– 27 –

The remote village of Felitto, high in the vast, undulating hills of Tuscany, amounted to no more than a tiny cluster of honeysuckle- and vine-covered cottages. In the heat of the day lizards scuttled about the red slate roofs and chickens clucked and pecked at the dry earth. It was about an hour’s walk from Paesetto di Pittore, around the brow of the mountain, and a good thousand feet above Camaiore, the nearest small town. Most evenings, cloud and mist billowed in over the mountaintops, shrouding the village and making the road up to it more perilous than ever. Precious few barriers had been erected for protection against the sheer drops, and there was no room for manoeuvre should one misjudge a hairpin bend. In fact, the drive was so arduous that Stephanie found herself bribing the electricians and props men, who were staying in Camaiore, with ‘danger money’ in order to get them to do it each morning.

Felitto’s twenty or so stone cottages, which sprawled haphazardly amongst the trees and brush on either side of the footpath – the village’s main street – had long since been taken over by an English tour operator who offered seclusion and panoramic views to holidaying painters. At the heart of the valley, which fell away from the village in tiers of vineyards and olive groves, was the cluttered town of Camaiore. On clear days, the sea glittered on the horizon between mountain peaks that rose in the distance. The surrounding hillsides were thickly wooded and beautiful walks were mapped out with yellow arrows carved into the trees so that no one should get lost.

Marian’s cottage, which she was sharing with Madeleine and Paul, was at the top of a set of weathered steps that zig-zagged through a steep herb garden behind the main cottages, which were used as a dining room, bar and kitchens. The cottage consisted of only two rooms. The sitting-room had bare, whitewashed walls, a stone hearth with an age-spotted mirror above, a shabby carpet and a beamed ceiling. A sofa stood beneath the window and a chair beside the fire; this was the only furniture, apart from a rickety old cane table against the wall at the foot of the stairs. The bedroom, whose bed was neither a double nor a single, but something inbetween, had not even a wardrobe, only a curtained alcove in the corner. But it was home for a while, and Marian fell in love with the cottage on sight. Bronwen and Hazel had the cottages on either side of her, and Stephanie’s and Matthew’s were below the tiny piazza that jutted out of the hillside in front of the bar. Further up the hill was a group of cottages being used by cast, costume and make-up; higher still, the camera crew occupied rooms in the crumbling houses on either side of the precipitous pathway that led to the swimming pool.

Manfredo and Gabriella were the old couple who looked after the village, and when the crew arrived, late on Monday afternoon, Manfredo had a fire blazing at one end of the bar and special toddies waiting – though the sun was still shining, with the promise of a glorious sunset, it was bitterly cold.

As soon as they’d settled into their cottages, Matthew and Stephanie wandered up to the bar to join Bronwen beside the fire. The crew were already gathering at the other end of the dimly lit room, and flexing their Italian with demands for a ceaseless flow of Manfredo’s potent concoction.

Bronwen moved along the sofa for Stephanie to sit down, and Matthew perched on the fender with one foot resting on the log basket. ‘Frank and Grace arrived yesterday,’ Bronwen informed them. ‘They’ve taken a villa near Volterra. It’s a bit cramped for them here, I think, when they’re used to that great mansion in New York. By the way, Adrian couldn’t book the helicopter for the aerial shots on Thursday, so we’ll have to reorganise the schedule. I think he’s got it for Friday.’

Matthew nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Woody.’

‘Anyway,’ Bronwen went on, ‘I can tell you, there’s been plenty of activity going on over at Paesetto di Pittore these past few days and there was me thinking it was a ghost town. Cars up and down the mountain at all hours of the day and night – always travelling in convoy. There’s only the one road, unless you walk from here round the mountain, and I never got close enough to the village when it was hosting its visitors to see which house they went into. Conveniently, trees would come down to block the road, or locals would wander along the path and engage me in conversation. Such a knowledge of Tuscan wildlife I have now, I could write a book on it.’

‘Have you seen Rambaldi at all?’ Matthew asked, reluctantly raising his voice to make himself heard over the banter going on around them.

Bronwen shook her head. ‘I was supposed to on Saturday, but he stood me up. I’ve been ringing his apartment in Florence ever since, but he’s not there; either that, or he’s not answering the phone. I’ve called the Accademia, but they say he doesn’t have any lectures until next month, so I haven’t got the foggiest idea where he is.’

‘So you didn’t manage to get what you came for then, eh, Bron?’ he grinned.

‘Very funny,’ she said, throwing him a droll look. ‘Actually, I was hoping he might be able to tell me what all the fuss was over in Pittore, but then he says he doesn’t really know the village, so . . .’

‘I thought you didn’t believe him,’ Stephanie said.

‘I don’t, but it wouldn’t have stopped me asking. I wonder if he does know anything about what happened to Olivia?’ she mused.

‘If I were you, I’d be careful who you ask that question of,’ Matthew told her, ‘especially now we’re in Italy.’

‘Really?’ Bronwen said, suddenly interested. ‘Do you know something we don’t, then, Matthew?’

Avoiding Stephanie’s eyes, he shook his head. ‘No. But you have to remember that whatever did happen to Olivia very likely happened somewhere round here, and if Rambaldi was lying about not knowing Pittore, well . . . Just don’t ask the question too loudly.’

