Daniel reckoned, with the aid of British Rail’s Southern Region timetable, that if Andrew Howard wanted to be in good time for their twelve o’clock non-meeting at the Savoy, he would certainly catch the nine-twenty from Bournemouth; it only stopped once and was in any case the most comfortable of the morning trains. If he was really so stupid as to drive, he would have to start at about the same time, or even earlier, given the overcrowding of London’s ring-road; out of date from the day of its inception. In any event, he could not possibly reappear on the south coast before three in the afternoon, so there was no hurry, and no need for Daniel to call upon Rosemary Howard at an inconvenient hour; eleven a.m. seemed entirely suitable.
It was really Tom Duff’s day to look after the Woolpack, but his parents had made no particular arrangement to visit friends or other landlords, and didn’t in the least mind swapping their day off with his. When it was time for them to start, Tom appeared looking—as always—scrubbed and immaculate from the top of his neatly shorn fair head to the soles of his new size 12 trainers. Nobody could have called him good-looking, but he had a pleasant country face (his mother often referred to him as ‘Farmer Tom’); his other attributes, Daniel had noticed, not without slight jealousy, drew admiring glances from the majority of women; but Tom never seemed to notice this: there wasn’t an iota of vanity in his being.
It amused and surprised Daniel that he seemed to be looking forward to the trip with pleasure, intrigued by its faint air of skulduggery. Could it be that his own weak dependence on this large young man, and his sometimes surprising antics, such as arriving by night in a wheelchair, hands blood-soaked, added another dimension to Tom’s life, dedicated to the pub and winter games of rugby? Perhaps.
As they drove along on this fine spring morning he entertained Daniel with some unusually bawdy rugby songs. It was fortunate that he, and Daniel as far as his physical shortcomings allowed, were so full of optimism and energy. They were going to need both.
On that same morning Kate and Steve set out once again for Lazzetta. Lovemaking, and the heady joy of being in each other’s company again, filled them to the brim with limitless high spirits and excitement. This, too, was just as well, for they were facing a day which would drain them of all but the last few drops.
They executed the return journey with efficiency, evading the autostrada and taking all the right roads so that they arrived at the villa on the dot of 9.45.
Il Campanile, dominated by the tower after which it was named, stood high above the little town, commanding an extraordinary view which included, on this clear day, the distant Gulf of Genoa sparkling into a misty horizon. The villa was not, for a turn-of-the-century building, unduly preposterous, perhaps because much of it was hidden under bougainvillaea and wisteria and, at this time of year, a riot of roses.
The Contessa Pilati Castalda was sitting on the terrace, waiting to welcome them with coffee. She must have been about seventy and clearly had once been a beauty: not the dark, exotic Italian beauty whom Kate and Steve had both been expecting, with fine cheekbones and a narrow nose down which to examine them: no, not that type at all, but a slim, almost gawky, tennis-playing beauty who had once had red-gold hair and still possessed the kind of infectious laugh which bubbled out of her at any thought of pomposity. Yet, in a typically Italian manner, the gawkiness had been turned to grace and the deep blue eyes were too kindly ever to look down her delicate nose at anyone.
Her husband was, by contrast, small and fine-boned with white hair and a luxuriant white moustache; what else he might be they never discovered, for he sat a hundred yards away in the garden, half obscured by a straw hat and wholly absorbed in the watercolour he was painting.
The contessa said, in perfect English, of course, ‘This place belonged to my husband’s Aunt Editta. Trust her to build at a spa with no water! She left it to him, and for years we just ignored it. But then, as we got older and Rome became totally impossible, we decided to come here, and now we love it and feel as if we’d lived here all our lives. Our friends think us most eccentric!’ And a freshet of that beguiling laughter made her look a girl again.
She asked tenderly after England, and had fond memories of London which, she confessed, she had not visited for many years, so that the city of which she spoke bore no relation to the dirty, mismanaged, grasping tourist trap of the present day. It was difficult to answer her questions without destroying those memories, but she was too intelligent not to see through their evasions and said with a sigh, ‘Sometimes I’m glad to be old. Rome, London, Paris—one knew them when they were their own individual selves.’
