Perhaps he should leave. She might sleep for an hour. It was very quiet. There was a huge ornate clock over the fireplace, but its hands were at twenty-five to six and probably had been for years. He glanced at his watch. He really had no objection to coming back another day. Ideally, he wanted some excuse to be here every day until he got the autopsy results so as to soften up that Forbes character, worry him as much as possible. There was nothing else he could do to him, though he must have realized when he sobered up that he no longer had his passport. It wasn't much, but it was something. That was a very nice piano. Open, too, and with music on it. More functional than the clock, obviously. Would you fetch a grand piano all the way down here from Austria? Though why not, after all? He'd brought all their furniture up from Sicily. Which was the greater distance? He wasn't at all sure.
'Is that all the questions you have?'
The gimlet eye was boring through him!
'Not that I object to your admiring my furniture.'
'I—'
'If you asked me a question I haven't answered, repeat it. I sometimes fall asleep but it doesn't last long. It's how I keep going. Don't imagine that I'm half-witted. That would be a mistake.'
'I wouldn't dream—'
'Get on, then.'
'I was asking you if you thought Mr Forbes had another woman. If he might have been in love with somebody else.'
This produced a snort of disgust. 'All this
love!
'
'You don't think so?'
'There are things I think about and things I don't think about. Incidentally, I don't care for Julian Forbes.'
'Neither do I,' admitted the Marshal. He shouldn't have, but he was fed up with being disapproved of. It was weak of him and it was unlike him. He put it down to hunger, which was gradually wearing down his personality.
'She
was brilliant.' He took this to mean Celia Carter. 'A very rigorous historian—have you read her?'
The Marshal's heart sank. 'No, no . . .'
'You should. I'll lend you something.' She got up, pushing down on the arms of her chair but without taking too much time about it. Her books were in huge, glass-fronted cupboards.
'These are all hers on this shelf—Ah! This you should read:
Jessie White Mario and the Risorgimento.'
She dumped the huge volume on his knees.
'You're sure you haven't read it? It has been translated into Italian, but I prefer books in the original language myself. You don't disapprove of Jessie White Mario?'
'No,' said the Marshal emphatically. He was sure of that, at least, since he'd never heard of her.
'Well, some people do. One wonders about the husband, of course, but then, people will marry. Probably as much in love with Garibaldi as she was. Cavour, now, he's a man you have to admire but I can't like him, wily old goat. Freemason. That's what accounts for Garibaldi's circus making its way up the peninsula without impediment. No point in people throwing up their hands at what's going on in this country now. Whole state was founded on chicanery!'
'But you choose to live here?'
'Certainly. Finest artists and architects in the world. Never boring, either. That's important, don't you think?'
'I suppose . . . ' If only she wouldn't hover and glare so much!
'Don't you have any more questions? I don't want to hurry you, but I'm going out shortly.'
'I'm sorry . . . ' He stared down at the sepia photograph on the book's cover and decided on another line of attack. 'I think I should contact the daughter. I imagine you have her address and number?'
'Certainly.' She sat herself down at a writing-desk at the far side of the room and took out paper and pen. Then she turned back to him with a warning look. 'She'll be very upset.'
'Yes. Of course. It's natural, her mother . . .'
'Hmm.'
Probably her eyes weren't up to much. She bent her head so close to the paper, she was looking horizontally at the black pen as it crawled very slowly across the writing paper. As she wrote she muttered, 'She's bright enough and conscientious. She'd be considered very bright indeed if she hadn't such a brilliant mother to be compared with. Plays the piano rather pedantically. Too anxious . . .'
The Marshal waited, but this time he was quicker to notice that she was asleep, though no wiser as to, what he should do about it. A cough didn't rouse her. Her head was nodding hardly an inch above the paper yet it didn't fall. He got up without a sound and approached the desk. If she didn't wake he might try sliding the sheet of paper out from under her hand. She seemed to have written the address. As he bent over her he saw that, though her eyes were closed, she was smiling. At a movement of his hand towards hers the pen suddenly started scribbling again.