‘Oooh!’ Bronwen said, rubbing her hands gleefully, ‘it’s like being in a spy movie, isn’t it, Steph?’

‘Mm,’ Stephanie answered, with a dubious look. ‘Anyway, what do you say we take a look at the final sequence once more before we give it to the actors?’

‘Ah yes,’ Bronwen answered. ‘I’ve already made a couple of changes, but they’re written in my awful handwriting, I’m afraid. Did Marian bring her typewriter?’

‘Marian’s brought everything,’ Stephanie said, in a tight, sarcastic voice, and she raised her eyes to meet the look Matthew shot at her. But after a second or two of hostility, they both smiled.

‘Right, I’ll ask her to type them tonight,’ Bronwen said. ‘What time do we start shooting in the morning?’

‘Six o’clock,’ Stephanie grimaced. ‘Michelangelo here wants a sunrise.’

Matthew gave her an ironic grin and turned back to Bronwen. ‘Why don’t you give us a . . . Bronwen, are you listening?’

‘Heavens above,’ she muttered, looking towards the door. ‘Isn’t that . . .? Yes, it is. I see what you mean, Steph, Marian has brought everything, or at least, everybody.’

Matthew got to his feet and walked across the bar to greet the latest arrivals and Bronwen turned to Stephanie, who was hunched over the fire, warming her hands. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked in a heavy whisper.

‘You’ll have to ask Matthew,’ Stephanie answered. ‘It’s all beyond me, and I’ve given up fighting. Just as long as the film gets made and the cousin doesn’t decide to flash her tits somewhere in the back of shot, that’s all that matters.’

‘But you didn’t say they could come, did you?’

‘Not exactly, but I didn’t say they couldn’t, either. She was very clever, Bron, she got Matthew to ask.’

‘Well I never.’ Bronwen stole another look across the bar. ‘Are you and Marian speaking now?’ she asked.

‘Just about. You know, much as I hate her, I can’t help but admire her for the way she had the guts to come and talk to me that day. If I’d been in her position I think I’d have gone out of my way to avoid me.’

‘So would I,’ Bronwen said seriously. ‘Has Matthew said any more about her?’

Stephanie shook her head. ‘But things seem a bit better between him and me. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, but for the moment we’ve sort of called a truce.’

‘It might be a wise thing to call one with Marian, too, you know.’

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking that myself.’ Then, after a pause, ‘You’re quite fond of her really, aren’t you, Bron?’

‘I am,’ Bronwen admitted. ‘And so were you before all this happened. I know she’s changed, Steph, but she’s not the devious little madam you’ve got her down for, you know. If anything I’ll bet all this is tearing her apart just as much as it is you. She didn’t mean any of it to happen, I’m sure of it. Well, why would she?’

‘The devil’s advocate,’ Stephanie said, with a dry laugh.

‘Not really. All I’m trying to say is that if we could choose who we fell in love with, the world would be a much easier place to live in.’

‘Wouldn’t it just?’

There was a loud shriek from the other end of the bar and Stephanie winced. ‘I’ll try with Marian, Bron,’ she said, through gritted teeth, ‘but I’m not so sure about the cousin. Does she have to scream like that?’

‘That man is beautiful, isn’t he?’ Bronwen said, looking in the direction of the bar.

‘If you’re talking about Matthew, the answer’s sometimes.’

Bronwen laughed. ‘I was talking about Paul O’Connell, actually. But seeing them standing there, Matthew so dark and Paul so blond, it’s like . . . well, it’s like . . .’

‘Torture,’ Stephanie supplied. ‘Or Happy Families. Madeleine and Paul, Marian and Matthew. Don’t they look cosy? I can just see them now; all the shared holidays, the weekend visits, Christmases, birthdays, picnics . . . Sorry, Bron, I think I’m going to have to leave before I make a fool of myself.’

‘It’s all right, cariad,’ Bronwen answered. ‘I’ll come with you . . .’

‘Don’t look now,’ Madeleine hissed in Marian’s ear, ‘but she’s leaving.’

Despite the glow Marian felt inside, her heart sank. ‘Don’t gloat, Maddy, she’s probably feeling really awful.’

‘Why should you worry? He’s over here with you, isn’t he?’

‘I know, but things aren’t as simple as that.’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ Matthew interrupted, almost shouting to make himself heard above the noise.

‘You, as a matter fact,’ Marian smiled.

‘Now, why don’t I believe you?’ he said, looking down at her in a way that seemed to close them off from everyone else.

‘We were, honestly,’ Madeleine piped up, then flinched as Marian trod on her toe.

Matthew could hardly restrain his grin as he reluctantly pulled his eyes away from Marian’s and turned back to Paul.

‘I was wondering,’ Paul said, as he attempted again to pay for his and Madeleine’s drinks, ‘if you would let me have a schedule of your filming.’

‘Sure,’ Matthew answered. ‘I’ll get Woody or one of his assistants to drop one into your cottage.’

‘Thanks. It’s just that I want to find myself a couple of isolated spots to write in and I don’t want to run the risk of finding myself in shot. Don’t think I’d be too popular if I did that, would I?’

‘Not really,’ Matthew laughed, pressing himself against the bar to let someone pass. ‘What are you writing about, may I ask?’

