Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (45 page)

His driving was even more terrifying than his sister’s. He honked his horn and joked as he saw a group of colleagues travelling in the opposite direction. ‘There was this peasant who lived on a narrow road up in the mountains,’ he told Amanda. ‘One day, he saw a carload of
carabinieri
driving backwards up the mountain. “Why are you driving backwards?” he asked. The men replied: “Because we’re not sure we’ll be able to turn around up ahead.” Later, the peasant saw the
carabinieri
driving backwards down the same mountain. “How come you’re still driving backwards?” the peasant asked. “Well,” the driver replied, “we found a place to turn around.
”
’

‘Yes, that’s very amusing,’ Amanda observed unconvincingly and Giovanni repeated the punchline just in case she had not understood.
‘
“
We found a place to turn around
.
”
’

She had opted for the back seat, anticipating the fearsome nature of the journey. ‘Sidney,’ she announced, somehow hoping that a conversation with her friend would allow the driver to concentrate on the road, ‘this is an inside job, I am sure of it.’

The response from her friend was in archaic English. ‘Exercise vigilance, Amanda. The conveyor of this mode of perambulation comprehends something of the language in which we confabulate.’

‘There is no need to sound like Henry James. I am not saying anything he has not heard already.’

‘Although it would perhaps be something of a blunder, albeit a minor one, to allow our companion to hazard any estimation of our investigative procedures. “
Cum vulpibus vulpinandum
.
”
’

‘Are you enjoying this?’ Amanda asked.

‘On the contrary, given the circumstances in which we find ourselves, it behoves us to exercise the kind of caution of which our chauffeur is perhaps . . .’

‘ATTENZIONE!’ Amanda shouted as Giovanni narrowly missed a farmer with his donkey and cart.

‘
Si figuri
,’ the driver replied before accelerating round the next corner.

After only eight minutes of this hair-raising drive they arrived at the Villa Tolomei and were shown into a large reception room which looked out on to a formal but storm-damaged garden. Sir William was seated at a desk and was using the hotel stationery to write a letter to his son. ‘He’s at Eton. Clever chap. Chip off the old block, I’m proud to say.’

His wife was reading that morning’s edition of
La Nazione
. ‘We were just discussing your plight, Sidney. Such an unfortunate misunderstanding.’

‘It could have happened to any of us,’ Amanda replied, looking round and wondering if they were going to be offered something to drink.

‘Any of us who were actually there,’ said Sidney. ‘Anything interesting in the news?’

‘It’s all flood, flood, flood. Nothing much about the Uffizi. The library was hit the worst. We tried to help there too, but the destruction was terrible. Complete chaos.’

‘Isn’t there an English paper?’

‘We sometimes read the
Herald Tribune
but it’s far too American. This helps with my Italian. I try to look at it every day. I think I may have told you that before. Keep my hand in, you know?’

Sir William signed off his letter and turned from his chair. ‘It’s fortunate that we left earlier, otherwise we might have found ourselves in a similar pickle.’

‘Have you been back to the gallery?’ Amanda asked.

‘There were plenty of people around; no need for us to chip in and confuse things. Any sign of the painting?’

‘Which one?’ Sidney asked.

‘Battista Sforza, of course. You don’t mean that someone’s filched the other one too?’

‘We thought you knew,’ Amanda explained. ‘That’s why Sidney’s a free man. He can’t possibly have stolen the second painting when he was in police custody.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘And I couldn’t possibly have taken the first,’ her friend complained quickly.

Sir William folded his letter and put it in an envelope. ‘No sign of either painting, then?’

‘None.’

‘And the police don’t have any ideas, Canon Chambers?’

‘The police don’t, no.’

‘Have they roped you in to help yet?’

‘My Italian is not what it might be.’

‘Sidney’s had quite enough of the police as it is. He’s got his own man waiting outside even as we speak,’ said Amanda. ‘When are you off?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Sir William replied. ‘It’s a long drive.’

‘I thought you flew.’

‘We prefer the car. It makes you feel that you are still on the Grand Tour. You can enjoy the Alps and stop off with friends in the south of France.’

‘We like to spend a couple of days in Paris too,’ his wife added.

Amanda began to talk of her discussions with the Uffizi and of the loans she was trying to arrange. Had Sir William had any success in his negotiations for an exchange of paintings for Rushworth Hall?

‘Not bad. Although the flood’s put the kibosh on everything. Now all the Italians want is money.’

‘Which is the one thing we don’t have!’ Lady Victoria laughed.

Before they left, Sidney asked the Etheringtons if they could recommend a good place to buy souvenirs. They were rather surprised by his request. Surely Amanda could advise?

‘I was just wondering what kind of things you like to take back to England?’

‘Nothing of any significance. Sometimes we toddle up to San Gimignano and buy some pottery.’

‘I love traditional crafts.’

Lady Etherington cut in. ‘And, of course, William’s bringing back a few books he found in a junk shop. Sometimes the Italians don’t know what they have and you can pick up all manner of treasures for just a few lire. We don’t spend much. We live quite a modest life, you know.’

As they drove back into town they could see that the clear-up operation from the flood was still in evidence. An elderly man with a knitted bobble hat picked up a muddied Italian flag that had fallen into the street, put it in the boot of his car, and tried to start the engine. A blonde-haired girl in a pale raincoat smoked a cigarette as her
amoroso
tried to start up his motorbike. A small boy walked past with a rescued kitten.

Amanda was dropped off at her hotel, and Giovanni accompanied Sidney to the vicarage. The doctor had not arrived but was on his way. Francesca asked if everyone would like coffee, and Sidney thought that, while he was waiting, he might like a word with her too. Having met her brother he was pretty sure that he could trust the Tardelli family and that they were unlikely to be part of an international art conspiracy. But was he right to be suspicious about the Etheringtons?