'Phone number . . .'
The Marshal retreated a step. 'Does she speak Italian?'
'I should hope so. It's what she's studying at university. There you are.'
'Thank you.' He was still holding the huge book along with his hat. 'Are you sure you want to lend me this? It looks valuable.'
'It is valuable, at least to me. Has the author's signature.'
'Exactly. The Signora Torrini was saying to me that she doesn't like lending books . . .'
'She lends them to me!' The chipmunk grin reappeared. 'Mind you, she keeps a list! A dear lady, La Torrini, but she hasn't much sense.'
'She doesn't like Julian Forbes,' pointed out the Marshal in her defence.
'I didn't say she had no taste.'
'What does he do, exactly?'
'Do? Hm! Affects to write books that never get finished, let alone published. First one was on Dante, or supposed to be. I lost track. Always managed to get himself socially accepted as a writer because of her. I don't care for that sort of thing, myself. Annoying. If you ask her a question about her books,
he
answers it. Did. That's over now, isn't it? La Torrini noticed the same thing but she never speaks ill of anyone. I speak as I find, but she's a good-natured soul.'
'She seems rather browbeaten by this Giorgio . . .'
'She brought him up.' She plumped back into her velvet armchair and eyed him sharply as he looked down, at her. 'Not that I've any personal experience in these things, but I imagine that, as in all areas of life, you reap what you sow. Families!' She evidently classed them with
'Love!'
'I got out of my parents' house as soon as I could and I've never married. It's been a wonderful life. Ha!' The delighted grin vanished and she said, 'They're dangerous.'
The Marshal was rather taken aback by this remark.
'It's an intimacy that allows the most terrible abuse. The things that go on behind four walls! You'd be safer on
a
battleground. At least your enemy wears a different uniform. I suppose you're not old enough to have fought in the last war?'
'No.'
'I've lived through two. Unscathed. Precious little to eat, though—That reminds me, do you by any chance have television?'
'Yes. A television . . . yes.' Was that a good mark or a bad?
She seemed pleased. 'I don't, and of course you can't get a paper every day up here. I was wondering how things were in Russia.'
The Marshal dragged his memory without coming up with anything in particular. He stayed awake through the news, even Teresa would have to admit that. 'There's been no special news.'
'Things are as bad as ever, I suppose. I was there last month. Not much to eat and the problem with taxis . . .'
Her head fell gently forward, not all in one go but a little at a time. She must have begun dreaming before her eyes closed, confusing Moscow with wartime Austria. The Marshal settled his hat on his head and tiptoed out.
Fara had turned the car round ready to leave and was standing beside its open door staring at the barn like a pointer. Behind the Marshal a voice called softly, 'Have you a moment?' The Signora Torrini was in her doorway, leaning on her stick. He turned and went to her.
'You must forgive me. I'm wary of coming out in this damp weather because there can be wet leaves on the paving stones and I slip so easily. Giorgio's right, I should buy some robust shoes, non-slip, but we all tend to do and wear what we've always done and worn, don't you think?' She was wearing black court shoes.
'Yes, yes, you're right.' She was a welcome relief from her neighbour, despite all her apologies.
'I just wanted to tell you . . . it made me feel so guilty— you know how quiet it is here, just listen . . .'
It was very quiet. The few sounds, the distant bark of a dog, a nearby blackbird, the car radio crackling, only served to emphasize the quiet.
'Last night, I was reading—not reading properly, just dipping into one or two of Gelia's books because I miss her company. It was like having her there, hearing her voice . . . Then I heard him . . . ' She looked over at the barn and lowered her voice still more. 'He was crying. Not just crying, he was howling like a dog. I'm afraid I wasn't very kind about him yesterday but, you see, Virgilio provokes me and I can never deal with him . . .'
The Marshal, who felt the same way about Fusarri, nodded.
