ELEVEN

       Carrara

      From the moment Edward had arrived in Carrara with Neville and Will earlier that morning, he had wanted to turn around and leave. There was something about this town in Tuscany which truly depressed him.

      He knew that, in part, this feeling sprang from the fact that his father and brother, uncle and cousin had died here only last week, and in tragic circumstances. And yet he genuinely disliked certain aspects of the place, found it cold, unwelcoming, and reeking of danger, and there was yet another element that troubled him. He felt oppressed by the range of mountains that encircled Carrara on three sides, and seemed to close it in like a prison.

      Marble dominated here. Great slabs of it gleamed whitely high on the mountain sides of the Apuan Alps; its grey-white dust floated on the very air, settled on the buildings and the ground; on the people as well; it penetrated their clothing and hair. There was the constant sound of marble being chipped at, in studios, workshops and apartments along the streets, where artists and artisans were working on sculptures, frescoes, urns and other different kinds of artifacts. Carrara was busy in the town as well as up on the mountain ranges.

      Edward fully understood that he must get himself through the meeting with Alfredo Oliveri and then hurry away as fast as he could. In his mind, Carrara would be forever associated with death and grief, and he never wanted to return here as long as he lived.

      At this moment he was sitting in a chair in the offices of the Deravenel Company, studying Alfredo Oliveri, who was speaking to Neville, suggesting they should stay the night in Carrara, and adding that he would be happy to have them as guests in his home. ‘Far better than a hotel,’ he was murmuring.

      They had arrived at the offices about twenty minutes ago, having travelled for some hours by hired carriage from Florence, an arrangement made by the head concierge of the Hotel Bristol. It had proved to be a comfortable ride.

      Edward already knew that he trusted this man whom he was meeting for the very first time. He now realized why his father had liked him so much, had had such confidence in Oliveri. There was something about him, the expression on his face, his manner, his way of expressing himself that spoke to Edward of integrity, honesty and loyalty.

      Alfredo Oliveri was not at all what he had expected. To begin with, he had the brightest of auburn hair, that intense red colour which was usually referred to as ‘carrot top’ in England. And secondly, he was very English. After they had introduced themselves, and entered Alfredo Oliveri’s private office, Neville had commented on Alfredo’s perfect command of English. It was then that the other man had explained that he was born of an English mother and an Italian father, that he had spent every summer in London with his maternal grandparents during his childhood. His mother had taken him there with her; later he had attended an English boarding school for four years, returning to Italy for the summers.

      ‘No wonder you sound like an Englishman,’ Neville remarked when Oliveri had finished explaining his heritage. ‘In fact, you are one, of course,’ he added, hoping he hadn’t sounded patronizing when he had meant to compliment.

      ‘Half and half,’ Alfredo had murmured and smiled faintly, obviously gratified, understanding it was a compliment. ‘My Englishness usually takes visitors from the London office by surprise. Although it never surprised Mr Richard.’ He looked pointedly at Edward when he added, ‘Such a good man, your father was. Too good, if the truth be known.’

      ‘You’re the one who knows everything about things here, Mr Oliveri,’ Edward ventured. ‘And the fact that we came at once after I received your note yesterday must tell you something—’

      ‘That you are suspicious,’ Alfredo cut in swiftly, his eyes on Edward.

      ‘Yes, we are. What did you mean when you wrote nothing is the way it seems?’

      ‘Exactly that.’ He gave Edward a keen look. ‘So many things appear to be quite straightforward. But when you look beneath the surface, well, that’s a different matter altogether. There’s very often something else at play. At least, that’s the way I’ve frequently found it.’

      ‘So we are right to be suspicious about their deaths?’ Neville asked quietly.

      ‘Indeed,’ Alfredo answered. ‘I would like to tell you about the night of the fire, tell you everything I personally know and what I subsequently found out later.’ He raised a brow quizzically.

      ‘Yes, please do,’ Edward encouraged, leaning forward, every part of him alert, expectant, and also somewhat afraid, wondering what awful things Alfredo was about to reveal to them.

      ‘It was Sunday night, just over a week ago. I had dined with your father and uncle, and the two young men, Mr Edmund and Mr Thomas. I left them at the small hotel, the pensione, at about eleven o’clock, and went home. As I learned later, the fire apparently broke out in the early hours of Monday morning, around one o’clock. It seemingly started in the right wing, spread to the foyer, and then to the left wing, where your family were staying. It was a sudden fire, and because of the wind that night it kept spreading and, in fact, it became a real conflagration at one point. And—’

      ‘But they weren’t burned,’ Neville interrupted peremptorily. ‘We’ve seen the bodies, and their faces were not scarred. If it was an inferno, as you suggest, how can that be?’

      ‘The wind suddenly dropped, and it also began to rain. Very heavily. And, anyway, almost immediately the alarm was raised and many of the townsfolk came out with buckets of water, helping to douse the fire.’

      ‘So what you’re saying is that the fire was put out quickly, but that our family members died of smoke inhalation at the beginning, when the fire was at its height?’ Edward asked.

      ‘That’s exactly what the death certificates say,’ Neville pointed out to Alfredo. ‘Death from smoke inhalation.’

      ‘There was no smoke inhalation,’ Alfredo began, and nervously cleared his throat several times. ‘They did not die as a result of the fire. They died from their injuries of earlier.’

      ‘Injuries?’ Edward sat up straighter, once again fixing his vivid blue eyes on Alfredo.

      Neville and Will were also on the edge of their chairs, staring intently at the manager of Deravenels in Carrara, aghast at what they were hearing from him.

      Alfredo steadied himself, and said in a low tone, ‘Your father, uncle and cousin sustained head injuries, Mr Edward,’ and then he looked across at Neville, and continued, ‘All three men died instantly. Dr Buttafiglio told me—’

      ‘Someone attacked them? Killed them? Are we understanding you correctly?’ Edward cut in, his voice rising.

      ‘You are…I’m so sorry to give you this dreadful news, and you, too, Mr Watkins. Very, very sorry.’

      ‘And so the fire was started to conceal the crime? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Neville asked, his expression