Page 47 of The Tuscan Child
“Absolute rubbish!” I shouted the words, fear and anger now combining. “See the crest on it. It is the griffin. The same crest is carved over the front entrance of Langley Hall. It has been in our family since 1600.”
I saw uncertainty on his face now. “But I have an identical ring at home,” he said. “It is a man’s ring and was found among my mother’s possessions. Cosimo told me that it came from my real father’s family. From the Bartolis. He said I should be proud that we were once nobility.”
“Then Cosimo was wrong,” I said, realising as I said it that Cosimo hadn’t known the truth. He had not known about my father. But I was feeling excited now. This was absolute proof that my father had been here—that he had known Sofia. I looked up at Renzo’s face, now frowning with confusion. “I think my father must have given this to your mother as a token of his love. Now we know he was here in this place and he did know your mother. Are you sure you do not remember him? An Englishman with light brown hair and blue eyes, slender in build like me?”
He shook his head. “I never saw him,” he said. “What makes you think that he knew my mother? What brought you here?”
“Well, the ring is proof, isn’t it? And I have a letter that he wrote to her,” I said. “A love letter. He told her that as soon as the war was over, he was coming back for her. He was going to marry her.” I paused, feeling the intense emotion in what I was saying. “But the letter was returned unopened. The stamp on it said, ‘Not known at this address.’ He kept it locked away in a little box all these years.”
“She had gone with the German,” he said. “She chose not to wait for your father.”
I nodded, feeling close to tears. We stood there in the bright sunlight, staring at each other.
“Then your father and I were both abandoned,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JOANNA
June 1973
We looked up as we heard Paola calling.
“Your tomatoes, Signor Bartoli. Do you have a cart to transport them?”
“I will send one of the men up later on,” Renzo said. “But I will pay you now. Keep them out of the sun, please.”
He took out a wallet and handed over several notes. Paola beamed. “You are most generous.”
I turned to Renzo. “Thank you for translating for me. I could not have got through that interview without you.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I am sure the inspector realises that you are completely innocent of this crime. Sometimes these men enjoy wielding their power. Or maybe he is just lazy. He goes for the most obvious suspect. But I will speak with Cosimo and he will make sure that you are released. My father has great influence in these parts.”
“Why do you think this man was killed?” I couldn’t resist asking.
Renzo shrugged. “I can think of several reasons. He mixed with the wrong type of people. He poked his nose where it wasn’t wanted. Maybe he overheard things he should not have heard. Maybe he even resorted to blackmail. I wouldn’t have put it past him.”
I told myself to shut up, but I went on. “I understand he also wanted to build his own olive press. Might someone have wanted to stop him from doing that?”
Renzo shook his head. “Just one of Gianni’s big ideas. It would never have happened. Everyone knows that Cosimo’s olive press is the most modern and efficient in this area. Why should anyone build another one? Especially a man like Gianni who would undoubtedly have cut corners and constructed a shoddy product. It would constantly have broken down, even if anyone would have lent him the capital in the first place.” He gave me a curt little bow. “I must get back to my business. I’m already late. Maybe I will see you at the festival tomorrow? You should come. I think you would enjoy it. Very un-British!” And he smiled as he turned away.
I watched him go.Such an attractive man,I thought. Then I reminded myself that he was Cosimo’s adopted son. It was quite possible that he knew who killed Gianni. If Cosimo wanted to stop the olive press from being constructed, he had plenty of men to do his bidding...including a son.I must not forget that Renzo might have had a hand in the murder,I thought.
I went to join Paola at her stall as Renzo stopped to talk with some men on the far side of the piazza.Gianni’s death probably had nothing to do with the olive press,I reasoned to myself. He had tried to speak with me alone. He wanted to tell me the truth about the war, about Sofia. He had put the envelope through my window. And someone had followed him and killed him. Something had happened in the wartime here. Something to do with blood and German money.
I manned the stall with Paola all day, then helped her pack up the crates and few remaining vegetables. She looked pleased. “Almost everything sold, thanks to Cosimo and Renzo. Now we will not have to eat vegetable soup for a week!”
We walked home together. It was strange, but it actually did feel like walking home.
“That stupid man, that inspector,” she said. “But that is how the police are in these parts sometimes. They don’t want to delve into anything that might be too dark and complicated, so they try to pin a crime on the most innocent of people. He probably has a good idea that Gianni was mixed up in criminal activities, but doubtless he wants to steer clear of any gangs. But don’t worry,” she added. “Nothing will come of this. You will soon be allowed to leave, I promise you. And in the meantime I shall teach you to cook good Italian food so that when you have a husband you keep him satisfied.”
In spite of everything, this made me laugh.
“Tell me about the war,” I said carefully. “Were there any scandals around here? Any people who worked with the Germans?”
“I told you, I was not here,” she said. “I only returned after the Germans had left. One heard plenty of tales of horror, of course. Of young girls violated. Of whole villages massacred because the Germans believed they had aided the partisans.”
“Who were the partisans exactly?” I asked.
