A Dead Man in Naples (11 page)

‘Of course, he was an Esposito too. Although, like me, he changed his name when he was on his way to the top. “If you’d met me earlier,” I told him, “before we changed our names, we could have stuck to them.” I meant, as a gesture of defiance. Of course, I realize now that what I should have said was, as a way of economizing. That would have appealed to him.

‘But at the time it was because he thought he had found a fellow spirit. You know, someone from the depths, as he was. He came from the docks. Right here! Although that’s not what I’m looking at the boats for. I used to sing here. From time to time. I would creep out of the Hospital when it all got too much for me, when I couldn’t stand any more of the goody-goody atmosphere, and would come down here, and when I wanted some money for sweets I would sing to them. They were my people. I never forgot that and later, when I stood on the stage, it was to them I was singing and not to the bow ties and sparkling necklaces. I might be Luisa on the outside, but on the inside I was still Margareta.’

‘And are you still Margareta?’ asked Seymour.

‘Even more.’

‘There is someone who remembers you as Margareta. We were talking to her. She would like to see you again. Sister Geneviève.’

‘Sister Geneviève? Is she still alive?’

‘And would like to talk to you. If you could bear to.’

‘Bear to?’

‘She wouldn’t want you to come if you don’t want to.’

‘Sister Geneviève?’

‘If you would like to.’

The Marchesa considered, and then stood up.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I would like to. I shall go now. Immediately.’

She started to go, and then stopped.

‘How strange!’ she said. ‘That you should be the one to tell me! A policeman from England!’

‘Stranger still,’ said Seymour, ‘what led me there.’

‘What did lead you there?’ asked the Marchesa.

‘A betting slip,’ said Seymour, ‘in a dead man’s pocket.’

The Marchesa looked at him levelly. ‘Scampion’s?’

Seymour nodded.

‘How did it get there, Marchesa?’

‘I gave it him.’

‘
You
gave it him?’

‘Yes. He asked for it. When I was about to throw it away. It was out of date, you see. Expired. But it had my number on it. My number at the Hospital. I always used that number when I betted. Because it was me. That number was me. I told him this. And he looked at me peculiarly and asked if he could have it. Of course, I said yes, although afterwards I was a little sorry – sorry that I had told him, and sorry that I had given him the ticket. I felt as if I had given part of myself away.’

She laughed to herself.

‘Foolish!’ she said. ‘Foolish, I know. And sentimental.’

She shook her head.

‘And sentimental on his part too.’ She sighed. ‘Poor little Scampion! I think he had the teeniest bit of a passion for me. A passionlet. Yes, that is better. English diplomatic officials do not have passions. They have passionlets. Baby passions.

‘And what about English policemen, Signora?’ she said to Chantale. ‘Do they have passions? Or just passionlets?’

‘Working up to it,’ said Seymour.

‘Ah, yes,’ said the sailcloth-stitcher, ‘you’re the crazy man Alberto was talking about. The man looking for the Magic Number.’

‘Not
the
Magic Number,’ said Seymour. ‘But
my
magic number. I’m nearly there. I just need a little bit to complete it.’

‘That’s always the hardest bit,’ said the sailcloth-stitcher, sighing.

‘I was so close!’ said Seymour.

‘Were you?’ said the sailcloth-stitcher, interested.

‘It was all there,’ said Seymour, ‘apart from one little bit.’

‘Were you using the Smorfia?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘I always find it very helpful.’

‘It’s tried and tested,’ said Seymour.

Tried and tested and invariably wrong, he said to himself.

‘Stick to it!’ advised the sailcloth-stitcher. ‘You can’t do better.’

‘I’m sure the Smorfia’s all right,’ said Seymour. ‘It’s just hitting on the thing it gives the number to that’s the problem. The basic idea’s good. What happened on that day. You know, the day the Englishman was killed.’

‘I remember the day well,’ said the sailcloth-stitcher encouragingly.

‘You do?’

‘It was the day my needle broke. Do you think that could be something to do with it?’

‘I remember the day well,’ said the pipe-maker. ‘It was terrible. There was blood all over the place!’

‘The Englishman –?’

‘No, no. Our Nando, he fell over and hurt his knee. He made such a row that you’d have thought his leg had come off. “For God’s sake, give that child something,” I said to my wife. “A lump of sugar or something. The noise he’s making is going right through my head.”’

‘Grandpa saw someone running!’

‘He did?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did he get a good look at him?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Could he describe him?’

‘Pretty well. It was Pietro, you see.’

‘Pietro?’

