Death of an Englishman Page 5

  They had been received in an austere, book-lined room that looked as though it were never used. The Judge himself was a tall, dry-looking man, severe, almost morose. It didn't seem possible that he could be the owner of the robust voice they had heard from outside. Nevertheless, when they found themselves once again on the broad stone staircase the voice was warbling Bella figlia del amore with as much sweetness and passion as ever. They began the climb to the top floor.

  Miss White's door was wide open.

  'Don't be frightened! Come in!' a voice instructed them loudly in English. Its owner remained invisible. The two men looked at each other.

  'She's telling us to come in,' explained Carabiniere Bacci, mystified. 'Perhaps she's heard that we're here.'

  Hesitantly, they took off their hats and stepped into the entrance hall of polished terracotta tiles.

  'Carry on, carry on! I'll be with you in a minute. No charge! Ha ha!'

  The Captain looked at Carabiniere Bacci for an explanation.

  'I'm not sure what …'

  They moved further in and looked about them. There was an oil painting hung in the hall of a pink-faced old man with snowy hair and beard. A brass plate below informed them: 'Walter Savage Landor, Poet, born Warwick 1775, died Florence 1864.' They were looking at the painting when a head popped suddenly out at them from a doorway next to it. A small lady in her mid-sixties, smartly dressed but wearing running shoes, leaped forward, beaming.

  'Carabinieri!' she squealed, delighted. 'Never had one of you before! Judge came up once, of course, but that's not the same thing, being neighbours, nice of him to come, all the same —I always think it's nice when the Italians take an interest, had everything translated and they do come—school parties, and so on, but not Carabinieri, ha ha! You're the first! Delighted to see you, I'm Miss White, curator—not really a curator, I mean I live here—did it all myself. If you want anything done, as they say, and keep away from committees, I say, lot of old bores—what's the matter with you?' She suddenly peered into Carabiniere Bacci's stunned face.

  'I-I …'

  'Well, for goodness' sake come in, no point in standing out in the entrance hall, nothing to see, ought to have a chair or two out here, I suppose, but then everybody'd think they were his chairs and I'd have to keep explaining—have got one or two things that were his but you can't have everything and it's all my own money-came over here for a holiday and fifteen years later here I still am, ha ha! Carabinieri! You'd better sign my visitors' book. A judge is very nice of course but not the same thing, being a neighbour, if you see what I mean and then no uniform. I do like a uniform, don't you? Well, of course you do, that's obvious or you wouldn't be wearing one, stupid of me—and do you admire Landor?' She glared brightly at the Captain who opened his mouth, then shut it and looked to Carabiniere Bacci for some sort of translation.

  'Bet you don't know what to say! I never do. My English mistress at school used to say never say "nice", so I never dol "Nice" is what you say about puddings, not poetry, is what she used to say and I bet this young man agrees!' She patted Carabiniere Bacci's elbow. 'He looks intelligent and goodness he's tall—well, you both are. D'you read a lot of peotry? I suppose you do or you wouldn't have come, ha ha! Well, I'll take you round. I've had everything translated, of course, because I do think it's nice when the Italians take an interest—I don't speak a word, of course, not a word, but I like to take people round myself if I can—now, through here, I'll speak up—through here it's mostly manuscripts and copies of manuscripts where I haven't got the real thing. I've had some of them framed on the walls, cheaper than buying cases, I've got some cases, of course, very good cabinet-maker, Signor Lorenzini, marvellous man, he made all these. Now, you'll recognize this poem, I should think, if you can make out the handwriting …'

  'For the love of God …' threatened the Captain in Carabiniere Bacci's ear.

  'I'm sorry, sir, I can't understand what she's saying …'

  'Never mind what she's saying, just stop her and tell her—'

  'Now then! I can't explain things to you if you're going to chat amongst yourselves—here you are, sign the book, go on, don't be frightened, you can write something in Italian. Carabinieri! This is really nice!'

  Fifteen minutes later the two men were out on the landing, their heads ringing with incomprehensible information. Carabiniere Bacci was sweating with embarrassment. The Captain was white with annoyance.

