The Italian Matchmaker (32 page)

Alba shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken.’

‘Well,’ Luca said. ‘Someone’s been in there and my mother’s given me the job of finding out who it is.’

‘Rosa knows how I feel about the
palazzo
.’ Alba was pale. She didn’t want to talk about the
palazzo
, let alone imagine her daughter luxuriating in the tragedy of the past. Rosa knew how sacred it was to her.

‘Mother’s invited another couple to stay,’ said Luca, changing the subject.

‘It’s like a hotel up there,’ said Alba. Her voice sounded sharper than she intended.

‘Getting more like a hotel by the minute,’ Luca agreed. ‘The professor and Ma Hemple are permanent fixtures I think; they’ll be staying all summer for sure. I don’t know how my parents put up with people hanging around all the time.’

‘So, who have they invited now?’ Cosima asked, putting away the plates she had dried.

‘A charming old boy called Fitzroy Davenport.’ Luca spoke slowly and deliberately, suddenly guilty about pretending not to know Alba’s history. He watched her mouth fall open in surprise.

‘Fitzroy Davenport?’

‘The very same,’ Luca replied. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Yes, we were lovers.’

Cosima stared at her aunt. Her candour was disarming. ‘Lovers? When?’

Alba laughed. ‘Long before I met Panfilo. When you were a little girl. I made a very wise choice back then, and I have never regretted it for a moment. It was either you, Cosima, or Fitz – I couldn’t have both.’

‘Poor Fitz,’ said Luca.

‘Well, he eventually married someone else. Who is she?’

‘Rosemary,’ Luca replied. ‘Very . . . efficient.’

‘You mean pushy. Oh really, Fitz, of all the women to choose. He was always going to be vulnerable to a woman like that! When are they coming?’

‘Next weekend.’

‘I can hardly wait. After all these years. Won’t he be surprised?’

Luca recalled the wistful look on his face and the tender way he had spoken of her. ‘
Pleasantly
surprised,’ he added with emphasis. For a moment he felt sorry for Rosemary, Alba being so much more beautiful, but he didn’t mention that. Instead, he led Cosima out into the sunshine. He’d warned Alba that Fitzroy was coming. He’d meddled enough.

They lay together on the grass beneath the old lookout point. Cosima had an air of distraction, as if her mind were elsewhere. He ran his hand through her hair, scrunching it between his fingers, and swept his lips across her skin. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘I had a dream last night,’ she replied, smiling tentatively. ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’

‘What was it about?’

‘Francesco.’

 

Nanni and Fiyona followed Caradoc’s instructions and sat on a bench in the square outside the church. The sun shone, birds twittered in the trees or hopped on to the grass to peck at crumbs left for them by small children, and the church bell summoned people to Mass. Elderly men and women dressed in black surfaced in the square like crabs crawling out of crevices in rock, their heads covered with black hats or veils, their rosary beads rattling in their pockets. Young couples walked briskly across the square with their children, little girls in their best dresses, little boys scrubbed clean. It seemed the whole town emptied into the church. Everything was closed but for the hotel, outside which a couple of American tourists waited for a taxi with cameras slung over their shoulders, peering at a guidebook of Southern Italy.

Fiyona and Nanni waited like a pair of hyenas. With Fiyona, Nanni was transformed. He felt virile and sexy. He displayed his large belly and smoked a cigar. Fiyona seemed rather more interested in the young men, so dark and handsome with their Latin air of insouciance that so excited her. She couldn’t help but smile at them and they smiled back, instantly recognising the availability in her eyes, like an ‘open’ sign hanging in a shop window.

She put a cigarette between her lips and lit it, letting the smoke dribble out through the side of her mouth. ‘This town is full of old people,’ she said. ‘They must all know something.’

‘We have to find the right person,’ Nanni replied. ‘Few will want to talk. People from the south are cagey.’

‘Nothing cagey about the young,’ she said, thinking of Fiero and their shameless flirting the night before.

‘The young didn’t live through the war.’

‘Did your sister know about its history when she bought the place?’