‘Gianni’s boy. He lives in a
basso
at the other end of the street. When he heard what had happened, he came running up. Didn’t want to miss anything, you see.’

* * *

And more of that ilk. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea after all.

He repaired to the snail restaurant. His friends commiserated.

‘There’s bound to be a lot of dross along with the gold,’ said Ernesto.

‘The trouble is, there hasn’t been any gold yet,’ said Seymour.

‘Well, you couldn’t expect it. Not just like that. You’ve got to persist. Dig around a bit.’

‘Stick to it!’ Alberto advised. ‘One of these days, it will leap out at you.’

Seymour was beginning to wish he had not thought of this daft idea. He was halfway along the street now and getting nowhere. It wasn’t, now, that they were unwilling to talk to him. On the contrary, they were only too willing. They remembered the day very well. But what they remembered was nothing to do with Scampion. It had happened at the end of the street, which in their terms was a long way away. The Porta del Carmine was another world. Scampion had belonged to that world, not that of the
bassi
, and they found it hard even to imagine him.

‘Persist!’ the carpenter enjoined him. ‘One of these days, as you said, it will leap out at you!’

That was another daft thing that Seymour wished he had not said.

The carpenter looked back down the street.

‘Oops!’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting someone. And there he is. I’d better get back or my wife will have it in for me.’

He got up from the table.

The
acquaiolo
looked along the street too.

‘Has the time come round again?’ he said. ‘Already?’

‘It comes round a bit too quickly for my liking,’ said the carpenter. ‘Is it just that I’m getting old, or is he really coming round more often?’

‘I’m sorry to say,’ said the
acquaiolo
, ‘that it’s you getting old. He comes round every fortnight, as regular as clockwork. And the fortnight is just about up.’

‘I suppose it’s better that way,’ said the carpenter. ‘I mean, if he came round every month it would always seem a lot when you had to find the money. This way makes it more manageable.’

He hurried off down the street back to his
basso
, where, indeed, his wife was waiting for him, arms akimbo.

‘I’d better get back, too,’ said the
acquaiolo
. ‘He’s working up the street and it’ll be my turn in a minute or two.’

He set off back to his
basso
.

‘And mine, too,’ said the snail-shop owner, going to fidget beneath his boxes.

Later that afternoon Seymour and Chantale passed that way again. Ernesto was standing in his snail restaurant looking glum.

‘Was it more this time?’ asked Seymour.

Ernesto gave a start.

‘More?’ he said.

‘What you have to pay them,’ said Seymour.

Ernesto looked around him cautiously.

‘A bit,’ he said. ‘But it’s not so much that.’

‘No?’

‘No. It’s Jacopo.’

‘Which is Jacopo?’

‘Three doors down. The basket-maker. He’s not been doing so well lately and he couldn’t find it.’

‘The money?’

‘That’s right. What he had to pay.’

‘Have they broken him up?’

‘No, no. Not yet, at any rate. They’ve just said that they will. If he can’t find it by next week. Well, he won’t be able to. Business is bad for basket-makers, not just him. He’ll have to get out.’

‘Leave the
basso
?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What will he do?’

‘He’s got a brother in Benevento. But his brother’s not much better off than he is. Still, they won’t touch him there. All the same, it’s bad.’

‘Hard on the family?’

The
basso
looked more like a junk shop than a workshop. There were half-finished chairs in the street outside and worn baskets awaiting repair. There were piles of rushes and heaps of twigs scattered about over the floor. A clothes line ran along the front of the
basso
and on it were various items of worn clothing together with stained pieces of cloth. A broken-down table stood outside and at it a man was working. The doors of the
basso
were only half open but inside he could just about make out in the darkness the large bed, on which children were playing. He couldn’t see the mother but guessed she was in it.

Ernesto put the bowl on the table.

‘For the little ones,’ he said.

The man at the table looked up.

‘Thank you, Ernesto. I will repay,’ he said.

‘Of course, you will, Jacopo,’ said Ernesto heartily. ‘When things are better, yes?’

The man shrugged.

‘If they ever get better,’ he said.

He gave a shout and two of the bigger children came out and eyed the bowl greedily.

‘Take it to your mother; and see that she gets some of it.’

The children nodded and took the bowl away.

The man looked at Ernesto.

‘He came again this morning,’ he said.

‘He came to me, too,’ said Ernesto.

‘I did them a favour a few weeks ago,’ the man said. ‘I thought that would be enough. For the time being. But he said it was only a little favour, and was only worth two payments. And I’d had those.’

‘Was the favour worth more?’ asked Seymour.

