the modern age!

“This used to be my mother’s bedroom,” he said. “At least during the time I remember. We slept down here because it was warmer and we did not have enough fuel to heat the upstairs. My little bedroom was behind it.” And he showed me a tiny box room that looked out on to the alley. He had moved me along quickly, presumably because he was beginning to feel uneasy about snooping in someone’s home, but I had glanced out of the window of the room that used to be his bedroom. This window also opened onto the wall, but the top of the wall was built out a little here so that one could step down on to it. Not much use, however, as it was still a sheer drop.