Back at home, she made herself a sandwich and spent the afternoon out in the relative cool provided by the shade of the loggia. After a little snooze, she picked up her history book once more. She had been reading it bit by bit and she was now well into the turbulent history of this region and the regular squabbles, or worse, between Siena and its neighbours – most notably Florence – but also wars that involved larger powers such as Spain and even the Holy Roman Emperor, based far to the north in Bohemia. The Middle Ages and the Renaissance had been a time of great cultural achievements in the little republic, but also the time when so many fortresses and watchtowers had been built. There was no doubt the castle here had been designed with defence in mind. It was just a shame so little was known about it.
Her reading was interrupted by a knock at the front door. She closed her book and went over to the balustrade to look down onto the road. It was the elderly lady she had met on her first day here. Lucy gave her a little wave.
‘Buonasera, Signora Bianchi.’
‘Ah, there you are, Lucy. I’ve brought you a little housewarming present.’
Lucy hurried down and opened the door to find Signora Bianchi carrying an unlabelled wine bottle.
‘Here, Lucy, I’ve been meaning to give it to you for weeks and weeks now, but I keep forgetting.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I forget a lot of things these days.’
Lucy took the bottle from her and thanked her profusely. ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee, or tea, maybe?’
‘That’s very kind of you. If you’re sure it’s no trouble, I’d love to try a cup of real English tea if you have one. I went to London many years ago and I still remember the tea I had there.’
‘Of course, and do sit down, Signora Bianchi.’ Lucy gestured to a chair.
‘Please call me Margherita. Everybody in the village calls me Margherita.’ She sat down at the kitchen table while Lucy filled the kettle. ‘You’ve got this place looking so welcoming. It’s good to see it lived in once again. It’s been empty since the war, you know.’
‘That’s what Armando told me. You know… Armando from the villa.’
‘Of course I know Armando. I know everybody around here.’
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Eighty-seven years, my dear. I was born here and I have no doubt I’ll die here.’
As Lucy put the kettle on, a thought occurred to her. ‘Can you tell me anything about the castle up by the villa? I’m interested in history, you see, and I’m trying to find out about it.’
Margherita shook her head slowly. ‘Not very much. You know it’s ruined, I suppose? All I know is that when I was a little girl, my grandfather used to call it the Englishman’s castle, but I never did find out why he called it that.’
Lucy registered the information. That really was interesting and it just stimulated her historical appetite to find out more. While the kettle came to the boil, she dug in a cupboard for a packet of biscuits and put them on the table alongside the wine bottle Margherita had brought. It was only then that she realised that this didn’t contain wine after all. The stopper was a small, wedge-shaped cork that barely sealed the top. She picked the bottle up, held it against the light of the window and tilted it, realising that it was full of oil, no doubt precious extra virgin olive oil. Setting it down again she returned her attention to Margherita.
‘Is this local oil you’ve brought me? That’s awfully generous of you. You really shouldn’t have.’
‘Not at all, Lucy, you’re very welcome. It certainly is local and it’s produced by my grandson. He took over the family farm when his father, my son, was killed in a terrible accident five years ago.’ The elderly lady’s voice almost broke. ‘A runaway tractor crushed him to death.’
‘How awful.’ Lucy bent down and squeezed Margherita’s shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Was he your only son?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ She crossed herself and wiped away a little tear. ‘He was my only child.’
‘And your husband?’ As Lucy asked the question she had a feeling she knew what the answer was going to be. She was right.
‘He’s passed away as well, but at least he reached a good age before he died.’ But then, just as Lucy feared her guest might be about to dissolve into tears, the old lady straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and looked up. ‘But life goes on. My grandson, Roberto, is a fine boy – and the spitting image of his father. He’s a great consolation to me.’
Lucy went back to the kettle which had come to the boil. ‘And he farms around here?’
‘Yes, you must have seen the farm. Just off to the left as you come up the hill into the village. Fattoria Le Querce; you can’t miss it. You should drop in on Roberto one of these days and say hello.’
