Mr. Steptoe, the new greengrocer in Long Piddleton, sat between Agatha and Diane. They were one woman short, so that meant two men would be cracking elbows. Melrose had seated Agatha between himself and Mr. Steptoe; this had immediately resulted in a whispered exchange, Agatha insisting that she preferred not to sit next to a grocer who would have no conversation at all. “But I’ll be on your left hand, dear aunt, and you know I’ll have all sorts of conversation.” This irritated her even more, as Melrose knew it would.
But as it turned out, Mr. Steptoe had endless conversation, though it was all about vegetables. Mr. Steptoe had done beetroot, asparagus, parsnips and potatoes, had gone right around the dishes brought in by Ruthven and the slightly emaciated young lad Ruthven had dug up to help serve. Mr. Steptoe had pronounced each of these vegetables of excellent quality, which prompted Melrose to remark that they should be, for weren’t they purchased at Steptoe’s? Mr. Steptoe had thought that marvelously funny, and had excused himself from bragging by saying he honestly hadn’t had that in mind at all.
“It’s just that the right kind of vegetable, properly cooked, does indeed make the difference between a poor meal and a good one.”
“Remember,” said Trueblood, turning to Melrose, “the excellent flageolet beans at the Villa San Michele?”
Mr. Steptoe made a little noise. “Ah, flageolet! The best are in France, of course.”
Melrose thought his guests might as well be at Le Manoir aux Quatre Saisons, listening to Raymond Blanc.
Mr. Steptoe continued: “Yes, I had a very tasty dish of flageolet cooked with apricots in Paris.”
“The staple food of the Hunzas,” said Diane.
All eyes turned to Diane upon hearing this runic remark.
“Apricots,” she said. “Their staple food.”
“Diane,” said Melrose, “who in hell are the Hunzas?”
Diane waved the question away with ruby-painted nails. “Some Indian or other. Have we finished our dinner? Am I sitting in the smoking section? I’m way down at the end here, absolutely ostracized.”
“You’ve got me, Diane,” said Jury, taking her lighter to light her cigarette.
“Oh, don’t I wish.”
“Funny,”said Melrose, “I certainly remember clearly the Villa San Michele-the magnificent vaulted ceilings, the faded frescoes on the walls of the lobby, the subdued service in the dining room and that knock-out view of Florence from the balcony. But I don’t seem to recall the flageolet.”
“Trust Melrose,” said Agatha, “to sap all of the sentiment from any experience.” She went back to prodding a flower of broccoli around her plate.
“Not any experience, Agatha. Not the Masaccio experience, certainly. It had got to where I felt I knew him. Right, Marshall? You, me and Masaccio: We three, we happy three, we band of brothers.”
Thoughtfully, Diane exhaled a plume of smoke. “That has a familiar ring. And I agree with Melrose.” Having not been on the trip, Diane could take any side she wanted. “You know, some writer said Florence was absolutely overflowing. It was Henry… Henry… Oh, you know that writer who was so enamored of Italy.”
“Henry James?” said Vivian.
“That’s the one, yes.” Diane exhaled another artistic-looking stream of smoke. “You know, Superintendent, you’d enjoy Florence. They’ve all sorts of crime, I mean interesting crimes, society murders, that sort of thing. Who was that count? The Conti di Rabilant, I think, was murdered there. And you’d look marvelous in the uniform of the carabinieri. Quite smart.” Diane smiled at him in her sultry way. “What are you working on at the moment?”
“A shooting.”
Diane was interested. “Tell us about it, this shooting. We might be able to help; we might come up with one or two good ideas. Why you’ve seen-” Diane spread her black velvet-garbed arm “-how we are!”
“Indeed he has,” said Melrose.
Trueblood made a sound between a hiccup and a laugh. “Dream on, Diane.”
“But you never know how the details will strike someone unfamiliar with a case. Don’t you agree, Superintendent? Looking at something too long makes it all so familiar you can think it’s always been that way.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Trueblood.
“I thought it rather well put,” said Jury. “Only, look, it’s Christmas. Can’t we take a holiday from crime?”
Ruthven and his young helper had cleared away the dinner plates, and Ruthven reappeared with the Christmas pudding, which he placed before Melrose. “Shall I do it, sir?”
“No. This is the most fun I have all year. Give me the lighter.”
Ruthven handed over the sort of lighter one uses for cigars. The butler then wrapped a napkin around a bottle of Champagne and circled the table, pouring.
Melrose flicked the lighter and held it to the base of the pudding. Flames shot up amidst murmurs of pleasure. Everyone clapped. Melrose stood up and waited for Ruthven to fill the glasses, then he raised his. “A toast! To ‘we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’ ” He looked around the table. “And sisters.”
As everyone touched glasses, Diane said, “There it is again. I know I’ve heard that somewhere.”
“King Henry the Fourth,” said Melrose.
“Of course. The one who beheaded all of those wives.”
“Whoever,” said Melrose.
In dreams that night, Melrose found himself in the Brancacci Chapel watching the progress of several painters, one of whom was Trueblood. Only here, Melrose didn’t seem to know him any better than the others. He had been watching an infernally long time-days, weeks, months? How was he to know? He was starving hungry. Looking around he saw that each worker had a lunch box, but he had nothing. Seeing one of the lunch boxes lying open and also seeing it contained an apple, he took it and started munching while one of the painters up there delicately lined Eve’s face.
“Come on, come on!” Melrose yelled to him. “I’ve booked a table at the Villa San Michele, remember?”
Lithely, the youngest of the painters jumped down from the scaffolding and did a double somersault.
“Show-off,” said Melrose.
The show-off plucked the rest of the apple from Melrose’s hand and took a bite. “Nice dish o’ flageolet and I’m a happy man,” said Masaccio.
Fifty
They must be really angry.
Gemma had raised her hand to knock on the door of Keeper’s Cottage when she heard their raised voices and this made her drop her hand and take a step back. She had come to deliver a message from Mrs. MacLeish about Christmas dinner. But their voices made her back away.
It was Kitty Riordin and Maisie arguing. She could make out a few words: earring. The fight had to do with an earring. Gemma wondered if Kitty had discovered the gold one was missing. Did she think Maisie had taken it?
The voices were furious, frightening. Gemma gripped Richard as if she were afraid too much anger might knock him out of her hands. He was wearing the new clothes that Ambrose had given him for Christmas. The outfit was black: black jacket, trousers and a sweater. The suit was so soft, she liked to rub Richard on her cheek to feel it. “Black is cool,” Ambrose had said in his note. Gemma marveled at all of this. Richard looked wonderful in his new clothes. He looked smart and dangerous, virtues he had always had, but hidden under the old long dress.
Earring? No, that wasn’t it. It had something to do with an errand. Gemma thought she made out, “You’ve got to do this errand.”
The window was open just a little. The old mullioned panes prevented her seeing people clearly in there; they showed only as forms, wavering, distended, as if she were seeing them at the bottom of a pool.