And the other token in the balance was that Terry Butterfield was occupied the whole weekend. He was in overall charge, and down to do this or that pretty much till midnight that night, and till lunchtime on Sunday, when the conference ended. He, Donnelly, could take off midmorning on Sunday without his absence attracting any comment. And he could be in Siena by around lunchtime, or mid-siesta, if they still had them in Siena. Meanwhile, he slipped back to his hotel, secured the Siena telephone directory, and established the existence of a di Spagna, M — living in Via Fontegiusta 41. He went to the nearest bookshop and bought himself a road map of Siena.
Meanwhile, Terry Butterfield pursued a similar course. His hotel was a more modest one than the judge’s, but it was close to one of the entrances to the Campo Santo, and the famous tower was only a few yards away from its windows. Terry recognized the cheapness as his duty as conference organizer, and his view of the tower as one of the perks of office. The proprietor came up with a telephone directory of Siena and also a very grubby street guide to the town which had obviously been lent to generations of tourists. No one noticed during the Sunday lunch that he was itching to get away: Terry had the reputation of a solid bloke, unflappable, with a touch of gravitas. But he was, in fact, on tenterhooks, and the moment he could say his farewells and get away to the station without arousing any thoughts of a quick getaway he did so.
Judge Declan Donnelly stood on the step of Via Fontegiusta 41 and pulled an antique door handle, resulting in a cacophony inside and outside the dwelling. He heard footsteps in the house, and then he was conscious of being observed through the spy-hole in the door.
“Che vuole?”
“My name is Declan Donnelly. Do you speak English?”
“Yes. What you want?”
“I—” It sounded to his ear a bit absurd however he put it “—I want to talk to you about an ancestor of yours who wrote books.”
There was a long pause. He was conscious of being observed closely, and was glad he had dressed with the utmost care, and had assumed the facial expression of one of the pillars of the community.
“You come in,” said the voice. The door opened and closed behind him, and he followed an ample (but not fat, let alone obese) figure down the ill-lit hallway into a large room furnished with the usual bulky pieces that spoke of plush and respectability. Miss or Mrs di Spagna was an attractive and lively forty-something, and she spoke the language of the plush of her flat, but less so the language of respectability.
“Who this writer, then?”
Declan sat down where she gestured him to.
“The writer is an Irish novelist called Charles Lever. He wrote in the mid-nineteenth century and he lived the last years of his life in Italy. I was hoping—” the hope was fading though “—you had a collection of his novels.”
The well-upholstered shoulders shrugged.
“I never ’eard of ’im. Maybe my ’usband.”
“Your husband? I heard that the descendant of Charles Lever was a woman.”
“Oh, maybe ’is first wife. She died last year. She was a great reader, ’e’s a great reader, they ’ave a fine library. I lock it up. I don’t give ’im time to read. I didn’t marry ’im for books.”
She gave him a meaningful glance, a slight smile, then looked away.
“And your husband — can I talk to him?”
“No. ’E is away. Three ’ole weeks. Can you imagine? It is so lonely.”
“It must be. And you not long married.”
“Esattamente! You are good-looking man. Well-dressed, smooth, a touch James Bond. Experienced, eh?”
“I have been married more often than was perhaps wise. People assume that you are fickle, like a bee flitting from flower to flower.”
“What is that — a bee?”
“Bzzzz,” said Declan. “They think you want variety.”
“And you?”
“I want variety.”
“Then what say we ’ave a little bargain. A deal you call it, no? You come to bed with me for an hour or two. That is a pleasure for both of us. And I give you the key to my ’usband’s library. ’Is and ’is first wife’s, the book people.”
Declan was sorely tempted. His devotion to his habitual parade of a respectable façade never applied once he was behind closed doors. None of his wives had been in any doubt as to what he did when exposed to sexual temptation. He did what Oscar Wilde recommended.
“Done,” he said.
When he banged on the peeling door of the small, ancient house in Via Dante, Terry had no idea what to expect. The steps to the door were so faint that he could hardly hear them. Or the voice, either.
“Si — chi è?”
“Signora Spagnoli? I am English. Do you speak English?”
“Yes, a little. What do you want?”
“I want to speak to you on important business.”
There was a pause. Then he was shocked to hear the chains on the door being taken down — just what he had always advised his mother never to do. It’s a good job it’s just me, he thought. The door was pulled open with difficulty.
“Well, come in,” said the tiny lady, all skin and bone, wrapped up against the cold that did not exist. She closed the door as he came in, and led the way through the unlighted hall to a high-ceilinged room, once rather grand, but now dirty, peeling, without pictures, almost without furniture — nothing more than two chairs and a cupboard. She led him to one chair and sat down herself in the other.
“It’s very good of you to see me,” said Terry. “But you really shouldn’t—”
“Open the door. So people tell me. But why not? If it was someone who wanted to batter me and rob me, wouldn’t he see at once there was nothing to be gained? And if he did assault me and leave me to die, what would I be losing? A few months of a life that is no longer worth living. As I’m sure you can see, and guess, all is gone, little by little. To the man who gives little bits of money for nice things. Now there are no nice things, and no money. That is why I do not offer you even a cup of coffee.”
Terry was struck by the precise, almost literary English she spoke.
“You have excellent English,” he said.
“Oh, it was Miss Cavendish, who helped in the shop. A very precise and prim person. She came to live in Italy because of her admiration for Mussolini — one I did not understand or share. After the war she had nothing except her beautiful voice and her precise and grammatical English. Some of the English tourists thought she was funny, but luckily Siena does not attract many of that type.”
“You had a shop. What was it? A bookshop?”
“Oh dear, no. Leather goods, just off the Piazza del Duomo. Lovely soft gloves, elegant handbags, evening shoes. All beautiful and expensive. But when my husband died—” She gestured with her hand, downwards. Terry nodded.
“Your name was given to me as a possible descendant of an English — well, Irish — novelist called Charles Lever.” He saw no response in her eyes. “He was fairly well known in his time — the Victorian era.”
“I have never heard of him. I have seen Charles Dickens on television and Jane Austen. Oh, I like Jane Austen very much. But the television broke down and could not be repaired, and of course I could not afford... The Bible says we take nothing out of this world. I shall soon have nothing even though I am still in it.”