She was perhaps relieved to turn to the Acklands whom she recalled very clearly. The count had always insisted that his wife should interview, in person, the people to whom they had occasionally rented Il Campanile. Some, she added, with no trace of arrogance, were truly impossible and had to be discouraged; but the Acklands had been acceptable, even though one understood that he was a bit of a mauvais garçon—she’d heard some very odd stories about him. Well, to be frank, about both of them. ‘But I think,’ she added, saving Kate an infinity of artful leading questions, ‘that the very fact of their friend being so ill … It was hardly a time for … misbehaviour, was it?’
So here, once again, but with no self-satisfied carabiniere standing guard over it, they were at last confronting the ménage-à-trois. It didn’t seem to be quite the kind which Rosemary Howard, or indeed Julia, had imagined.
‘Was he … ill when they came here?’
‘Oh yes. I never saw him, mind you, it was none of my business. I think your aunt in particular was very fond of him. Perhaps her husband too, because … Well, they could neither of them bear to stay here very long after he was dead.’
Kate caught Steve’s eye and knew that he, like her, was appreciating this alternative, and typically kind-hearted, explanation of the Ackland’s flight from Lazzetta. Yet the contessa had not known them and Julia had; therefore her diagnosis of unease and even fear seemed to ring more true than the older woman’s generous interpretation. She added, ‘They were here such a short time too—a month, perhaps a little more.’
‘Is that all?’ Kate was yet again surprised by the brevity of the stay; had they never settled anywhere for more than a few weeks? The contessa gestured. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not absolutely sure how long they stayed, it may have been less than a month. They didn’t move in until some time after they’d started paying the rent. Rather a wasteful way to carry on.’
Despite the open—and open-air—façade which she presented to the world, she was also a knowledgeable and sophisticated woman who had spent much of her life in Rome, that snakepit of intrigue and scandal, and the look she now turned on the young English couple made it quite clear that she wondered why they were in pursuit of the past: she was far too well-mannered to ask directly, but said, ‘If you want more details about the poor man you could always go and see Dr Montieri. The son has taken over the practice—we find him most satisfactory—but the father would have treated Mr … What was his name?’ She called out to her husband, ‘Dominico? What was the name of the Acklands’ friend who died?’
Without looking up from his painting he called back in a thin, carrying voice, ‘Camden, my dear, Edward Camden.’
She shook her head in admiration. ‘Such a memory, mine went years ago! As I was saying, Leonardo Montieri would have treated Mr Camden. I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you. We all love Lazzetta but we all have to admit that nothing ever happens.’ Again the youthful laugh.
Steve broke his silence by saying, ‘We were told he’s buried here.’
‘Yes, in our little cemetery above the town—you passed it on your way up the hill. I suppose that means he was a Catholic, though the Church can sometimes be quite civilized about such things.’
Kate, who now felt that explanation was long overdue, said, ‘You must think we’re being very inquisitive, but Uncle Mark and Aunt Helen have always been … you know, one of the mysteries of our family …’
‘All families have them. My great-grandfather was said to have been a dwarf who was never allowed to leave his home. So you’re pursuing a mystery.’
‘As you just said, Uncle Mark had a terrible reputation when he was a young man. Of course, he refuses to talk about it now, so … Well, you can understand why I’m curious.’
‘The young should always be curious.’ She knew, as well as Kate did, that nothing had been explained but that a necessary convention had been observed. This gave the girl courage to say, ‘I think they were in Italy for quite a long time, but I’ve no idea where they were before they came here.’
‘Oh, one heard of his … exploits from time to time over the years. In Rome, of course. Venice, Naples. The Fabrianis took him to court, I can’t remember what for. I think they’d been living near Verona before they came to Lazzetta.’
