The Tuscan Child(92)

“You talk rubbish,” Cosimo said. “Get up here now, boy.”

“No, Father. Put that gun away. Joanna knows nothing that can harm you.”

“Ask him who killed Gianni Martinelli!” I shouted before I realised that it would have been wiser to stay silent. My voice echoed around the crypt. “Gianni was the only one who knew the truth about what happened.”

“What truth?” Renzo demanded.

I glanced at Renzo, trying to decide whether to remain silent, whether I could trust him to protect me from his father.

“Gianni liked to run messages and spy on people,” I went on, speaking fast and in English. “He saw the massacre. He saw that Cosimo betrayed the partisans to the Germans.”

“No, that can’t be true. It can’t,” Renzo said.

“Get up here instantly, boy!” Cosimo bellowed. He was waving the gun.

“I’m not going to let you shoot anyone, Father. Have you gone mad?”

“And I’m not going to lose everything I’ve worked for all these years.” I heard the click as the gun was cocked.

“No,” Renzo said. “I’ve suspected things about you, but I’ve stayed quiet out of loyalty. But not this. You are not going to harm her.” He dropped the painting and bounded up the rest of the flight of steps. I picked up the painting as it came bouncing down toward me. The beautiful boy smiled at me. I clasped it to me as I made my way up the steps. Over my head I could hear grunts and an animal-like growl. Renzo and Cosimo were locked in combat. Renzo was taller, but Cosimo was a big bull of a man and still very strong despite his stroke. Renzo had his hand on Cosimo’s wrist, trying to make him drop the gun. It went off, the sound of the bullet ricocheting from the walls. Pigeons fluttered upward, alarmed. Renzo and Cosimo were staggering on the uneven floor, slithering over rocks and beams. Cosimo tried to slam Renzo against the wall. There was a grunt and a howl of pain, but Renzo didn’t let go.

I had reached the top of the steps and started to creep around the outside of the wall toward the front door. I was close enough to see freedom ahead of me when I heard a shout.

“Hello up there? Anyone there? Joanna?”

Cosimo hesitated for a second. I fled out through the door to see Nigel Barton standing at the bottom of the steps. His face lit up and he waved when he saw me.

“Hello, Joanna. They told me you’d gone up here, so I thought I’d come and surprise you with the good news. But is everything all right? I thought I heard what sounded like a gunshot. But of course it might have been—”

“Nigel,” I interrupted as I came down the steps as quickly as I dared. “Run back to the village and get help. There’s a man with a gun. Go.”

Nigel’s mouth opened in surprise. “Are you sure? There really is a man with a gun? Then come down to me right now and I’ll get you away from this awful place.”

“Nigel, run!” I shouted. “Don’t wait for me.”

At that moment Cosimo staggered out of the door. The gun was still in his hand. I looked around for Renzo but didn’t see him. My heart was thudding so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath. Cosimo took aim and shot at Nigel but missed. The bullet pinged off the rocks. Nigel gave a little shriek of terror and fled down the last of the steps and into the woods. Cosimo now aimed the gun at me. “This time I shall not miss,” he said.

There was a sound from deep within the earth. Pebbles bounced down the steps. The rock on which Cosimo was standing started to tilt. Cosimo turned to move out of the way, but his bad leg buckled under him. “Renzo, help me!” he called.

Almost as if in slow motion the chunk of hillside gave way. Cosimo grasped wildly at air. He screamed as he fell down the cliff face, his body bouncing among pieces of rock and pebbles. Renzo appeared in the doorway. Blood was running down one side of his face. He staggered toward me. “He knocked me out,” he said. “His own son. Are you all right?”

I nodded, still not able to find words. “He fell,” I said at last. “The rock collapsed and he went . . .”

Renzo made his way cautiously to the edge of the parapet. Cosimo’s body lay far below, half-covered with rock and turf. Renzo crossed himself. “He was an evil man, I know that now,” he said. “But he was always good to me. The best of fathers. May he rest in peace.”

“You fought for me,” I said. “You wouldn’t let him kill me. You were very brave.”

“I couldn’t believe he’d do it,” I said. “I knew his dealings were not always straight. But I had no idea . . . but that’s not true. When I learned about Gianni’s murder, somehow I sensed he was responsible. But the partisans in the war . . . he really was evil, wasn’t he?”

I put my hand gently on his arm. “But he was your father and you loved him. I’m sorry you had to go through this. Come on. Let’s get you back to the town and have this cut stitched up.”

“Don’t forget our beautiful boy,” Renzo said.

“As if I could.” I realised I was still clutching the painting to me. Renzo helped me down the steps, and we made our way toward the valley, where we were met by several men running toward us.

“There was a mad Englishman,” one of them said. “We did not understand what he was shouting about, but he said something about Joanna and a gun so we came and . . .” He stopped when he saw Renzo with blood streaming down his face. “Where is this madman with a gun?”