Kiss of Hot Sun (8 page)

“That’s very understandable.”

“Having been part of my life for so many years, I feel that our destinies are bound up together.” Through the two doorways I caught the glint of her silver hair as she shook her head decidedly. “No, Mr. Blunt, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to dispose of any of the paintings in here.”

“Happen you’ve got some others that aren’t quite so precious to you,” George Blunt suggested. “As my Rosie told you, I’m quite a collector in a modest sort of way. Always ready to offer a fair price, cash down, for something that takes my fancy.”

Rosalind chipped in: “George is always saying to me, ‘Never mind your old masters’, he says. ‘If I like a thing, that’s good enough for me’.”

“How very sensible of him,” agreed Adeline. “Too few people these days dare trust their own judgement.”

She hadn’t taken up George Blunt’s hint, and he repeated it.

“If you’ve got any other paintings knocking around, Miss Harcourt, happen I’d like to take a look at them.”

Adeline seemed not much interested. “There might be one or two, I suppose. As a matter of fact, I believe there are some put away in the attics, though I’ve hardly been up there myself for years.”

“Could I have a look at them, do you reckon?”

Adeline sounded faintly amused by his persistence. “If you really want to, Mr. Blunt, I’ll show you sometime.”

“There’s no time like the present, I always say.”

“I’m sorry,” she said flatly, “but I’ve got far too much to see to just now. Anyway, there’s no hurry.”

The flowers were finished. I carried an urn of tall delphinium spikes through to the salon.

Adeline and the Blunts had been talking without restraint but at the sight of me they dried up abruptly. It was as if, by mutual consent, the subject of pictures had been dropped like a hot potato. George Blunt blustered a fatuous remark about the pretty flowers, and his wife and Adeline eagerly jumped aboard the bandwagon. They were still all fervently discussing flowers when I left the room.

At noon I was checking the dining-room tables when Giles stuck his head round the door.

“Well well, what a busy little bee you are, then.”

“Hallo, Giles. Have you come for lunch?”

“Is that an invitation, Kerry darling?”

“It is not an invitation. I just want to know whether to have an extra place laid for you.”

His wide grin took on a rueful twist. “And here was I fondly imagining you wanted the pleasure of my company.”

Discovering that two of the pepper pots were empty, I gathered them up to show Carlo. “It’s for Miss Harcourt to ask you to stay to lunch, Giles, not me.”

“Oh, Adeline won’t mind,” he said carelessly. “What about this afternoon, Kerry?”

“What about it?”

“Would you like to come to my studio and see some of my paintings?”

I flickered him an ironical glance. “Are you sure you don’t mean your etchings?”

“Now that really would be something!”

Opening the door to the kitchen, I handed the pepper pots to Carlo for filling.

Giles asked again : “Will you, Kerry?”

“What? Come to your studio?”

“Uhuh.”

So far I’d not been taking him seriously, just idly back-chatting. “Not today, Giles. I really am too busy.”

“You can’t be—not at siesta time.”

“Oh, I’m not bothered about that.” I’d planned to go through the linen room upstairs. From what I’d seen it badly needed clearing out.

“Don’t be daft, Kerry,” he said explosively. “There’s people whose job it is to look after that sort of thing.”

“And it’s my job to see they do,” I slung back. “Make it tomorrow, will you? I’d like to come then—just for a little while.”

Giles stayed at the villa for lunch, easily wangling an invitation out of Adeline. But he wasn’t successful in getting me to change my mind about going back to Taormina with him. He went off round about three, none too pleased with life.

The linen room was certainly in a mess. I decided to make a start by chucking out an accumulation of junk which had been pushed to the back. I fetched a big cardboard box from downstairs, and filled it with bits and pieces—chipped vases, copper hot water cans, and some ancient oil lamps. With as much as I could carry in one load, I tottered through to the rear of the house, and started up the attic stairs.

At this time of day everything was deathly still. The villa was in semi-darkness, shutters closed against the scorching heat outside.

I could hear a low murmur of voices, and guessed it must be the Blunts resting in their room. I could just detect a Yorkshire brogue in the man’s deep voice, though I couldn’t decipher what he was saying.

