His only response was to curl in on himself, drawing up his knees in a foetal position. The Marshal stood staring down at him. He must still be drunk, of course, but even so . . .
'Marshal!'
'Yes, sir.'
It was no easy business for the porters to get their burden down the spiral staircase. They had to keep it vertical and they were afraid of slipping and breaking their necks. They complained bitterly.
'Go more slowly, for God's sake, or there'll be three stiffs to shift instead of one.'
'Keep, your voice down. I think the husband's up there . . .'
'Doing what? Powdering his nose?'
'They might well ask,' the Marshal said as the porters reached the floor below and he and the Prosecutor followed.
Fusarri began wandering about the living-room, his little cigar held aloft.
'Find a suicide note?'
'No, sir.'
'Didn't expect to, either, did you?' Fusarri paused in his wanderings and fixed the Marshal with a bright glance.
'No, sir.'
'Ah. Well, of course, I'm no expert . . . ' He wandered on.
He always made some remark like that, but what the devil did he mean by it? That he really was an expert—he was supposed to be an expert, damn it, that was his job . . . or did he really mean, 'Don't imagine
you're
an expert'? Now he was flipping open their passports as the Marshal had done earlier, the cigar parked at the side of his mouth and his eyes half closed against the smoke.
'So what did you find?'
'Her date of birth on the passport . . .'
'Which tells you.'
'It's her birthday today.'
'Ha!'
'And he's a lot younger. I also found these.'
'Sleeping pills, d'you think?'
'Possibly.'
'Find out. Then send them over to me. And I think we'll hang on to that young man's passport for the moment. See to the receipts. Notice her shoulders?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Of course. That's the thing about you, isn't it? You notice everything . . . Well . . . ' He pursed his lips and raised his eyes towards the floor above where Forbes could still be heard whining. 'Not a prepossessing character, but we can't make a move at this stage. Not a mark on her, damn it. Still, there are the sleeping pills. No bottle, no prescription?'
'Not that I've found.'
'May have slipped her something. Well, a warning that he's to remain at our disposal etc. then I must pay my respects to Eugenia.'
They forgave her, individually and jointly. Not, this time, for the wait while she searched for the keys to admit them, though that was considerable, but for having a little weep.
'I'll miss her.' She dried her eyes and tried to smile. 'In a lonely place like this and what with my leg . . . You count on your neighbours no matter what they're like, but I was so fond of Celia.'
'Someone to share your passion for books with.' Fusarri lit her cigarette for her. It turned out he was an old friend of the signora's late husband who had been a lawyer. It was all very cosy. The Marshal was choking on all the smoke and doing his best not to give way to a fit of noisy coughing and offend them. He was also so hungry he was in pain.
'What about him?' Fusarri asked, after finding a glass and pouring himself a drop of whisky which the Marshal once again refused.
'Oh, Julian. Well, he was very nice, of course . . .'
'He's not dead, Eugenia, only his wife is.'
'Even so, it won't be the same, you see . . . She didn't have a heart attack, that wasn't it?'
'No, we're pretty sure not. Why? Was her heart a problem?'
'Oh, I don't know. She never said so . . . I just remembered a friend of mine who had a heart attack in the bathroom and they didn't find her until the next day. Of course, she lived alone. Giorgio's always saying I should have someone living in and, of course he's right but I won't—Anyway, whatever he says I was right to call you, wasn't I, Marshal? But why . . . Oh dear, you must forgive me for being a curious old woman. I was going to ask you why her husband didn't call you and why he didn't answer the phone . . . I suppose I shouldn't ask these things but—'
'He was asleep, my dear Eugenia. Out cold on the bed, dead drunk. What do you think of that?'
Another tear escaped her blue eyes. She dried them and dabbed at her nose.
'Poor Celia.'
'Never an unkind word about anybody. You haven't changed. Nevertheless, you didn't like him and you might as well admit it, because the Marshal here misses nothing so you won't be able to hide anything from him!'
'Hide anything? Oh, Marshal, you don't think I was trying to hide anything, not seriously?'
'No, no . . . ' Wretched man!
'I had nothing against him . . .'
'Eugenia, he's not dead.'