  'I thought you said your English was good?'

  'I'm sorry, sir, I just couldn't cope …' He had tried repeatedly to interject the purpose of their visit but his carefully constructed sentences elicited nothing more than: 'Speak a bit of English, do you? Well done. Of course, you're only a boy. I think everyone should learn a language as young as possible—my French mistress at school used to say …'

  He had also tried in Italian, they both had, but even the Captain's stern effort had produced nothing more than, 'Si si! Si si!' She had had everything translated, of course, nice when the Italians took an interest, but after fifteen years in the country couldn't speak a word, didn't know why but there it was—too old to start, that was it, have to start young, not a word—well 'si', of course, that was one word, and 'no' was another, but that wasn't much, after fifteen years—and she'd only come out here for a holiday … Carabinieri!

  They went down the stairs in silence. The guard on the ground floor saluted.

  'And then what?' Marshal Guarnaccia was sitting up in bed, his fever somewhat abated. The little lamp was still lit and beside it, on the bedside cupboard, was a bowl with the remains of a light clear broth in the bottom of it, brought round by Signora Bellini, the gardener's wife, sister of the little cleaner who had found the body.

  'The Captain went to interview Cesarini, the antique-dealer in his shop.'

  'And you're sent home in disgrace, is that it?'

  'The Captain wanted me to get something to eat, have a rest …' But Carabiniere Bacci was mortified, his exhausted face drawn and pale.

  'And did you get something to eat?'

  'I went in the meat-roaster's shop in the piazza and got a hot beef sandwich and a glass of wine.'

  The Marshal could imagine him, unaccustomed as he was to such proletarian living, sitting delicately on a high stool at the counter in front of the rows of hissing, crackling chickens turning on the great wood fire, trying not to get a spot on his uniform and to evade the familiar jokes of the cheerful Neapolitan in his greasy apron.

  'You should have gone to the Mensa—and I hope you're not thinking of sleeping downstairs in the office again?'

  'I told the Captain I would, in case the phone rings in the night. You're not fit and he can't spare anybody. The Brigadier he sent is going off now.'

  'You can't expect a corpse on your doorstep every night, damn it! I'm not all that bad, as a matter of fact— I feel a bit better for that drop of soup. The fever seems to come on for a few hours at a time and then go away for a few hours. As long as I'm all right to get that train tomorrow …' He was gazing across the room at a photograph that stood in the shadows on a marble-topped dressing-table; two plump little boys with eyes almost as large as his own. The Marshal's passion in life was his family, his ambition to get a posting at home in Syracuse. His wife couldn't leave his mother down there alone or move her to a strange city at her age … He sighed and leaned back on his pillows. 'Carabiniere Bacci …'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'You're a young fool.' He pondered on this fact for a moment in silence. 'But, nevertheless … you've got brains …'

  Not knowing what to say to this, Carabiniere Bacci said nothing. The Marshal pondered at such length, with his eyes closed now, that Carabiniere Bacci thought he must have fallen asleep again, but he waited. After a while the big eyes opened:

  'The Captain is a serious man, a thorough man; he'll do his job. He's also, in many ways, an ambitious man, but his ambitions lie in other directions than yours—they don't include any desire to be a famous detective.
You needn't blush for yourself, Carabiniere Bacci, I'm not laughing at you this time. I'm just trying to warn you that, while he will do his job conscientiously, he will want to do it so as not to upset anybody unnecessarily, not his superiors and not these Scotland Yard men. He especially won't want to cut a bad figure in front of them because that would upset both his superiors and himself, understand?'

  'I think so, sir.'

  'Bear it in mind, then. You have a tendency to get excited, curb it. If you rushed out and found your murderer in the next ten minutes but did it in such a way as to cause a scandal and upset those Englishmen, the Captain would not thank you. He will move carefully and you had better follow him quietly and don't get any fancy ideas.'

  'No, sir.'