‘I’m trying to imagine what it feels like to be on trial for murder. I’m not too keen on doing things this way, I like to experience everything I write, but I’ve invited several people to become my murder victim and they’ve all turned me down.’

‘Not very sporting of them,’ Matthew commented.

‘Just what I thought,’ Paul laughed. “Don’t suppose you’d care to volunteer, would you?’

Matthew shot a glance at Marian, then turning aside so she couldn’t hear, he said, ‘If things carry on as they are, I might just do that.’

‘That bad, eh?’ Paul said, laughing.

‘Don’t even ask. Anyway, I’d better go and see what Stephanie and Bronwen are up to, there are some rewrites I need to look at. See you in the morning.’ And after setting his glass on the bar, he put a hand on Marian’s arm. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.

‘Oh, goodnight,’ she answered, trying not to look disappointed, then suddenly her drink slopped all over them as Woody sneaked up behind her and kicked the rigidity from her knees.

‘You’re a pest, Woody,’ she told him, as she watched Matthew, still laughing, walk out of the door.

‘But a lovable one,’ Woody grinned. “Now, are you going to reintroduce me to your cousin?’ He gave Madeleine an outrageously appreciative look-over.

Marian rolled her eyes, then turning Madeleine away from Paul, she made the introductions – and was still making them an hour later, since everyone on the unit wanted to meet either Madeleine or Paul. Then, about ten o’clock, Bronwen put her head round the door and asked if she could do some typing before she went to bed, so to a chorus of sympathetic groans Marian went off to unpack her typewriter.

‘Well, what do you think of him?’ she asked Madeleine when she wandered into the cottage half an hour later.

‘Gorgeous,’ Madeleine answered, flopping down on the lumpy sofa.

Marian folded her arms over her typewriter. ‘Isn’t he?’ she sighed, then sat up quickly as the table started to rock dangerously.

‘And he definitely feels something for you, Marian. It’s obvious. I mean, the minute we walked into the bar he abandoned Stephanie and came to join us.’

‘I know, don’t remind me.’

‘All’s fair,’ Madeleine commented. ‘I’ve talked to Paul about it, and he thinks you should tell Matthew how you feel. You know, bring it to a head.’

Marian shuddered as a tingling sensation crept over her nerve ends. ‘He already knows, Maddy.’

‘Are you sure? Well, I think you should tell him again, just to make sure.’ She pulled herself to her feet. ‘Anyway, I’m going to leave you to your typing now, and find that man of mine before – what did you call her? – Cracks-yer-nuts Hazel gets her claws into him.’

Laughing, Marian walked her to the door and watched as, by torchlight, she picked her way down the crooked steps before disappearing into the shadows. The night was damp and inky black, and though Marian could hear the distant buzz of conversation coming from the bar, much more vivid was the twitter and rustle of night creatures and the haunting moan of the wind. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the screams – the screams everyone had said were a nightmare. And they were, she told herself firmly as she closed the door. But as she turned to look across the shadowy room she felt such a sense of foreboding, such a premonition of doom, that for a moment it seemed to stifle her. Then suddenly the screams were with her again, piercing, agonised cries of terror that whipped through her head like a savage wind through the hills. And as she stood there in the silence, fear charging through her veins, she suddenly knew that the screams were hers. That they had always been hers – as if her mind were trying to forewarn her of something so terrible that her imagination could give it no form.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the feeling passed, and pulling herself together, she walked back to her typewriter, smiling at her absurd over-reaction, she started to type. What a strange place, so beautiful by day, yet so eerie by night!

Because of the early morning calls, and so as not to incur a massive overtime bill, the crew were wrapping at four thirty in the afternoon – which, because there were no rushes, was just about an hour before they started on Manfredo’s grog. The first two days had gone well, despite grumbles and protests at the late changes to the script and a near disaster with the generator, which had ploughed off the edge of the road into a tree. However, they had finally got to the plateau beneath the village where the other vehicles were parked, and Woody was forever yelling at people to watch out for the profusion of cables that ran along the footpath into the village. An old storeroom, tucked in behind the dining cottage, had been turned into a production office, and at the end of the day Marian vacated her makeshift desk in the corner to give Beanie room to type up her continuity notes.

On Wednesday evening, as the crew were stowing their gear in the laundry room beside Stephanie’s cottage, Matthew was sitting on the piazza outside the bar, drinking Campari and soda and flicking through the scenes they would be shooting the next day. Rory was at the top of the lane, talking to the runner, but waved out when he saw Marian wandering down through the herb garden. Neither of them had ever spoken about the night when she had got drunk in New York, it was as if it had never happened; but Marian knew he had told Matthew the truth about it, and was as grateful to him for that as she was for the fact that he hadn’t taken advantage of her. The others, of course, still thought she had lost her virginity that night, but they could think what they liked, Marian wasn’t much concerned.

‘Am I interrupting?’ she said, as she walked up behind Matthew.

‘No, no, I’m just about done,’ he said, turning round. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink, come and join me?’

‘No, I don’t really feel like anything,’ she said, sitting down on the chair he pulled up for her. ‘Like the hat, by the way. Very Slav.’

‘Very warm,’ he said, laughing as he pulled it off and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s damned cold up here, especially now the wind’s picked up. You should get yourself a hat, you know. How are you?’

‘I’m OK. And you?’