Realizing that she was teetering on the brink of bad manners, and trusting that youth would excuse her, Kate asked, ‘Still with this Edward Camden?’
The contessa’s deep blue eyes gave her the nearest they could achieve to a sharp glance. ‘One gathers he went everywhere with them.’ Her tone made it clear that she had now gone as far as she was prepared to go—at least on such short acquaintance—and to prove it she added, ‘My dear, I think you should be careful whom you talk to about such things. Not everyone is circumspect.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Kate produced her most innocent smile. ‘Of course, I’m taking advantage of the fact that you aren’t “everyone”, or I wouldn’t have dared question you like this. I’m a shameless girl of my generation.’
The laugh came bubbling up. ‘You don’t strike me as shameless, but you’re certainly of your generation; who isn’t?’ She turned to Steve. ‘Whereas you, my young friend, are most undemanding.’
‘Ah,’ said Steve, ‘that’s because I know Kate will demand quite enough without my help.’
‘Quite enough! But all the same it was a pleasure talking to you.’
When they were nearly at their car she called out after them, ‘You’d better visit Dr Montieri this morning, we old people are given to extended siestas.’
Thus warned, they drove back towards the town but, since it was still only a few minutes after eleven, turned off the road to take a quick look at the cemetery which was placed, in the Italian manner, well away from Lazzetta on a small plateau: little more than another, wider terrace but not for the planting of olives or vines. There were a few grandiose monuments, dating from before the drying up of the waters, and many of those curious Italian filing cabinets for the dead, piled one upon the other in deep niches hollowed from the rock. EDWARD LIFFORD CAMDEN lay to one side of the terrace where brambles tended to intrude (perhaps he had not after all been a Catholic and was only here on sufferance): a plain headstone, giving his name, dates of birth and death, and nothing else. He had been thirty-five when he died.
Gazing at the stone, Kate quoted the contessa: ‘One gathers he went everywhere with them.’
Steve nodded. ‘There was something she wasn’t saying. Maybe Julia was right, and he was your Aunt Helen’s lover. Or your Uncle Mark’s.’
‘I never heard that Mark went in for that kind of thing.’
‘In his wild, wild youth?’
‘Oh God, who knows? What’s wrong with his being Helen’s lover anyway?’
‘I get the feeling Mark wouldn’t have put up with it.’
‘No, I don’t think he would. So perhaps they were … you know, just close friends, just three people who liked travelling together.’
‘Perhaps. Why not?’
But the explanation satisfied neither of them, and rendered them both silent, thinking. Eventually Kate said, ‘I was really surprised they only stayed here a few weeks.’
‘You showed it. And I wonder why they didn’t go there right away—why rent the place and not use it? Like gangsters with a hide-out.’
‘I’ve always held they had a very good reason for everything they did. But all this apparently pointless movement! A few weeks here, even less in La Spezia, I’m sure Julia was telling the truth. Were they escaping from something, as she said, and if so, what?’
Getting no answer, she turned and found Steve rubbing his chin and regarding her intently.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh … nothing. I was thinking how nice it would be to go back to the hotel and go to bed.’
‘You call that nothing!’ She laughed and leaned into his arms and they embraced among the silent dead and the noisy cicadas, with the remains of Edward Lifford Camden at their feet.
Kate said, ‘If we don’t see the doctor before lunch we’ll be sitting on his doorstep twiddling our thumbs until three or four o’clock.’
On one side of Lazzetta’s spacious piazza was a flight of stone steps, flanked by balustrades with two pairs of handsome cast-iron lamps at top and bottom. This had been designed as the main approach, by foot, to the spa itself, but was now merely a short-cut to a number of residential streets on the higher slopes of the town. The Doctors Montieri, father and son, lived in one of these streets, so Steve parked the rented Fiat in the square, and he and Kate climbed the ornate steps hand in hand. At the top they paused, looking back at the piazza, the carabinieri headquarters immediately opposite, town hall to the left, shady tree-lined boulevard to the right; in fact, most of Lazzetta lay at their feet.
