Page 4 of Murder in Verona

‘And you’ll need to be on your best behaviour. If you try jumping up at her, you’ll knock her over.’

He looked mildly offended. Of course he would be on his best behaviour – she had invited us for lunch, after all.

3

SUNDAY MIDDAY

At noon on the dot, I drove up to the villa and parked my van alongside the Bugatti, noting that this was almost a metre longer than my vehicle. Close up, it was a gorgeous piece of nineteen-thirties engineering and the shiny, red, leather seats could no doubt tell many tales of the rich and famous – or infamous. After admiring it and marvelling at how remarkable it was to see something like this still in everyday use, I repeated my instructions about being on his best behaviour to Oscar and together we walked over to the front door. There was a brass knocker almost the size of a lifebelt on the door and a handle on the wall alongside it. I opted to give this a tug and heard a bell echoing around the interior as a result. Twenty seconds later, the door was opened by a grey-haired woman, probably in her seventies, dressed from head to toe in black. She gave me a respectful nod of the head and beckoned to me to enter.

‘If you would like to follow me, Signora Violetta is waiting for you in the small lounge.’ Her accent told me that, unlike her mistress, she was from around here.

It came as no surprise to hear that there was a choice oflounges in a place like this. Even the entrance hall was bigger than my living room. We walked down a marble-paved corridor to a charming room looking out onto the rear garden. The room contained a grand piano but still had space to spare for half a dozen bulky armchairs. An unexpectedly modern hi-fi was playing opera music – thankfully not at full volume – and I had a sneaky suspicion that the male singer’s voice would prove to belong to the recently deceased Rodolfo Argento. The garden itself was a delight and clearly had involved a lot of work, not to mention an enormous amount of water to irrigate it – and water is expensive. This, as much as the historic house and the classic car, convinced me that Violetta Argento was in a very different income bracket from my own.

My hostess was standing by a wide-open pair of French windows, staring out into the garden. The housekeeper stopped at the door and coughed politely. ‘Your guest has arrived, Signora Violetta.’

Violetta turned towards me and smiled as she saw Oscar. His tail started wagging in return as she waved us forward and the housekeeper retired silently.

‘Thank you, Teresa. And thank you for coming, Signor Armstrong. I hope I haven’t disturbed you too much on a Sunday.’

I assured her that she hadn’t interrupted my plans and she pointed out through the French windows. ‘Shall we sit outside? It’s pleasantly cool in the shade.’

I followed her out to the terrace and we sat down at a beautifully ornate, marble-topped table with wrought-iron legs. Although it was still far from cold out here, there was definitely a more pleasant temperature than in the direct sunlight. From the position of the sun, it was clear that this side of the house faced north-east and we were sheltered from the midday sun not only by the bulk of the villa but by the protective screen of trees thatsurrounded it. Seen close up, some of these looked almost as old as the house and I commented on the fact. Violetta nodded and gave me a quick history lesson.

‘The villa was built between 1515 and 1516 and has been owned by just three families since then. I belong to the third generation of the Argento family to have lived here. Many of the trees were planted several centuries ago.’

At that moment, the housekeeper reappeared with a tray. On it were two bottles of Beck’s beer and a little plate of salted biscuits. Violetta gave me a little smile. ‘I do like a cold beer on a hot day. I seem to remember seeing you with a beer in front of you as well. Is this all right?’

I nodded gratefully. ‘Absolutely perfect, thank you.’

She picked up a generous handful of biscuits and indicated Oscar, who had adopted his ‘faithful but starving hound’ look. She shot me an interrogative glance and I nodded in response. She held out her palm and he very delicately retrieved the biscuits with his tongue and lips and swallowed them in a split second. She wiped her hand on an immaculate linen napkin before reaching for her glass and holding it up towards me.

‘Your health, Signor Armstrong.’

I clinked my glass gently against hers. ‘And yours, Signora Argento. Thank you for the invitation.’ I thought about asking why I’d been invited but decided to leave it to her to make the first move. As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait.

She shot me what my gran would have described as a canny look. ‘And now you’d probably like to know why I asked you to come here – and it wasn’t just for the company of a tall Englishman and his lovely dog.’

‘I must admit to being a bit curious.’ And I was. I caught her eye and took a chance. ‘Might it have something to do with your son by any chance?’

Just for a moment, I glimpsed the grieving mother beneath the businesslike exterior. Losing a child has to be an awful experience and I gave her a few moments to recover and regain her decisive persona. Finally, after wiping her eyes with the napkin, she continued. ‘Rodolfo is indeed the reason I wanted to speak to you.’ Her voice was hoarse but under control. She set down her glass and looked me square in the eye. ‘You see, I believe he was murdered.’

So my hunch had been confirmed. I decided to press her a bit more just to be sure. ‘So not an accident, a mechanical fault or suicide?’

She gave a dismissive snort. ‘An accident? Impossible. He was a better driver than I am, and I haven’t had a single accident in sixty years at the wheel. As for mechanical failure, he lavished more care and attention on his cars than on any of his ever-changing panoply of women, and he loved his E-type most of all. It used to belong to my brother, Carlo, who died seven years ago now. It might have been old, but it was in perfect working order.’

‘That’s the vehicle he was driving at the time of the crash: a Jaguar?’

‘Yes, his beloved pussycat; that’s what he called her. As for suicide, that’s quite out of the question. He phoned me only the day before the crash and was boasting that he’d just been invited to perform at La Fenice in Venice at Christmas in front of half the crowned heads of Europe. He was justifiably very proud and looking forward to it immensely.’ She reached for her glass again and took a soothing sip. ‘There’s no way he would have wanted to take his own life. None whatsoever.’

I was impressed, not just by her evident conviction, but also by her lucidity and fluency. Before coming here this lunchtime, I had checked her out on the Internet and had discovered that she was eighty-one years old and clearly as sharp as a tack. I picked up my own glass and sipped some of the refreshing, cold beer while Ireflected on what I’d just been told. Of course, this chimed with what I’d been wondering since the previous night. The question was to what extent the murder hypothesis was credible. I did a little bit of digging.

‘If we rule out accident or suicide, that leaves us with foul play. Can you think of anybody who might have wanted your son dead? You mentioned his women friends; was he in acrimonious relations with any of them? What about money? Did anybody stand to gain from his death? Then there’s professional jealousy – did any of his rivals envy him enough to want to do away with him?’ I gave her a little smile to soften my words. ‘I’m sorry to ask difficult questions but that’s what I’ve been trained to do.’

I was relieved to see her smile back at me. ‘I quite understand. Feel free to ask whatever questions you like, but can I ask you something first: can I take it that you’re prepared to look into this for me? You would have to take a trip to Verona, which is where he lived… and died.’ Her voice faltered for a moment but she rallied. ‘I have every intention of paying you for your time and reimbursing whatever expenses you have. After all, Verona is several hundred kilometres away.’

I had come prepared and I handed her one of my sheets detailing my rates. She pulled out a pair of reading glasses from her little handbag, perched them on her nose and scanned quickly through it before looking up and nodding. ‘This all seems perfectly acceptable, Mr Armstrong. When can you start?’

‘How would the middle of the week sound?’ It occurred to me that I could maybe combine it with my visit to the opera. As she had said, Verona was a fair distance away.

---