Errant Angels (26 page)

42

‘You would have approved,' said Penelope,
La Contessa
di Capezzani-Batelli. She was standing in the comfort of her music room looking up at the oil painting of her late husband. ‘I'm sure that you were there, listening.' She reached up and gently touched the heavy gilded frame. For a split second, she thought that she saw the lips curve into a subtle smile under their captive layer of darkened varnish, but her reverie was interrupted by a soft growling. She turned around and bent down to pat the tussled head of Carlo Quinto, who was sitting on his favourite chair, propped up against a cushion.

‘Yes, I know you've been a good boy,' she said softly, ‘and I'm sorry that I had to leave you with Elizabeth, but there was far too much to do and you would have become very bored.'

The real reason for leaving him at home had been far less charitable: previous attempts to include him in the activities surrounding her concert arrangements had ended in near disaster. People did not take kindly to a bad-tempered, growling dog getting in their way.

‘Anyway, I'm sure that Elizabeth looked after you very well,' she continued, talking to him as if he were a child.

Carlo returned her gaze with one of deep affection, which, as sincere as it was, barely hid the feeling of rejection he had felt when he had realized that he and the belligerent domestic were destined to be at daggers – or, in his case, fangs – drawn for what seemed an eternity. He yapped twice
and started wagging his tail against the cushion. With each swipe, the faintest suggestion of a cloud of dust rose gently into the air.

‘Mummy's home now and is very tired after her concert … but not too tired to forget to bring you something.' She crossed to the settee and picked up her sling bag, from which she retrieved a small bundle. ‘You're going to like these,' she continued as she unwrapped the paper napkins that contained several slices of salami. ‘These were left over and I knew someone who would like them.'

Carlo yapped again and wagged his tail more enthusiastically as his little nostrils filled with the delicious aroma.

‘And now Mummy is going to sit down and have a rest. It has been a tiring day, but everything went very well. All our efforts have been handsomely rewarded.'

From the comfort of the settee, she watched as Carlo noisily made short work of his treat, then he trotted over to her and climbed up, putting his forepaws on her knees. He seemed to be smiling, showing flecks of salami wedged between his teeth. She laughed and patted him again.

‘You silly boy,' she whispered, smiling. But as she did so, she thought of something else – something of more profound significance. Just as the dog had shown how much he depended on her for love and affection, so she, herself, had become the virtual mother of her angels through their involvement in COGOL. She thought of Maria Santini, of Tito Viale and their unhappy existences, of Julietta Camore and the barely concealed antagonism that seemed to have suddenly blown up between her and Renata. She thought also of Gregorio Marinetti and his sudden recovery from the depression and gloom that seemed to have stalked him for the past few weeks. Then there was Yvonne Buckingham, who might well fall victim to the handsome Riccardo Fossi; Amilcare Luchetti and his
ever-increasing girth. And her own Luigi – when would he find someone?

‘I've brought yourself the
cherry
…' said Elizabeth, bursting into the music room, carrying a tray on which stood a cut crystal decanter and two sherry glasses. ‘If the
conceit
was a good one, yourself will be wantin' the usual tipple to celebrate,' she said, putting the tray down with a rattle of crystal on the low table, which stood in front of the settee. The Contessa patted the seat next to where she was sitting.

‘Dear Elizabeth … thoughtful, as ever,' she replied. ‘Would you like to pour … and why don't you pour one for yourself as well?'