A log fire was burning in the wide hearth. The Marshal was glad of it since there was no other heating in the converted barn. It hadn't been lit long, and every so often a fine curl of pale blue woodsmoke made its way up one corner of the mantelpiece. The sweetness of its perfume mingled with that of the freshly made coffee which the Marshal had reluctantly refused. He didn't want to accept anything from Forbes. He wasn't sure whether Forbes had just got up, or was making the coffee to give himself something to do other than sitting down and facing his visitor. Probably a mixture of the two.
There was a long-haired white rug in front of the fire which the Marshal kept his big black shoes away from. A very cosy room, though he wondered about the strength of the piece of bamboo furniture on which he was gingerly sitting. Pretty but frail, he thought, trying not to move an inch. When he did, it creaked.
Forbes was talking. He'd hardly drawn breath since the Marshal arrived. Talking mostly about himself. The Marshal wasn't listening—at least not to the content, only to the noise, the accent, the tone, the fear. When Forbes did at last present himself at the fireside, he brought with him two cups of coffee.
'You were only being polite, right?'
And after that it would have been an exaggeration not to drink it. Blast the man! Hadn't the Signora Torrini said that Forbes did things for her even though she didn't really want him to, so as to make himself liked? He understood that now. He had very much wanted the excellent coffee, but he hadn't wanted it from Forbes. Probably, the Signora Torrini had wanted her lemon trees protected but she wanted it done by her son. No doubt Forbes had done a good job. He had also made good coffee. Which made matters worse. How he talked! He was in the bamboo armchair opposite now, legs crossed one over the other, a long delicate finger caressing his beard and his elbow poised on one knee. The knee was shaking. Only very slightly, but it was shaking.
He was losing his hair very quickly, the Marshal thought, looking at the receding temples and remembering the almost bald crown. Yet he looked young. Perhaps because his skin was so soft and pink, as was often the way with northern people.
'In this job you can't allow your emotions to interfere or you're out. I have a deadline to meet.'
'Job . . . ?' The Marshal came briefly to the surface. As far as he knew, Forbes had no job.
'This article I'm writing for an English Sunday. The deadline's tomorrow. I'm trying to work in spite of everything. She would have wanted it.'
The Marshal stared at him. He took a sip of the coffee without thinking and then, annoyed with himself, placed it on the low bamboo table between them.
Again he looked hard at Forbes before announcing: 'I'm here to tell you—' Forbes had never asked why he was here—'that Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri has signed a release order for your wife's body. You might wish to bury her tomorrow or the next day at the latest.'
'I can't. My friends, a couple we know—she's English and he's Italian—-they're going to see to everything for me. They think a lot of me and they know I need to write this piece and I can't deal with things like that.'
'There comes a time in all our lives,' pointed out the Marshal, 'when we have to deal with "things like that". Are they friends of yours, these people, did you say, or were they friends of your wife's?' Signora Torrini might be daffy but she'd got this chap sized up, and very useful it was, too.
Forbes's face was red with annoyance. 'Mine, if anything. Especially Mary, the wife. To be honest . . . well, she's always been a bit in love with me. These things happen, you understand, in certain circles. They're accepted.'
Very nice, the Marshal thought, particularly if it results in someone else organizing your wife's funeral for you.
Forbes sat back elegantly in his bamboo armchair and opened one hand in an adopted Italian gesture.
'I shouldn't have brought it up. I realize it's difficult for someone like you to understand. There are different standards in different ambiences.' The flourish of the hand was perfectly controlled but the Marshal knew without needing to look that the leg swung over his knee was still shaking and that the foot was tapping at the air to cover it up.
'Very nice furniture, this,' he said to try and cover up a sinister creak, the result of his shifting a little, to observe Forbes better.
Forbes was disconcerted, and the further speeches he was working up to on the question of different ambiences disintegrated on the spot. The Marshal was equally disconcerted at having started a hare when least expecting to. The furniture seemed to agitate Forbes a great deal more than the funeral.