Francesca was studying a newspaper report of the flood in
l’Unità
. The headline read:
Salvare Firenze!
Sidney asked if that was her paper of choice.

‘It is Communist. For the young. And the workers. It was founded by Antonio Gramsci. Have you heard of him? My father reads it.’

‘But not, perhaps, his boss?’

‘No. He would take
Corriere della Sera
or
La Stampa
. In Florence the people with money and position read
La Nazione
.’

‘Not
l’Unità
? You wouldn’t, for example, find
l’Unità
in a hotel for English people?’

Francesca smiled. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Because when I was in the Uffizi, Lady Etherington picked up a copy of
l’Unità
. Why would she do that if she wouldn’t normally read such a paper?’

‘Maybe, in the basement of the gallery, where the guards and security staff work, that is the only paper they have.’ She passed the newspaper across. ‘Do you want to have a look? I could translate?’

‘That is kind. I’ll just try to get the idea. I don’t think I need a full translation.’ Sidney thought for a moment. ‘Do you think I could speak to your father again?’

‘Perhaps you have seen our family too much, Canon Chambers. What do you want to know?’

‘It’s just a thought I have . . .’

Sidney looked through the copy of
l’Unità
. He could hardly understand a word but could tell from the headlines and the photographs that this was a far cry from
The Times
. The authorities were being blamed for the flood and the prime minister, Aldo Moro, was accused of irresponsibility. America’s President Johnson was ‘escalating’ the war in Vietnam and Mao Tse-tung had presided over a rally of the Red Guard in Peking.

At last, Doctor Cannavaro arrived. He was a kindly, well-dressed man who, it turned out, had fought at Monte Cassino in the war. He and Sidney had been on opposite sides.

‘So,’ he smiled, ‘we might have killed each other. Such a tragedy. So many lives lost. Stupid. Now we must forgive the past and become friends.’ On discovering that Hildegard was German he told her how keen he was to make amends. ‘We must all lead better lives.’

He climbed the stairs and sat quietly by Anna as she slept. He let the back of his hand rest on her forehead and felt her pulse. Then he stepped away to allow Hildegard to wake her. He did not want the little girl to be frightened by the face of a stranger. He asked for Francesca and issued instructions.

After his patient had been given some juice and told not to worry (this was a doctor), Luigi Cannavaro brought a carved golden angel out of his suit pocket. He told Anna that it would protect her, and that she would soon be well. He showed her his torch and asked her to open her mouth wide; then he let her look in his mouth too. He said that he had brought a special medicine, but it was one that could only be used by English girls. Was Anna English? Was she a girl? The medicine was special because it was pink. It didn’t taste very nice so it needed to be mixed with something else. Something cold and delicious that would stop her feeling so hot. Could Anna think what that might be? She couldn’t. The doctor felt her forehead once more and asked for a damp towel. Francesca returned to the room with medicine, a bowl and a spoon.

‘Aha!’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘
Gelato alla fragola
. You see, Anna, this medicine is so special it can only be used with strawberry ice cream. It does not work if you do not have the ice cream. Do you think you can eat a little? I know it may be hard . . .’

Anna nodded. Then she took her medicine.

It was fifteen minutes before the doctor rejoined Sidney downstairs. ‘It is a fever and a sore throat. It will pass.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Sidney. ‘I know there must be so many calls on your time.’

‘It is the same for you.’

‘But I am on holiday.’

‘I do not think a priest ever has a holiday.’

‘It is easier in Italy.’

‘When the English come here they are always excited. The beauty is too much.’ The doctor opened the door. ‘Lady Etherington, she faints . . .’

‘When was this?’ Sidney asked.

‘After shopping. She carried many, many bags. After she helped at the Uffizi. It was too much. She fell like a child.’

‘Was she all right?’

‘It was nothing. She needed water. People helped her a lot.’

‘What happened to her shopping?’ Sidney asked.

The doctor looked surprised that this should be considered more important than the health of an acquaintance, ‘Her husband took it. Everything wrapped up. No problem. It is normal. Italia. The English. Too much. But Lady Etherington, she was better in five minutes.’

I bet she was, thought Sidney.

He was going to have to act fast. He persuaded Giovanni Tardelli that they had to return to the Villa Tolomei immediately. He also assured the surprised policeman that this time he could drive as dangerously as he liked provided they got there, Francesca explained,
il più rapidamente possibile
.

He asked the housekeeper to make up a little story for Hildegard. He had gone with Giovanni to the police station. It was a bureaucratic matter. He also told her to get on to her father, her boyfriend, and Amanda Kendall. In fact she could tell whoever she liked.

‘And what if you are wrong?’ Francesca asked.

Sidney was about to say that he was hardly ever wrong when he realised that there was no actual evidence for this; certainly not in Italy. ‘Trust me,’ he said as he climbed into the front seat of Giovanni’s car.

They arrived at the Villa Tolomei just as the Etheringtons’ Rover P5, with British number plates, was disappearing down the drive. He and Giovanni stopped outside the hotel gates and looked at each other without saying anything. Sidney nodded. Giovanni smiled and put his foot down.

The Etheringtons were heading north, and after leaving the Via di Santa Maria a Marignolle they swerved on to the Via Romana, and drove in heavy traffic past the Boboli Gardens, hooting the horn repeatedly, before turning left along Lungarno Guicciardini and making their way over the Arno at the Ponte alla Carraia. They knew they were being followed. Once they had crossed the river they accelerated through narrow side streets, empty of people, but still wet and muddied by the flood. Here their speeding attracted the attention of the
carabinieri
, a squad car soon joining in the chase up the Via del Moro, the Via Panzani, and past the church of Santa Maria Novella with Alberti’s famous façade.