'He must be grief-stricken to howl like that, don't you think so?'
'Perhaps.' Privately, he thought Forbes might be howling in fear and self-pity, but in the face of Signora Torrini's more generous interpretation he couldn't bring himself to say so.
'He'll miss her terribly, you see, because she was an exceptional person.'
'Signorina Müller says she was brilliant.'
'Oh yes, well, she was, of course, but she was exceptional because of her good heart, her generosity. These things are so often taken for granted, even abused . . . ' As though afraid of committing the sin of 'speaking ill' again, she stopped. 'You must have thought me very foolish last night to be talking about him in the past tense instead of poor Celia . . . but when I was reading I thought about that and, you know, there was some truth in it. She was everything for him, he'll be finished without her, I really feel that, whereas Celia lives on through her books. Do you understand?'
'I think so.'
'I'm afraid I'll still be lonely without her.'
'Well,' said the Marshal carefully, 'Signorina Müller seems quite a lively companion.'
'Oh, she is. But she's away so much, taking people round museums and so forth . . .'
'She takes people around Florence?' This boded ill. The Marshal imagined her storming his office and making him go round the silver museum.
'Oh no—well, sometimes she does, but not often. That would be nothing. At least, then, she's here in the evenings. No, she takes them all over the place. She spent all last month in Moscow showing people icons or something. Moscow in January, I ask you! But she says it's no colder than Vienna, which I suppose is true—Did she
lend
you that?' She had suddenly noticed the book.
'Yes,' admitted the Marshal unhappily, 'she did.'
'She must have taken a fancy to you. Oh, look at the almond blossom. Life goes on, doesn't it, Marshal? Whether you want it to or not.'
'And to cap it all, when we're driving away, Fara says "Don't look now but we're being followed. It must be your Austrian lady, it's not the one who came to the door.'"
'And was it her?' Teresa got up to clear their plates.
'It was her all right. Stumping along in some sort of Tyrolean cloak and a hat with a feather in it. She was shouting at us to get out of the way! It's true we were going at two miles an hour because of the potholes, but even so . . . We had to stop in the end and let her pass. She glowered in at me and roared, "I always walk everywhere. Wouldn't do you any harm!" She was walking down to Florence. Can you believe it?'
'But . . . This was this morning, wasn't it?'
He didn't answer. Lunch had consisted of greens, water and gloom. Only now, after a cleverly contrived supper, which had more or less filled him without endangering his liver, and a very small glass of wine which she had said would stimulate his digestion without doing him any harm, did he become almost expansive. He wasn't hungry but he didn't feel guilty. Also, the boys had telephoned, having stood in line for hours at the post office telephone in the village. They had complained bitterly. Just because they'd got excited and spent the night giggling and shouting and going up and down in the lifts and in and out of each other's rooms, the teacher had taken their ski-passes off them. So they'd spent the day toiling up the mountain for hours to ski down it for two minutes. They were exhausted and were going straight to bed. Giovanni had eaten three pork chops for supper. They were clearly having a wonderful time. The Marshal, who had never had a holiday in all of his young life, was pleased.
He had remained alert throughout the eight o'clock news in case anything happened in Russia. Now, after the half glass of wine which acted on his deprived organism like half a bottle, he felt he had life under control. While they waited for the water to boil for camomile tea at bedtime, he and Teresa looked at the fascinating old photos reproduced in Celia Carter's book.
'It's a shame it's in English but it was a kind thought to lend it to you.'
'She took a fancy to me.'
He went to bed happy and slept well. The next day his troubles began.
'But . . .'
'Don't take it as final. I still need to examine the other internal organs but the stomach was empty, completely empty, so you can forget your sleeping pills. She hadn't even taken a sip of whatever was in the glass that broke in the water.'
The Marshal sensed that the pathologist was as surprised as he was.
'You don't think her heart . . .'