'It was meant to be a surprise, that was the whole idea-it was a
present
and yet you'd think—who told you about it anyway?'
'Told me about it?'
'Somebody must have—La Torrini, I imagine, I know you went to see her.'
'Yes, I did.' What was the matter with the man? 'We didn't discuss your furniture.'
'Fucking hell!' He suddenly turned his face and covered it with one hand. He was weeping.
The Marshal waited in silence. It wasn't just when he was drunk, then. Why, though, should he have burst into tears at the mention of his furniture? After some moments, a possible explanation occurred.
'You say these things were a present. Were they for your wife's birthday?'
Forbes pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose loudly. 'Sorry. No, not her birthday. For Christmas.'
'I see.' The Marshal watched him rub a hand over his face.
'I just thought you'd have bought something for your wife that day.'
'What day?' He was reaching for his coffee cup, pouring more from the octagonal pot he'd left close to the fire.
'The day she died. It was her birthday.' !
He hesitated, almost dropped the coffee pot, burned himself saving it. 'Christ! I've burned myself!' He jumped up and went to the other end of the room which served as the kitchen. Still swearing, he opened the ice compartment of the fridge and put his hand inside.
'You'd forgotten?'
Forbes pretended not to hear.
'Have to put something on it . . . ' He ran up the spiral staircase at a speed the Marshal wouldn't have thought possible. He was used to it, of course. He was running away from the question, too. Well, there was no hurry.
Even so, he wasn't finding out anything and perhaps he never would. He had no idea how to tackle this Forbes chap, and he was afraid his dislike was making itself felt. That could result in a complaint, protests from the consul, the ambassador . . .
He could hear Forbes fiddling about upstairs. He was gone for quite some time and came back with his right hand inexpertly bandaged by his left. The Marshal made no comment on this, but continued, as though Forbes had never moved.
'I was saying that you forgot your wife's birthday. I hope she didn't take it too badly.'
'She didn't . . . know. I mean, she never mentioned it so I suppose she'd forgotten it herself . . . ' His eyes were shifting rapidly about the room. The Marshal, trying to make out where he was looking, concluded that he wasn't so much looking at something as for something.
'Funny,' he said slowly, 'all her friends forgetting, too, though if you forgot and they didn't, perhaps she avoided saying. Women are like that, don't you find?'
'I've no idea,' snapped Forbes. 'If there's nothing else— I did tell you I've work to do.'
'One or two things,' the Marshal said carefully to the settling fire. He didn't move. He felt, rather than saw, that Forbes's frantically seeking eyes had frozen. Settling back just a little in his chair, he spotted it too. A brown leather handbag. It was hanging from the back of a straight chair.
'I should explain,' he said, 'as you weren't feeling too well at the time, and probably didn't notice, that our technicians examined everything in the house for evidence—in particular, evidence of suicide. Note, pills and so on.'
Forbes fell silent. He thought for some time and then his eyes glanced off the Marshal's as he tried to look him in the eye, man to man, and failed.
'She always picked up the post. They leave it in a box near the gate. That day she stuffed it in her bag. She said there was nothing interesting . . .'
'Very tactful.' The Marshal took out his notebook.
'What are you doing?' said Forbes in alarm.
'Don't worry,' said the Marshal calmly, 'I'm not making a note of the fact that you forgot your wife's birthday. But last time I was here, you were in no state to give me a statement of the events of the day which ended in her death. Can I take it now? Did you quarrel that day?'
'No!'
'What time did you get up in the morning?'
'Early. At least I did. I started work on my article. Celia slept late because she'd had trouble getting to sleep.'
'Did that happen often?'
'I don't know . . . I only noticed if she told me and stayed in bed late. Otherwise I fall asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.'
'You must have a clear conscience.' This was an attempt to be more pleasant, but he realized afterwards that he probably should have smiled or something. .
'I work very hard!' One leg was still crossed over the other but he had ceased to affect relaxation with his arms, which were now folded tightly on his chest.
'And you worked very hard that morning. For how long?'