Lucy instantly recognised the farm from the description. She had often admired it. It looked like another very old, maybe even medieval, building and it was in a great position, no doubt with panoramic views of the valley below.
‘I certainly will. Does he sell wine as well? I keep meaning to stock up.’
‘Oh yes, and our vines are the best in the area.’ A look of pride replaced the sorrow on the old lady’s face. ‘Even better than the vines up at the villa. Although I heard from Armando that the American has made him plant new ones.’
Lucy pricked up her ears. This would appear to show that David Lorenzo’s presence here wasn’t as secret as he might have hoped. She did a little bit of digging. ‘Have you met him, the American?’
‘Nobody has.’ Margherita lowered her voice although they were the only people within a radius of a hundred yards or more. ‘Do you know what I think? I think he’s a New York gangster on the run.’
Lucy smiled at the thought as she made the tea. ‘I actually did meet him and his dog briefly this morning and I’m sure I can confirm that he isn’t a gangster and, from his accent, he isn’t from New York either. By the way, I take my tea the traditional English way with a drop of cold milk. Is that how you like yours?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you – with two spoonfuls of sugar, if you don’t mind.’
As they sat and chatted, Lucy learned more about the village and, seeing as she was pretty clearly in the presence of the fount of all wisdom as far as Castelnuovo Superiore was concerned, she quizzed Margherita about the house next door.
‘It’s all locked up. Do you happen to know who it belongs to?’
‘Florentines…’ There was a dismissive note in Margherita’s voice. ‘When old Signor Scandicci was alive, he was often here, but now it’s passed to his son, we rarely see him. He never married and he works at the university, I believe.’
That sounded good to Lucy. She had been dreading discovering that her neighbours might turn out to be bagpipe aficionados or a bunch of rowdy teenagers. Hopefully there was a limit to the amount of disturbance a single academic could cause.
‘And how about the restaurant? I keep meaning to go there. Is it good?’
Margherita beamed at her. ‘It’s very good. People come up from Siena and even all the way from Florence to eat here, you know. You should try it.’
Just at that moment, Lucy’s phone rang. She apologised to Margherita and picked it up.
‘Ciao, Lucy. It’s me, Tommy.’
‘Ciao, Tommy. Good to hear from you.’ Although it wasn’t, really. She had been expecting a call to tell her where and when he was taking her for dinner. Since saying yes, she had been having serious second thoughts about having accepted, in case he might think it was going to be anything but a casual friendly evening together, but it was too late now to pull out. ‘Dinner on Wednesday night, I think we agreed?’
‘That’s right. I was wondering… have you been to the Cavallo Bianco just down the road from you yet?’
‘The Cavallo Bianco? You mean here in Castelnuovo? I’ve got a friend here at the moment and she’s just been talking about it.’
‘So, would that be all right?’
‘It would be super, thanks. I’ve been meaning to go there. My friend tells me it’s very good.’
‘You can judge for yourself. I like it a lot and I often eat there. My aunt and uncle own it.’
‘Well, well.’ Lucy remembered he had told her way back that he had relatives in the village. ‘That sounds great. Would you like to come here for a drink first and then we can walk down together?’
‘Terrific. Say, eight o’clock?’
When she rang off, she looked across the table at Margherita.
‘Now, that’s a coincidence.’ She went on to tell her what Tommy had revealed and saw comprehension on the older woman’s face.
‘So you’re going out for dinner with little Tommasino, fancy that.’ Adding the suffix –ino to a word in Italian acted as a diminutive and as Tommy was the best part of six feet tall, it seemed a bit of a misnomer, but presumably Margherita had known him since he was a baby and still thought of him as a toddler. ‘It was so sad what happened with him and his wife…’ Her voice tailed off sorrowfully and Lucy found herself undecided whether to ask or not. In the end she felt she had to know.
‘Did she die?’
‘No, she left him when he had an affair. And with a German woman of all people!’
‘Ah…’ Lucy couldn’t think of a follow-up to this but she filed the knowledge away for future reference. It sounded as though her first impression of Tommy had been right and he came from the same mould as Charles. She harrumphed to herself and wondered what sort of evening she was going to have on Wednesday.