‘Apart from being my usual decrepit, shattered self, pretty good.’ He sighed as he stretched out his legs and rested them on the wall in front of them. ‘Will you just look at that sunset,’ he said, gazing hungrily at the purple, orange and yellow wash on the horizon. ‘I hope to God we get them like that next week when we start the night shoots. Ah, here comes Holland Park’s answer to Jack Higgins.’ They watched as Paul jumped down from the bank next to the storeroom, then disappeared between the cottages. ‘How are things there?’ Matthew asked, turning back to Marian.

‘Nothing untoward, but there is something I want to tell you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Boris isn’t following me any more. I haven’t seen him since we’ve been here.’

‘Maybe he got the wrong flight.’

‘Probably,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s funny, though, but I feel more nervous with him not following me than I do when he is. Well, maybe I wouldn’t if I hadn’t done something that will probably make you angry.’

‘What was that?’ he said, looking at her with wary, though humorous eyes.

‘Well, when Bronwen said she didn’t know where Sergio was, and then with Boris vanishing, well . . . There’s no point in beating about the bush, I rang Rubin Meyer in New York. Don’t worry, I didn’t say who I was, but the point is, he’s not there and he won’t be until the end of the month. I asked where I might contact him, but all his secretary would tell me was that he was somewhere in Europe.’

‘I see.’ Matthew’s eyes moved from Marian’s face and for a long time he stared thoughtfully towards the horizon. Finally his hand closed round the glass in front of him and he turned to look at her. ‘Did Bronwen tell you about all the activity going on over at Pittore?’

‘She mentioned it.’

He nodded. ‘Mm. I think we’d better let Frank and Grace know about Meyer, and as for you, you’re not to go anywhere near the place, do you understand?’

‘Don’t worry, wild horses wouldn’t drag me.’

There was another lengthy silence before he spoke again. ‘I don’t know what’s going on over there at Pittore,’ he said, ‘it could be nothing to do with Rambaldi and Meyer, but I’ve got a horrible feeling it is. Now, it may be that they’ve decided you know nothing, and that’s why Boris has disappeared, so I don’t want you frightening yourself half to death over this, but just make sure you don’t go out of this village alone. Now, I want to talk to you about Paul and Madeleine.’

‘OK,’ she said, surprised by the sudden change of subject and wondering why he was looking at her so strangely. ‘Madeleine’s been to see Enrico, by the way. She went this afternoon.’

‘How did it go?’

‘OK, I think. He knows what the press are like, he’s been subjected to them often enough before. Anyway, he didn’t mention anything to her about the letter we sent.’

Matthew was still looking pensive. ‘Good,’ he said slowly. Then, turning in his chair he leaned towards her. ‘Look, I have to say this to you, and coming on top of the news about Rambaldi and Meyer, it’s not going to do much to calm your nerves. But you have to be aware of this situation Marian.’

‘What situation?’ she said, puzzled.

‘If you’re right about Paul, then you must have considered what kind of position that puts you in.’

Shrugging, she said, ‘I have to admit I’ve thought about it, but I’m family.’

‘That didn’t stop him before, did it?’ He watched her face, waiting for this to sink in, but as she started to protest, he stopped her. ‘Look, whose idea do you really think it was to take that lottery money? I don’t wish to be rude, Marian, but Madeleine isn’t too bright, is she? She might have said it was all her doing, but think how easy she is for a man of Paul’s intelligence to manipulate. And it got you out of the way, didn’t it? At least for a while. Have you ever asked yourself why he didn’t tell her about your mother’s death? Because he knew she’d come running to you, that’s why. It was all going very nicely for him, if you think about it. You gone, your mother dead. Then he managed to get rid of Shamir. He’s refused to continue paying Deidre, and he’s made Madeleine financially dependent on him. Then he very cleverly orchestrated that vicious expose of Tarallo to make it look like Madeleine’s doing, certain that Tarallo would never want to see her again. Thank God he’s been proved wrong, but he doesn’t know it yet. And because she appears to have attacked Tarallo, the press and the public have turned against Madeleine, too. That only leaves you.’

Marian’s face was pale as she looked out over the darkening valley and she thought again how sinister those hills were at night.

Matthew reached for her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but for your own sake I had to make you see it. We could, again, be blowing this out of all proportion, but I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured. ‘I know you’re right, it makes sense. If he is eliminating people from her life, then of course he’s going to want to be rid of me. But short of killing me . . .’ She turned her wide grey eyes to his, and as he nodded she felt the bottom drop from her stomach.

‘The book,’ he said, voicing her thoughts. ‘He’s looking for a victim.’

‘I know, but he’d have to go to prison, so it wouldn’t end up just him and Madeleine then, would it?’

‘I know, but I still don’t trust him. He’s got an extremely devious mind, Marian, as well you know, and I wouldn’t consider it beyond him to work something out. Now, I’d like to meet Enrico. Tonight, if possible. Does he live far?’

She shook her head. ‘Just outside a village called Galleno, about half an hour from here in the car, so Madeleine said. And you’re right, we should go to talk to him because he – at least, his grandmother – knows something about Paul. I haven’t got a clue what it is, she was speaking in Italian so I couldn’t understand, but she did say something about me looking after Madeleine.’

‘OK. You go and call Enrico and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.’

