Fourteen

But the lights came back on again almost as soon as the warning was out of Lovelace’s mouth. People stared around, half-stupid, to see what damage might have been done.

At first nothing was obvious, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

But then Tony Harewood, at the table, started yelping, a strange moaning.

‘Oh, no! Oh, no! Not Nella!’

The moan was quickly turning to mounting hysteria. ‘I say, it should have been me ! See? Red! We’re both wearing red! I was the one they wanted. I was warned. It’s all a stupid mistake.’

In a flash the damage was revealed.

Posie would never in her life forget the bizarre image before her.

Two women in red, with the same hair. One sitting bolt upright, the other – Nella Harewood – flung across the back of her chair, her arms flailing, her lips moving gently. A dark bloom of blood – almost unnoticed at first because of the scarlet colour of her dress – growing wider, heavier.

Deadlier.

Suddenly people were moving all in one rush: the older waiter-cum-policeman was running for the telephone, for an ambulance; the young waiter with the blonde moustache was barring the door; Doctor Mozzato was at Nella’s side, bending over her, listening for her breath, shaking his head despondently.

‘No. Assolutamente no. ’

No. No hope .

Charlie Seego was standing up uselessly, his face aghast, horrified. His angelic eyes were incredulous, his huge hands gripping the table. Lorenzo too was lurching over to be at Nella’s side, completely white in the face, almost greenish in fact.

But it was Simon Deverine who struck through the useless group of men, elbowing his way past Mozzato, squatting down next to the chair, cradling his ex-wife in his arms, her blood spreading out all over his dress-shirt, her head lolling on his breast.

‘NELLA!’ he barked as if he was still in the RAF squadron he had served with. ‘Nella? You hear me? Stay with us. By Gad. I’ll not let you die here.’

And Posie found she had crept near enough to hear the rasping breath of the girl. She stood right behind the former spouses.

‘I’m sorry.’ Nella was pulling in air desperately through her shattered lungs. ‘In my life, there are secrets too dark to let out. I didn’t act alone. I’m sorry, Simon. I truly am.’

‘Save your energy, Nella. Be a brick and bally well hold on. I’ll get you to safety.’

I’m sorry .

I didn’t act alone.

What was Nella talking about?

Suddenly Posie thought she might be sick as she felt a fierce jolt of pain rising up through her whole body, a sickening cramp. Like those times earlier.

She bent over double, holding the baby in her belly. Not now . Please .

And then she heard Nella’s unmistakable last breaths, and then the sudden silence.

Followed by the sound of keening.

That was Tony Harewood, of course, who had now crumpled up and slipped under the table, hidden from the reality of life and death above her.

‘Darling?’ Richard was at her side, seeing her strange posture. ‘Are you all right?’

But the pain had passed. Again. ‘Quite all right.’

Fox was quickly beside Lovelace, pointing urgently. ‘Sir? I think you should look there! His right-hand pocket, sir. Nearest Charlie Seego? See it?’

Fox was pointing at Simon Deverine, who was still holding the body of his former wife, fat silent tears running down his cheeks.

Lovelace darted over. And like a magician pulling a rabbit from a black-sateen top-hat, with a handkerchief wrapped expertly around the item, he pulled a sleek gun from the pocket of Simon Deverine’s smoking jacket.

‘Well, well, well.’

Everyone stared.

Lovelace sighed. ‘I know this revolver. Saw it often enough myself in the Great War. An M&P; dashed accurate little blighter, issued in their thousands to army officers like me at the time. And, so it seems, to serving RAF officers, eh?’

There was no triumph on his face as he stared at Deverine, only a sort of sad resignation.

‘I’ll hazard some likely guesses, Mr Deverine. The first is that if I check out this gun’s serial number here, I’ll find this was issued to you , sometime after 1915, when it was brought in as standard issue. And my second guess is that when this very unfortunate young woman’s body is assessed for murder, the bullet in her chest which killed her will be a perfect match for this M&P revolver. My third guess is that your fingerprints are all over this weapon. And a fourth – that the angle of the bullet will match exactly with your having shot your ex-wife from across the table just now. In the darkness.’

