The Marshal Makes His Report (7 page)

When the last of his visitors had gone, he sat for a while considering the idea of a telephone call to his commanding officer at Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters across the river. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man. But he was also an ambitious man, the sort who would one day be a general and one of the better sorts of general. With a sigh, the Marshal gave up the idea of turning to him for help. Go through the motions, that was all that was required of him, so go through the motions he would. And if he was being made a fool of, it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Lunch, then a rest, and the Palazzo Ulderighi.

He ate but he couldn’t rest. Making some excuse to Teresa about having a lot to do and not being tired, he buttoned up his jacket and left the building, slipping his sunglasses on as he came out under the stone archway into the dazzling brightness of the forecourt. Heat shimmered in the air above the parked cars and the piazza smelled of fresh pizza and coffee. The coffee attracted him, though he shouldn’t really have another. He resisted for a while, pressing his way as best he could along the narrow pavement thronged with tourists who paused in front of every shop and monument, consulting their maps, arguing, translating prices into marks or dollars. He wished for once that he were one of them, that he could stare up at the shrouded façade of the Palazzo Ulderighi like that couple were doing, consult the guidebook and then wander on to look at at a leather shop further on, heedless of what was behind those great doors where he now paused, hesitating to ring the bell. For a moment he stood there, his bulky uniformed figure blocking the way so that the passing tourists had to step off the pavement to get by. Then he turned away and crossed the road to Gino’s.

‘Ah, it’s you . . .’ Gino looked surprised, given the Marshal’s parting remarks the night before. ‘I was afraid you didn’t enjoy your pizza last night.’

‘What? No, no . . . it was very good. You couldn’t give me just a cup of coffee, could you?’

‘Well, we don’t usually, but seeing as it’s you . . .’

He served the Marshal himself. ‘You can sit down over there if you want to. We’re not so full by this time.’

‘No, no.’ The Marshal stood where he was at the cash desk, staring out across the street.

‘Something going on over there, is there? I heard her husband was dead?’

‘Yes, he’s dead.’ Her husband, the Prince Consort. Was that how everybody thought of him? Yet he had his own business, he must have been a person in his own right, at least for those who worked for him.

‘No offence meant.’ The unfortunate Gino, feeling himself repulsed yet again by the Marshal’s lack of response, made himself scarce.

‘Doctor Martelli? I’ve disturbed you, I see. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right. You must be the Marshal who . . .’

‘Guarnaccia. That’s right. I won’t keep you a moment.’

He had woken her from her siesta, that was obvious. Her face was flushed with sleep, her cheek creased, and she was still buttoning her cotton shirt with one hand as she held the door with the other. She was fortyish and still pretty, with a mop of brown curls.

‘Do come in.’

Still pretty but a spinster, the Marshal thought, looking round, hat in hand, as he entered a dainty and immaculate drawing-room. Sunlight from the tall window filtered softly through a pale silk blind.

‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me while I make myself a coffee or you won’t get a sensible word out of me. Will you have a cup, too?’

‘No. No, thank you. I just had one over the road.’

‘Do sit down.’

He sat himself gingerly on the edge of a silky light green sofa, laid his hat down beside him and then took it up again and kept it on his knees. While she was in the kitchen he took the opportunity to have a good look around him. It was all very nice, he thought. Some antique stuff, some very modern, a lot of books. Too many ornaments, though . . . those enormous vases and brass stuff and fancy boxes . . . you’d knock something over if you so much as moved . . .

The Marshal sat very still, his big eyes roving. He heard her light the gas and then she looked round the door.

‘Are you quite sure you won’t join me?’

‘No, no . . .’

She brought in a little tray with a silver sugar bowl on it and a prettily decorated coffee cup. ‘I see you’re fascinated by my father’s collection. You’re fond of chi-noiserie? I must confess I’m not passionate about it myself but having inherited it I’d feel rather guilty about selling. People are always nagging me to get it all properly valued and insured, but you know the way it is with these things . . .’

‘Of course.’ He wasn’t at all sure what she was talking about but he noticed that though her voice was still a little hoarse with sleep the flush had faded from her face and she looked paler and older than she had seemed at first.

