The Italian Matchmaker (8 page)

‘No one,’ she said briskly.

Luca felt foolish chasing after her. ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ he shouted.

She smiled politely and hurried on, her pretty little feet moving swiftly over the paving stones. The boy left the shady trees and skipped up to join her. Luca grinned at him and gave a little wave. The boy’s big brown eyes looked stunned. He hesitated a moment, his mouth agape, then turned to run after his mother who was leaving the square by a narrow street, almost lost in shadow.

Luca returned to the church. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. No wonder his mother hadn’t had much success in finding out the history, if no one wanted to talk. He took his seat next to Caradoc. ‘I bet you found out nothing,’ whispered the professor.

‘You’re right. She didn’t want to talk.’

‘Of course not. She must have thought you were just chatting her up.’

‘Which I wasn’t!’ Luca joked.

‘Beware of the men in her family. You don’t want to cross an Italian man.’

‘You’re telling me?’

‘You’re only
half
Italian. These southerners are very passionate. Men are killed for less.’

At last the elderly man picked up his prayer book and prepared to leave. Caradoc tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good day,’ said the professor in Latin. The old man looked confused.

‘
Buona sera
,’ whispered Luca. ‘Forgive us for disturbing you. We’re new in town. We live at Palazzo Montelimone on the hill. Would you mind if we asked you a little about the history of the place? We thought you looked like the sort of person who would know.’

The old man sniffed noisily. ‘Come outside,’ he hissed, standing up stiffly. Both men followed him to the
piazza
and took a seat on one of the benches. The gossiping mothers had gone home, the
piazza
was quiet.

‘Professor Caradoc Macausland.’ The professor shook the man’s hand.

‘Tancredi Lattarullo. So you live up at Montelimone.’ He smiled at the professor, revealing large black gaps between a few long brown teeth. His skin was tanned and bristly, life’s joys and sorrows imprinted in deep lines like arid rivers in a desert. He sniffed again.

‘My parents live there,’ interjected Luca in Italian. ‘My name is Luca.’

‘Yes, I know who lives in the
palazzo
. You’d never get a local living up there. They must be very brave, Luca,’ said Tancredi, his laugh rattling in his chest like an old engine.

‘Have you always lived here?’ he asked.

Tancredi was only too pleased to tell them a little about himself. Luca offered him a cigarette and lit one for himself. ‘I have lived in Incantellaria all my life,’ said Tancredi, exhaling a puff of smoke. ‘I survived the war. I fought for my country. The things I’ve witnessed are enough to turn your blood cold. But I was a hero. They should have given me medals for the things I did at Monte Cassino. Now look at me. No one cares. Life was better then. People looked out for one another. Not like now. Everyone is out for themselves. The young have no appreciation of what their countrymen fought and died for.’

‘Who lived in the
palazzo
during the war? Was it occupied by the Germans?’

Tancredi shook his head. ‘It belonged to the Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone. He was a little prince. Too good to mingle with the common folk down here. He had his own private Mass daily up at the
palazzo
. Father Dino would have to bicycle up that hill and back down again in the heat even though the
Marchese
had a chauffeur and a shiny white Lagonda. Like a panther it was, purring as it went, a real beauty. I remember it even now. It could have been yesterday. The only other person to have a car was the
sindaco
. Now it’s not just the mayor who has a car, but everyone and the smell gets up my nose.’ He sniffed again to make his point. ‘People become animals behind the wheel. They think they are invincible. In those days we travelled by horse and life was better.’

‘What happened to the
Marchese
?’

‘He was murdered up there in your
palazzo
.’ Tancredi drew a line across his chicken neck. Luca quickly translated for Caradoc.

‘Ask him whether it was an honour killing?’ said Caradoc, looking years younger with excitement.

Tancredi shrugged, pulling a face like a fish. ‘
Bo!
Nobody knows the truth. But my uncle was the town
carabiniere
and I have heard it whispered that the
Marchese
killed Valentina, his mistress, so Valentina’s brother killed
him
.’