  'I'm only trying to save you from yourself, to tell you not to stick your neck out. The Captain will wait and see which way the wind blows and you will wait and see which way he blows. These things are beyond you, Carabiniere Bacci.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'That's because you're a Florentine. These are things that any Sicilian over the age of five knows by experience. The Captain will do the best job he can, he's an honest man, a good man. But you would do well not to annoy him. As far as this business with the Englishwoman is concerned, I don't think you need worry too much. He'll get over that, since no one else was there to see it—and, if I know him, he'll turn it to his advantage by offering the job of questioning her to the Scotland Yard men as a gesture of friendly co-operation.'

  Carabiniere Bacci's tense face relaxed a little.

  'Now get out. I might as well get some rest while the fever's off me, if you won't go up to bed.'

  'Right, sir. Is there anything you want?'

  'No —but, Carabiniere Bacci?'

  'Yes, sir?' He was opening the door.

  The Marshal's eyes were closed, or seemed to be.

  'If, by any chance, you should be inundated with corpses during the night, you will let me know?'

  'Yes, sir.' He closed the door quietly.

  The Marshal heaved a long and weary sigh, his gaze fixed on the photograph. I'll be on that train tomorrow, he thought to himself, corpses or no corpses. And he fell asleep.

  It was a feverish sleep, restless, enervating, full of dreams in which he was always trying to get home, but each time having to turn back for something; he had no train ticket, he had left his station unlocked and unguarded, he had forgotten the children's presents, the bottles of water, his clothes—once he reached the platform where the train was waiting only to find that he was in his pyjamas. And each time he turned back he had to struggle against such devastating heat that it left him exhausted and nauseous. Towards two in the morning he awoke, or half awoke, shivering and damp with sweat, and rolled weakly out of bed to wash and change himself. He wasn't going to be fit to travel … maybe Friday …

  There were no corpses that night. Florence slept its respectable bourgeois sleep behind its tightly closed brown shutters, beneath its wet and foggy blanket, closed in the deep valley of the Arno, with a nightguard of cypress-topped hills. The cathedral bell sounded the hours from its white marble tower, echoed tinnily by out-of-tune little church bells in every quarter. But no angry telephone bell broke the exhausted sleep of Carabiniere Bacci on his camp bed. His white gloves lay undisturbed in their circle of pink light.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER 1

  'Well, this is very nice indeed. We didn't expect this, did we, Jeffreys?'

  'No, sir.'

  The vicar beamed upon them: 'Felicity and I always like to have an English breakfast—it's a mystery to me how the Italians get through a morning with just a coffee and a bun. Of course, they eat much later than we do in the evening—we hear knives and forks going well after ten o'clock in some of the flats across the courtyard—so perhaps they're not so hungry in the mornings … but I must say, some of these people work very late … Felicity and I usually eat about seven, I hope that's all right with you?'

  'Oh yes, I should think so.' The Chief Inspector leaned back in his chair, feeling replete after bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and three cups of tea from a heavy silver pot. The mahogany sideboard was decked with holly and Christmas cards from England, the sort with robins, skating scenes and simple, one-colour lino cuts supposed to suggest the Nativity.

  'Well, I think I've just time for a pipe before I go over to the Consulate, then I must leave you boys to it.' The vicar's hair and beard were white, his face generally rather pink. He wore a hand-knitted grey sweater over his dog collar, and he sucked questioningly on his pipe as though it might tell him something. Felicity, oblivious of the two policemen, was deep in a newspaper crossword puzzle. They caught the occasional glimpse of her wispy grey hair.

  'Funny sort of chappie …' As he struck a match and sucked a little harder, the vicar's thoughts rambled naturally to A. Langley-Smythe. 'Came to church once or twice when he first moved up here, about five years ago, I suppose, but then he stopped coming … didn't mix much, really.'

  'Is there much social life—among the English community, that is?'