After she had gone Matthew sat alone on the piazza, listening to the crew who were beginning to gather inside the bar; but his mind was on Paul O’Connell, Enrico Tarallo and Sergio Rambaldi – three men who, as far as he was aware, didn’t know one another. Yet they all knew Marian; and for a reason he couldn’t even begin to explain to himself, he was certain that wasn’t the only connection between them.

‘Hello.’

He looked up, and in the dwindling light saw Stephanie, wrapped in an anorak and a paisley shawl, walking towards him. ‘Hello,’ he smiled. ‘Good day?’

‘As far as I’m concerned it’s all going extremely well,’ she answered as she sat down on the chair Marian had vacated. ‘How about you? Are you happy with the way things are going?’

He pulled a face. ‘I’d feel better if we were seeing rushes every night. Has anything been sorted out about that yet?’

‘Hazel’s arranged a viewing in the town hall at Camaiore on Saturday evening.’

‘Good.’

‘I was wondering,’ she said, after a pause, ‘if you might like to go out somewhere for dinner tonight. We could take one of the hire cars, maybe drive into Lucca.’

‘I’m sorry, Steph,’ he groaned, ‘but I don’t think I can.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said, shrugging, ‘I just thought it might be a nice idea, that was all. Maybe another night.’

‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

‘We’ll see.’

‘Steph,’ he said, as she started to get up.

She looked down at him, her hands stuffed inside her jacket and her shoulders hunched as if from the cold.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

‘So am I,’ she said, and giving him a sad smile she turned and walked into the bar.

An hour later Matthew and Marian were being shown into the dining-room of the Tuscan palazzo which was the main residence of the Tarallo family. Matching candelabras lit the table, and a vast crystal chandelier glittered over the magnificent room. At one end a fire crackled in the hearth, and at the other, immense uncurtained windows were blackened by night.

‘This is very kind of you,’ Marian was saying as she walked slowly across the room, keeping pace with Sylvestra who was holding onto her arm. ‘We only wanted to talk, we weren’t expecting dinner.’

‘But I must eat,’ Sylvestra answered, ‘I am hungry. Besides, it is nothing very special we have tonight, the family are at the opera in Florence. It is just Enrico and me.’

‘I suppose you were going to the opera as well, before we called,’ Matthew muttered to Enrico.

‘It is no matter, my friend,’ Enrico smiled. ‘It is one I have seen many times before.’

The table was set only at one end, nearest the fire, and Sylvestra smiled gratefully at Marian as she sank into one of the stately baroque chairs. ‘We are four,’ she said, ‘so we sit each side of the table – no one at the head. Marian, you sit facing me, beside Enrico, and Matthew, you sit beside me. You will have a little wine? It is from the Tarallo vineyards.’

‘Then we can’t say no,’ Matthew answered, his eyes dancing with amusement at the powerful, frail old woman.

‘So,’ Enrico said, after the antipasto had been laid out and the servants had left the room, ‘you said on the phone, Marian, that there was something you would like to ask me.’

‘Yes,’ she said, throwing a quick glance at Matthew. ‘It’s about Paul O’Connell.’

Enrico’s eyes met his grandmother’s and after a few seconds she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘We had guessed that it was,’ Enrico said, turning back to Marian. ‘What is it you would like to know?’

Again she looked at Matthew, for a moment at a loss as to how to begin.

‘Basically, what you know,’ Matthew answered. ‘That is assuming you know more about him than his involvement in recent events.’

‘We do,’ Sylvestra answered. ‘I have read the letter you sent to Enrico, and that is why I have agreed to speak with you. You are right to think Madeleine is in danger from him, and so too are you, Marian.’

‘In what way are they in danger?’ Matthew asked.

‘That, I am afraid, is a question only he can answer. You see, I have no understanding of the working of such a mind as his. But this I can tell you, Paul O’Connell is matto – insane.’

Marian’s fork clanged against her plate as she dropped it.

‘I know this,’ Sylvestra went on, ‘because once I know his mother. She too was insane, but she was not dangerous. And now I shall tell you why Paul is dangerous, how it is that I know this.’

Marian’s face was strained and pale as she stared at the old lady, but Sylvestra was looking at Enrico. It was as if there was a silent communication between them before Sylvestra turned back to Marian – and suddenly Marian was afraid.

‘Paul O’Connell killed his mother and father,’ Sylvestra said, fixing her with her pale, shrewd eyes.

Marian felt as though the room was spinning, and for a moment she thought she was going to pass out, then Enrico’s hand closed over hers and he was holding a glass of water to her lips.

‘It was during a hunt,’ Sylvestra was now addressing herself to Matthew. ‘The details are now vague, I am an old lady, you understand. But I do remember that everyone was to think it was Helen, Paul’s mother, who had shot her husband and then herself. Everyone knew she was unwell in her mind, but I knew Helen, I had seen her only one week before she died. She would not have killed herself then, because of what she was planning to do. Paul knew what she planned, and that was why he killed her. It is my belief that his father saw him do it, and that was why Paul killed his father too. It was a scandal, but no one believed that a boy of eleven would kill his parents, so everyone believed it was Helen.’

‘But what was Helen going to do?’ Matthew asked, when this had had time to sink in.

‘She was planning to leave them, to come here to Italy.’

‘He killed her for that?’