Wedging my load against the wall at the top of the stairs, I made a random choice of the door on the right, throwing it wide open.

The room was not empty, as I had confidently expected. Adeline and the Blunts stood in a tight-knit group, facing me, gawping their eyes out. In the moment before George Blunt took a sly sideways step, I caught sight of a painting propped on the table behind them.

Adeline was first to recover composure. “What do
you
want?” she asked coldly, omitting that almost inevitable 'Kerry darling’.

“I was just bringing up this box of oddments to get them out of the way,” I said, cross at being thrown on to the defensive.

“Oh... oh I see.” But Adeline’s voice was still freezing. “Well, put it down, girl. Just put it down anywhere.”

It was as if she had only just managed to check herself from adding: ‘
And be off with you.'
Her urgent desire to get rid of me was patently clear.

Dumping the box on the floor, I backed out. “I do apologise for butting in...”

“Nonsense! We were only...” Adeline was full of scorn; but she didn’t finish the sentence.

Closing the door behind me, I skipped down the steep staircase.

The whole episode had me guessing. Although I’d overheard George Blunt asking to see the paintings in the attic, I was amazed that Adeline should be showing them to him now, at siesta time. She made it such a rigid rule to rest each afternoon, declaring herself completely Sicilian in this respect.

There was no doubt at all that my sudden appearance had shaken all three of them. George and Rosalind Blunt had kept their worried eyes clamped right on me, though they hadn’t uttered a single word. They gave the impression of being caught in the act.

But what act? Could it be they were trying to put one across a simple old lady? Maybe they were hoping to pick up a valuable painting for a song, because Adeline didn’t know any better.

But I couldn’t fit Adeline Harcourt into this handy bit of theorising. She was intelligent, a woman of wide worldly knowledge. She was also very shrewd, I was sure of that. And anyway, Adeline had been just as bothered as the Blunts when I’d blundered in on them.

I just didn’t catch on. For the next hour, as I worked in the stifling heat of the small linen room, I kept chewing it over. But when I’d finished the job, I was no nearer a solution of the mystery. Nothing made any sense.

By the time the company assembled for afternoon tea Adeline was her usual elegantly charming self. Everyone was there. Zampini, in a tight-stretched suit, sweated sullenly. Giles, in white shirt and lightweight slacks, coolly tried to hold my eye. The Blunts were oddly reserved, even George keeping his mouth shut and smiling at everyone with obvious artificiality. The Austrian honeymooners sat away across the room, close to one another, and as far from the rest of us as possible.

And Philip. It seemed mighty odd to me, the way he’d hung around the villa all day. I’d have expected him to be off on a sightseeing trip.

But what Philip Rainsby did, or what he didn’t, was no business of mine. I wasn’t even interested.

Adeline, serenely playing the grand lady, dispensed tea from the chased silver pot and led the conversation where fancy took her.

As the talk flowered, I thought what a false assemblage we were! The Blunts and Zampini, making out they didn’t know one another; and Philip and I pretending the same thing. Adeline, lying in her teeth to the Blunts, or me or both, about how she came to acquire the
Villa Stella d’Oro.
And then there was this thing between Philip and Rosalind Blunt.

Was anything in this darned place on the level?

Curiosity got the better of me. When tea was over I waylaid Adeline on the stairs.

“Miss Harcourt,” I began contritely. “I’m awfully sorry about this afternoon.”

“What are you referring to, Kerry darling?”

“I mean, bursting in on you like that.”

I was watching her closely, trying to read her expression. But she gave nothing away.

“My dear child, it is not of the slightest consequence. What could have made you think it mattered?”

“I thought... well, I got the idea you were displeased.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Of course not. I was delighted you were making yourself so useful.” Standing with her hand on the banister rail, she paused thoughtfully. I imagined she was going to explain the scene in the attic, but I was quite mistaken. She shot out suddenly: “Perhaps I could ask you not to take your duties quite so...
enthusiastically.
You see, darling, Carlo has been complaining...”

“Carlo? I don’t get it.”

