It is not possible in Italy to disinherit a child, but a child can choose not to receive his inheritance. This is what Maurizio has done, in exchange for my silence. I shall never see him again. How he explains this change of circumstances to his wife, his children and his friends is his business. It will be difficult for him, but I don't doubt that he will find a way. Maybe his excuse will be that I have decided to remain in the villa, which is true, and he can no longer tolerate his mother's indecision.
Is this justice? No. Is there enough evidence to convict Maurizio of Emilio's murder? There never was. But at least the truth is finally out. It is enough. It has to be enough because that's all there is, that's all there was ever going to be. I knew this from the start, before I even met you.
There it is, Adam. I wish you weren't a part of it, but you are, and you only have me to blame. Fausto and Maria acted out of loyalty to me, and I expect you to find it within yourself to forgive them. I expect no such thing for myself.
I cannot imagine what you are thinking right now, but let me say this. I lied to you, I used you, I even placed you in physical danger (although you were more closely protected than you are probably aware). All of these things are true, I don't deny them, but most of what passed between us was good and honest. I meant what I said to you just before we sat down to dinner at the party. I asked you then to remember my words. Do you? I hope so, because they are as true as any I have ever spoken.
You fell foul of an old woman looking to do the right thing by her dead son. It may seem enormous to you now, but time and the weight of experience will compress the painful memory of your stay at Villa Docci until it is just one slender stratum in the bedrock of your life. Try not to forget that.
With great affection, Francesca
Adam read the letter twice, steeping himself in the words.
When he returned to the terrace, he found his mother serving tea. She saw from his face that all was good and gave a small smile as she withdrew.
"I thought you were the one behind it all."
"I know," said Antonella. "Maria had to make Maurizio believe it."
"It wasn't just that. I saw Fausto leaving your house that last morning."
Antonella exchanged a look with Fausto. "He came to see me, to explain. We argued, but he persuaded me to play along. He said it wasn't for long. And it hasn't been, although it feels like it."
She reached out and gingerly took his hand.
Fausto slid a book across the table—the book on Renaissance sculpture that Adam had lost in the pine park in Viareggio.
Adam fingered the tome, processing the information. "That was you?"
Fausto nodded.
"You followed me there?"
Fausto nodded.
Adam's eyes remained locked on Fausto's.
"I'm sorry, Adam. Really."
"Really?"
"Really." "Okay."
"Good," said Fausto with a beaming smile. "That's very good."
Their bags were collected from a small hotel near Purley station. They had taken rooms there, not knowing how things would go. This displayed "an admirable lack of presumption" according to Adam's father, who had started to thaw a little. Fausto was assigned Harry's room, Antonella the guest bedroom at the far end of the corridor.
Adam took them off to the Stag and Hounds for a drink before dinner. Fausto had never seen darts played before and muscled in on a game, shamelessly filching cigarettes from his new and slightly bewildered friends.
It was the first time Adam had been alone with Antonella since her arrival, and it felt good.
"Hello," he said.
She smiled and stroked his thigh beneath the table. "How are you feeling?"
"Numb. Relieved."
"Thanks for the present."
"The present?"
"The rock in my kitchen."
"Sorry, I didn't have time to wrap it."
She laughed.
He glanced over at Fausto. "Was Signora Fanelli involved?"
"Signora Fanelli?"
"I followed Fausto after he left your place. He went straight to see her at the pensione."
"So?"
"Well . . . they're close. I saw them kiss."
"I think that is a new thing, after you arrived. Nonna says they used to be very close, but there was some problem. She is very happy about it."
"I'm sure she is."
"Why are you smiling?"
"Nothing."
Given what he now knew about Signora Docci's modus operandi, it wasn't so surprising that she'd even found time for a bit of matchmaking along the way. There were any number of pensioni in San Casciano she could have placed Adam in.
It was warm enough to have dinner on the terrace. His mother excelled herself in the kitchen; his father cracked open a couple of bottles of vintage claret he'd been saving for Adam's graduation. They raised a toast to Harry, and when they speculated about some of the scrapes he must surely have got himself into by now, it was good to hear the sound of his father's laughter again.
Inevitably, some hours later, Adam found himself tiptoeing down the corridor toward the guest bedroom. Antonella was waiting for him, already naked beneath the sheets. The need for silence only heightened the intensity of their lovemaking. When it was over and they were lying tangled in each other, he cried, overwhelmed. Antonella licked away his tears and held him.
Later, out of the darkness beside him, she said, "My grandmother thinks she knows who Flora's lover was."
"Huh?" he grunted, from a delicious half-sleep.
She repeated herself.
Now he was awake. "Who?"
"She wouldn't tell me. She will only tell you, in person—-faccia a faccia."
"Does she ever stop?"
"Stop?"
"Playing games."
He tried to summon up anger at this latest piece of manipulation, but it was a struggle. Signora Docci might think that responsibility for her behavior stopped with her; he wasn't so sure. He had reassessed many things over the past week, but he hadn't quite been able to shake the conviction that someone else had been controlling matters all along.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his parents both in their dressing gowns in the kitchen. His father was seated at the table with Fausto; his mother was frying bacon at the stove.
Adam shuffled up to her in his pajamas and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Morning."
"Is Antonella awake?"
"I don't know. I didn't look in on her."
She slipped him a knowing look. "Well, why don't you take her up a cup of tea anyway?"
"Good idea."
He filled the kettle, glancing over at the table as he did so. Fausto was explaining something to his father in rapid-fire Italian while shifting pots of jam, cutlery and other objects around in some kind of demonstration.
His mother leaned close to him and whispered, "We think it's the Battle of Hastings."
IT HAD RAINED IN HIS ABSENCE, ENOUGH TO SWELL THE grapes on the vines and raise hopes of an acceptable harvest. There was even a faint tinge of green to the scorched pasture below the grotto, although this was about the only noticeable change in the memorial garden.