'No, I don't. I'll examine it, of course, but there are no symptoms. No, Marshal, all I can offer you is a very small quantity of soapy water which barely got into her lungs. Drowned in a glass of water as the saying goes, but it's a thing that normally only happens to babies and very small children. More choking than drowning, technically. I'd say it was impossible if I didn't have the evidence to prove it.
'Could he somehow have held her—'
'No, no, no. If someone pushes you under water you hold your breath and you fight for your life. It takes time to drown and you'd need enormous strength to do that to someone adult. Besides, there isn't a mark on her neck or shoulders, not the faintest sign of a scratch or bruise.'
'Nor on him.' That had been easy enough to ascertain since he'd been out cold when they found him. 'I only checked his hands and face . . .'
'Where else would you check? He was dressed, wasn't he? In any case his hands would be practically all she could reach. They'd have been in ribbons.'
'She did have nails? I mean, they weren't bitten down or anything?'
'No. Besides, we've removed whatever was under them as a matter of routine. You can't rule out someone else's possible presence entirely, I presume.'
That was true. Nobody had seen another person but there was no proof . . .
'Would you mind if I came out there?'
'Want to see for yourself, eh?'
'No, no, I wouldn't dream . . .'
'I was only joking. Help you to get your thoughts in order. I understand.'
Thoughts. The Marshal only wished he had any thoughts. He didn't understand anything about this business except that he didn't like Julian Forbes. And that didn't make the man a murderer, for goodness' sake. If the internal organs were found to be healthy there would be nothing for it but a verdict of accidental death.
'And that fellow lying there drunk!'
'What?' Fara, driving him out to the Medico-Legal Institute, had up to now seen the Marshal only as a kindly, if grumpy, father figure who'd made his first year in the army rather more comfortable than it would otherwise have been. Now he was disconcerted by this new version. He was silent for ages and didn't hear if you spoke or asked him something. Poor Fara, never having had occasion to go there, wasn't at all sure how to find the Medico-Legal Institute. His inquiries had been ignored and it was fortunate for him that once they reached hospital city at Careggi everything was signposted.
He peered about but could see no drunk.
'Do you want me to stop?'
No answer. Perhaps it was because he was on a diet. Fara knew all about the diet. Everybody at the Pitti Station knew all about the diet. And he'd heard it could do strange things to your brain, not eating.
'We're here, Marshal.'
'Eh? Ah.' He got out and stumped inside the large white building, removing his hat as he went. Fara shrugged and drove on to turn the car.
'There we are. Haven't quite finished sewing her up yet. You're not squeamish? We can wait if you'd prefer it.'
The Marshal shook his head and the pathologist sent his assistant away. The thorax was still open but the scalp had been sewn back in place. Until now, the Marshal had only seen her soaked from the bath water. Her hair had dried to a lightish brown and was wavy. It was spread in the dissecting trough now, but probably it had just touched her shoulders. There were grey hairs above her ears.
She was brilliant, Signorina Müller had said, but by now they had taken away her brain. She had been an intelligent, mature woman and she had drowned like a baby . . .
'Why is it,' he asked the pathologist who had parked himself on one corner of the table, arms folded, rubber gloves held in one hand, 'that babies drown like that?'
'Like I said, it's more choking than drowning, maybe in a few inches of water, maybe on their own vomit, sometimes in ways that remain undefined. You must have heard of so-called cot deaths. A baby's helpless, can't lift its head or move or signal for help.' He shrugged. 'What can I say? I can tell you what she died of—asphyxiation—but the how and the why . . . I'm afraid you'll have to sort that one out.'
'I'd like to know how with no evidence.' The Marshal's face was dark with displeasure. Then, remembering he wasn't addressing one of his carabinieri, he added, 'I beg your pardon. It's just such a funny business. Not clear cut.'
'Well—' the pathologist slid down from the table and got hold of Celia Carter's blue-white hand, turning it in his own and looking at her wedding ring—'the usual theory is the husband did it unless there's proof to the contrary.'
'If anybody did it at all. If it wasn't really an accident.'