‘An honour killing,’ repeated Luca. ‘No wonder no one wants to talk about it.’

‘Valentina’s death was all over the newspapers at the time because she was in the car with the infamous
mafioso
, Lupo Bianco, when they were both murdered. A small-town beauty in diamonds and furs on her way to Naples in the middle of the night.’ He raised his eyebrows, clearly taking delight in divulging the dirt. ‘You can imagine, it was a sensational story. Her daughter, Alba, lives here in Incantellaria. English, like you. But she came here thirty years ago and has never gone back to England. That’s what happens to people who come here. They don’t go back. But you won’t get her talking about it. It was a long time ago. No one likes to drag up the past. The
Marchese
got what he deserved. Valentina was the light of Incantellaria and he extinguished her.’

‘So that’s it?’ said Luca. ‘That’s the reason no one wanted to buy the
palazzo
?’

Tancredi looked shifty. ‘It is haunted.’

‘Haunted? By the
Marchese
?’

‘Of course.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Everyone knows. For years the
palazzo
was uninhabited. The
Marchese
left it to a man called Nero who let it rot like an unwanted cake. Then Nero left. I think he ran out of money. No one would buy it. I don’t know what became of him. But during the years that passed, on dark nights, you could see candlelight flickering through the rooms. The police went to investigate on numerous occasions but found nothing.’ He took a deep drag, pausing for effect. ‘Of course, there were stories, accounts of sightings, screams, noises. No one is in any doubt that the
Marchese
is still up there on that hill.’

‘Well, now Mother has her history,’ said Luca as he walked back to the car with the professor.

‘A murder indeed,’ exclaimed the professor. ‘And a ghost thrown in. I would expect nothing less from the south of Italy. A truly satisfying piece of detective work. Well done, my boy.’

‘That Valentina sounds quite a player.’

‘Quite a girl,’ agreed Caradoc with a chuckle. ‘The war took people to extremes. There were no limits. One had nothing to lose. I fought for king and country. It was brutal and romantic. Death in every corner, a girl in every port. Then I came back and married my childhood sweetheart, Myrtle.’

‘What happened to Myrtle?’

‘She died. Cancer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘The best die young.’

‘Children?’

‘Four. All grown up. But since I retired I’ve travelled. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to see the world. I think I’ll hang my cap up here for a while. Like Tancredi said, people come to Incantellaria and they never leave.’

‘Say, Caradoc, what do you think about having a drink on the sea front?’

‘I’d say jolly good idea, young man. There’s a nice little
trattoria
called Fiorelli’s. They serve
espresso
on the terrace and the girls are easy on the eye.’

‘Sounds just my thing,’ said Luca, taking the professor by the arm.

 

Alba stood in the shadows with her daughter as the two men took a table on the terrace. ‘That’s the man,’ said Rosa, her pale eyes appraising him appreciatively. ‘Cosima said he was tall, dark and handsome.’

‘I’m glad she noticed,’ said Alba. ‘It’s time she moved on. It’s been three years.’

‘He’s gorgeous! If I wasn’t married . . .’

‘The way you and Eugenio behave it’s a miracle you still are. You two fight like cats and dogs.’

‘But the making up is so delicious,’ Rosa countered, with a smile.

‘Who’s he with, I wonder? His father?’

‘The old man? He’s English. He’s been here before – from the
palazzo
.’

‘You’d better serve them, Rosa. Don’t leave them to Fiero. I want details.’