The man shrugged.

‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But it was worth trying.’

‘Perhaps they could make it worth three payments?’ suggested Ernesto. ‘If you ask them?’

The man shrugged and didn’t say anything.

‘What was the favour you did for them?’ asked Seymour.

‘It was nothing,’ the man said. ‘That’s the trouble. I just looked the other way.’

‘When the man stepped into the
basso
?’ said Seymour.

‘Yes,’ said the basket-maker, surprised. ‘That’s right.’

‘Important to him,’ said Seymour. ‘But perhaps not to them.’

‘It was important to him at the time,’ said the basket-maker bitterly.

‘And so it should have been to them,’ said Seymour.

‘Suggest it’s worth three payments,’ urged Ernesto. ‘Perhaps they will think again.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the basket-maker. He seemed unconvinced.

The children came out again with the empty bowl and gave it back to Ernesto. Then they drew themselves up in a line formally.

‘We thank you, Ernesto.’

‘It is nothing, it is nothing,’ said Ernesto.

‘Our mother says you are a good man, Ernesto.’

‘Not good enough,’ said Ernesto.

Chapter Eleven

Seymour went out into the streets around the Porta del Carmine and at last he found what he was looking for. The open doors of a
basso
extended across the street and he stood in the partition they made, behind a row of washing, and watched the man work his way up the street. Then he went back to the
pensione
.

Maria was putting out the dishes for the evening meal: a heavy white plate and then a bowl on it for the soup.

‘I have just made some coffee?’ she said.

‘Please.’

He sat down at a table in the corner and waited. When she brought the coffee he thanked her and then said quietly:

‘Did they call here, too?’

‘Call?’ she said, startled.

‘The people whose name we don’t mention.’

Maria said nothing but continued to put out the plates.

‘I have seen them collecting in other streets,’ said Seymour.

‘They collect here, too,’ said Maria.

‘From you?’

Maria shook her head fiercely.

‘Not from us,’ she said. ‘From us, never!’

‘But they have tried?’

‘Oh, yes, they have tried. Once they came with a gun. But Giuseppi went into the bedroom and came back with
his
gun. It was the one he had used on the barricades, but that was when he was a young man and he has not used it since. There was a time when he kept it clean but he hasn’t done that for twenty years. If he fired it, it would probably blow
him
up. But they were not to know that, and ran away.’

‘And haven’t come back?’

‘They know Giuseppi and respect him. They know that in the quarter he is admired, as a man of the barricades. They know it is best not to touch people like that.’

‘And yet you allow them into your house,’ said Seymour quietly.

‘I?’ said Maria.

‘Bruno,’ said Seymour. ‘He is a collector, isn’t he? Jalila said he was, and I have just been watching him at work.’

‘We have known Bruno for a long time,’ said Maria. ‘His mother and I were delivered in the same week. In the same street. We have stayed close since. Our boys played together, Marcello and Bruno . . . Bruno has been in and out of the house ever since he could walk. He has been a good son to his mother. When his father died, that very day he went out to find work. He knew he had to.’

‘And he found collecting?’ said Seymour.

‘Not at first. He did other jobs. But he was young, and he was small, and he couldn’t do the heavy jobs, like lifting barrels. But they knew he was a sturdy boy and, I suppose, they knew his need.’

Maria shrugged and wiped the table.

‘A man has to earn a living,’ she said. ‘All of us. And sometimes it may not be in the way we would like.’

‘Is it the way you would like for Jalila’s husband?’

‘That is for Jalila herself to say.’

‘And what does Jalila say?’

‘She wonders. Bruno thinks he is doing right by Tonio.’ She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know if that is true. If our Marcello were here, I would ask him. He would probably agree with Bruno.’

‘The three of them, Bruno, Tonio and your Marcello, were close, weren’t they?’ said Seymour.

‘As close as that,’ said Maria, holding her fingers together in the manner that Chantale said Bruno had when he was talking to her.

‘And does Jalila wish it?’

‘To marry Bruno? She doesn’t know what she wishes.’

‘He has money.’

‘While he does what they ask, he has money.’

‘I can understand her doubts,’ said Seymour.

‘He would be a good husband to her, as he has been a good son to his mother. And she would be a good daughter to his mother. That is important, as his mother is old now and has not been well for some time.’

‘And the children? Would he be a good father to them?’

Maria thought.

‘He would not be a bad father,’ she said. ‘He is kind, although not always patient. I do not know.’ She shrugged. ‘Who does know what a man will be like when be becomes a father? And when the children are not his? I do not know. But this I know: any father is better than no father.’

