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‘Yes, indeed we are,’ Neville shot back. ‘But do take the lead, Ned, please. It will give me a chance to weigh him up, get a handle on him, and you, Will, can give your attention to Alfredo Oliveri, if you would. I think we should attempt to assess these two men, decide whether they will be allies or adversaries in the future. After all, Deravenels have a lot of business interests in Italy, quite aside from the marble quarries.’
‘I understand,’ Will answered at once, nodding. ‘I have a feeling Oliveri will be a friend not a foe, from what Ned has said about him so far. Correct, Ned?’
‘Oh, yes, Father had enormous respect for him, there is no question about that, as I’ve already explained. But the strange thing is he wasn’t mentioned in Dellarosa’s letter to me, so I have an odd feeling he won’t be here this morning.’
‘Why do you make that assumption?’ Neville asked, his voice rising, eyeing his cousin in alarm.
‘I have a…gut instinct about it, to use a phrase of yours.’
At this moment the waiter returned with the tray of coffee cups and tall glasses of water, and served them. Again smiling and nodding, he backed away. Neville took a sip of the water. He approved of this Continental custom of always serving a glass of water with other beverages. It was most civilized, he thought.
‘Could this be Dellarosa?’ Ned muttered quietly a moment or two later, staring at the arched doorway of the lounge, where a well-dressed man stood glancing around. He was of medium height, slim, and blond like many Northern Italians. Ned hurried on, ‘He’s heading this way, so it is him, I’m certain.’
Edward rose, moved forward in the direction of the Italian, extending his hand. ‘Signor Dellarosa, I presume,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘I’m Edward Deravenel.’
‘Good morning, Signor Deravenel,’ Dellarosa responded. ‘Welcome to Firenze. I wish this occasion was not a sorrowing one. I am sorry for the loss of your family.’
‘It is sorrowful, yes,’ Edward replied. ‘But please, come and meet my cousin Neville Watkins, and our good friend Will Hasling.’
Neville and Will were already on their feet, and after shaking hands and exchanging greetings, the four men sat down together at the circular table.
Dellarosa turned to Neville and murmured, ‘I am so sorry, signor, for your loss also.’
‘Thank you.’ Neville inclined his head, his expression neutral, quite unreadable.
‘Would you care for some kind of refreshment? Coffee, tea?’ Edward asked.
‘Si, grazie, Signor Edward. I will partake of the coffee.’
Edward motioned to the hovering waiter, ordered the coffee and then focused all of his attention on Fabrizio Dellarosa. ‘What time are we going to view the bodies of our family members?’ he asked in a quiet, sombre tone.
Clearing his throat, Dellarosa said, ‘In about half an hour. They are at a hospital. Santa Maria Novella. It is nearby. We can walk.’
‘I understand. My cousin and I have been wondering why the bodies were brought to Florence?’
Again, Dellarosa cleared his throat. ‘Because it was necessary to have them embalmed.’
‘I see, and what you are saying is that there are no facilities to do this procedure in Carrara?’
‘Yes, Signor Edward, that is so.’
‘What did they die of?’ Ned asked, startling the Italian.
‘Excuse me?’ Dellarosa’s brow furrowed and he gave Edward a long stare, as if he were uncomprehending.
‘Our fathers and brothers were in a fire in the hotel.’ Edward’s look was intent, focused on Dellarosa. ‘So were they badly burned? Did they die of their burns? Or was it smoke inhalation that killed them? We have been told nothing about their deaths.’
‘Smoke inhalation, I believe, was the cause of death.’
‘And they were not burned at all?’ Edward asked, sounding puzzled, shaking his head.
‘No. There are no burns on their faces.’
‘But perhaps on their bodies? Is that what you’re implying?’
‘I’m not implying,’ Dellarosa shot back swiftly, raising a blond brow. ‘I was told they died of smoke inhalation.’
‘What information do you have about the fire, how did it start?’
‘I do not know, Signor Edward. I was not there.’
‘Does anyone else know? Perhaps Alfredo Oliveri?’ Ned probed.
‘He does not have the information…he knows no more than I do.’
‘I see. Tell me, Signor Dellarosa…’ Edward paused, leaned forward. ‘Why is Oliveri not here in Florence today? I thought he had been informed we were coming. By the London office. By Aubrey Masters.’
The Italian nodded, looking suddenly worried, and his voice faltered slightly when he replied, ‘I told Alfredo Oliveri it wasn’t necessary for him to come. I am here, and I run the Deravenel business interests in Italy. He knows nothing. Nothing more than I do.’
‘So what you are saying is that the cause of the fire is a genuine mystery. And also that our family members were not even burned in this fire. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed, Dellarosa.’