The pathologist looked up at him. 'You don't believe that.' It was a statement, not a question.
'No. No . . .'
'I must say, I don't either. I wish I could offer you something that would help.'
But he couldn't. The Marshal had himself driven back to Pitti without saying a word. He'd been too complacent, sure that the autopsy would show up a murder which would have cleared his path for a thorough investigation of Forbes. Well, he'd been wrong, and having been wrong he'd wasted time. He should have been looking for the other woman, finding out what the man inherited, establishing a motive. He should have been doing all this in any case, so that, if the autopsy results had been useful, he'd have been ready . . .
They were stuck in a traffic jam near the banks of the Arno, contributing their share to the build-up of pollution that would lead to another alarm, another quiet day, another rapid build-up.
A beggar, walking among the waiting cars with his cap, saw the two uniformed men in the dark car and slid away. Windscreens were being washed at high speed. The Marshal stared out at the blue-grey world from behind his dark glasses and continued to castigate himself for being too slow, just as, all his life, he had been castigated by everyone, at home, at school, at work, for being too slow. Teresa, too . . . 'It's like talking to a wall! I asked you half an hour ago . . .'
The lights changed, but they didn't get through.
'Have they found out how she died?' Fara's timid voice floated on the edge of the Marshal's consciousness as he condemned himself out of hand for being a non-listener, asleep on his feet, too dozy altogether to tackle a type like Forbes even in his present reduced state—and Fusarri would have the preliminary notes on the autopsy, too. What about that? He'd cottoned on right away to the fact that the Marshal suspected Forbes, so now, either the Marshal looked a fool or the Prosecutor looked a fool for believing him. He hoped the former, because otherwise . . . He'd never seen the man angry, but he'd heard stories: that he was an anarchist, that he overrode anyone who stood in his way. Anyone. He'd even defied the chief public prosecutor once, if such stories were to be believed. They weren't always, of course, but the Marshal, being only a noncommissioned officer, didn't fancy his chances. And the worst of it was that he was quite sure in this case that what had sent everything haywire was his having been hungry all the time. Diets were all right on holiday, but when you had a job to do . . . That Mercedes with a Calabrian number plate had been parked there every day for a week; he'd better take a closer look at it next time he passed on foot. Incongruous . . . And a house just further down where there was some heavy gambling going on which meant recycling money. He'd check . . .
They were in Via Santo Spirito and another queue. The best thing would be to go over to Headquarters at Borgo Ognissanti and have a word with his captain. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man, and he'd had to deal with Fusarri. True, the Marshal had been there himself at the time but very much in the background. Maestrangelo had taken the brunt, and it hadn't been easy. Even so, things had seemed to work out, more or less, in the end, so a word of advice wouldn't come amiss. Borgo Ognissanti, then—No, after lunch. A good meal would . . .
If only he didn't keep forgetting! If only every day his stomach didn't react joyfully to the peal of bells, the lunchtime news signature tune, the waft of tomato and garlic from the lads' kitchen upstairs, the clatter of cutlery behind every shutter in every flat in every street. And then the tightening with dismay. Might as well go straight over to Borgo Ognissanti for all the difference a chilly salad would make. Borgo Ognissanti it was, then.
It was with some surprise that he found himself delivered to the gravel patch outside the entrance to his own station at the Palazzo Pitti. He kept his patience, though. His patience with the young and inexperienced was inexhaustible.
'No, no . . . Borgo Ognissanti. I want to see the company commander. Didn't you hear what I said? Don't look like that, it's not the end of the world. Just keep your eyes and ears open more . . .'
They crossed back over the river.
'Don't go in, I'll get out here. You go and eat and I'll walk back. Do me good.'
Fara's face was pink. He was perplexed and embarrassed. He drove back to Pitti thinking that before things got any worse he should try and find someone who could give him a word of advice.
Captain Maestrangelo was, indeed, a serious man. Journalists on the local paper,
La Nazione,
referred to him—though not to his face—as The Tomb. A nickname indicative both of his solemnity and the amount of chat and information to be extracted from him.
