Page 13 of Murder in Verona

Which was still a heck of a lot better than me. I offered some consolation. ‘But at least you got your voice back.’

‘Yeah, and I ended up here among some of the most wonderful folks in the world.’ For a moment, a shadow flitted across his face. ‘Not all of them, of course, but most of the kids who come here are amazing.’

I was filing away this little note of discord for future investigation when the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a steaming tureen of vegetable soup and a basket of bread rolls. The waitress also put a litre carafe of red wine and a bottle of water on the table in front of us before wishing us‘buon appetito’and moving on to the next table. On a hot day like today, soup wouldn’t have been my first choice, but it tasted good and I spooned it up willingly while listening to Valentina Russo.

It soon became clear that we had found ourselves an excellent guide. Valentina knew everybody and, when I say she knew everybody, this extended far beyond their names. With only the slightest encouragement from me, she was soon giving us a detailed warts-and-all description of the people around us. Apart from four other tutors, it looked as though the majority of the diners were of student age or just a little older and they came in all shapes and sizes and from all ethnic groups. I felt sure that the atmosphere here must be exciting and stimulating for those chosen. As I looked around, I estimated that the students were roughly half male and half female, and a number of the women were remarkably good-looking. Whether this was just the luck of the draw or whether they had been selected on the basis of Rodolfo’s particular inclinations remained to be seen. As my ex-wife never ceased to tell me, I’ve always had a suspicious streak.

I listened closely, wishing I could record all the names and nationalities – they came from all over the world – in my notebook but preferring not to look too inquisitive for now. I couldn’t help noticing a look of disapproval on Valentina’s face when she mentioned one young man in particular. His name was Romeoand she told us he came from just down the road in Vicenza. As diplomatically as possible, I followed the direction of her eyes and tried to elicit a bit more information about him.

‘Is that Romeo over there, dressed as a shepherd?’

‘That’s him, charming the girls as always… living up to his name.’

I could see that the man in question had positioned himself at a table with three particularly pretty girls. From what I could see of him, he was a good-looking guy and certainly the three women with him looked happy in his company. This made me wonder whether maybe he might have struck up a relationship with one or more of the women here. If that were the case and if Rodolfo had subsequently directed his own attentions at that woman, might this have caused jealousy on Romeo’s part, leading to murder? Anything was possible.

Valentina also pointed out the two women Dolores had mentioned: Michelle from Paris, the oldest of the students at the ripe old age of thirty-seven, and the youngest, Barbara from Munich, who was a mere nineteen and outstandingly beautiful. Even from some distance, I could see that she was a stunner and I couldn’t help being suspicious of Rodolfo’s motives once again. Might he have granted her a place on the course so he could have an affair with her and might this have caused jealousy and a murderous reaction from somebody here – even his wife?

My musings were suddenly interrupted by a voice at the far end of the room. And what a voice! A big man had suddenly stood up from his table. He was probably not yet thirty, but with his height and considerable bulk, he could have been a rugby player. He was wearing a sober, dark waistcoat over a white shirt trimmed with lace and he began to sing, slowly at first and then speeding up. His voice echoed throughout the whole room as he sang for about three or four minutes before the aria came to what soundedlike a tragic climax. As he fell silent, the room erupted into applause and Anna and I joined in. Thankfully, Oscar had resisted the temptation to join in and I was relieved but, as I say, it’s normally sopranos who do it for him. Beside me, Luther gave me a few words of explanation, his expression a mixture of pride and regret.

‘That’s Amadeo Gramsci. Give him time, but I believe he’s going to become one of the greatest bass voices of all time. He’s one of our star pupils. People say I used to sound like him…’ His voice tailed off into melancholy but I was quick to cheer him and keep him talking.

‘That was amazing. You must be so good if you sounded like that. Tell me, what’s the name of the piece he was singing?’

‘It’s Verdi, of course. It comes from his Don Carlos and it’s called “Ella giammai m’amò”.It’s a classic.’

I glanced across at Anna. ‘That was terrific. I’m really looking forward to my trip to the opera on Saturday night.’ And, to my considerable surprise, I realised I meant it.

The soup was followed by braised beef in a red wine sauce accompanied by roast fennel with parmesan. Both were excellent. According to Valentina, the wine was Valpolicella, produced from the villa’s own vineyards. Finally, we were servedzuppa inglese– Italy’s take on trifle – followed by powerful espresso coffee. I couldn’t fault the food or the service and I could well see how the guests here could justifiably praise Rodolfo Argento for his incredible generosity. Inveterate womaniser and ‘flash git’ he might have been, but nobody could have doubted his charitable nature.

It was a very enjoyable meal but it ended rather abruptly for me. Just as I was finishing the last of my coffee and thinking about taking Oscar for a good walk, another future opera star suddenly stood up only a couple of tables away from us and launched into song. This was a delightful aria but there was just one problem:the woman singing had a very high-pitched voice and within a few seconds of her starting, I knew there was going to be trouble. There was a sudden movement at my feet and the next thing I knew, I had a pair of hairy Labrador paws resting on my thighs as Oscar raised his nose to the heavens – unfortunately only a few inches from my ear – and joined in. I hastily jumped to my feet, waved a quick farewell to our companions, and headed for the door, ears ringing, dragging my howling Labrador behind me.

8

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

Anna waited to hear the end of the aria and then came out to join us. She told me it had been ‘Sempre Libera’, one of the most famous of all of Verdi’s works and it came fromLaTraviata. It had been sung to perfection by the soprano although I felt that the attempted intervention by my dog probably hadn’t helped. Anna told me she had apologised to the young singer on Oscar’s behalf and had been given an indulgent smile in return. Even so, I knew I was going to have to keep an eye on him while we were here.

Anna told me she had some work to finish so Oscar and I went for a walk on our own – but only after I’d changed back into normal clothes again. I wanted to see exactly where the accident had taken place and I didn’t fancy wandering down a country road dressed as a character out of a Thomas Hardy novel. I checked with Dolores before leaving so as to be sure exactly where I could and should go. She told me that the estate extended as far as a clump of woodland to the north of the villa and I decided to start there and then curl back around so as to take in the vineyards on the west-facing hillside above Lake Garda and the scene of thecrash. Elektra seemed remarkably happy with Oscar so I offered to take both dogs with me, and Dolores was only too happy to accept.

‘She needs a good walk. I’ve been particularly busy this week so she hasn’t been out as much as usual. Don’t worry about a lead. She’ll trot along with you quite happily and she’s good with cars.’

Shortly after setting out, I came across a man sitting on a tractor, about to start mowing the lawns beyond the villa, and I stopped to say hello. He looked as though he was around my age, with a weather-beaten face, and he seemed only too willing to talk. After a brief discussion about what sounded like a very comprehensive irrigation system up here to keep the grass looking so good, I gradually managed to bring him around to the subject of the recent tragedy and he shook his head sadly.

‘Signor Rodolfo was a good man, a very good man. Such a pity.’

I decided to be as tactful as possible in my approach. ‘I’ve been hearing that some people think it might not have been an accident.’

He shot me a sceptical look. ‘Well, I can tell you this: it certainly wasn’t suicide. I was helping him work on the engine of his lovely old Ferrari Dino only the day before the accident and he was as happy and cheerful as ever. He was telling me something about going to Venice at Christmas to perform in front of kings and queens.’

‘He used to work on the cars himself?’

‘Yes, for the fairly straightforward stuff, but when it came to major work, he always used Maurizio down in Verona.’

‘Maurizio?’

‘Maurizio Tamburo, he has a garage specialising in classic cars.’

‘What time of day was it when the accident happened? Was there good visibility?’

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