‘That’s the coffee coming up. I’ll be right back.’

She moved briskly, efficiently. He could imagine her going along a hospital ward, white coat flapping, though he knew she was a GP.

‘Monday’s such a heavy day for me.’ She sat down opposite him in a large white linen chair and poured the coffee. ‘A thing I never noticed when I worked in a hospital, but then every day was a panic. Being a GP is neither ambitious nor exciting but at least I get time to shop! That’s better, I think I’m awake now—though I don’t know how I can be much help to you. It was suicide, I imagine?’

‘That or an accident.’

‘Hm. Well, people do strange things, of course, and nothing’s impossible but surely it all happened in the middle of the night?’

‘That’s one of the things I need to find out. That and whether it was suicide. The insurance, you understand . . .’

‘Of course. Well, I heard a commotion but it’s all a bit vague, so not much help really.

‘At what time?’ The Marshal slid his black notebook from the top pocket of his jacket. Go through the motions. Don’t let it matter. Those were the rules of the game. ‘If you can remember . . .’

‘Oh yes, I think so. It was around half past two.’

‘You’re so sure?’

‘Nothing strange about that. I’m not a very good sleeper, so I’m often forced to take a tranquillizer. I try to stick to half a tablet, though I’m often obliged to take the other half during the night. I have to be careful about that because if that happens too late in the night I feel groggy when I get up—not the sort of thing to do in a job like mine.’

‘No, no . . . I understand. So you woke up and looked at the time so you could decide whether or not . . .’

‘Oh no, you see it was Saturday night. If you’ve ever suffered from insomnia you’ll know that half the problem is caused by worrying about not getting to sleep because you’ve got to get up and work next day.’

‘I don’t think I ever . . .’

‘Well, think yourself lucky. Of course, different people have different ways of reacting to anxiety. Some people can’t eat.’

‘I don’t think . . .’

‘No . . .’ her glance at his portly figure was involuntary and withdrawn at once, but even so she couldn’t help adding, ‘And others eat too much to comfort themselves.’

The Marshal was silenced.

‘Anyway, where was I? Oh, Saturday night. Well, since I don’t absolutely have to get up early on Sunday I try not to take anything. I do hate to think of being a slave to any drug, so Saturday night I make my bid for freedom. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. That night it didn’t—at least, I did fall asleep reading, but then, as often happens I woke up with a start about two hours later. It’s not just a question of waking up, you understand. More of a leaping from the pillow like a gaffed salmon, heart beating fit to burst.’

‘Had you heard a shot?’ asked the perplexed Marshal, his pen poised hopefully.

‘A shot . . . ? No, no, I’m just explaining the way I wake up in the night when I’m anxious. When that happens I have to give in and take the tranquillizer. Do you follow me?’

‘I think so . . . and you looked at the time so that—’

‘Exactly. It was half past two, near enough. I took a whole tablet. I was annoyed about it because even though it was Sunday the next day I’d wanted to get up at a decent hour because there were various things I wanted to do, but since I wouldn’t have got them done after a totally sleepless night . . .’

‘But the noise you heard?’

‘I’m coming to that. That was after I’d taken the pill.’

‘You didn’t fall asleep at once, then?’

‘Good heavens, no! It takes me half an hour or so to calm down. I read for a bit. Then I heard the row. I think their bedroom must be directly below mine.’

‘The Ulderighi?’

‘Yes. I hear all their quarrels. Heard I should say— though mostly I heard her. Hysterical woman. He always tried to keep his voice down and I often wondered whether it occurred to him that I could hear it all. He was always very civil to me.’

‘And the Marchesa isn’t?’

‘No. I don’t know if you’ve any idea what she charges for these flats, but I can tell you that it’s plenty. All of us are good tenants who look after the property and pay regularly and we’re treated like we were squatters or something. She loathes us. She can just about force herself to say good morning if you meet her in the courtyard but her face is saying “how dare you set foot in this building”. You know we’re not allowed to use the lift?’

‘I heard not.’