Giorgio appeared in the doorway.

‘Hello, Maria! Is Francesca inside?’

‘She is. But she still has work to do.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘Sweeping the floors.’

‘Perhaps I can help her,’ said Giorgio, disappearing inside.

‘Will he do that?’ asked Seymour. ‘When he gets older?’

Maria considered.

‘Most of them go and hang about in the piazza,’ she said, ‘and leave their wives to do everything in the house.’

‘I am not sure that Francesca would be content with that,’ said Seymour.

‘I am not sure, either. In the first flush, perhaps. But after? I wonder.’

She rubbed the table.

‘Francesca deserves better things,’ she said.

Francesca came into the room.

‘Have you any small change?’ she asked. ‘Jalila wants to send a letter and they have only given her big notes.’

‘Look in my purse,’ directed Maria. ‘How much does she want? If it is to send a letter to Libya – I expect she wants to tell her people about the pension,’ she said to Seymour – ‘then it will be a lot.’

‘No, it’s to Rome,’ said Francesca.

‘I didn’t think she knew anybody in Rome,’ said Maria.

Francesca inspected the letter she had been given.

‘No, it’s definitely Rome,’ she said. ‘It is addressed to someone at a bank.’

Seymour went upstairs to find Chantale. They had arranged to go out for dinner that evening and she was changing her dress.

When they came down they found Jalila standing uncertainly in the door of the kitchen.

‘Maria has forgotten to take her purse with her,’ she said. ‘She has gone out to do some shopping and she will need it.’

‘Do you know which way she went?’ asked Chantale.

‘I think she will have gone to the baker’s,’ said Jalila. ‘It’s just round the corner and I can catch up with her if I run.’

She hesitated, and then said to Chantale, gesturing at the children: ‘Would you mind? Just for a moment?’

‘Of course not!’ said Chantale, slipping her hand into the hand of the little boy. ‘Shall we go out on to the patio?’

‘Thank you,’ said Jalila gratefully. ‘I won’t be a moment. I think Maria had been putting some money in her purse and then someone called for her and she put it down.’

She sped off.

‘I don’t want to go on to the patio,’ said the child.

‘Where do you want to go? We cannot go far, because your mummy will be back in a minute, and we don’t want to miss her.’

‘He wants to go to the sweet shop,’ said the boy’s sister.

`Well, I don’t know about that . . .’ said Chantale. ‘We’ll see what your mother says. We can go and look in the window if you like. Then you can make up your mind and we’ll see what your mother thinks when she gets back.’

They trooped along the street, the little boy holding happily to Chantale’s hand, his older sister in earnest conversation with Seymour.

Miss Scampion came round the corner pushing her bicycle.

‘Good heavens!’ she said. ‘Where did you get these from?’

‘They’re Jalila’s children,’ said Chantale. ‘You know, the Libyan lady you sometimes see around here.’

‘Libyan, yes,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘You can see the Arab.’

‘And the Italian,’ said Seymour.

‘And the Italian, of course,’ said Miss Scampion. ‘So that is their mother? Jalila?’

‘Yes, we are minding the children just for the moment.’

‘Kind of you, yes. And – Jalila is the name of their mother?’

‘Yes. She lives nearby. With her parents-in-law. She is a widow. Her husband was killed in the war. So one could say that this is a military family, too.’

‘Ah, yes, but it is not quite the same, is it, my dear? He would have been just a trooper.’

‘Troopers get killed, too,’ said Chantale.

Miss Scampion was not, however, listening.

‘Jalila,’ she said meditatively. ‘Lionel spoke about her.’

‘Did he?’ said Seymour, surprised.

‘I am almost sure Jalila was the name.’

‘I wonder how he ran into her?’

‘I think he knew someone in Florence. Or was it Rome? I think it might have been Rome. Anyway, this person, a diplomatic acquaintance of Lionel’s, I believe, was trying to do something for her. In her plight, you know. Somehow he had become acquainted with her and wanted to help her. He
had
helped her, I believe. Anyway, he knew that Lionel was being transferred to Naples and asked him to look her up.

‘I had my doubts about this, I must confess. How could he be expected to find her? A woman new in Naples. And then what could he do for her when he found her? It was all very well for his friend, a rich man, I believe, to say: look her up. But in the Diplomatic, you know, you move in fairly restricted social circles. And they do not include the wives of troopers.’

‘Perhaps Mr Scampion’s acquaintance gave him an address?’ said Seymour.

