The Tuscan Child(76)

He was about to dismiss me when there came the sound of raised voices in the hallway outside. The young Carabinieri agent poked his head around the door, looking extremely embarrassed. “Inspector, there is a gentleman and he says—”

“He says he must speak with the inspector immediately,” said a deep, rumbling voice, and Cosimo himself came into the room. In spite of his stick he moved remarkably quickly.

“Signor di Georgio, isn’t it?” The inspector had gone quite pale.

“Of course,” Cosimo said. “I am well known to your superiors in Lucca. I come about this unfortunate young woman. My son tells me he has spoken with her and he is sure that she has no connection to this crime. We do not want her to have a bad opinion of Tuscany, do we? We do not wish her to go home and say that the law in Tuscany is full of idiots, that they do not know how to solve a crime like Mr. Sherlock Holmes does. So I am here to say you must let her go when she wishes to leave. Maybe we will get to the truth about Gianni Martinelli one day. Maybe not. The sort of men who carry out such crimes are not always easy to track down, as you know.”

There was a long pause. The inspector looked uncomfortable. He did not want to surrender his authority, but he also did not want to go against Cosimo.

“Give me a few more days, I beg of you,” he said. “The young lady will be quite safe here. She can enjoy the Italian sunshine.”

“My son has to go into Florence tomorrow,” Cosimo said. “He is willing to drive this young lady to the train.”

“I will take the matter into consideration,” the inspector said. “That is the best I can promise.”

Cosimo put a hand on my back and steered me out of the room. “Do not worry, my dear young woman,” he said. “I can promise you that you will be able to leave with my son in the morning. Enjoy your last day in San Salvatore.”

I found that last sentence quite ominous, although I’m sure I was reading more into it than was meant. I came out into blinding sunlight and wondered where to go next. Then I came to a decision. I needed to talk to Gianni’s widow. She was the one person who had actually heard of my father. Maybe she knew more. Maybe she even knew why Gianni came to see me that night and met his end.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO





JOANNA


June 1973

The dog rose barking as I approached Francesca’s house. He looked so menacing that I was reluctant to come any closer. I wasn’t sure how long that chain was. I hoped she would hear the noise and come to see what was happening. Finally, a curtain was drawn back and a face peeked out, and then the front door was opened.

“It is the English signorina,” she said. “You have come for Paola’s basket, no doubt. She will need it. And her bowl, too. The ragu was excellent. Please thank her for her kindness.”

Her accent was so strong that I had trouble understanding her.

“Come in, please.” She motioned me toward the door. The dog didn’t take his eyes off me for a second as I entered the house.

“Will you take some coffee with me?” she asked.

I wasn’t a big fan of the thick black espresso that was drunk here. It seemed that milk was only mixed with the coffee at breakfast. Any time after that it was a sign of weakness to water down the coffee. “Thank you.” At least it would give me an excuse to stay and talk.

She ushered me to the bench at the table. I sat and watched as she poured the liquid into a tiny cup. “Signora,” I began hesitantly. “I wanted to talk to you about my father and the war. I think you know more than you said yesterday in front of Signora Rossini.”

She looked uneasy. “I only know what my husband told me—that he had seen the Germans driving off with a prisoner. He thought that prisoner was an Allied airman. He wore a leather jacket like those who fly aeroplanes.”

“Did your husband say anything about Sofia Bartoli?” I asked.

Now she really did look surprised. “Sofia Bartoli? The one who went with the German officer? What has she to do with this?”

“I think she helped to hide my father,” I said cautiously.

She shook her head. “I know nothing about that.”

On the path up the hill I had weighed whether I would put her in danger if I showed her the contents of the envelope. I decided to take the risk.

“Your husband pushed a letter through the bars of my window on the night he died,” I said. “I have to think it was meant for me.”

I handed her the note. She read it, then half laughed as she shook her head. “The stupid man. I told him he should have left well alone.”

“You know what he was referring to, do you?”

“I know very little,” she said. “I know he used to run messages for the local partisans. He was proud of that. Only a boy and already doing his part to win the war. He said to me once when he was drunk—which he often was, God rest his soul—that if the inhabitants of San Salvatore knew the truth, things would be very different.

“‘What truth?’ I asked him.

“‘About the war,’ he said. He said one day he’d find a way to let the truth out, and when he did, it would change everything.”

She fiddled with the objects on the table, moving the sugar bowl and a spoon around as she talked and not looking at me. She was clearly uncomfortable with talking about this, but I had to press on.