  'Oh yes, yes, I think so. We do quite a lot here, you know. Felicity's awfully good—' Felicity showed no sign of life behind her newspaper— 'glass of wine after the last service on Sundays, of course, and then once a month we have a little get-together —a meal, and so on—everyone makes a little something, sausage rolls, sandwiches, cakes, that sort of thing. Then at Christmas and Easter we do a hot meal and everyone contributes something to the festive board. Quite a lot of social life, really … The trouble is, of course, that it's the same people who give every time and others just come along … I'm afraid Mr Langley-Smythe … well, he was a bachelor … couldn't expect him to bake cakes … but I'm afraid he didn't mix much on the few occasions when he turned up.'

  'Did he have any friends, that you know of.'

  'Not that I know of, do you, Felicity? No, I don't think so. Used to see him in the street every so often, but never with anyone that I can think of. He used to … well, he never seemed …'

  'Never seemed what?'

  'Well … looked after … bit messy, you know … Of course, he was a bachelor, so I suppose …'

  'No gossip?'

  'Gossip?'

  'Well …' The Chief Inspector was embarrassed. 'Anything odd in his private life that might have made him rather … reserved?'

  'He wasn't a homosexual, if that's what you mean—at least, I wouldn't have said so, would you, Felicity? Felicity's better at this sort of thing than I am, but I really don't think so. Florence is very much a village, you know, everyone knows everyone else's business and anything of that sort would be known—plenty of it going on, of course …'

  'So you think he was just a reserved person, no dark secret?'

  'Well, if he had a dark secret he must have gone to very great trouble to conceal it because being reserved wouldn't do it, not in Florence. You might try the English Library, you know. English books cost a fortune here so if he was a reader he would go there—for the newspapers, too, dreadfully expensive to buy. Poor Felicity has to make do with one a week—she likes to do the crosswords, you see, but we couldn't possibly afford it, not every day. Well, look, I must be getting over to the Consulate, put up the banns for a wedding. See you about seven this evening, if you're not back before—we've got a carol service tonight at nine, but you'll be a bit tired, perhaps … Best of luck anyway … Funny chap altogether, really …'

  There wasn't room for them to walk side by side so they went one behind the other up Via Maggio to the nearby bridge, and every so often, the Chief would mutter, 'Good God,' as he leaned out to avoid a great baroque cornice or a curly iron grille and then was honked at by the streaming traffic that made him dodge back in again.

  'Christmas trees!' remarked Jeffreys, surprised. The trees were stacked along the embankment by the corner of the bridge where the statue of autumn overlooked them. The tallest trees seemed to be leaning over the wall to look down at the fast-
flowing greenish-brown current. Smaller trees were lined up in little tubs, and a couple in heavy furs were examining them. The vendor, standing with a coffee in his hand in the bar across the road, watched them through the traffic, calling every now and then, 'I'll be right with you! Just choose what you want!'

  The day wasn't too cold but damp and foggy again, and from Santa Trinita only one other bridge could be seen on either side before the yellowish fog swallowed up the river and the grey and ochre stuccoed buildings that flanked and overhung it. Most of the cars coming up the Lungarno still had their lights on and their wipers going.

  'Here we are,' said Jeffreys, stopping when he saw 'English Library' engraved on a brass plate. A porter directed them to the first floor. They went along narrow, thickly-carpeted corridors with black and white photographs of the Queen and of previous Directors of the library on the walls. The whole place was dark and there was a faint smell of mould. The reading room overlooked the river and its parchment lamps added their dull yellow light to the olive-coloured gloom of the morning. There were overstuffed, sagging armchairs, stern marble busts, shelves of ancient books and a stronger smell of mould. A very old man was sitting in one of the armchairs near the window, reading yesterday's Times. He looked up, frowning, when the Italian receptionist directed the two policemen to a desk at the far end of the room.

  The librarian, to their surprise, was very young. He was sitting behind a high stack of new books and he rose to greet them, holding out a soft, thin hand. He had fine, long black hair and wore a purple velvet suit with all the buttons missing.

  'Chief Inspector Lowestoft, Inspector Jeffreys. We're making inquiries about a Mr Langley-Smythe who we think might have been a member here.'

  The young man waved his thin fingers about nervously: 'Do … do sit down … yes, Langley-Smythe … he is a member, in fact, yes … he was here the other day.'