Posie looked first at her husband, then at Simon Deverine; at his raw, red face. He didn’t seem to care that he was being accused of murder. He didn’t look shocked, or surprised, or even remotely bothered, actually. It was as if anything which happened to him now didn’t matter a jot.

Lovelace motioned towards the older waiter-cum-policeman who had just come back into the room.

‘I’ll take this moment to introduce my Italian colleague, Commissario Gianni Maturo, one of the most senior policemen in Florence’s constabulary. He was kind enough to drive over here this afternoon, at my request, and get into “character”. He’s here with his best Sergeant, Lazzio.’ He indicated to where the younger man with the blonde moustache was standing, arms crossed, by the door.

‘Now Maturo will take over. After all, this is his patch, not mine: his jurisdiction, not mine. Although it seems to me that all we’ve got on our hands here is a sad little case of an English marital tragedy, but transported lock, stock and smoking barrel abroad.’

The diminutive Maturo stepped forward, and Posie saw that he had ripped off his black, curled moustache and his starched apron. But he still had the look of a waiter; eager to please, wondering just where the next summons would be coming from.

Maturo smiled in a friendly fashion, rubbed his hands together as if for warmth. When he spoke, his English was stilted, but excellent.

‘Good evening, everybody. An ambulance is waiting outside, and I’ll get the stretcher-bearers to come and take the body to the town morgue. Sergeant Lazzio will go with them and first thing tomorrow, the body of Lady Nella Harewood will be sent on to our experts in Florence. And sir,’ here he patted Simon Deverine’s shoulder, ‘if you could come with me, I will ensure you have not one ounce of comfort tonight in San Gimignano’s single medieval gaol cell. The San Gimignano Police Station forms part of the Town Hall, you see, so the cell is there too. And like your murder victim here, you too will come to Florence first thing tomorrow. But you will be coming for formal prosecution.’

The Commissario turned to Richard Lovelace. ‘Thank you for everything, Inspector Lovelace. You were right: harm did come. What a pity we could not have prevented it, eh? But what a pleasure to work with you. I never thought the day would come when I would have the honour of working with the Chief Commissioner of the world-famous Scotland Yard!’

He clapped his hands together daintily. ‘I appreciate this has been a shock for you all. Now, if there’s any more funny business, Inspector Lovelace is in charge. But,’ he crossed himself elaborately here, ‘God willing, nothing else will happen tonight.’

And then Doctor Mozzato and Lazzio carried Nella’s body, still on the chair, out of the room, and there was the sound of voices in the hallway, presumably the stretcher-bearers arriving.

Posie watched, scarcely believing her eyes as Commissario Maturo clipped shining handcuffs onto a now-silent Deverine, leading him out, then slamming the front door of the Guesthouse.

What a mess .

Posie exhaled, was about to bend down and help Tony up from the floor, but then she stopped mid-action, aware of a low but urgent voice.

It was Lorenzo Rosario, on the edge of an all-encompassing panic.

‘Jacinta? Amore? Get up! GET UP!’

She saw Lorenzo standing at his former place, at the head of the table, bending over his fiancée.

Jacinta had collapsed face-down, her head in her blue-glass ice-cream bowl, her hand still clutching the tarot card with “Death” upon it.

‘No!’ Posie yelled, running to her friend. Tony Harewood was scrabbling up from under the table, and Lovelace was next to Posie now, as was Fox, both of them almost holding her back.

She found she was screaming: ‘Has Jacinta been shot as well? How on earth? There was no spray of bullets, surely? Only the one! And Jacinta was in a completely different place! Jacinta?’

He must have heard the scream and doubled back, for here was Doctor Mozzato again.

The Doctor was gently pulling Jacinta Glaysayer up, but her eyes were open and staring, as if she had looked death right in the face and been surprised at what she had seen.

Her freckled wheat-ripe skin was coloured blue as a cornflower, and the blue suffused her lips, and her nose.

Even her hands were coloured bright blue, right to the tips of her fingers, throwing into stark relief the precious gold ring she wore, showing the towers of San Gimignano carved as a symbol of love and promise.

A promise of nothing .

Because Jacinta was as dead as a doornail and had been so for at least five minutes.

And no-one had even noticed.

****