'I couldn't say. A couple of hours. Then we had something to eat.'
'What?'
'What did we eat? An English breakfast. I made it.'
'An English breakfast? What is that? Eggs . . . ?'
'Eggs and bacon, tomatoes, sausages, fried bread. We liked to do that sometimes and then work straight through to supper-time.'
'And your wife ate all that stuff?' Well, you never knew, it might be one of those favours he insisted on doing when all she wanted was a cup of coffee. 'She wasn't on a diet?'
'Why should she be on a diet?'
'Her stomach was empty when she died. What time did you have this English breakfast?'
'Tennish.'
That, he supposed, accounted for it, though he'd have to check with the pathologist. From ten to six she hadn't eaten. He made a note in his black notebook, taking his time over it, hoping for some reaction from Forbes but none came. He could hear talk of the pathology of his wife's death without a flicker and burst into tears over the furniture!
'And the rest of the day?'
'We were out. We went down into town to the post office. Then we split up. She went to get her hair done—they stay open over lunch and it's the quietest time . . .'
He bent to place two more logs on the fire and fidgeted with them for an unnecessarily long time. The Marshal waited in silence.
Forbes sat back abruptly. 'We met up when the shops opened and did—'
'Where were you?'
'What?'
'Where were you while your wife was at the hairdresser's?'
'I went to see this friend—Mary. She's the one—'
'I remember.'
'She had some books I needed for my article. I wanted her to help me, that's all. She'd written something similar for the
Herald Tribune
so I thought I could save myself some research. Nothing happened.'
'Did you try?'
'No, I had other things on my mind.'
'And then?'
'Nothing. We did some food shopping and came home. Celia wanted a bath . . . a bath before . . .'
Beads of sweat began forming at his temples. He jumped up and poked the fire again, then sat down on the edge of his chair and refolded his arms tightly.
'Go on.'
'Nothing! I unpacked the shopping while she had a bath, that's all. That's all. When she didn't come out I shouted something. I wanted a bath myself, that was it— I'd forgotten that—and she didn't answer, so I went in and she was there . . .'
'She didn't lock the door?'
'Of course not. Why should she, with just the two of us here? There isn't a lock . . . ' The knee was tapping the air with amazing rapidity that could only be involuntary.
'Go on.'
'Go on what! I can't . . . I saw she was dead. She was dead . . .'
'And what do you think she died of?'
'I don't know, how could I? I mean, I thought a heart attack, something like that. What was I supposed to think? How do you think I felt?'
'I don't know. Most people would have called a doctor or at least a neighbour, asked for help.'
'I was too upset. I was in shock. I can't even
remember
now., that's how upset I was, can't you understand that?'
'So you had a drink. You were quite sure she was dead, were you? You checked her heart or pulse?'
Forbes looked horrified. About to speak, he suddenly stopped himself. His whole forehead was beaded now.
'She could have been alive. If you thought it was a heart attack you could have called the coronary unit out.'
'She was dead! What was the use if she was dead?'
'But you didn't check.'
'I couldn't touch her . . . I couldn't! I've never even seen anyone dead before, let alone touch—'
'And yet you're quite sure she was dead.'
'You know these things.'
'And so you drank a whole flask of wine.'
'I don't remember. I was upset. I started drinking.'
'What was in her glass?'
'Wine. It was wine. Sometimes she liked a gin and tonic at that time, but it was wine—and I poured it for her in the kitchen down here. She took it up with her.'
'And you didn't see her again until she was dead, or you thought she was.'
'She was dead.' He dropped his head into his hands and a stifled whine escaped him. 'Oh, why did this have to happen to me? Oh God, why?'
It happened, the Marshal thought, to your wife. He didn't speak the thought but backed carefully a little further away from the fire which was now roasting his knees.
'I understand your wife has left you provided for. And your daughter, of course.'
'She's not my daughter. She's Celia's daughter by her first husband.'
'I beg your pardon. I imagined . . .'
'Well, don't. Celia will have left her the London house, I know that.'