Death of an Englishman (4 page)

Smoothy, thought Jeffreys, impressed.

'Yes, well, Mr Langley-Smythe didn't shoot himself.'

'Indeed not. But we both know that no professional would use a 6.35 or aim at the heart. It is, on the other hand, the sort of weapon often kept for self-defence, which makes it possible that a thief might have found it on the spot and made use of it if he had been disturbed.'

'Well, naturally, I'd thought of that. It's just a question of attitude …'

But the situation was de-fused. The cold glint in the Chief's eye, normally reserved for picket lines and left-wing militants, was fading. 'Will there be any objection to our removing the body to England for burial?'

'I imagine not. At the moment it's in the Medico-Legal Institute at Careggi. The British Consulate will deal with all the formalities and once Professor Forli has completed his autopsy you can apply to the Substitute Prosecutor for permission.' The business of the stolen bust would have to wait. It would have been easier if there had been just the two of them but with the language problem …

'Well, that's really as much as I can tell you at this stage. If you wouldn't mind—' he looked at his watch—'I'd like to get back to Via Maggio now and start interviewing the tenants. If we can offer you any assistance with accommodation?'

'No need, thanks all the same. Nice girl from the Consulate fixed us up at the English vicarage— convenient enough—it's on the same street as the scene of the crime, she was telling us; we haven't been there yet. Hotels all seemed to be full up. Funny thing at this time of year.'

'Christmas shoppers, Chief Inspector. Florence is a renowned shopping centre for the whole world, as is your own city.'

'I suppose so. Well, we'll get along to the vicarage. We may as well make a start by having a chat to the vicar. No doubt Mr Langley-Smythe was a churchgoer.'

'No doubt. I'll order a car for you.' He picked up his internal phone and rang a bell for the escort. 'Might I suggest that we meet here tomorrow? Late morning would be best, perhaps; I should have a full autopsy report by then, and possibly something from Records on the prints … shall we say eleven-thirty?'

'Right. That'll give us time to make a few inquiries among the English community—with your permission, of course.'

'By all means. I should be grateful. And if you would then be my guests for lunch?'

'Well, that went off all right,' said the Chief Inspector, settling into the back of the car. Jeffreys didn't trust himself to speak.

It was quite dark by now and still raining softly through the mist. As they crossed the river they got a glimpse of soft haloes of pink and yellow light around the miniature shops on the Ponte Vecchio in the distance, and the faint glimmer of what must have been a huge civic Christmas tree somewhere higher up. Their route took them by a complicated one-way system through the popular quarter where the streets, crowded with people, seemed too narrow for the car. The shops were at their busiest at this time of the evening and their wares overflowed on to the pavement. Shoppers milled about in the road, their umbrellas glistening in the dark. Tinsel glittered even in the windows of grocers' shops which were hung with Tuscan hams and fat sausages. Pyramids of tangerines were interspersed with shining leaves. Their driver was continually sounding his horn and they moved at a snail's pace.

'Wouldn't fancy being a bus driver round here,' remarked the Chief. Jeffreys only grunted, his eyes fixed on all the food that was passing his hungry gaze.

Via Maggio, although busy, was more sedate. Only an occasional poinsettia standing in a copper bowl in front of the dark velvets and inlaid woods of the antique-dealers' windows gave any indication of the season. At the river end of the street they stopped in front of a fifteenth-century palace that housed the English church on the ground floor and the vicar's apartment on the first.

Inspector Jeffreys paused to thank the Carabiniere driver in careful Italian. The driver was pleased.

'If you go out and get lost,' he offered, evidently considering this a likely possibility, 'find the river and the Santa Trinita bridge—there it is, with a statue at each corner, one for each of the four seasons, you can't miss it—then you're home.'

'Thanks.'

'It's nothing. See you again.' He drove off across the bridge towards the blurred lights of the city centre.

The vicar was on the doorstep, rubbing his hands.

'Come in, come in,' he said, clasping each of their hands in turn, 'Felicity's just making a cup of tea. What a miserable evening!'

The Captain arrived in Via Maggio with Carabiniere Bacci still in attendance. As they passed the deserted porter's lodge of number fifty-eight he indicated the boarded-up window: 'At one time we could have done most of our inquiring right here—and in a
palazzo
signorile
like this one it matters more than ever. You can be sure that these tenants hardly speak to each other and that none of them even know what's happened in the building despite the fact that one of my men has been standing guard on the ground floor all day.'

They had brought another guard to relieve the first. 'I'll send someone else towards eleven o'clock …'

They walked up to the first floor where R. Cesarini, Antiquario, was the only tenant, and Carabiniere Bacci rang the bell. They waited in silence beside a thick fragment of Roman pillar with a huge potted plant standing on it next to the lift. The fluted wooden doors of the flat had two heavy iron knockers cast in the shape of heads. They heard rapid, shuffling footsteps and bolts being quietly drawn. A young Eritrean woman opened one door cautiously and peered round it. She wore a blue nylon overall but her head was shrouded in a traditional white muslin veil.

'Polizia … ?' she asked wonderingly.

'Carabinieri. We'd like to speak to Signor Cesarini.'

'In shop.' She pointed vaguely. Behind her a glossy pale marble floor stretched deep into the background. A warm light was shining behind double stained-glass doors on the left, making coloured patterns on a carved oak chest that stood in the hall.

'He has two shops further up Via Maggio, sir,' murmured Carabiniere Bacci.

The Captain looked at his watch: six … the shop would hardly close before eight. They could go round there after questioning the other tenants. 'We'd like a word with you, in the meantime,' he told the maid.