‘He is insane, you remember. His reasoning is not like yours.’

‘I remember Paul telling me that his mother loved Italy,’ Marian murmured, ‘Florence in particular. They used to come every year.’

‘Yes, they did. But Helen came more often. She had a reason to, but that reason is maybe better to die with her. Now only I know, my son Enrico, and Paul. And one other person, the person she wanted to be with. Paul loved his mother a great deal, he did not want her to go, and now he is afraid that one day someone he loves will leave him again. That is why he is doing this to Madeleine. He wants to keep her with him, away from everyone but him. He wants her to love no one else, even you, Marian.’

‘So you think he’s likely to kill Marian to achieve this?’ Matthew asked.

‘I do not know. As I say, it is difficult to understand the mind of the insane, and I do not wish to alarm you.’

‘I can’t see any way round this,’ Marian said, looking at Matthew with wide, frightened eyes. ‘Even if we told Madeleine, and even if she believed us, Paul’s not going to let her go, is he?’

‘No,’ Sylvestra answered flatly. ‘There is nothing you can do, and I cannot advise you. All I can do is tell you what I know.’

It was approaching midnight when Marian and Matthew finally left the palazzo, by which time they had talked over and over what they could do to get Madeleine away from Paul. But there was no solution; as Marian had pointed out, even if they could persuade Madeleine to leave him, there was no knowing what lengths he would go to to get her back, and God only knew what revenge he would seek on those who had interfered.

As they drove away Enrico stood at the door with Sylvestra, watching the tail lights disappear through the gates. ‘Why did you not tell them everything?’ he asked.

‘Because it is a very tangled web, this fate that has brought them here,’ Sylvestra answered, ‘and I am not clear in my mind what is the right thing to do.’

‘But still I think you should have told them.’

‘Maybe,’ she answered, ‘but maybe they have no need to know everything. So many years have passed, Enrico, so many tears have been spilled and so much blood. I do not want to see it happen again. I must think, I must think what is the best thing to do to avoid it . . .’

‘I wonder,’ Marian was saying, as Matthew drove them through the darkened village of Galleno, ‘who it was Paul’s mother wanted to be with.’

Matthew was silent for a moment. ‘I have a horrible feeling in my gut,’ he said, ‘that it has something to do with Sergio Rambaldi. I know it sounds crazy, and I know I’ve got nothing to found it on, but . . .’

‘That’s what I was thinking, too,’ Marian said quietly. Then, a long time later, she turned to look at him. ‘I’m frightened, Matthew,’ she whispered. ‘This has all gone so far beyond me now that I don’t know what to do any more. I can’t even begin to make any sense of it. Maybe I should take Maddy back to London, back to Bristol even, but how can I even begin to explain to her . . .? Oh, if only we could go back to the beginning, back to our little flat in Clifton, before we knew Paul. God, Matthew, how has this happened? How have we become involved in such a nightmare?’

‘I don’t know, my darling, but what I do know is that you’ve got to carry on as though Sylvestra never told you any of this. It’ll be difficult, impossible almost – but for your own sake you have to try.’

‘It won’t be easy sleeping under the same roof as Paul now, knowing what I do.’

‘And if it weren’t for the fact that it would cause unwelcome speculation, not to mention insurmountable problems, I’d insist that you stayed in my cottage with me. As it is, I think you’ll be all right as long as you don’t tell anyone where we went tonight.’

She turned to look out of the window, then closed her eyes, not wanting to see the great black mass of the mountains as they passed.

A few minutes later he chuckled quietly.

‘What are you laughing at?’ she asked.

‘Has it struck you yet that there’s a damn sight more drama going on behind the camera than there is in front of it? And what’s more, you, Marian Deacon, are the star.’

‘God give me anonymity,’ she muttered. Then she laughed, too, as he reached out for her hand and brought it to his lips.

The following morning Marian and Madeleine were standing at the edge of the set, watching the action. The camera was tracking slowly round the piazza as Christina Hancock, who was playing Olivia, read aloud from a letter she was writing to her father. A hush hung over the valley, even the birds were quiet for once. The air was still and every member of the crew was holding his breath. Then suddenly the sound of bells crashed into the silence, resounding through the valley and echoing from one mountain to the next.

‘Cut!’ Matthew walked into the middle of the set. ‘Woody! Woody! Where are you?’

Woody rushed in, almost knocking Beanie from her picnic stool. ‘Here, guv.’

‘Get one of your damned assistants, give him a gun and tell him to go down there and shoot that bloody bell ringer.’

‘Yes, guv.’ Woody saluted, then yelled for Colin, the runner.

‘He’s not really going to give him a gun, is he?’ Madeleine asked Marian, her eyes wide with alarm.

‘God save me from religion, especially at eleven thirty on a Thursday morning,’ Matthew muttered.

‘You had the perfect opportunity last night,’ Madeleine hissed as they watched him walk over to Christina. ‘You could have told him then how you felt about him. For Christ’s sake, he took you out to dinner, didn’t he? What more do you want?’

Marian shivered and pulled her jacket tighter. ‘I thought we’d agreed that he knows how I feel.’

‘Marian.’

Marian turned round, and her face drained as she saw Stephanie standing behind her.

