The Tuscan Child(94)

For a moment I was tempted to keep it, to have my lookalike gazing down at me from my wall. But then my sensible nature prevailed. “Oh yes. Absolutely.”

“Jolly good. Well, that’s that, I suppose. I’ll see you back in England, then,” Nigel said awkwardly. “And if you need anything, here is my card. Don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything you have done.”

He blushed like a schoolboy.

After he had gone and Renzo and I came out of the doctor’s office, Renzo gave me a questioning look. “That Englishman, he is your boyfriend?”

“Oh gosh, no. He’s my father’s solicitor. He was handling the estate. And one of the paintings is valuable. Isn’t that amazing?”

“He likes you, I think,” Renzo said. “Do you like him?”

“I’m sure he’s a very nice person,” I said, “but not my type.”

“Good,” Renzo said. He picked up the painting from where it lay on a side table. “I suppose this should be delivered to the mayor. He will decide what should be done with it.”

I stared at it with longing. I knew I would have to give it up, but I didn’t want it to be so soon. “Could we not keep it, at least until things have sorted themselves out?”

Renzo was also gazing at it. “I think we can. We will take good care of it, won’t we? I am not sure now if we should call the Ministry of Art and Antiquities. After all, it was the property of the monks.”

“Do you think any of the monks are still alive?”

“I know that several were killed trying to resist the occupiers,” he said, “and the others will be old men now. But they were Franciscans. This part of Italy is crawling with Franciscans. It will be up to them whether they wish to donate the painting to the state and have it shown in a gallery like the Uffizi.”

I nodded, my head trying to come to terms with famous paintings both here and in England. It was almost too much to take in, given the shock I was still feeling.

“Do you still plan to drive to Florence?” I asked.

“Oh, Florence. I had forgotten all about it,” he said. “No, I will telephone the wine dealer, and he will have to wait.”

I realised that the wines and the olives and all of Cosimo’s businesses now belonged to Renzo. I wondered if he also realised it.

“Will you come to my house?” he asked. “We both need a glass of wine, I think.”

“Yes, please.”

We walked through the village. Renzo brushed aside questions that had already filtered through the village grapevine. He told people he was upset and needed to be alone and poor Joanna was shocked and could not talk. We left the village street behind and went up a straight gravel driveway lined with cypress trees. Inside wrought-iron gates, not unlike those of Langley Hall, was an imposing Venetian-style villa. A fountain played in the courtyard surrounded by orange and lemon trees. Pigeons fluttered at the lip of the fountain. We entered into a marble foyer. A female servant appeared, and Renzo gave her an order I couldn’t quite understand. Then he led me through an ornate drawing room and out on to a terrace beyond. A grapevine on a trellis gave shade. Renzo offered me a wicker rocking chair. I sat. Below us the panorama of the landscape spread out as far as the eye could see.

Renzo sat beside me. For a while neither of us spoke.

“You saved my life today,” I said. “Thank you. And in spite of everything, I’m sorry about your father.”

He nodded, choking back emotion. “Whatever kind of man he was, he was also my father and he was good to me. Of course I will miss him, but I had no idea, no idea. I knew his deals were not always quite straight. I knew he was a bully and made sure he got what he wanted. But that he was a traitor and a murderer? No. Never.” He brushed away a tear that was trickling down his cheek. Then he took a deep breath. “And I did suspect that he had some part in the death of Gianni. I don’t know if he carried out the murder himself or if he had one of his men do it for him. But the next morning when I saw him at breakfast he looked pleased with himself. As if a load had been taken off his mind.”

I reached across and put my hand over his. “You don’t know how relieved I am that you weren’t part of this. All this time I was afraid that maybe you’d had a hand in the murder, or at least knew about it.”

“Is that what you thought of me?”

“Only until I realised the truth,” I said. “When you tackled your father and tried to wrestle the gun from his hand, I knew I’d got it wrong.”

We looked up as there were footsteps on the terrace behind us. The servant came out bearing a tray with a wine bottle, glasses, and the obligatory dish of olives on it. She placed it on the little table in front of us and retreated without saying a word.

“She doesn’t know yet,” Renzo said. “I hadn’t the heart to tell her. She worshipped my father.” He paused. “He was always good to his workers. They will be devastated to know this.” He poured me a glass of wine. “I think we need to steady our nerves, don’t you?” he said.

Frankly I didn’t feel like drinking or eating anything. My stomach was still tying itself into knots. After a while I turned to Renzo. “When it comes to an inquest, what are you going to tell them?”