Alba withdrew to the kitchen where Alfonso sweated over a cauldron of soup while his son, Romano, in a clean white apron and hat, chopped vegetables at the butcher’s block in the centre. She sat at a small wooden table in the corner and rubbed her forehead wearily. At fifty-six she was still beautiful. Her hair was lustrous, tumbling down her back in thick waves, her skin the colour of rich honey, though the bloom of youth had been replaced by a more worldly hue. Her pale grey eyes still had the power to captivate, being so unexpected on such a Latin face, and her body was as voluptuous as a ripe peach. She was once formidably plain spoken, yet the years had mellowed her and children softened her, buffing her sharp corners and bestowing the gift of generosity so that she was well loved and respected in her small corner of Italy. She sighed. The goings on up at the
palazzo
were giving her nothing but worry. She liked Incantellaria as it was; quiet, secretive, undeveloped. There was little doubt that those newcomers were nothing but bad news. Since they had moved in there’d been a steady stream of people into the town. Old and young, all looking for amusement. A few were good for business. More than that was a threat to her way of life. Were they turning the
Marchese
’s palace into a hotel? She envisaged nightclubs and beach parties, and dreaded developers. Why didn’t they buy a place in a more fashionable town that already had the infrastructure to accommodate them? ‘Over my dead body,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Where’s the ghost when I need him?’

Rosa sashayed out on to the terrace, swinging her hips, her bottom protruding to accentuate the pretty curve of her back. Her red dress was tight and low cut, her glossy brown hair fell over her shoulders in dark waves. She had her mother’s pale eyes and black lashes, the same petulant bow to her lips but her father’s strong chin and wide, angular face. She knew she was beautiful. Most of the fights she provoked with her husband, Eugenio, were due to her flirtatiousness: Eugenio was so handsome when angry and life would be dull without the fire of their battles and the sweetness of their making up.

Luca raised his eyes and Rosa’s heart skipped a beat. He was devilishly handsome. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said brightly. Her flawless English threw them both.

‘My goodness,’ exclaimed Caradoc. ‘A Latin beauty who speaks English like the Queen.’

‘I’m so pleased you think so. My mother’s English, my father Italian.’

‘Well, that accounts for it,’ said the professor. ‘What did I tell you, Luca? The girls are easy on the eye, are they not?’

‘My friend here tells me you serve a good coffee.’

‘He isn’t your father?’ said Rosa . . .

‘We’re brothers,’ quipped Caradoc. ‘Can you not see the resemblance?’

Rosa giggled. ‘Of course. Silly me! Two coffees then, brothers?’

‘Make it strong, with hot milk on the side,’ said Luca. ‘Piping hot milk.’

‘You didn’t bring your wife?’ she asked innocently.

‘I don’t have one.’ He was used to women like her, but she didn’t look a day older than twenty-five.

‘What a shame,’ she replied with a sympathetic smile. ‘Tell me, you’re from the
palazzo
, aren’t you?’

The professor nodded. ‘The ghosts haven’t scared us off yet.’

‘Oh, that rubbish!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Let me get your coffees. Then I’ll tell you all you want to know about that place. My grandmother was Valentina, you know.’ She watched the younger man’s eyes light up with interest.

Alba emerged from the kitchen. ‘So, who are they?’

‘The younger man is called Luca. They’re not father and son. Luca called him “my friend”.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘He’s not married.’

‘Divorced,’ observed Alba.

‘How do you know?’

‘Just a hunch. He’s got the look of a man who’s been dragged through the law courts by an avaricious woman.’

‘He’s gorgeous!’ breathed Rosa as she placed two cups beneath the
espresso
machine. ‘I could make him happy.’

‘You watch out,’ cautioned Alba. ‘You’ll only upset Eugenio and I don’t think I can take much more of your bickering.’

‘We’ll move out if you wish,’ Rosa said sulkily.

‘Don’t be silly. And leave me with Cosima?’

‘She looks like a witch dressed in black all the time.’

‘She’s in mourning. It’s her choice and her right.’

‘Well, it’s very dull for those who have to live with her. You know, my children call her
la strega
behind her back.’

‘If they call her witch, darling, it’s only because they’ve been listening to you. Have some compassion.’

‘It’s wearing thin. As you said yourself, it’s been three years.’

‘That kind of loss stays with you for ever,’ Alba said fiercely. ‘By God’s grace it won’t happen to you. Now take them their coffee – you’re here to serve, not to flirt.’

‘I wonder who I take after?’

‘Don’t be cheeky.’