‘I know nothing,’ she said. Her voice was soft and low like a reedy flute. She turned away and walked on through the square.
‘Perhaps you have a grandmother who might know something?’ he continued, hurrying after her.
‘No,’ she replied, quickening her pace. ‘No one has lived there for decades. It was a ruin.’
‘It’s not a ruin now. It’s glorious. Is there someone you can recommend? A local historian perhaps? Is there a library?’
‘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.