The Villa in Italy: Escape to the Italian sun with this captivating, page-turning mystery. Elizabeth Edmondson
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turn out to be a mine of information about Beatrice Malaspina and the Villa Dante.
The woman held out her hand. ‘How do you do? I’m Marjorie Swift. This is George Helsinger. Are you here because of the will as well? The lawyers said there were four of us.’
‘Only I’m not one of them,’ said Jessica. ‘Just a friend.’
‘So there’s one more to come,’ said Marjorie, looking round as though she expected another legatee to leap out of a bush.
‘Indeed, indeed, but as to when that will be I cannot tell you,’ cried Dr Calderini. ‘For I do not know when he comes, although it must be before May begins. So I am afraid here you must stay until we know he is coming, until he arrives.’
‘What if he never comes?’ asked Delia.
‘People in wills always come,’ said the lawyer with a sudden air of worldly cynicism. ‘You may take my word for it.’
‘I think,’ said Delia, ‘that Benedetta should show Miss—Mrs?—Miss Swift and Dr Helsinger to their rooms. If they’ve had a long train journey…’
‘Long, but extremely comfortable,’ said Marjorie. ‘And I think first names, don’t you, given the circumstances? I’m Marjorie.’
‘My name’s Delia, and this is Jessica.’
George shook hands with Delia and Jessica. ‘I should be happy if you would call me George.’ In the distance a church bell was tolling a single note, the sound carrying in the still air. ‘The angelus,’ said George.
‘What?’ said Delia.
‘It is a bell rung every day at noon.’
They walked together towards the house and up the flight of shallow stone steps that led to the front door. At the threshold, Dr Calderini paused with a polite Permesso? before stepping inside.
Marjorie and George stood, amazed by the frescoes, exclaiming at the beauty of the marble-floored hall. ‘And do I see a garden beyond?’ said Marjorie.
‘Neglected, now,’ said Delia, ‘but it must have been lovely once. I don’t suppose they’ve had the staff to keep it up, not since the war, not if it’s the same as in England.’
‘Ah, the war,’ said Dr Calderini, who had been conversing in rapid Italian with Benedetta. ‘Everything was lovely before the war.’
Delia doubted it, remembering what she had heard and read about Mussolini and his fascist government, but certainly it would be true as far as gardens and houses went.
‘And what’s this?’ Marjorie said. She was standing in front of a column on which sat a glass box.
‘I didn’t notice that last night,’ said Delia, going to have a look.
‘I thought it was part of the painting, all that perspective and detail that deceives the eye,’ said Jessica.
‘It’s a thumping great ring,’ Delia said.
‘Ah, that is a cardinal’s ring,’ said Dr Calderini. ‘A great treasure—the Signora Malaspina was much attached to it. It belonged to Cardinal Saraceno, who built the villa. Although it has been much altered since his day, naturally. There is a fine portrait of him, also, in the house. It is a poisoner’s ring,’ he added casually. ‘Not the ring of his office.’
‘Poisoner’s ring?’ said Jessica. ‘Belonging to a cardinal?’
‘He was quite a wicked cardinal.’
That would confirm all her father’s long-held prejudices as to the untrustworthiness of any Catholic priest, let alone a cardinal, thought Delia. She laughed. ‘So the house belonged to a prince of the church who poisoned people. I knew the Villa Dante was extraordinary the moment we got here.’
‘You will be very comfortable here,’ said Dr Calderini. ‘People are always happy and comfortable at the Villa Dante, even in these troubled times, and Benedetta will look after you. She is to have help from the town if she needs it. Now, I shall take my leave.’
‘Hang on,’ said Delia. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something? I mean, we want to know why we’re here.’
Dr Calderini turned himself into a tragic mask of regret. ‘So sorry, so sad to have to be disobliging, but Signora Malaspina’s orders were laid down most strictly. I am not at liberty to tell you anything until all four of you are present at the Villa Dante, which will, I am sure, be very soon. Until then, my lips are sealed, I can say nothing. So,’ he finished, bowing and smiling as he headed for the steps, ‘enjoy the hospitality of the villa as Signora Malaspina wanted. You are to make yourselves completely at home. When the fourth man is here, then I will be back, and all will be made clear.’
And with a few parting words for Benedetta, he was gone.
Delia turned to Marjorie. ‘You and Dr Helsinger, I mean George, travelled together? Are you old friends?’
‘We met on the train, I’ve never set eyes on him before.’
‘Did you know Beatrice Malaspina? Can you tell us anything about her?’
‘I never knew her, and I know nothing at all about her; this whole business came as a bolt from the blue. I have no idea who she may have been, and nor, I may say, does George Helsinger; we discovered that in our conversation on the train. Do you mean you don’t know why you are here, either?’
‘Except for the will, no.’
‘Perhaps the mysterious fourth legatee will be able to enlighten us. If he ever arrives. Meanwhile, I’m perfectly amazed to be here, and I intend to make the most of every minute that I’m away from England.’
She spoke with such vehemence that Delia was surprised, but she couldn’t find out any more about her, since Benedetta had appeared and was clucking with impatience to carry off the new arrivals to their rooms.
‘Well,’ said Jessica, as she and Delia sat on the curved stone benches under the frescoes to wait for the others. ‘What do you make of your fellow guests?’
‘It makes me wonder more and more about Beatrice Malaspina,’ said Delia.
‘It’s a pity they had to arrive this morning. Now we shall have to be sociable and make polite conversation. I can’t see that we’re going to have anything in common with either of them.’
‘I think they look quite interesting. George Helsinger—can he be English with a name like that?—has a clever, interesting kind of face. I don’t know what to make of Marjorie. Dreadful clothes and no expression on her face, yet I get the feeling she’s far from dim.’
‘Women’s Institute spinster type,’ said Jessica. ‘Lord help us.’
Had they but known it, Marjorie was summing them all up in exactly the same way. She had no worries about George. A kind, intelligent man, with a tormented soul. What was worrying him so greatly? An experiment that had gone wrong? Or might he be being chased by foreign agents, keen on extracting atomic secrets? In a flash, she pictured men with hats drawn low over their faces, in belted raincoats, lurking in doorways…
They hadn’t talked much more on the train, merely exchanging remarks as to how odd this whole Beatrice Malaspina business was. Then she had returned to her own compartment, to sit by the window and marvel at the blue depth of the sea as the train wound its way down the coast.
They had met up again at La Spezia, where they transferred to a local train with wooden seats and an ancient engine, which reminded them both of wartime rail travel in England. They alighted at a deserted-looking station; what a long way down from the train platforms were in Italy, she thought, as she reached up for the suitcase that George was holding out to her.
‘Now, what is best for us to do?’ George said as he joined her on the platform. ‘This station is a good walk from the town, which, as you see, is up the hill. Perhaps there