Fabrizio was silent, staring back at Edward, and asking himself why he suddenly felt both nervous and threatened by this young man, a veritable giant blessed with an extraordinary physique and overwhelming good looks, who had the coldest blue eyes he had ever seen. Steel, Dellarosa thought. This Deravenel is made of cold steel. And he was unexpectedly afraid. Edward Deravenel was not like his father, and he would be trouble, of that Fabrizio Dellarosa was convinced. He could not wait to escape, to return to his office and communicate with London.
Edward announced, ‘Well, it seems you have nothing more to say, Signor Dellarosa. So let us go. Please take us to the hospital, so that we can finally view the bodies. Oh, and incidentally, what arrangements have you made for the bodies to be taken back to England?’
Dellarosa coughed behind his hand, and then said quickly, in a hurried manner, ‘They will go by ship. I have booked passages for you, and Signor Watkins.’ He paused, glanced at Will and added, ‘I will book passage for you, Mr Hasling. If you wish to accompany your friends.’
‘I do,’ Will answered at once.
Neville exclaimed, ‘I don’t think so, Signor Dellarosa! What I mean is, I don’t think we shall be travelling by ship. Nor will the bodies of our fathers and brothers.’
Dellarosa gaped at him. ‘I am not understanding—’
‘Then let me explain,’ Neville cut in. ‘It is January. The weather is bad. A journey by sea could prove quite dangerous at this time of year. There are far too many storms, rough seas.’ He shook his head and gave Dellarosa an odd look. ‘I shall make the travel arrangements myself. We will take the bodies back to England by train. So much safer in the long run, wouldn’t you say?’
It was the registrar of the hospital, Roberto Del Renzio, who greeted them at the reception desk and led them down a long corridor to the morgue.
A tall, heavy-set man, he was dressed in a starched white shirt with a stiff wing collar, black tie, black jacket and pin-striped trousers. He had a sombre voice but his expression was bland, and it seemed to Edward that the man was lighthearted in spirit, the kind of person who was ready to laugh if the joke was a good one. But he did not laugh or joke or even say very much as he accompanied them to the far end of the hospital, which he explained, was the north wing.
The registrar paused when he came to a waiting room, and turning to Dellarosa, he said, in stilted English, ‘Perhaps you would please to be waiting in here.’ He swung his eyes to Edward, and asked, ‘Just the two of you will enter the morgue?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Edward answered and looked over at Will. ‘Would you like to come in with us?’
‘If that’s all right with you, yes, I would, Ned. I wish to pay my last respects to them all. Do you mind, Neville?’
‘So be it,’ Neville murmured, and followed the silent Ned and the registrar, with Will Hasling following immediately behind him.
Much to Edward’s surprise, the four dead men had already been brought into the morgue in their closed coffins. He had fully expected them to be in the long metal drawers which were banked around the room.
A moment later, a white-coated doctor joined them, and after being introduced, he proceeded to open the coffins.
Together Edward and Neville viewed the bodies of their fathers and brothers, staring down at their waxen faces. It was true, they had not been burnt. There wasn’t a mark on them. At least, not on their faces.
Although they did not know it, both men were thinking the same thing…that these were no longer their loved ones, not now that their souls had left them. All that remained were these frozen carcasses.
Edward touched his father’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Goodbye, he thought, goodbye. Then he moved on to look at his dearest brother, his lovely Edmund. But the Edmund he had known and loved was not here either. He touched his shoulder, said goodbye to the boy inside his head, and moved on sadly.
Neville followed suit, silently saying his farewells whilst knowing that what had made these four men so special, so unique, were their spirits…They were merely empty shells how, dead flesh. And Will, slowly moving behind them, felt cold inside and utterly bereft. For he, too, understood death now, and its total finality.
Within minutes it was all over.
They collected the relevant papers from the registrar, and took their leave of Dellarosa. They immediately left the hospital, huddled together, hurrying away with speed, heading across the piazza Santa Maria Novella to the hotel.
And Edward wondered why he had so dreaded this viewing of the bodies all day. He had felt nothing.
The letter arrived in the late afternoon. It was pushed under the door of Edward’s room. But when he went and opened the door there was no one there. He looked up and down the corridor only to discover it was empty.
Opening the envelope, he took the letter out. It was short, a note.
As he scanned the brief words he felt his stomach lurch, his mind racing. There was no salutation. Only a few lines, brief and to the point:
‘Nothing is the way it seems. Come to the place your father visited last. Tomorrow. Go to the building with a familiar name. I will be waiting.’
Edward knew immediately that the note was from Alfredo Oliveri. The place his father visited last was Carrara. And the building with the familiar name was Deravenels. Of course.
Folding the letter in half he put it in his pocket and left the room, walked down the corridor to Neville’s suite. And he knew deep within himself that tomorrow they would find out the truth at last.
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 grim, his voice hard.
‘Yes, I am. That is the doctor’s theory, and I concur with him. The men of your family were killed, and the fire was set in order to burn their bodies to a crisp, so that nobody would know that murder had been committed. But whoever did this had not bargained for the rain. It was a deluge. It stopped the fire.’