She let them into the hall reluctantly, but she could tell them nothing. She had heard no strange or sudden noises in the night. She had seen no one unusual in the building. She didn't know the Englishman. She seemed astonished that they should expect her to know what went on in the building, as if her limited Italian prevented her from seeing or hearing anything outside her own door. She continually clutched with thin fingers at her veil as if she would have liked to hide behind it; the gesture, coupled with her small stature, gave the impression of an old woman, though she must have been in her early twenties. Her big dark eyes kept straying worriedly to the end of the passage behind her. Probably she should have been preparing the supper.

'Is your employer married?'

'Yes. Married.'

'And his wife? Where is she?'

'Go to Calabria … and the children. Christmas. There is family …'

'And Signor Cesarini?'

'He will go in two days.'

"And you?'

'Me?'

'Where will you go for Christmas, Signorina?'

'Here …'

'Alone?' The Captain glanced involuntarily beyond her at the vast apartment in which she, no doubt, had one tiny bedroom. 'Do you have any friends in Florence?'

'Friends, yes. Eritrean friends. Girls like me.'

'I see. Thank you. We'll speak to Signor Cesarini in his shop.'

'Something is wrong?'

'No.' He realized at once she was thinking of her job, her papers. 'Nothing wrong as far as you're concerned. A man on the ground floor was killed last night and we need to know if anyone heard anything or saw any strangers in the building, that's all. We needn't disturb you any longer.'

She showed no reaction to the news. After closing the door behind them they heard her rapid steps shuffle away on the marble floor towards the kitchen.

The second floor was divided into two flats. From behind the door on the left came the halting notes of Schubert's 'Serenade' played on the piano. From the right, someone practising an aria from
Rigoletto.
Carabiniere Bacci looked at the Captain.

'Schubert first, I think.' As they waited, after ringing the bell, he said, 'You're a Florentine?' remembering the information about Cesarini's shop.

'Yes, sir.' Carabiniere Bacci blushed with pleasure at being noticed.

'Back in school after Christmas?'

'Yes, sir.' He would have liked to say more but the Captain's seriousness, his gravity, was like a barrier around him. It was impossible even to imagine him smiling. 'Should I ring again, sir?'

But the door marked Cipriani was opening. Another marble entrance hall with Persian carpets, a Venetian glass chandelier, a stiff, brocaded chair with two schoolbags thrown on it. Only as their gazes drifted downwards did they see who had opened the door: a small, fat girl with shiny black short hair and enormous round eyes. She wore a white school pinafore with its blue satin bow twisted up under one ear and she was staring up at them with disconcerting fervour.

'Are your parents at home?'

Without taking her eyes from them for a second, she opened her mouth until the rest of her face almost vanished and, drowning the warbling tenor next door and the piano behind her, she bellowed: 'Ma-ma!' and fled.

The Schubert continued, limping a little at the difficult bits. The tenor next door sang on. No one else appeared.

'Shall I … ?'

'You'd better. Ring two or three times.'

Still they were left waiting by the open door. They noticed a metronome clicking along with the piano. Some harassed voices were heard in the distance.

'But, Signora, what am I to do? I can't leave this sauce!'

A muffled reply, then:

'She's already been and says they're big black men! I think she's left the door open!'

'Mamma!' Small running feet.

'I'm coming … wait …'

At the end of the marble passage a blurred white figure appeared behind an 'art-deco' glass panel. A woman in a white, hooded bathrobe came out. The dark head of the child reappeared round a side door: 'You see!' She ran off, giggling uncontrollably.

The woman came towards them, clopping on high-heeled slippers. Her skin was still rosy and damp from the bath and she was blotting her wet hair with the embroidered towelling hood.

'What's happened? What's the matter—not an accident! Vincenzo—'

'No, Signora, please don't distress yourself. We're making routine inquiries.'

'Oh, of course, the robbery.'

'Robbery?'

'Wasn't the bank downstairs robbed again? My maid said there was a policeman down there when she did the shopping—we're having a lot of people to supper, my husband's family—his niece is getting engaged and so … oh dear … you'd better come in. I hope you'll excuse me, I've just taken a bath … come inside …"

'Signora!'

'I'm coming! Oh, heavens—if you could just wait
one
moment I could explain to her …'

'Yes, of course.'

She hurried away and they waited in the hall by the open door on the right through which the child had vanished. There was what seemed to be a playroom there, a speckled marble floor with a red, long-haired rug, a child's tricycle, books, a row of dolls on a sofa, an open door leading into a smaller room beyond. There, the struggling pianist was partly visible, her white tunic moving stiffly in time to the metronome. Every so often the music stopped and there was some animated whispering. Then it would continue.

The woman returned. She seemed to wonder which would be the right room in which to receive them. She had tied the bathrobe around her more carefully. Eventually her distracted gaze settled on the playroom: 'In here, if you'd like to …'

They sat down among the toys, holding their hats.

'I'm afraid I don't know anything about the robbery except what my maid—'

'There hasn't been a robbery, Signora.'

'But—'

'There's been a murder.'

The colour quickly left her face. 'Here … ?'

'The ground floor. Your neighbour, Mr Langley-Smythe.'

'Oh … the Englishman.'

'You knew him?'

'By sight, of course. I knew he was English. He always said "Good day, Signora" in that funny flat way that English people … and so he's dead … ?'

'He was shot. Probably in the early hours of this morning; we're trying to fix the exact time. We'd like you to think back and try and remember if you might have heard any sudden noise in the night—or even if you woke suddenly without knowing what woke you—there was only one shot.'

'No, nothing. Nothing would wake me, you see, because I always take a sleeping pill, so …'

'Perhaps the children? If you could call them and ask them yourself—no need to say what's happened— whether they heard any strange noises during the night or saw anyone unfamiliar in the building at any time recently. The maid, too, if she sleeps here.'