The Tuscan Child(93)

“It was Cosimo,” Renzo said. “He tried to kill Signorina Joanna. We fought. He hit me with the gun and knocked me out.”

“Where is he? He must be stopped,” one of the men said.

“He’s dead. He fell from the heights. The hillside collapsed and he went plunging down.”

The men crossed themselves. I noticed that none of them said, “May he rest in peace.”

Then their gaze turned to what Renzo was carrying.

“We found this in the crypt under the monastery.” Renzo held it up for them and they gasped.

“Magnificent. A work of the old masters,” one of them muttered.

“I remember that there were fine paintings in the monastery before the war,” the oldest man said. “We thought the Nazis had taken them all.”

“There are more in the crypt,” Renzo said, “but none so fine as this.”

“Will it make San Salvatore rich, do you think?” one of them asked.

“How can you talk like that?” another man snapped. “This belongs to our heritage. It belongs in a museum in Florence.”

“Florence? Why not Lucca? Is Lucca not as good as Florence?”

And they were off in lively dispute. Renzo grinned at me. We started up the hill to the village. The doctor cleaned Renzo’s cut and put three stitches in it. “You were lucky you did not lose your eye,” he said. “Or bleed to death from the vein in the temple.”

“Yes, I was lucky,” Renzo said. There was a note of bitterness in his voice.

At that moment there were raised voices outside the door, and the doctor’s wife came in looking worried. “There is a mad foreigner outside,” she said. “He claims he is the signorina’s lawyer and—”

She didn’t have a chance to finish because Nigel burst in. “Oh, there you are, Joanna. Thank God you’re safe. What on earth was going on up there? What madman was shooting? Have they caught him yet? Mafia, I suppose. The whole place is teeming with gangsters, so one hears. Let’s get your things. I have a car. I’ll drive you back to Florence and we can go home.”

“It’s good of you, Nigel,” I said, “but as you can see I am quite unhurt. And as for the man with the gun, he is dead.”

“Thank God,” he said. “Can we go now? We can take the night train back home.”

I glanced at Renzo, who was looking rather pale, with the row of stitches making a black line above his eye. “I don’t think I’d be allowed to leave right away,” I said. “I’m sure there will be an inquest at which I’ll have to testify.”

“Not if you are out of the country before the police come,” Nigel said.

“But I want to testify,” I said. “I think it’s important that this business is sorted out. It has to do with my father, you know.”

“Oh, I see.” His face fell. “Well, I suppose I had better stay, too, to defend you in court, if necessary.”

I looked at his earnest face and had to laugh. “Nigel, are you qualified to practice international law? I’m sure I won’t need anyone to defend me because I was a victim, not a suspect. And Signor Bartoli here can translate for me.”

Nigel looked at Renzo, then back to me.

“So you don’t want me to stay, just in case?”

“It is very kind and I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I’d like to get everything sorted out before I come home, and I’m sure you’d rather go back to England.”

“Well, if you really don’t want . . . Oh, all right.” He looked crestfallen.

“It was extremely kind of you to come over here so quickly after I telephoned Scarlet,” I said. “I suppose she was worried that I was in trouble with the law.”

He looked puzzled now. “I don’t know what telephone call you are speaking about. I went to Scarlet’s flat last week to find you, and since I learned where you were in Italy I arranged to take a few days off and bring you a piece of good news myself.”

“Good news?”

He smiled now. “Yes. Your paintings.”

“My father’s paintings? They are worth money after all?”

He shook his head. “No, not your father’s paintings unfortunately. I’m talking about the family portraits. We had them cleaned and then one of them warranted further inspection by experts—the portrait of your ancestor namesake, Joanna Langley. It turned out it was painted by Thomas Gainsborough. A hitherto unknown portrait by him.”

“Gainsborough? Are you sure?”

He nodded excitedly. “Once the painting was cleaned, the signature was quite visible in the lower corner. And there is a reference in his diary that a J. L. came to sit for him and had good bone structure.”

“Golly,” I said.

“Golly indeed. It is a major find. It could bring a serious amount of money at auction. Several hundred thousand pounds at least.”

“Several hundred . . .” I couldn’t even stammer out the words.

He nodded. “At least.”

I was about to say “Golly” again but swallowed it back.

“So do I have your permission to put it up for auction at Christie’s?” Nigel said. “I think we should get the wheels in motion right away while the discovery is still newsworthy.”