'No but . . . He often helped me, you know. He saw to the lemon trees this year because Giorgio hadn't time, and that was kind . . .'
'Eugenia!'
'Oh, you must forgive me, but you shouldn't speak ill— There I go again, I don't know what you must think of me, Marshal . . . Well, I'll be absolutely straight. He
often
did things for me. Sometimes he insisted on doing things for me that I wasn't altogether sure I wanted him to do. But Celia was a friend, I really felt that. She would help me if I wanted help, but mostly she just spent time with me— Oh, I don't know how to explain it exactly, but I just think Celia did things because she liked me whereas he . . . he did things so that I'd like him and that's the difference! You see, everybody liked Celia, she didn't have to do anything to make herself liked. She told me once he was jealous, not sexual jealousy. They'd actually had a row over some people they'd had to dinner because, according to him, their friends were not really their friends at all but
her
friends. He got drunk, I think, during the dinner and disappeared. She found him on the bed out cold. She said he'd drunk a lot before the meal—well, he must have done because he only got as far as the soup . . .'
Fusarri glanced at the Marshal.
'Must make a habit of it.'
'Oh, I don't think so,' said the Signora Torrini, 'Of course he could have done it on other occasions, but she only mentioned the one time.'
'Sorry, Eugenia, I was joking. It seems to be more or less what he did tonight, whether before or after his wife died we don't know.'
'I suppose if he was upset . . . I think I'll have another drop. Giorgio thinks . . . But I will. Just a drop—and oh heavens, who's going to tell Jenny? There's a daughter, Jenny, you know.'
'We didn't know. I don't think we knew.' Fusarri looked the question at the Marshal, who shook his head and wondered why the devil Forbes himself hadn't wondered who was going to tell his daughter.
'Hmph . . . ' They both looked at him. 'Where is she? This daughter?'
'Jenny?' Signora Torrini rested her glass on her neat grey lap and thought for a moment. 'In England—I'm trying to remember where exactly—I'm afraid I forget names. But you'll see she'll be home tomorrow for half-term. Celia told me that.'
'Then her father will tell her,' Fusarri said. 'He'll no doubt have sobered up by then, eh, Guarnaccia?'
'He was always very good with Jenny . . . Oh dear . . .'
Fusarri decided to give up on reminding her which one was dead, only registering his observation by a wink in the Marshal's direction. But the Marshal didn't see it. He was frowning.
'Where does she sleep, this daughter, when she comes here? There's only one bed.'
'She stays next door at Sissi's now.'
'O my God, no! Don't tell me she's still going! Ah, Marshal, you have a treat in store—pity we can't go round there now. I'd like to have seen the old girl again. She must be ninety!'
'Ninety-one and going strong. She likes to have Jenny. It's company, you know, and they play piano duets together.'
Fusarri roared with laughter, which led to a fit of coughing.
'Really, Eugenia, this room is full of smoke!'
'Oh dear, you must forgive me. I do smoke a lot, but when I'm alone it doesn't matter . . . ' She wafted ineffectually at the drifting clouds with a long pale hand, the nails well-manicured but unvarnished. 'I know what Giorgio would say and he's right—'
'Never mind Giorgio,' said Fusarri. 'You're going to suffocate the Marshal here who is the most precious element in this inquiry. Come along, Guarnaccia, I shall remove you from this den of iniquity and tomorrow you shall return and tackle the famous Sissi—what is the woman's real name, Eugenia?'
'Elisabeth obviously, but her surname . . . Wait a minute, I do know it—Müller I think . . . yes, it is. Müller. Are you really going? Oh dear, the keys . . .'
Fusarri, who had been careful to take them from her as soon as she'd finished locking everybody in, held them aloft with a wicked smile and blew a last smoke ring into the air.
'Les voilà!'
It was very late when the Marshal climbed gingerly into bed in the hope of not waking his wife. But Teresa turned towards him half awake and then opened her eyes and sniffed.
'Where have you been? You reek of smoke, have you been in a night club or what?'
He didn't answer her and she turned away in a huff.
'Sorry I asked . . . ' She was soon asleep again.