‘Perhaps. Yes, almost certainly. But then, what was Lionel supposed to do for her? See that she was all right for money? But, you know, although Lionel was always most generous, he did not have money to give. The two of us were scrimping and saving, especially after the move to Naples. Fitting out a new house costs money, and I do not think the people in London quite recognize that. There is an allowance, of course, but no one would call it generous. It was all very well for Lionel’s friend to ask him to look after her, but he was a rich man.’

‘Perhaps he gave Mr Scampion some money to pass on to her?’ said Seymour.

‘Perhaps. I hope so. I was afraid that Lionel might be tempted.’

‘To give her money?’

‘That, too, yes. But . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I feared that he might be tempted in another way, too. If she engaged his sympathies. And Lionel’s sympathies were easily engaged, you know. All too easily. That dreadful Marchesa! And I feel that a woman alone might well engage his sympathies. More than they should. Lionel was always very susceptible, you know.’

Miss Scampion dropped her voice. ‘It runs in the family. On the male side. There was a cousin of his – oh, I don’t like to speak about it. Cashiered. And even Uncle was not immune. You can understand it, I suppose. Soldiers are men, after all. As I am sure you found, Miss de Lissac. And in a lonely outpost –’

‘I am not sure that Naples counts as a lonely outpost, Miss Scampion,’ said Seymour.

‘No, no, of course not. But is it not nearly the same thing, Mr Seymour? If not a lonely outpost, a lonely man. In whom passions – well, rise. And then perhaps his work – or, as in Lionel’s case, the request of a friend – brings him perforce into contact with a lady who is not entirely –’

‘I don’t think that is the case here, Miss Scampion,’ said Seymour. ‘I feel I must speak in defence of your brother. And the lady in question. She has always seemed most scrupulous to me.’

‘Oh, yes, I am sure, I am sure. But, you see, it was more than once. It was, in fact,
quite often
.’

‘What was, Miss Scampion?’

‘His going to see her. Once I could understand. At the request of a friend. Especially if it was to give her something. Like money. But he met her several times, Mr Seymour, and he could not
always
have been giving her money, could he? Or, at least – well, no. No, I am sure!’

‘He may have felt she needed support,’ said Seymour.

‘Oh, yes, indeed! And Lionel was always more than generous with his support. He could always be relied upon to give a helping hand. And that might have been how it started. But could it not have led on, Mr Seymour, to something more?’

‘I don’t see why you should suppose that, Miss Scampion.’

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘Once I saw them. They were talking together more intimately. I had always imagined that he called on her at her residence. But, no, this was in a public park. Among the trees. I was on my bicycle taking the air. And I saw them.

‘When he got home, I tackled him about it. “It’s a lady I am helping,” he said. “Well, that’s very nice of you, Lionel,” I said. “But do you have to help her in such an intimate fashion?”

‘He went red, and I knew he was angry. But this was at the time when he always seemed to be angry and I felt that I had had enough of his deception. “Is this what has been making you so angry?” I said. “A guilty conscience?”

‘He just looked at me. “No,” he said, “not a guilty conscience. At least, not over this. Not over something I have done, but over something I haven’t done and ought to have done.”

‘“Is it to do with that woman?” I demanded. “No,” he said. “At least, not directly. All she has done is help me see things in perspective.” “I cannot believe that, Lionel,” I said. “For lately you do
not
seem to have been seeing things in perspective. You have always seemed so angry.” “Over some things,” he said, “anger is the only right response.”’

Late that afternoon, when the heat was beginning to lift from the streets and the piazzas to fill with people taking the air, Chantale went out by herself to buy something. She arranged to meet Seymour at the Capuana Gate.

When he arrived she hailed him with relief. Vincente, she complained, was following her around ‘like a little dog’.

She had run into him in a shop and then not been able to shake him off. He had offered to carry her shopping for her. How much he thought she would be buying, she couldn’t imagine. She suspected that, used to performing a similar function for the Marchesa, his estimates were large. Chantale’s shopping, however, was governed by her purse, and that was small. She didn’t need a carrier, and she certainly didn’t need someone going round behind her droopily all the time.

Except, possibly, Seymour. However, going shopping with him was usually a dead loss. He was so plainly uninterested in
any
shopping that it put her off. Usually she sent him away after the first few minutes.

Today, however, she would have been glad of him, for Vincente was worse. At least Seymour could be relied on to confirm the shrewdness of her shopping. Admittedly, in the field of shopping, at any rate, he tended to confirm all her judgements and she was slightly suspicious about this; but Vincente didn’t seem able to rise to even that level. He just followed her around with blank, dog-like eyes of devotion, and it got on her nerves.