‘That was very childish,’ said Dryden, looking pointedly out of the side window at the tethered goat, its eyes a pool of satanic yellow and black. ‘Well done.’
‘Cheers,’ said Humph. ‘Terrific.’ He thrummed his fingers on the furry steering-wheel cover he’d bought in a job lot with a pair of fluffy dice.
Dryden reviewed his conversation with Pepe Roma. He was convinced that the clues to Azeglio Valgimigli’s death lay in his family’s past, and with the body in the moon tunnel. To build on his suspicions he needed to know more: what, for example, was the family secret he couldn’t share? Clearly the brothers had disagreed about the future of their father’s business. But Pepe had made it clear there was another, deeper reason for the bad blood which seemed to have poisoned the family. Dryden knew one man who could help, and it was a man who owed him a favour.
About 100 yards beyond the village a drove road broke north, climbed the railway embankment and crossed another, hidden railway crossing before turning back towards the line. The track petered out here but left a clear footpath ahead. Humph executed an inexpert hand-brake stop and killed the engine. The mist, free of the contamination of the town dump upriver, was sharp and cold with a touch of frost. Dryden could see nothing but the neat rows of late salad crops in the rich black soil of the fields. They were alone together again, a situation neither saw as a disaster.
Dryden cracked the door open and the mist slipped in, making Humph shiver, a physical reaction in the cabbie which involved counter-swinging several layers of flesh in both a clockwise and anticlockwise direction. He pulled a tartan rug off the back seat and tucked it under his chin like a giant napkin, meanwhile drilling his bottom down into the sheepskin rug on his seat like a dog on heat. Dryden let some more mist seep in before re-interring his friend in the vehicle which had become his moving, living mausoleum. Then he set off alone into the whiteout.
At the top of the embankment Dryden was startled to find himself so close to the line and, rather than follow the trackside path, he dropped down a few paces to give himself plenty of clearance in case a train came through. He stopped once, listening for the clatter, but all he heard was the hint of Humph’s onboard stereo language tape and the distant bongs signalling the rise and fall of Queen Adelaide’s barriers. A bird crossed his field of vision, swooping from invisible to visible to invisible in less than a second. Then he saw it: a crazy wooden pile of eccentric architecture, twisted high into the mist. A plaque in old British Rail typography read: QUEEN ADELAIDE, PRICKWILLOW ROAD SIGNAL BOX. 1936. Dryden, taking a closer look at the rails, saw that weeds sprouted from the gravel between the sleepers; it looked like the branch line was defunct, as well as the signal box.
The three-storey wooden house dripped in the mist. Dryden climbed the exterior stairs to the first floor where a long picture window, which had once looked out over the two lines which joined about fifty yards to the south, showed the old switchgear and levers. Casartelli was sitting in a kind of wooden inglenook seat set amongst the polished wood and brass – like a human cog in the machine.
He welcomed Dryden with a smile more redolent of the Lido than Littleport. In one hand he held a copy of the Express, complete with its story on the appeal for Marco Roma’s memorial.
‘A thousand thanks to you,’ said Casartelli. ‘Already more than £2,000. We are well on our way and thanks to you – sit.’ Dryden sat, suppressing a vague feeling of guilt at the effortless manipulation he was about to exert on his victim.
Then Casartelli realized his mistake. His hand rose to cover his mouth. ‘What am I thinking? You are here about Azeglio, of course. Terrible news. I heard on the radio. His family, what pain for them. He was not a good son, but he was a successful son, perhaps you cannot be both.’
Dryden had sensed since their first meeting at Il Giardino that Casartelli was the collective memory of the PoWs – the chronicler of the first generation. Although excluded from the elite club that was the six gardeners, he had been a prisoner himself – one of the handful of survivors.
‘No trains today?’ asked Dryden, sitting and trying to lighten the mood. The signal box switch room had been turned into a remarkable living space. The machinery sparkled, even in the thin white light of the mist, while the deep mahogany of the woodwork radiated a warm reddish-brown, like sun-dried tomatoes. There was a TV, a bookcase with a few ornaments, and three upholstered wooden chairs. Casartelli put down the Express and went to make coffee in the kitchen beyond. A set of stairs led up to what Dryden presumed were bedrooms.
‘No trains any day, no more,’ shouted the old man. ‘The line closed in 1996. Trains still beyond – at the village, but here very quiet.’
Dryden heard from the kitchen the satisfying gurgle of an espresso pot bubbling over.
Casartelli emerged, his still-powerful fingers cradling two small espresso cups with a lifetime’s ease.
‘Did you live here before, before the trains stopped?’
‘No, no. My family we lived in Ely, near the station. Now, the children are married, their mother long dead, they have their lives. The price here was good, I like the view, the space out there. I am happy here.’
While one wall of the room was taken up by the great array of switchgear and levers the two end walls were stencilled with smaller windows to give a clear view up and down the line. By one hung a framed photograph of Casartelli and a woman: a blonde, she looked younger than her husband, and pale skinned.
‘You married a local girl?’
Casartelli glanced at the snapshot. ‘Yes. Many of us did. My Grace. We were happy. Cancer – just 54. A long time ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dryden, meaning it. ‘I had a favour to ask,’ he ploughed on, catching the wary look in the old man’s eyes.
‘If I can,’ said Casartelli, withdrawing slightly into his niche of brass and mahogany.
‘This is not for a story in the paper, not directly. I’m just trying to understand something about the Romas – about Il Giardino – something which doesn’t make sense. I’m trying to understand Azeglio’s past. You knew the family – there were three brothers, that’s right?’
Casartelli swallowed hard and played with the ring on his wedding finger.
Dryden set his cup down. ‘This is just so that I can understand – I’m not going to quote you, or put your name in the paper.’
Casartelli picked up the Express with its story about the appeal. He fingered the paper. ‘Of course. I will try to help as you have helped us. So – but no secrets, I think. No confidences broken – especially now.’
Dryden smiled, cursing the old man’s honour.
‘So. Yes. Azeglio – the oldest, then Jerome, and then Pepe – who you know yes?’
Dryden cut to the point. ‘Why, and how, did the first two leave home?’
‘Families,’ said the old man, shrugging. ‘I have two sons as well – and three daughters. I do not understand them either. Things happen.’
‘What happened?’ said Dryden, looking the old man in the eyes for the first time. ‘I don’t want any secrets – but the Italian community must have talked – what did they think happened?’
Casartelli looked out into the mist, clearly wishing he was alone again. ‘I think the story was a common one. The generation that survived the war prized security: a good job, keeping the family together. For the next generation this did not mean so much – that is their compliment to us, of course – if they knew it!’ He laughed, resting one hand on the polished brass lever beside him.