‘You mentioned my father, uncle and cousin, but not my brother,’ Edward exclaimed, staring at Alfredo. ‘What of Edmund?’
Alfredo Oliveri had been dreading this question and for a split second he could not speak. He lost his courage; but he knew that he would have to tell Mr Edward later, if not now, and so he took a deep, steadying breath and said, ‘It appears that after I left Mr Richard and the others at the hotel, Mr Edmund went out again. No one knows where he went, and by that I mean the police, who made inquiries later, to no avail. They found out nothing. Anyway, as he was returning to the hotel, probably just before the fire was started, Mr Edmund was waylaid in one of the side streets and attacked. He—’
‘By whom? Who would attack my young brother?’ Edward demanded in a loud voice, his face growing flushed and angry.
‘I don’t know. No one knows, no one here understands it at all. Everyone is baffled, believe me they are.’
‘And no one saw it happening?’ Neville asked sceptically, in that same sharp voice, a voice like a whiplash.
‘Not the actual attack, no. But Benito Magnanni, the owner of the Colisseum Restaurant, was on his way home after closing up, and he saw two men bending over a body. It just so happens there was a street light on in the alley where they were standing, and he began to run down the alley, shouting at them. They immediately fled. They were English, though.’
‘How do you know that?’ Will asked quickly, staring hard at Alfredo. He was aware Edward and Neville were too distressed to speak at this moment, and so took charge.
‘Because Benito told the police they looked English, and that he heard one of the men say something about London, and the man made a remark like let’s ski diddle. This phrase didn’t make sense to either Benito or the police. But it did to me. I believe that what the man was saying actually was let’s skedaddle back to London, something like that.’
‘How did they kill him?’ Edward asked in a voice so inaudible they could barely hear him.
Alfredo hesitated, wondering if he should lie in order to save Edward Deravenel’s feelings. But he knew he could not; he must speak the truth. He owed it to Edward and to his father. ‘He died very quickly,’ Alfredo replied at last. ‘Doctor Buttafiglio told me it must have been an instant death.’
‘But how?’ Edward pressed.
‘They cut his throat,’ Alfredo answered in a shaky voice, one as quiet as Edward’s had been.
There was a moment of utter stillness in the room.
Stunned shock filled the air, was a palpable thing almost.
Rigid in the chair, his face draining of all colour, Edward cried out, ‘No! Not my lovely Edmund. To die like that. Such a brutal way. Oh, no. No, it can’t be. Who would commit such a foul crime? He was only seventeen, for God’s sake, an innocent boy—’
Edward broke off, his face crumpling, tears glistening in those bright blue eyes. He brought his hands to his face, and he grieved a second time for his beloved brother.
At once Neville was on his feet, going to Edward. He bent over him, encircled him with his arms. After a moment, Edward struggled to his feet, turned to Neville and clung to him as though his life depended on it. For a while the cousins stood together in tight embrace. They were united more than ever in their mutual grief, shocked and horrified that Edmund had been killed in this heartless, brutish manner. And they shared their sorrow for their other kin who had been so cruelly slain.
Eventually the two men broke their embrace, and went back to their chairs. It was Neville who spoke first. Looking across at Alfredo, he said, ‘Let me ask you something…do you personally believe that Mr Edmund was killed because he was a Deravenel? That it was not just an odd coincidence that he was attacked that night?’
‘I don’t think the attack on Mr Edmund was a coincidence. Not at all. He was killed because he was a Deravenel and Mr Richard’s son. They did not find him at the hotel when they killed the others, so they went looking for him, in my opinion.’ Alfredo shook his head vehemently. ‘Nothing will convince me otherwise. They went out searching for him.’
‘Do you think Mr Edward is in danger?’
‘Yes, I do. Perhaps not here in Carrara, not now. The murderers have fled back to London. But I do think he’s in danger. Because he’s Mr Richard’s son. In my opinion, Mr Watkins, your Uncle Richard was killed because he was the true heir to Deravenels. Everyone knows it in the company…Deravenels was stolen sixty years ago by the Lancashire Deravenels. Some of the directors are happy with the status quo, but not everyone. There are those who have always believed Mr Richard should have been sitting in the chairman’s seat. Quite a few of us, actually. Henry Grant is ineffectual, always has been in my opinion. He’s been riding on the coat-tails of the two other Grants who went before him. His grandfather, who stole the company, and his father, who made it greater. But it’s slipping. Things are not good, take my word for it. He’s an absentee landlord, just as Mr Richard always said he was. He has no head for business or finance, and he’s dominated by his French wife and her followers. Margot Grant has quite a few supporters, you know, who do her bidding.’
‘I did know. My uncle confided in my father.’ A deep sigh rippled through Neville, and he shook his head, sorrow shadowing his light blue eyes. ‘My father and brother died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time…’ His saddened voice filtered away, and he pursed his lips. ‘God rest their souls in Heaven.’