‘Can I have a word, please?’ Stephanie said, and without waiting for an answer she walked down the lane. Marian and Madeleine exchanged wide-eyed glances, then with her heart thudding, Marian went to catch up.

‘God, I’m not that alarming, am I?’ Stephanie smiled, when she saw Marian’s face. ‘Look, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for the way I told you about the credits you’re receiving on the film. I shouldn’t have given you the news in such a hostile manner, and I wanted you to know that it’s something you deserve for all the hard work you’ve put in, and that Bronwen and I appreciate everything you’ve done to make this film work. But of course, the credit isn’t enough, so after discussing this with Frank we’ve decided we’re going to pay you as a story editor, plus half the fee Deborah Foreman received. All in all, it should amount to something in the region of fifty thousand pounds. It’ll be paid into your bank account as soon as we get back to London. Is that all right with you?’

Marian was too stunned to do anything more than nod.

‘Good,’ Stephanie smiled. ‘Well, that was all.’ And shrugging, she turned back up the lane, feeling the tension beginning to ebb from her body. It hadn’t been as difficult as she’d expected, and already she was glad she had done it. She had done it to prove to herself and to Matthew that, no matter what was going on in her heart, her professionalism remained intact.

‘We can cover it on wild track,’ the sound man was telling Matthew, as Marian walked back to Madeleine. ‘Or better still, post-sync it.’

‘What did she want?’ Madeleine hissed.

‘You’ll never guess,’ Marian answered. Then she put her fingers over her lips as Woody yelled for everyone to stand by for another take.

Ten minutes later the unit broke for an early lunch – it seemed the bell ringer had a job to do and he was going to do it despite any feature film. ‘OK, let it go,’ Woody said into his walkie-talkie, grinning sheepishly – he’d been in danger of forgetting his assistants, who were dotted around the valley playing traffic warden. Almost instantly the blast of car horns started up as vehicles that had been kept stationary further down the mountain were allowed to resume their journeys – each driver having pocketed several thousand lira in return for the favour of a forty-minute delay.

As everyone else filed down the lane to the plateau where the caterers had set up lunch, Marian and Madeleine wandered over to the wall that ran round the piaoza.

‘Don’t knock it!’ Madeleine laughed, once Marian had told her Stephanie’s news. ‘Fifty thousand pounds, eh? Bit like winning the pools, isn’t it?’

‘Not as good as a lottery, though,’ Marian said dryly.

‘Oh God, I fell right into that one, didn’t I?’

‘Head first. And I’m not going to play any games with you about how we’re going to spend it because this is all mine.’

‘You selfish old cow, you.’ Madeleine lifted Marian’s wrist to look at the time. ‘Hey, I’d better go and take Paul his sandwiches. I won’t tell you what we got up to in the woods yesterday, but I think I’ll take a blanket with me today. You don’t think there are any snakes in Tuscany, do you?’

‘As a matter of fact there are. So, why don’t you come and have some lunch down at the caterers with me?’

‘I can’t, I promised Paul.’

Let her go, Marian was telling herself. Don’t make a fuss. She went yesterday and everything was all right, so there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be all right today. ‘Are you seeing Enrico later?’ she asked.

‘We’re going into Lucca to look at the sights. You know, I think it should be you keeping him company, he talked about you practically all the time I was with him yesterday, and you like buildings and all that stuff much more than me.’

Marian smiled as Madeleine stood up, then turning to see how the queue was doing at the catering truck, she frowned as a familiar figure broke out of the crowd and marched up the lane towards them. ‘Maddy,’ she said, ‘isn’t that Deidre?’

Madeleine turned round. ‘Yes,’ she said, mystified. ‘Yes, it is.’ Suddenly she whooped for joy and took off down the lane to meet her agent.

‘I’m staying with some friends in Florence,’ Deidre told her, once Madeleine had relinquished her stranglehold of an embrace, ‘so I thought I’d come along and see how it’s all going over here. I’m not in the way, am I?’ she said to Marian as she ambled up.

‘No. Everyone’s at lunch, as you can see. In fact, I’m just off to get mine. You’re more than welcome to join me if you like, or there’s a bar over there if you’d prefer a drink.’

‘A drink sounds like heaven,’ Deidre sighed. ‘Come on, Maddy, you can show me where it is.’

Marian found Matthew sitting on the steps of Christina Hancock’s winnebago, eating his lunch with Frank and Grace, who were seated at a picnic table the caterers had set out for them.

‘Isn’t this a glorious day?’ Grace said, as Marian perched on the steps beside Matthew.

‘Wonderful,’ Marian agreed, glancing up at the clear blue sky. ‘Bit cold to be eating al fresco though, isn’t it? Still, either that or the dining bus, and I suppose you’ve made the wiser choice.’

‘That’s just about what I reckoned,’ Frank chuckled. Then peering at Marian from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he asked in a low voice, ‘You doing all right out here, are you? I mean, Matthew’s told us about –’ he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot, ‘– you calling Meyer.’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Marian answered, wishing that just for a moment she could forget all about it.

Sensing the way Marian felt, Grace engaged her husband in lighter conversation, and when Bronwen joined them a few minutes later, Marian turned to Matthew and whispered: ‘Madeleine’s agent has just turned up.’

‘Really?’ he said, not hiding his surprise. ‘Then let’s hope she stays for a bit. One more person to keep an eye on Madeleine won’t do us any harm, will it?’