‘But the rent is based on precisely that sort of thing, you know, whether there’s a lift and so on. She charges us for it but we don’t get keys to use it. She wouldn’t let us use the main entrance if there were another, you can be sure of that! They’re all alike, these people, keeping their old lifestyle going at the expense of the middle classes and looking down their noses at us at the same time. That’s the reason, of course. They’re dependent on us and that’s why they hate us, whereas creatures like that poisonous little gnome and their mad old nurse are dependent on them and so get treated well.’

‘You must be very unhappy living here,’ observed the Marshal.

‘Well, I’m looking for something else, yes.’ Dr Martelli’s face which had become flushed during her short diatribe paled again. Even so, her fingers which had been tapping on the polished arm of her chair continued their rhythmic movement. Her small hands were strong-looking, the nails short and neatly trimmed. For some reason he couldn’t explain, the Marshal felt convinced that as a child she had bitten them. She had, of course, made it clear that she was an anxious person. As gently as he could he persisted.

‘Can you tell me anything more about this commotion, this row? Can you actually hear what’s said from here?’

‘No, not at all. You can imagine how thick these walls and floors are. No, just that they were quarrelling—and when they stopped someone, I suppose it was him, went down in the lift. The lift’s the last thing I can remember hearing, so at that point I must have fallen asleep. It’s awful when you think about it, isn’t it? I heard someone in the last stages of desperation going down there to shoot himself and I turned over and fell asleep.’

‘But you didn’t know,’ the Marshal pointed out.

‘I know I didn’t know. It’s just ironic, that’s all. The way we can all live in such proximity but we might just as well be miles apart for all the help we are to each other. I didn’t know him very well but what bit I did know of him I liked. His eyes were sad . . . He looked as though he had a heart, do you know what I mean? And for a man with a heart to live with a woman like that . . .’

‘He married her,’ the Marshal said.

‘Well, people do marry people, don’t they? She’s a very beautiful woman, even now. Think what she must have been like twenty years ago. She’s also sexy, which is something else again. Men do like her. You must have met her.’

‘I . . . yes.’ All he could remember feeling was fear. He could hardly admit to that.

‘Then you know what I mean. Hugh fancies her, I’m convinced. Hugh Fido, the painter next door. She’s commissioned a portrait from him. Of course, being a man he doesn’t get treated as badly as I do, and the same probably goes for Emilio. Have you met Emilio? The pianist?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘And of course they’re artists, which might have something to do with her accepting . . . Anyway, Catherine and I probably get the worst treatment, though even Catherine’s been invited to tea once—I’ve just thought of something!’

‘Yes?’ The Marshal prepared to make a note.

‘No, no, sorry, nothing to do with all that. It’s amazing. I’d never have got it if it hadn’t been for talking to you. Do you know what it is? Hugh is her court painter, Emilio is her court musician, and Catherine—that’s Catherine Yorke who has a little studio flat on the courtyard—is a restorer and the Ulderighi woman has got her to work on the books that were damaged in the flood, books and documents, plans of the house and so on. Don’t you see?’

‘No . . . No, not really.’

‘You must see! She can ignore the fact that they pay rent and mentally fit them into her feudal system. I’m the odd one out! There’s no excuse for my presence here except that I pay her rent. I don’t fit in at all.’

‘I think I understand. Even so, you’re a doctor so if she wanted . . .’

‘Good Lord, you must be joking. I’m not a grand enough doctor to attend the Ulderighi. Still, you’ve got the idea. If I
were
grand enough that would solve her problem. Anyway, she wouldn’t call someone like me in if her cleaner had a cold, so that’s that. You should see the fleet of specialists who descend on her son every six months. Only one is Italian. Two are from London and the rest from Switzerland.’

‘What’s wrong with him exactly?’

‘I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen him. Certainly, I’ve never heard anyone mention any specific illness, so it may well be that it’s just a question of nine hundred years of inbreeding.’

‘You mean he might be a bit mental?’

She smiled at him, her face relaxed and pretty again once they had abandoned the personal for the medical. ‘That’s not a term a doctor would use.’

‘I beg your pardon. I just thought . . .’ He wasn’t really thinking but remembering an image. A gloomy courtyard and the sound of a flute high up in a darkened tower. You couldn’t call that normal. ‘I mean . . . he could be strange.’ That was just as bad. She was still smiling, perhaps even laughing at him.