The Villa in Italy. Elizabeth Edmondson
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and estates of a great many clients. Which is true enough.’
‘Are you going to ask your parents if they know who Beatrice Malaspina was? Or have ever heard of the Villa Dante?’
‘No. Mother won’t have known her—she hates all foreigners. And you know how things are between my father and me. We haven’t spoken for over a year, and I’m not going to get in touch with him about this.’
‘It’s about time your pa faced facts and realised you’ve chosen your career, and are doing very well at it, and he’s not going to be able to drag you into the family firm, however much he wants to.’
‘Father never sees what he doesn’t want to. Anyhow, if he got wind of a will, he’d winkle the facts out of Winthrop and the Italian lawyers, or get his horribly efficient hornrimmed secretary to do it for him. Then, if he knew I was thinking of going to Italy, he’d want to organise it all. Aeroplane? Far too expensive; he’d have all the continental timetables out, to look up the cheapest possible route, and I’d end up trundling across the Alps on some old bus.’
Lord Saltford’s thriftiness was too notorious for Jessica to be able to argue with Delia about that.
‘And he’s never mentioned any Beatrice anybody. I don’t see any reason why he should know her.’
‘Maybe it’s all a trick, to lure you away. Perhaps the oh-so-respectable Mr Winthrop is a secret white slave trader?’
‘What, and I’ll find myself being shipped out to Buenos Aires in a crate? Oh, very likely!’
Jessica fiddled with a cushion tassel.
‘Are you really thinking of going to Italy? Will you follow the instructions in Beatrice Malaspina’s will, and go to this Villa Dante?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Delia. ‘It’s tempting, and I have to say I am curious about the whole thing.’
‘Perhaps she’s left you the house, the Villa Dante, and a fortune.’
‘Italians leave property to their families, always. Maybe a piece of jewellery, a brooch or a ring. Only why? Why me?’
‘And why make you go all the way to Italy for a brooch? No, whoever she was, and why ever she wanted you to go to Italy, it must be important. And the only way you’ll find out is by going. Would you ever forgive yourself if you passed on this?’
‘Mr Winthrop doesn’t like all the mystery, I could tell; he looked as though he had a bad smell under his long nose.’
Jessica sat up. ‘Why don’t we go together? It would suit me to go abroad, and it would do you good to get away from this dreadful, everlasting fog and rain and wind.’ She paused. ‘No, I suppose you can’t really spare the time. You’re hardly ever able to get away, what with rehearsals and performances and so on. That’s what having a successful career is all about.’
Delia dropped her hands on to the keys of the piano, picking out the notes of ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’ with two fingers, then weaving an ornate variation as she spoke. ‘As it happens, I’m thinking of taking a bit of time off. I’m not due to start rehearsals for a few weeks. Everything’s rather in the air at the moment,’ she added. ‘With this cough of mine. And Italy might have better weather than we’ve got here.’
Jessica’s mind turned to practicalities.
‘What’s the best way to get there? We could fly to Rome, I suppose, but we’d be followed by those damn reporters, and then Richie would know exactly where I was.’
‘Let’s go by car,’ said Delia. ‘You didn’t leave your car at Richie’s house, did you? It’s a long way, but we can share the driving, and, according to the lawyers, as long as I’m there by the end of the month, that’s okay.’
‘Doesn’t it need a lot of arranging, going abroad with a car? It won’t just be a matter of driving to Dover and nipping on the next ferry, will it? There’s insurance and green cards and all kinds of formalities when you want to take a car across the Channel.’ Jessica knew that if she went near a travel agent or the RAC, the hounds would be on her heels. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Why is everything in my life so difficult just now?’
‘I have a friend who works at Thomas Cook,’ Delia said. ‘Michael will fix it all up for us. What’s the number of your car?’
She scribbled down the details. ‘We have to be inconspicuous, or the reporters will be on our tail. How can we drive away unnoticed if the press are camped on your doorstep? They must know your car.’
‘They do. I’ve been taking taxis everywhere to try to throw them off the trail. Pity we can’t take a cab to Italy. Do you think I should try to hire a car?’
‘To take abroad? I doubt if you could. No. Who looks after your car? Is it a local garage? Can you trust them?’
‘Do I trust anyone?’
‘You’ll have to, that’s all. Get them to collect the car from your house. If the reporters start nosing round, they can tell them it needs some work because you’re driving north at the weekend.’
‘By which time, we can be in France.’
‘If Michael gets a move on, yes.’
‘Climbing in and out of windows, I ask you,’ Jessica said to Delia, as she clambered in through the kitchen window once more. ‘I just hope that my daily locks up securely tomorrow.’
‘Does your daily know where you’re going?’
‘She does not. She thinks I’m going north, to my parents’ house. She’s going to look after Harry for me. She knows he fights with Mummy’s dogs, so she won’t wonder why I’m not taking him. Are you packed, is that suitcase all you’re taking?’
‘I’m used to travelling light,’ said Delia, attempting to stuff a slip down the side of the case.
‘Let me,’ said Jessica. ‘Honestly, with all the travelling you do, why haven’t you learned to pack properly?’
‘It all comes out creased, whatever I do.’
Jessica was unfolding and refolding and tucking everything in with swift and expert hands. ‘There, plenty of room if you pack it right.’ She shut the lid and clicked the catches into place. ‘Ready?’
‘Do we really need to use the fire escape? Surely no one will be outside at this time of night?’
‘They know I’m staying with you; don’t you think they might be out there in a parked car, with the windows steaming up? We can’t risk it.’
They manhandled Delia’s suitcase down the metal fire escape, Jessica wincing at every sound they made. The back way from Delia’s flat led into a quiet street of Victorian houses. There was a shimmer of frost in the air, and Delia began to cough.
‘Control yourself, or you’ll wake the neighbours, hacking away like that,’ Jessica said.
‘Can’t help it. Where did you leave the car?’
Jessica’s racing-green MG was parked near the corner of a silent street that was inhabited only by a tabby cat slinking home after a night on the tiles. They squeezed Delia’s suitcase in beside Jessica’s case. Jessica got into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. ‘There’s a road atlas in the glove compartment,’ she said. ‘Are we heading for Dover?’
‘No, we’re going to Lydd airfield, in Kent. I’ll map-read for you. We’re flying the car over to Le Touquet. Expensive, but it’s worth it. Michael suggested it. The papers have stringers at the ports, but they won’t bother with a small airfield like that. And they won’t be