‘They fell in love with the
palazzo
. The history didn’t interest them.’

‘It does now.’

‘It interests everyone now.’ He flicked ash on to the ground.

‘So she doesn’t mind that an old man was murdered in her home?’

‘Why should she? It happened long ago.’

‘I wonder what Alba and her family think of your sister renovating it?’

‘If Alba minded that much she wouldn’t have chosen to live here. Besides, she never knew her mother. Valentina died when she was a baby.’

‘But her uncle was a murderer.’

‘He took revenge on his sister’s death.’

‘Still a murderer. I’m sure she’d rather the whole episode was forgotten.’

‘Don’t forget, Falco was never charged with the murder. The police believed it was the
mafia
. The case is closed.’

‘Just Falco on his own, or did he have an accomplice?’ She remembered Rosa’s slip of the tongue.

‘How many people does it take to kill a marquis?’ Nanni chuckled. ‘Perhaps there were three, who knows?’

‘But I
want
to know,’ she said with emphasis. ‘I like to get the facts right. That’s what makes me a good journalist.’

‘I suppose that is an advantage. Most journalists I know make it up!’

After Mass the town filed out and dispersed. Fiyona scanned the herd of faces, even attempted to speak to one or two, but they looked at her in horror and shuffled away, muttering under their breath.

‘This isn’t going to be easy.’

‘I told you, no one wants to talk to a stranger.’

‘Then how did your nephew manage it?’ She made another unsuccessful attempt, then saw a face she recognised. ‘Rosa!’ She caught the young woman’s eye and waved.

Rosa broke away from her family. ‘Hello, Fiyona. What are you doing here?’

‘Mass,’ Fiyona replied. Rosa raised her eyebrows. ‘This is Nanni, Romina’s brother.’ Rosa shook his hand. ‘Are those your children?’ Fiyona asked as Rosa’s family caught up with her.

‘Yes, and my husband Eugenio. My father, Panfilo and my uncle Toto, his wife, Paola and his mother, Beata.’

‘You have a big family,’ said Fiyona, smiling her warmest smile.

‘You haven’t met the half of it!’ laughed Rosa. ‘We take up most of the church.’

‘Do you live here in town?’ Fiyona asked.

‘Just outside. In the very house that Valentina lived in,’ she hissed so that Beata wouldn’t overhear.

‘Dressed up like that you look even more like her.’ Fiyona flattered her.

‘Would you like to come for a drink?’

‘I would love to,’ Fiyona replied. ‘Could I bring Nanni?’

‘Of course.’ Rosa turned to her father. ‘I’ve asked them home for a drink.’ Panfilo’s face clouded. ‘Don’t look at me like that,
Papà
! My mother’s shy of the
palazzo
,’ she explained.

Fiyona was quick to turn up the charm. ‘Don’t worry, we wouldn’t want to intrude. It’s been so nice to meet you all. What a friendly, beautiful family you have, Panfilo. You must be very proud.’

Panfilo felt embarrassed. It wasn’t in his nature to be rude. ‘No, please. I welcome you into our home,’ he said. Fiyona caught Nanni’s eye, linked her arm through Rosa’s and walked off towards Panfilo’s car.

Alba busied herself in the house, tidying up the children’s toys, folding their clothes, putting away their pencils and books. Then she decided to walk out to the old lookout point where her mother lay buried under the olive tree.

She was reminded of walking that path as a young girl, dreaming of Fitz, struggling with the choice she had to make – to remain in Italy with Cosima or return to England with Fitz. A bird of prey circled silently overhead, scouring the earth for mice and rabbits. She inhaled the scent of wild thyme and rosemary, swept her eyes over the hill where little yellow flowers flourished in the long grass, and felt her spirits soar. She would never tire of this landscape. Its beauty would always hold her captive.

She felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of seeing Fitz again. Would he have changed? Would she feel anything for him? Or would her love be no more than a memory corroded by time, or a mirage in her past? She thought of him married to Rosemary and laughed out loud that he had fallen into the arms of a pushy woman. Fitz had always been affable, charming and gentle – vulnerable to a strong and determined woman. Alba had left him broken-hearted, but she had promised him she would wait. She had, at first, but he had not returned. Italy had filled the void Fitz had left, and Cosima had taught her that there were many different ways to love. Ultimately, Cosima’s need had been greater than Fitz’s. The little girl’s welling eyes and disbelieving smile had shown her that she had done the right thing in returning. Then Panfilo turned up and she had fallen in love. ‘In love’ had faded with time, replaced by a love that was solid, deep and lasting. She wondered how things might have turned out had she not come back but married Fitz and lived in London. Would Fitz have had the strength of character to hold her? Would she have tired of him and gone back to her promiscuous ways? Would Italy have eventually been displaced by the shallow materialism and greed of the world she had returned to? What sort of woman would she have been?

She reached the olive tree and sat down on the grass. She remembered Fitz arriving in Incantellaria to ask her to marry him, her initial joy, and later her fear of leaving the family she had only just discovered. She recalled their escapade to the
palazzo
; climbing over the gate warped by time, rusted by many rainfalls; sneaking up the drive overgrown with shrubs and littered with branches, thorns and twigs. How the gardens had taken over and invaded the house, creeping in through the crumbling walls like snakes; the sinister cold that had pervaded the place, as if it were situated at the top of a mountain with its very own climate; the smell of rotting vegetation and neglect. But Fitz had accompanied her inside and she had felt more courageous with him beside her.

Finally they had reached a room that had a very different feel from the rest of the
palazzo
. Unlike the others, that one had vibrated with the warmth of the living. The remains of a fire were still hot in the grate and the air quivered with life. A leather chair was placed in front of the fire. They had had the strange feeling that they weren’t alone. They had been right.

Alba recalled the albino, Nero. The man the
Marchese
had adopted as a little Neapolitan boy. He had been frail, with no front teeth, slowly drinking himself to death out of remorse and regret, pining for the man he had loved and lost. Because of him the
palazzo
had been given over to the ravages of nature. It had crumbled around him until all that remained was the room he lived in. The room in which the
Marchese
was murdered. He had wept when she had told him that she was Valentina’s daughter and she, in turn, had wept when she learned that the
Marchese
had killed her mother. Fitz had helped put together the pieces of that tragic jigsaw; unveiling a final picture of love, jealousy and revenge.

After that, Alba vowed she’d never go up there again. While her father had believed Valentina loved him she had been lying in the folly with the
Marchese
. She had even given him the naked portrait Thomas had drawn of her and hung it by the bed which
she
had found with Fitz and returned to her father. He had been shocked to see it after all those years, having been so tormented by its disappearance at the time. But he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of the woman who had so cruelly betrayed him and had given it back to her. She’d never forget the ruthless glint in his eyes when she had relayed how she and Fitz had turned detective and solved the
Marchese
’s murder. Falco had admitted responsibility, but it was only then that she had realised her own father’s part in the plot. Rosa saw only the romance of her grandmother’s seemingly glamorous life, but Alba knew the truth: that it was tawdry and dishonest. Valentina had hurt those who loved her the most. Thomas had never got over the deception. He had plunged the knife into the
Marchese
’s neck but the
Marchese
’s gleeful smile had never left him. ‘
You can kill me, but don’t forget that I killed you first
,’ he had said.

Knowing the truth about her father had brought Alba and Thomas very close. Now nothing could come between them. No secrets, no lies, only the truth that she had eventually shared with her family. It wasn’t right to keep secrets from each other. She had learned that through experience.

Now she thought of Panfilo and his involvement with the
palazzo
. She feared the interest Romina had generated in renovating it. Now there would be an article in an international magazine, digging up the secrets they had no right to expose. People would come to Incantellaria out of curiosity to visit the scene. The story would no longer be hers but belong to the world. Her father had trusted her, now she had to trust her own family. She wasn’t sure she could trust
all
of them. Rosa had inherited Valentina’s genes and that frightened her.