The Tuscan Child(75)

“No, but I’m getting there,” I said. “And as to whether something is wrong, I wanted to make sure you knew in case I’m hauled off to jail.”

“Jail? Did you rob a bank?”

“No, I’m a suspect in a murder.”

“Bloody hell,” she said. “What’s all that about?”

“A man’s body was found in the well beside the little room where I’m sleeping,” I said. “I think the police might want to pin it on me because it’s more convenient than finding out the truth.”

“Mafia, I suppose. Isn’t that what always happens there?”

“It could be something like that. The man had shady dealings, so I’m told.” I kept quiet about the letter. “I have to see the inspector again today, and he’s going to decide whether I have permission to leave or not.”

“You poor thing. Can’t you just hop on the next train and be safely in Switzerland before they realise you’ve gone?”

“Not as easy as that,” I said. “I’m in a place that has two buses a week. And it’s not on a proper road, so I’m stuck. But if you get a cryptic message from me asking you to feed the hamster or something, then go and find Nigel Barton and tell him I’m in trouble.”

“That’s funny,” Scarlet said.

“That I’m about to be accused of murder?” I exclaimed.

“No, Nigel Barton. I think he’s quite keen on you. He showed up last week saying he had news for you about those paintings you gave him—something about cleaning them up successfully. I told him where you were and that I didn’t know how long you’d be there.” She paused. “I think the paintings were an excuse.”

“Oh golly,” I said. “That’s the last thing I need—a keen solicitor.”

“You could do worse. His dad and granddad own the business.”

“Why is everyone so eager to marry me off to someone who will inherit something someday?” I snapped.

“Whoa, what brought that on?” she asked. “Only joking, mate. Anyway, apart from being accused of murder, are you having fun?”

“Strangely enough, yes,” I said. “I’m having a good time. I’m learning to cook Italian food. And there was a big festival yesterday. I like it here.”

“A few days in Tuscany and she’s turning into an Italian housewife,” Scarlet teased. “But listen, take care of yourself, okay? If someone’s been killed then a murderer is still at large. It’s probably a local vendetta and nothing to do with you, but someone may think you know more than you do.”

“Yes, I’ll be careful,” I said, thinking how close she was to the truth. I wanted to tell her that, but I glanced out of the little cubicle to see the postmaster loitering nearby as well as an old woman, her arms folded impatiently. I had to keep silent for now.

“Call me again when you have more news,” she said. “And not so early in the morning next time. We were striking a set until two.”

“I’m sorry. And I will call you again, although the only phone in the village seems to be this very public call box.”

“I’d better send Nigel Barton out to rescue you.” Scarlet chuckled. “I can just see him riding up on his white horse.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. See you soon.”

“Yeah. See you soon.”

I stood staring at the telephone after I hung up. She had been my one tenuous connection with home, and now I was on my own again in a world I knew nothing about. I had heard of the bribery, corruption, and intimidation in Italy. Places where the Mafia ruled. What if the inspector was in the pay of the real killer and had been told to pin the crime on me? That seemed all too possible. Paola was my ally, but how much influence did she have in town? And the only other person I could turn to for help was the adopted son of a man who could well have ordered the killing himself.

I came out of the post office to see one of the Carabinieri officers beckoning me. “The inspector has arrived,” he called. “He asks for you.”

I took a deep breath and followed him. The inspector was seated at the desk again.

“Signorina Langley,” he greeted me in Italian. “Did you have a pleasant weekend?” He smiled, revealing a couple of gold teeth.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied. “I attended the festival in town. It was very beautiful.” I stammered the words as slowly as I dared with an awful English accent. I wanted him to think that if he needed to ask more questions he would have to find Renzo again.

“Am I at liberty to go home now?” I added.

He spread his hands. “I am not yet satisfied that you did not have a part in this killing. Why did you come to San Salvatore? I ask myself. It is not a beautiful tourist town. Were you maybe sent here to lure poor Signor Martinelli to his death? Paid money to do so?”

I took my time to understand this. “I have said before, I know nobody in this town. I came to find out the story of my father in the war. But nobody here knows of my father. That is all. Now I wish to leave again and go home to my country.”

“I have more people to question today. It seems this man had many dealings with outsiders—not all of them above the law. But do not worry. I shall get to the bottom of this. Maybe there are other fingerprints on that well. Maybe not. But if you are innocent, as you say, then you will be on your way home in a few days.”