The Italian Matchmaker(21)

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.





6



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?’