‘Please sit down, David. I insist.’
‘Well, in that case I insist on buying us a bottle of champagne to celebrate our fortunate meeting. Would that be in order?’
‘As you wish.’ She sat back and explained in a low stream of Italian to Violetta, who evidently spoke no English.
Violetta did enjoy champagne, however, and by the time they opened the third bottle, and the waiter had still not appeared with any food, her enjoyment of the company wasn’t in the least inhibited by the fact that Kathy spoke no Italian and Brock’s stock of phrases was pretty well exhausted. Gabriele maintained her poise, rather distant, joining in only when her friend demanded a translation of something. Kathy watched Gabriele out of the corner of her eye. She was smoking American cigarettes and building a small pile of white stubs smeared with her brown lipstick in the ashtray in front of her. Only her fingers were restless, the long nails perfectly manicured and coloured to match her lipstick.
At one point, while Brock and Violetta were deep in confused conversation, she turned suddenly to Kathy as if she knew she was being studied and said, ‘I don’t remember your uncle at all, you know.’
‘He’s usually a very quiet man,’ Kathy replied. ‘Self-effacing.’
‘Have you ever been to Stanhope?’ Gabriele asked. ‘Yes, I was there last October.’
‘Do you know what he was talking about just now? A death?’
Kathy wasn’t sure how Brock wanted to play it. ‘It was very strange,’ she replied. ‘Shocking.’
Gabriele fixed her with her dark eyes, letting Kathy see that she was used to having her way. ‘He said a staff member. Who was it?’
‘His name was Alex Petrou.’
Gabriele continued staring at Kathy.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kathy said sympathetically. ‘Did you know him well?’
‘Know him? Why do you say that?’
‘I could tell from your reaction it was a shock. I’m sorry.’ Gabriele shook her head, momentarily uncertain. ‘How did he die?’ she said quietly. ‘He was hanged.’
The gleaming brown finger-nails no longer moved.
The waiter’s arrival broke the silence which had suddenly descended on their table. ‘Food at last,’ said Brock.
Violetta ate energetically, apparently now concerned about the time, and finished her saltimbocca while Gabriele was still toying with hers. They exchanged words, Violetta urging, Gabriele irritated. Finally Gabriele pushed her plate away and said to Brock, ‘I am sorry, I must go. I will speak to the waiter.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’ Brock looked carefully at her.
‘Will you remain in Vicenza long?’ She was staring across the square, apparently more interested in the teenage boys on their scooters.
‘Probably not. We had thought of driving out to see the Malcontenta tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’d be able to join us? Perhaps in the afternoon?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said coolly, ‘I am occupied.’
She got to her feet, ignoring Violetta’s fulsome goodbyes to Brock and Kathy. Then she lifted her cigarette packet from the table and said, ‘In the morning I am free.’
As they watched the two of them walk away, Kathy said, ‘You seem to be quite good at picking up strange women, Uncle.’
Gabriele appeared precisely ten minutes later than the time arranged. She smiled as she watched Brock try to explain to a pair of uniformed policemen why he was parked illegally within the old city walls. Then she stepped forward and came to his assistance, dismissing the officers with a couple of phrases. ‘Is this your little car? How sweet,’ she remarked to Brock. She settled herself elegantly in the passenger seat in front of Kathy and they set off.
‘It is a beautiful day for a drive,’ she said. And it was a beautiful day, the spring sun starting to dissolve the silver morning mist over the fields as they sped eastward along the autostrada towards Padua and then Venice. Gabriele waved for him to take the Dolo exit, and he slowed and followed her instructions as she directed him along quiet roads across the flat countryside. The mist became heavier and more persistent as they neared the coast, and several times Brock was forced to slow to a crawl as they came upon a particularly thick patch.
Finally they turned on to a gravel drive and, with dramatic effect, the stone bulk of the Malcontenta loomed before them. Whether it was the quality of the light or the rugged character of the stonework and pantiles, it seemed more archaic, more powerful, than its English offspring at Stanhope, which by comparison appeared fastidious and neat, a polite copy without the brooding presence of the original. Brock stopped the car and they approached on foot. The place was quite silent and deserted; no sound of a dog, voice or motor disturbed the morning quiet. They walked all round the house, seeing no sign of anyone, and returned to the car, where Brock opened the boot and took out a bag and a rug.
‘Let’s sit over by the willows and have our picnic,’ he said.
‘A picnic?’ Gabriele smiled.
‘I try to think of everything,’ he replied.
‘Yes, I rather think you do. Are you a tax inspector, Mr Brock? Or a policeman?’
Brock looked at her in surprise.
‘I am sure you were never a patient at Stanhope when I was there. I have an excellent memory.’
‘Ah.’
‘I much prefer people to be honest with me.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Brock said.
They walked over to the willows and found a stone bench, and the two women sat down. While Brock was unpacking his bag on the rug and offering them rolls and coffee from a vacuum flask, he explained to Gabriele something of who they were and what they were doing there. He outlined the circumstances of Petrou’s death but didn’t mention Rose’s murder.
After a lengthy silence Gabriele finally said, ‘This coffee tastes strange.’
‘I added some fortification,’ Brock admitted. ‘Brandy.’
‘My former husband would not approve of your drinking habits.’
He smiled. ‘Nor of your cigarettes.’
She shrugged. ‘I still have dreams about him. It took him only, oh, I don’t know, a few months, to control me. I was young, I was in love with him. I let him take control. It took me many years to recover myself again. In my dreams he still comes to claim my obedience. Every cigarette I smoke is a message to him.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘A smoke signal of disobedience.’ She opened her packet and lit up.
Kathy, sitting by her side, asked quietly, ‘How did you break away?’
‘I didn’t — he did. He had an affair with one of the nurses. I knew about it but did nothing. I thought, how banal, the doctor and his nurse, it would blow over. But she was greedy to have him and she became pregnant. We had no children — it was the one thing I hadn’t been able to give him. And when he discovered that she was having his baby, he decided that was the most important thing for him.’
She sucked in a deep lungful of smoke before going on. ‘He was very ruthless. That is the way he is when he has made up Ins mind about something. He made things impossible for me until I agreed to return to Italy and let him get a divorce. My father was very angry but he could do nothing — Stephen had found a new business partner to give him money to keep the clinic going. The irony was that they lost the baby at birth.’
She glanced over her shoulder at the Malcontenta and frowned. ‘I sometimes felt that it was the house that made us barren for him. She has never given him a child, I think.’
‘Laura?’ Brock asked.
She nodded, ‘Laura Parsons.’
‘Parsons?’ Both Brock and Kathy echoed the name.
‘Yes. She now takes his name, according to English law. But I am Catholic. In my family’s eyes he is not divorced.’
‘Laura is related to Geoffrey Parsons?’ Brock asked. She looked blank.
‘The Estates Manager at Stanhope,’ Kathy urged.
‘I know no one of that name,’ Gabriele said. ‘That must be something else she has arranged since I left.’