“He feels... Now you must not misunderstand this, Kerry darling, but these Sicilians can be very touchy at times. He imagines you are being over fussy about the way he does his work.”

It riled me that Carlo should go running to Miss Harcourt. It astonished me that she should even listen to his whining.

“I assure you that nothing I said to Carlo was unjustified.”

She put a placating hand on my arm. “I am quite certain you did not mean it to be, darling.”

“You see...” I fumbled, trying to find the right words. I wanted to avoid sounding critical of the way Adeline had been running the villa; or rather, of the way she had been letting it run itself. “Maybe you’ve not had time for the close supervision I can give things now.”

The cautious approach hadn’t worked. Her pained expression was slightly larger than life-size.

“You are probably right. I am an old woman.”

“But I didn’t mean...” Oh hell! I thought angrily. It’s a simple enough thing to say. That Carlo had been getting away with murder, nearly; cheating her left, right and centre, and wasting far too much of his working time fooling around with Luciana.

Finally I said: “If you leave Carlo to me, I think it won’t be long before he knuckles under and begins to cooperate.”

“But he’s a valuable servant, darling.”

“Surely that’s no excuse for slacking?”

“It would be difficult to replace him.”

I doubted that Carlo was likely to quit such a soft job. He knew when he was on to a good thing.

“I just happen to think he ought to give fair measure when he’s treated so well.”

“All the same, darling,” said Adeline decidedly, “you had better not criticise him any more. If you find him skimping his work, then you must come to me. I will take it up with him myself.”

“But Miss Harcourt, I’m supposed to be here as your assistant—to take some of the work off your shoulders.”

“And that is exactly what you
are
doing, darling; you’re an enormous help. But I ask you not to say anything more to upset Carlo.”

Adeline turned and sailed up the stairs, making a majestic exit from the stage. I began to feel I was taking part in a farce.

Boiling inside, I went back to the salon. By bad luck Carlo was on the ball for once, already piling cups and saucers on the tea wagon. The grin he gave me highlighted his malevolence. I was certain he knew Adeline had ticked me off about him. Maybe he had even overheard our conversation.

When he had finished clearing away, he asked meekly: “Is everything to the Signorina’s entire satisfaction?”

I flatly refused to let him get under my skin. Unhurried, I glanced around. “Yes, thank you, Carlo. I think that’s the lot.”

Pushing the wagon, he headed for the door. Carlo was not all that subtle, though. I could tell from his discomfited walk he’d been cheated of the total victory he had played for.

* * *

After dinner the
Stella d’Oro
settled into its usual torpid state.

Philip wasn’t the only one with no taste for sightseeing. The Blunts too had just hung around the villa all day, Rosalind looking bored stiff most of the time. For all her husband’s alleged interest in art, they hadn’t exactly fallen over themselves to see the glories of Sicily.

I couldn’t understand why they were staying at the
Stella d’Oro.
They’d have been far happier at a snazzy hotel in Palermo or Taormina, where there was more going on. Some night life.

And the same applied to Philip. A remote villa lost in the hills seemed hardly the ideal place for a man on his own, I could only assume he found Rosalind Blunt so attractive that she was worth chasing anywhere.

When the police chief dropped in around nine, a Bridge four was made up—Adeline, Zampini, George Blunt and Inspector Vigorelli.

Rosalind sat alone on a sofa, irritably flicking through magazines she quite obviously wasn’t reading. Dear Rosie looked thoroughly fed-up, and I knew why! Philip had gone upstairs. I went over and tried to make polite conversation—after all, she was a guest. But for my pains I got short answers and a total lack of interest, so I gave up.

For lack of anything else to do, I began listening to the card players. Zampini had just made a remark in Italian.

The police inspector nodded discreetly in George Blunt’s direction. “Should we not speak English, Signor Zampini?”

Adeline’s chuckle had malicious overtones. “That is the only reason you come here, Inspector—to practise your English upon us.”

“But signora...!"Expressive hands, splayed playing cards and all, were held up in horrified protest.

Zampini was entirely unamused. Stolidly, he tried again, this time speaking in English. “It is odd that a man from the North should come here as your assistant.”