Читать книгу The Villa in Italy - Elizabeth Edmondson - Страница 22

Which wasn’t, as it turned out, a very long moment, for barely half an hour later, when Delia was just drifting into a pleasant doze of warmth and sunshine and fresh air, and Jessica was well into her book, there were sounds of arrival, of a revving car, of voices: Benedetta’s, Pietro’s, another Italian man and then, unmistakably, people speaking in English.

‘Oh, Lord,’ said Jessica, laying down her book and swinging her legs to the ground. ‘I think your fellow legatees are here.’

Delia didn’t feel like greeting these people clad in a brief green sundress but Jessica, cheerful in the beige shorts she had put on when they came back from the sea, had no such qualms.

The Italian man, who had the slanting eyes and lively figure of a faun from the classical world, announced himself in a flurry of bows, eyeing Jessica’s legs with evident approval, seizing her hand and bending over it, crying out how glad he was to make the acquaintance of Miss Vaughan.

‘No doubt,’ said Jessica. ‘Only that’s not me. I’m Mrs Meldon. This is Miss Vaughan.’

Dark eyes glowing at the sight of Delia’s shapely form. ‘But there is no Mrs Meldon expected,’ he cried. ‘I know nothing of any Mrs Meldon.’

‘I drove here with Miss Vaughan,’ Jessica said. ‘The lawyers in Paris knew I was coming. Didn’t they tell you?’

‘No, the lawyer here, which is me, knows nothing about it; no one tells me anything. However,’ he said, brightening, ‘there is no problem, with the Villa Dante so large, and how pleasant for Dr Helsinger to have such charming feminine company.’

Delia was about to ask the faun what his name was when he recalled his manners, and with profuse apologies announced that he was Dottore Calderini, avvocato, legal adviser to the late Beatrice Malaspina, ‘Such a wonderful lady, such a loss.’

Delia turned her attention to her fellow legatees. A dark woman with a bony face and angular frame, too thin for herself, and a tall balding man with intelligent, tired eyes and those round spectacles that no one wore any more. A don, by the look of him. Probably not the most exciting company in the world, but one of them might turn out to be a mine of information about Beatrice Malaspina and the Villa Dante.

The woman held out her hand. ‘How do you do? I’m Marjorie Swift. This is George Helsinger. Are you here because of the will as well? The lawyers said there were four of us.’

‘Only I’m not one of them,’ said Jessica. ‘Just a friend.’

‘So there’s one more to come,’ said Marjorie, looking round as though she expected another legatee to leap out of a bush.

‘Indeed, indeed, but as to when that will be I cannot tell you,’ cried Dr Calderini. ‘For I do not know when he comes, although it must be before May begins. So I am afraid here you must stay until we know he is coming, until he arrives.’

‘What if he never comes?’ asked Delia.

‘People in wills always come,’ said the lawyer with a sudden air of worldly cynicism. ‘You may take my word for it.’

‘I think,’ said Delia, ‘that Benedetta should show Miss—Mrs?—Miss Swift and Dr Helsinger to their rooms. If they’ve had a long train journey…’

‘Long, but extremely comfortable,’ said Marjorie. ‘And I think first names, don’t you, given the circumstances? I’m Marjorie.’

‘My name’s Delia, and this is Jessica.’

George shook hands with Delia and Jessica. ‘I should be happy if you would call me George.’ In the distance a church bell was tolling a single note, the sound carrying in the still air. ‘The angelus,’ said George.

‘What?’ said Delia.

‘It is a bell rung every day at noon.’

They walked together towards the house and up the flight of shallow stone steps that led to the front door. At the threshold, Dr Calderini paused with a polite Permesso? before stepping inside.

Marjorie and George stood, amazed by the frescoes, exclaiming at the beauty of the marble-floored hall. ‘And do I see a garden beyond?’ said Marjorie.

‘Neglected, now,’ said Delia, ‘but it must have been lovely once. I don’t suppose they’ve had the staff to keep it up, not since the war, not if it’s the same as in England.’

‘Ah, the war,’ said Dr Calderini, who had been conversing in rapid Italian with Benedetta. ‘Everything was lovely before the war.’

Delia doubted it, remembering what she had heard and read about Mussolini and his fascist government, but certainly it would be true as far as gardens and houses went.

‘And what’s this?’ Marjorie said. She was standing in front of a column on which sat a glass box.

‘I didn’t notice that last night,’ said Delia, going to have a look.

‘I thought it was part of the painting, all that perspective and detail that deceives the eye,’ said Jessica.

‘It’s a thumping great ring,’ Delia said.

‘Ah, that is a cardinal’s ring,’ said Dr Calderini. ‘A great treasure—the Signora Malaspina was much attached to it. It belonged to Cardinal Saraceno, who built the villa. Although it has been much altered since his day, naturally. There is a fine portrait of him, also, in the house. It is a poisoner’s ring,’ he added casually. ‘Not the ring of his office.’

‘Poisoner’s ring?’ said Jessica. ‘Belonging to a cardinal?’

‘He was quite a wicked cardinal.’

That would confirm all her father’s long-held prejudices as to the untrustworthiness of any Catholic priest, let alone a cardinal, thought Delia. She laughed. ‘So the house belonged to a prince of the church who poisoned people. I knew the Villa Dante was extraordinary the moment we got here.’