Hazel had seen Bronwen climbing the steps to her cottage, and called her in when she knocked. ‘Manfredo’s grog,’ she groaned, dragging herself up from the lumpy armchair. ‘Trying to sleep off the hangover. They’re not looking for me on the set are they? Aagh!’ she cried, as she bent over to pick up her handbag. ‘Remind me not to make any sudden movements.’

Bronwen smiled sympathetically and shook her head as Hazel offered her a cigarette. ‘I want to talk to you about Stephanie,’ she said, coming straight to the point. ‘Or, to be more precise, Marian and Matthew.’

‘Ah yes,’ Hazel sighed, releasing two jets of smoke from her nostrils. ‘A mystery that, is it not?’

Bronwen perched on the edge of the dilapidated table in front of the window. ‘Has he ever mentioned anything to you about Marian?’

Hazel shook her head.

‘No, me neither – not that I’d have expected him to, really. Do you think there is something going on between them?’

‘It certainly looks like it,’ Hazel answered. ‘But why he should rub it in Stephanie’s face like this is simply beyond me. I mean, it’s monstrous.’ She took another puff of her cigarette. ‘It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?’ she mused. ‘There’s you married, me divorced and Stephanie still single, yet not one of us has the answers to a damned thing.’

‘But we do know the reason Stephanie’s never married,’ Bronwen said.

Hazel nodded. ‘And so does Matthew. You know, if I were Stephanie I’d want to claw the damned kid’s eyes out.’

Bronwen sighed with exasperation. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do, Hazel. Ever since she’s known him she’s been in love with him. In the years they were apart there was never another man. He, and their shared career, is all she’s ever wanted. And I thought, this time, that it would work out. He seemed just as crazy about her, if not more so. So what’s going on?’

The silence was heavy and Hazel waved an arm to clear the air of smoke. ‘Do you think there’s anything either of us can do? Should we talk to Matthew, confront him with it?’

Bronwen shook her head. ‘It’s Stephanie who has to do that, but she won’t. She’s not really fighting this, and that’s what worries me. You see, if he really is in love with Marian and leaves Stephanie again, I’m not sure she’ll be able to get over it this time. So we can’t let her give up Hazel, we just can’t.’

‘What!’ Sergio spun round, his black eyes blazing. ‘She has been to see Tarallo, you say? When?’

‘Yesterday. And again this afternoon.’ Deidre had already taken an involuntary step back, and now, as he came towards her, she took another.

His face was lined with fatigue, but for the moment anger had pumped adrenalin into his system. He smashed his fist against an easel, sending it flying across the room and adding to the chaos of his already disordered studio. ‘She is not to go again, do you hear me? You must stop her. Do anything, but she is not to go near the Tarallo family again.’

‘Why?’

‘Do not ask questions,’ he seethed. ‘Just do as I say. It is Thursday afternoon now, you have only to stop her until tomorrow night. Is that clear?’

Deidre’s head jerked into a nod. She was still backing away, out of confusion as much as fear. ‘And then?’ she whispered.

‘That need not concern you. The arrangements have been made. You can go back to England.’

‘Meaning, I have served my purpose?’

For several seconds Sergio’s face remained obdurate, then slowly it relaxed and a softer light came into his eyes. ‘You make me sound so callous, cara, and I do not mean to be. You are to be my wife soon, is that not what you wanted?’

‘You know it is I just wish it didn’t have to happen like this.’

Gathering her into his arms, he started to cover her face with kisses. ‘I understand your confusion, my love, but soon it will be over and you and I will marry, here in Florence, and we shall be happy and grow old together.’

‘But Madeleine . . .’

‘Ssh, cara, Madeleine does not matter, it is only you who matter. Tomorrow is for Madeleine, all the tomorrows. Today is for us.’

She knew it was useless to pursue it, and as his kisses grew steadily more passionate she melted against him. This may be the last time, she told herself; he may never hold me like this again and oh God, I don’t know if I can bear it.

Later, when he had left for the bottega, she sat amongst the confusion of his apartment, staring into space. Her hand was resting on the telephone, which rang once or twice, but he had told her not to answer it. She didn’t care who it might be, who he was trying to avoid, that wasn’t in her mind at all. She was thinking only about the call she knew she had to make, because she knew now that no matter how much she loved Sergio, nor how much she longed to be his wife, she couldn’t go through with it – not when she didn’t know what was going to happen to Madeleine. She would lose him anyway, a sixth sense had already told her that, and the glittering excitement in his eyes after they had made love – an excitement almost manic in its intensity had confirmed it. So the fact that she was putting her life at risk by making the call hardly mattered now.

She stared down at the phone. From the way Sergio had behaved when Madeleine turned up on Sardinia, and again just now, she knew that there was only one person who had the answers to her questions, but would he tell her? With dread thumping through her chest and a leaden despair in her heart, she picked up the phone.

Five minutes later she fell back in the chair. Her hair was dishevelled and her hands shook, but the call had been made and tomorrow she would go to the Tarallo villa. Her eyes were drowned in tears which trickled slowly down her face, curving into her mouth and dripping from her chin. ‘Forgive me, Sergio,’ she sobbed. ‘Please forgive me. I love you. I love you so much that it is breaking my heart, but I just can’t let you take her away.’