The Marshal's lungs were still full of smoke and he had to make an effort not to cough and wake her again. She would accuse him as usual of not telling her anything but in this case there was really precious little to tell. Also, he couldn't talk to her because if he opened his mouth, smoke or no smoke, she would detect the rest of that chocolate cake.
Vittorio's skinny legs didn't reach the floor, but you could see that however uncomfortable he was he daren't wriggle in the hard plastic chair. You could also see the scars on his knees quite clearly, but it was funny how the Marshal had forgotten that he never wore any socks. He must have been frozen in the winter, but nobody gave it a thought. It was just part of being Vittorio, not wearing socks. The judge was talking at great length, but no noise came out of his mouth and no one in the room seemed to expect Vittorio to listen or answer. The Marshal knew that at some point Sister Benedetta, though she wasn't there, would send the boy to kneel on rice in the corner of the classroom. But, though he had tried to look all around him, he couldn't see the corner where the rice should be. Of course this was a courtroom, so perhaps that was why.
'Marshal Salvatore Guarnaccia!'
The Marshal got to his feet and broke out in a cold sweat. They couldn't expect him . . . But though he opened his mouth to protest no sound came out and he too was on a red plastic chair. The worst thing was that the judge was now speaking to him, but however much he strained to catch the words they remained a distorted, blurred jumble. He reached towards the microphone, but withdrew his hand without touching it. That was surely for speaking into, not helping you to hear. From across the room Fusarri called cheerfully, 'Tell him about the husband being drunk! That's the best part!' The wonder of it was that neither he nor the Signora Torrini were smoking. But this was a courtroom, he reminded himself again, so they wouldn't be able to. That was his own voice he was hearing now. At least that was clear enough.
'On the spot evidence gave no indication that a crime had been committed. However, two capsules were found on the bedside cabinet of the deceased. These have yet to be identified. The body of the deceased, Celia Carter, born in Great Britain on February 12th, 1947, and resident in Florence at Villa Torrini, Via dei Cipressi, will remain at the disposal of the magistracy for further examination. On the orders of Substitute Prosecutor Virgilio Fusarri the body has been transported to the Medico-Legal Institute.
'Reserving the right to communicate further findings I enclose . . .'
The Marshal stopped dead. What was he talking about? You can't enclose things when you're being cross-examined. He'd muddled himself up with a written report.
'In any case,' put in the Signora Torrini, 'I'm all right now. They ran the water out of the bath and I went home. He's the one who's dead. Of course, I never did like him because of what he did to the lemon trees, but even so you shouldn't speak ill and when all's said and done he didn't do it. If you look at my neck and shoulders you'll see there isn't so much as the faintest bruise so he didn't push me under.'
The Marshal was about to point out that there was still the matter of the sleeping pills that could have been put in her drink until he realized with horror that Signora Torrini shouldn't have been there at all. Hadn't he just said the body was at the disposal of the magistracy? Fusarri was watching him, his eyes gleaming with suppressed mirth at the mess he was making. This was all Vittorio's fault!
'Why the devil did you have to dump this on me? Of all the places you could have taken that woman's body, why to Pitti?'
Vittorio's bruised eyes stared back at him without hope or interest. Though he didn't bother to open his mouth, the Marshal knew he was saying, 'I was frightened. I was always frightened.' His knees were bleeding, but he never mentioned that. Perhaps he didn't feel it any more. What he really wanted was a share of the Marshal's snack. It was his usual two giant slices of bread with mortadella, wrapped in brown baker's paper with spots of grease coming through. The trouble was he was so hungry himself and his mother had
told
him to eat it all. 'If you share it one day he'll expect it every day. I've enough trouble feeding you, never mind other people's children. He has a mother of his own, such as she is.'
But the Marshal couldn't bear the thought of Vittorio's mother. He held his big sandwich tighter and the grease came through on his fingers. He cbuldn't wipe them on his uniform. He was relieved, on looking down at himself, that it wasn't his uniform, but his black school tunic. Nevertheless, he couldn't face eating his sandwich with Vittorio's soulless eyes fixed on him. He'd have to hide somewhere, but where? He looked around the courtroom but there was nowhere they wouldn't be able to see him. Fusarri, the Signora Torrini, the judge . . . But worst of all Vittorio . . .
'You steer clear of that child. With a mother like that . . .'