Nevertheless, it would be an even more serious man who could resist just a flicker of amusement at the sight of Guarnaccia, hands planted squarely on his big knees, a deep furrow between his brows, come to confess that he'd failed to solve a most intractable case in one and a half days. The flicker was an internal one. The Captain had no intention of offending the Marshal for whom he had a respect which Guarnaccia would not have believed had he known about it. Besides, he'd already guessed where the real problem lay, and that Guarnaccia would get to the point. Eventually. Over the years he'd become accustomed to the Sicilian baroque as expressed by the Marshal. The longest, most complicated line between points A and B. It was a slow business, but experience told him it got slower if you tried to block a curlicue and nudge him towards the horizontal. The result was invariably a flourish of minor curlicues to cover the embarrassing glimpse of the horizontal pointing straight at point B. Sometimes, the Marshal lost his way in the minor curlicues. So the Captain held his peace apart from suitable murmurs on request.
'After all, if he does have another woman, he must have friends who know . . .'
'Surely.'
The Marshal gazed down at his hands for some time and then emitted a brief sigh that was almost a snort.
'And money . . . I don't know what a writer would earn . . .'
'No.'
'But there could be money, family money. The daughter hasn't turned up yet and, of course, I can't even be sure there wasn't someone else there. Though you'd think if there had been, Forbes wouldn't have lost an opportunity to shift the blame. He was drunk, though. It's a funny business . . . man lying drunk next door to his wife's body.'
He consulted his hands again. The Captain, very discreetly, consulted his watch. But still he held his peace.
'Not a mark on her. Not a scratch or the tiniest bruise. And nothing at all in her stomach, clean as a whistle. So why should a perfectly healthy young woman faint or something . . .'
'Perhaps because of the empty stomach. Women go on excessive diets sometimes, I believe.'
The remark had the effect of an electric shock on the Marshal. He sat bolt upright, his face red. 'I never thought . . .'
'Well, I wouldn't get too hopeful about it, just check it out.'
The Marshal sat there looking stunned.
'I know it must be difficult for you,' prompted the Captain against his better judgement. 'It's a bit much for you to take on when your only really experienced man is Lorenzini and he has to be in the office when you're out. I'd send you someone if I could—I know what it's like when you're feeling under pressure from a prosecutor who forgets you've also got a whole Quarter to police—'
'No, no,' protested the embarrassed Marshal to his shoe. He then fixed his gaze on a seventeenth-century landscape in oils on the wall to his left and discoursed doggedly on staffing problems for seven minutes.
The Captain felt he was losing his grip. He'd done precisely what he knew he shouldn't have done and, after all, it was perfectly comprehensible that the Marshal couldn't bring himself to come here openly protesting about the Substitute Prosecutor he'd been given, like a schoolboy unhappy with his new teacher.
With tact and patience the Captain picked up the responses and they wound their way in the correct form with all due curls and ornaments, through-past staffing arrangements, acquaintances now transferred, cases this or that one worked on, until they came upon, after a decent interval, a certain kidnapping case and a certain substitute Prosecutor Virgilio Fusarri, then newly arrived in Florence.
'And does he still smoke those dreadful little cigars?' asked the Captain after feigning surprise that he was on this case.
'Chain-smokes. And . . . the owner of the Villa Torrini where it happened, smokes as much as he does. Cigarettes, though. They're old friends . . .'
'Is that going to be a problem?'
'I don't know. I don't think so, but you never can tell.'
'Well, if it isn't, I wouldn't worry about him too much. I know his manner's very strange . . . That way he has of being only half with you, taking an amused interest, like a privileged spectator whose real business is elsewhere. The only time I've seen him really concentrate is on food.'
'Yes, well.' That didn't strike the Marshal as altogether unreasonable. 'It's more the way he pretends to flatter me that's disturbing. All this "leaving it to me".'