Lattarullo parked the car in front of the elaborate façade of pediments and moldings that rose up to towers and turrets and a tattered flag flying weakly in the breeze. Immediately the vast door opened in a silent yawn. A bent old man in black stood solemnly waiting for them. Thomas and Jack recognized him immediately as the marchese’s chauffeur.
“He’s as loyal as a dog,” said Lattarullo, not bothering to hide his loathing. “He’s worked for the marchese for decades. He’d sell his gold teeth for him if he had to. What he knows is nobody’s business and he’ll take it all to the grave. Shouldn’t be long!”
“He’s not going to pop off while there’s all that wine hidden in the cellars,” said Thomas to Jack with a laugh. “That wine is keeping him alive.” Then Lattarullo, who hadn’t understood their English, said exactly the same thing in Italian.
They climbed out of the car and Alberto greeted them stiffly, without even the smallest hint of a smile. He looked as if he hadn’t smiled in years. Or perhaps ever. They followed him into the dark hallway, through a shady courtyard where grass grew up between the paving stones and beyond, to the main body of the house. As they walked through the rooms, each more enchanting than the last in the intricate moldings and pale pinks and blues painted on the walls, the tapping of their shoes echoed about the high ceilings: there was no furniture to absorb the sound and the tapestries had long since disappeared. Marble fireplaces framed cold, empty grates and the glass on the tall windows was stained with mold. An eeriness pervaded the building, as if they were walking among ghosts.
Finally they reached one of the few rooms in the house that was occupied. There in an armchair sat a dignified gentleman of about seventy, surrounded by a vast library of beautifully bound books, a large globe, and two giant paintings. His gray hair was brushed back off his face, still handsome with a straight Roman nose and deep aquamarine eyes. He was impeccably dressed in a pressed shirt and tweed jacket with a silk scarf tied neatly about his neck. His origins were most certainly northern, for he was fair-skinned, and he held himself with the poise of a prince.
“Welcome,” he said in perfect English, rising from his chair. He walked toward them, emerging from the gloom to shake their hands. He nodded at Lattarullo, then, much to the carabiniere’s disappointment, told Alberto to take him to the kitchen for bread and cheese. He then gestured for them to sit down. “How do you find my town, Lieutenant Arbuckle?” he asked, pouring them tea that had been carefully laid out on a silver tray. The china was thin and elegant and painted with delicate vines. Such a tea set seemed quite out of place in that shabby room.
“It is charming, marchese,” Thomas replied with equal formality.
“I hope you have taken time to look around. The hills are especially beautiful at this time of year.”
“Indeed they are,” agreed Thomas.
“It is a town full of simple people with little education. I was fortunate. My mother gave me an English tutor, after which I was sent to Oxford. Those were the happiest days of my life.” He tapped his long fingers on the arm of his chair. His hands reminded Thomas of a lady concert pianist’s. He then heaved a wheezy sigh. Asthmatic perhaps, or some other lung complaint. “These folk are full of superstitions,” he continued. “Despite living in the twentieth century, they are obsessed with relics of medievalism. I keep my distance, living up here on the hill. I have a good view of the ocean and the harbor. I see who comes in and who goes out. I have a telescope, you see, out there on the terrace. I do not get involved in their rituals. However, rituals keep the people’s minds occupied and therefore out of trouble, and the people of the south are very religious. I grew up here with my brothers and sisters, though where they are now I do not know, or if indeed they are still living. A bitter feud drove a splinter through the heart of our family. I was left with this palazzo. Perhaps if I had married, it might have benefited from the attentions of a woman, but sadly I did not and now never will. The house is falling about my ears, pushing me further and further into its core until there will be nothing left but this room. It survived the Germans but it won’t survive the years. They are unforgiving. Are you married, Lieutenant Arbuckle?”
“No, I am not,” he replied.
“War is no time for love, is it?”
On the contrary, thought Thomas, but he said instead, “I am happy I haven’t left a woman behind in England. If I get killed only my mother will mourn me.” He thought of Freddie and his stomach twisted with pain. At least Freddie hadn’t had a wife either, or children for that matter. He suddenly felt depressed and wished the man would get to the point of their meeting. It was dark in that room and the air was stale. It smelled like an old crypt.