‘You will be very comfortable here,’ said Dr Calderini. ‘People are always happy and comfortable at the Villa Dante, even in these troubled times, and Benedetta will look after you. She is to have help from the town if she needs it. Now, I shall take my leave.’

‘Hang on,’ said Delia. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something? I mean, we want to know why we’re here.’

Dr Calderini turned himself into a tragic mask of regret. ‘So sorry, so sad to have to be disobliging, but Signora Malaspina’s orders were laid down most strictly. I am not at liberty to tell you anything until all four of you are present at the Villa Dante, which will, I am sure, be very soon. Until then, my lips are sealed, I can say nothing. So,’ he finished, bowing and smiling as he headed for the steps, ‘enjoy the hospitality of the villa as Signora Malaspina wanted. You are to make yourselves completely at home. When the fourth man is here, then I will be back, and all will be made clear.’

And with a few parting words for Benedetta, he was gone.

Delia turned to Marjorie. ‘You and Dr Helsinger, I mean George, travelled together? Are you old friends?’

‘We met on the train, I’ve never set eyes on him before.’

‘Did you know Beatrice Malaspina? Can you tell us anything about her?’

‘I never knew her, and I know nothing at all about her; this whole business came as a bolt from the blue. I have no idea who she may have been, and nor, I may say, does George Helsinger; we discovered that in our conversation on the train. Do you mean you don’t know why you are here, either?’

‘Except for the will, no.’

‘Perhaps the mysterious fourth legatee will be able to enlighten us. If he ever arrives. Meanwhile, I’m perfectly amazed to be here, and I intend to make the most of every minute that I’m away from England.’

She spoke with such vehemence that Delia was surprised, but she couldn’t find out any more about her, since Benedetta had appeared and was clucking with impatience to carry off the new arrivals to their rooms.

‘Well,’ said Jessica, as she and Delia sat on the curved stone benches under the frescoes to wait for the others. ‘What do you make of your fellow guests?’

‘It makes me wonder more and more about Beatrice Malaspina,’ said Delia.

‘It’s a pity they had to arrive this morning. Now we shall have to be sociable and make polite conversation. I can’t see that we’re going to have anything in common with either of them.’

‘I think they look quite interesting. George Helsinger—can he be English with a name like that?—has a clever, interesting kind of face. I don’t know what to make of Marjorie. Dreadful clothes and no expression on her face, yet I get the feeling she’s far from dim.’

‘Women’s Institute spinster type,’ said Jessica. ‘Lord help us.’

Had they but known it, Marjorie was summing them all up in exactly the same way. She had no worries about George. A kind, intelligent man, with a tormented soul. What was worrying him so greatly? An experiment that had gone wrong? Or might he be being chased by foreign agents, keen on extracting atomic secrets? In a flash, she pictured men with hats drawn low over their faces, in belted raincoats, lurking in doorways…

They hadn’t talked much more on the train, merely exchanging remarks as to how odd this whole Beatrice Malaspina business was. Then she had returned to her own compartment, to sit by the window and marvel at the blue depth of the sea as the train wound its way down the coast.

They had met up again at La Spezia, where they transferred to a local train with wooden seats and an ancient engine, which reminded them both of wartime rail travel in England. They alighted at a deserted-looking station; what a long way down from the train platforms were in Italy, she thought, as she reached up for the suitcase that George was holding out to her.

‘Now, what is best for us to do?’ George said as he joined her on the platform. ‘This station is a good walk from the town, which, as you see, is up the hill. Perhaps there will be a taxi.’

For a moment her imagination ran riot again. The whole thing was a set-up, there was no Villa Dante, no will, no Beatrice Malaspina, they had been lured here to be kidnapped and killed after torture to extract secret information. At least, they could extract scientific secrets from Dr Helsinger. Her mind ran on sinister lines: remote Italian castles in the style of The Mysteries of Udolpho…would there be a readership for a modern gothic? People had wanted comforting reads during the war, Jane Austen, that kind of thing, but gangster movies were popular, and so…

She came back to reality with a jolt, as George’s voice repeated what he had been saying. ‘I heard a car, and I see a man approaching. I think someone has come to meet us.’

Now, when Benedetta had whisked herself out of the room, Marjorie felt in the bottom of her suitcase and retrieved a notebook. A hard-covered notebook which she had bought in Paris, unable to resist the allure of beautiful stationery. She shouldn’t be spending the lawyer’s money on any such thing, but she had forgone lunch, satisfying her hunger with a ham baguette. The difference in cost would surely cover the price of the notebook.

She sat down on the bed and opened the notebook. The blank page stared up at her, as so many blank pages had done for so long. She closed it again. She had bought it hoping to keep a journal of her travels, of her Italian adventure. Nothing more. Facts, only facts. She took a deep breath, dug in her handbag for her fountain pen, unscrewed the top, opened the notebook and resolutely wrote the date at the top of the page. She underlined it, and wrote beneath it in her copperplate script, The Villa Dante.

She put the notebook down, and went over to the window. Delia Vaughan, rather an exotic creature, with that mass of hair and vivacious eyes, and a beautiful speaking voice. Jessica Meldon—Mrs Meldon—a typical product of the English upper classes, no doubt a crashing snob; a pity Delia had felt it necessary to bring such a friend—and where was Mr Meldon, whose name was never out of the papers? The couple were estranged, so the gossip columnists claimed. A pity she was here; the Villa Dante didn’t at all seem the right kind of place for a flighty socialite who’d quarrelled with her husband.