They would have recognized Number 20, Via Cavour without reading the number, because a man who could only have been Dr Montieri Junior was just coming out of it holding a doctor’s bag. The house was a choice example of terme architecture, tastefully decorated with terracotta plaques of a vaguely Egyptian provenance. Young Dr Montieri was tall and thin, in his late thirties, with a single streak of white hair emphasizing an otherwise black widow’s peak. His dark eyes behind dark horn-rimmed glasses seemed to become uneasy as soon as he heard the purpose of their visit. Perhaps he was even considering excuses for his father’s absence, because there was a pause when Kate had finished speaking. But eventually he shrugged and said, ‘He’s very busy on his book, but … I can ask him.’ They followed him into a dark hall lit by a single stained-glass window: a lotus design, naturally.
There was then a hiatus, and the faint mumble of male voices in the distance. A woman joined in, protesting by the sound of it. Steve glanced at Kate and raised his eyebrows.
Montieri Junior reappeared, hurrying now like the White Rabbit and consulting his watch. He said, ‘Father will be with you in a moment. Please.’ And he ushered them into a waiting-room which must have been redecorated since the turn of the century but managed to give the impression that it had not. There was even an aspidistra obscuring the fireplace.
Leonardo Montieri, when he silently manifested himself (he was wearing patent-leather slippers) was as tall as his son, with the beautiful pure white hair which is only granted to dark, usually Mediterranean men. His glasses, however, had gold frames and were worn low on the nose so that he could look over them.
He said, ‘I was tempted to tell some stupid lie, via my son, and not to see you. But then I thought, “Leonardo Montieri, you have become an old fool. For years and years you have been expecting somebody to ask questions about Edward Camden, and now that they’re here you run away!” So …’ He gestured with long, beautiful fingers. ‘Here I am. You are his relatives?’
‘No, but the Acklands who were with him up at II Campanile, they are my uncle and aunt.’
‘Indeed. I did not find them simpatico. But I was angry with them.’
‘Why angry?’
He examined her at length over the gold rims, and motioned them both to sit down. They sat on horsehair, hard and ample enough to support a bustle, if not a crinoline.
‘I should perhaps explain that I’d had problems with some of the contessa’s previous tenants. Americans. One of them became extremely ill, and neither she nor her friends improved matters by withholding information. I suspected she’d had an abortion but she denied it and was abusive when I found out myself by the usual procedures. It didn’t seem to have occurred to her, or her friends, that she might have died.’
‘Stupid!’ said Steve.
‘There are vast numbers of stupid people in the world, and the Pilati Castalda seem to choose a high proportion of them as tenants. In the days before they came to live there themselves, I was wary of II Campanile—so I’m sure you’ll forgive me, signorina, if I ask you what your interest is in Edward Camden’s death?’
‘You may not forgive me, Doctor, if I tell you it’s a kind of curiosity.’
He shook his head. ‘Any doctor who finds curiosity objectionable is a fool: it’s the foundation of our profession.’
‘My uncle and aunt are a mystery in my family, I want to know about them.’ It had worked with the contessa, why shouldn’t it work with the doctor?
‘So your interest is in them rather than in Mr Camden?’
‘In both. I think they were … interdependent.’
‘You speak excellent Italian. Yes, I too think they were interdependent.’ He looked at Steve. ‘And you, signore—you also speak my language?’
‘Very little, but I can understand it.’
Dr Montieri nodded absently, his thoughts in the past. ‘I was angry with your uncle and aunt because they did not immediately report Mr Camden’s condition to me on their arrival. Later they told me that illness had made him very difficult, he became angry for no reason, and they could see how much worse anger made him, so they tried to keep him as calm as possible. He also hated doctors. He even … Well, many patients say it, not all mean it—he claimed he wanted to die, said he was sick to death of being sick. I have always remembered that phrase.’
‘It had been going on for a long time.’
‘Yes, on and off, sometimes better, sometimes worse. But when I saw him it had reached its terminal stages, and he was in a coma.’
‘What was it?’
‘You would call it double pneumonia. Of course, I at once gave him the wonder-drug of that time, an oral form of penicillin. I also gave him a massive injection. Neither effected any improvement in his condition.’
Steve said, in slow and correct Italian, ‘He was too ill for treatment?’
‘He was extremely ill, but I was surprised to find no improvement after I’d administered the drugs. In answer to your question—yes, that’s what I told myself and the Acklands. “You called me too late, he was too far gone.’”
He rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands for a moment; then drew them both back over his hair, and sat up straight again. The young man and woman thought it an odd, overly dramatic gesture, but not when they heard what he had to say next.
‘Since no one, not one relative, has ever come here to see me, it is … something of a relief to speak of this matter.’
‘Oh yes, signorina, he died, that was inevitable. I refer to another matter. With Mr and Mrs Ackland, Edward Camden had travelled widely, all over Europe and into Asia Minor. Among many, many other places where they spent some time was the city of Tangier. It is a place which has an unfortunate effect on certain Anglo-Saxons—we Southerners are … less susceptible. Anyway, according to your uncle, who was always very frank with me, Mr Camden had already been drinking too much. He then took to khif, perhaps other drugs. But I should make it clear that there were no physical signs of heroin, or any other substance, having been intravenously injected. He also took to having sexual intercourse with a wide variety of the youngsters who ply for trade in Tangier. Your uncle said that he developed a preference for boys, all of them Arab or … from more southern parts of Africa. His various illnesses began shortly after this time.’
Kate said, ‘Oh!’ and put a hand up to her mouth. Steve shook his head and sighed.
‘You’re quick, both of you. But you’re young and you live now. Don’t forget I’m speaking of a time before such a condition had become, alas, commonplace.’
‘And he didn’t react to the latest drugs.’
‘Correct. Only later, two or three years later when information was being released from the United States did I suspect that I had attended an early European case of the HIV virus.’
‘Poor man!’
‘I have the greatest sympathy for many sufferers, but little for Mr Camden—a man who sleeps with trash will climb out of bed with trash adhering to him. I eventually discovered the whereabouts of Mr and Mrs Ackland and wrote to them in Corsica advising them to submit to tests. I was particularly worried about your aunt since there were tales … gossip, one imagines … It was said that she and Mr Camden had once been lovers. I received no answer.’
He paused; then shrugged and asked, ‘Your uncle and aunt are alive and well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that’s my answer for which I thank you. Though I’m not surprised, the risks are greatly exaggerated. Needless to say, I didn’t mention my suspicions to anyone else—there was no point, the man had long ago been buried.’
‘There were no … awkward questions about his death?’
‘No, signorina. Since I’m medical consultant to … the Coroner, I think you call him …’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘… my colleagues accepted my diagnosis, which was perfectly correct as far as it went. The direct cause of Mr Camden’s death was undoubtedly a severe attack of double pneumonia.’
They walked away from the doctor’s house in silence and deep thought. After a moment Steve glanced at her. ‘It seems to fit, doesn’t it?’
‘With what? The contessa’s story?’
‘And Julia’s. They must have been very fond of Edward Camden, both of them. They seem to have stuck by him through thick and thin.’
‘No.’ She was decisive. ‘I can’t see Mark and Helen being that loyal to anyone. Unless there was a damn good reason.’
They had reached the top of the steps. Steve said, ‘People change. It was a long time ago, and perhaps in those days they weren’t so—’
‘Oh my God!’ Kate had jerked herself away from him, and was now pressed flat between one of the cast-iron lamps and a dusty oleander. Her face was white, the beautiful eyes wide with shock. He stared at her, amazed.
‘Look … at the police station.’
Steve looked. A car marked ‘Carabinieri’ had drawn up in front of it and two men were getting out: one slim, a uniformed lieutenant, the other larger, in civilian clothes.
Kate’s voice was dry, choked: ‘The big man—it’s Uncle Mark.’