Death in Focus Page 5

  “I’ll need your help with my own wall, in time,” Lucas replied.

  “You’ll have it. Now get on with the job.”

  Lucas placed the mortar carefully, catching the dollop that slid down the side and replacing it where it should be. Then he gently placed the brick, edged it a half-inch back, and straightened it.

  “Not bad,” Churchill granted with a nod.

  Lucas looked at him. He was standing a little straighter than before. “The violence in the street is getting worse, especially against minorities: trade unionists, Gypsies, Jews, homosexuals, when they know them. There’s going to be a lot of suffering.”

  Churchill’s eyebrows rose. “And you think that’s going to change minds here? Men like Mosley and his followers? Ditherers like Chamberlain? Bloody right-wing fanatics in the highest of places? Idealists like Eden. He was a damn good officer, you know? Broke his heart to see so many of his own men blown to pieces.” His voice was bitter, almost as if he was on the edge of tears, but there was a challenge in his eyes. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “No…not exactly.” Lucas gave a very slight smile. “Although I suppose it’s close.”

  “So, what, then?”

  “To warn you that I think we have a turncoat in the British Embassy in Berlin. Be careful what you might hear from the ambassador, or tell him.”

  “I think that unlikely,” Churchill said slowly. “But the warning is timely. Although I imagine you came to tell me just to let me know the battle is real…and it’s already well started.”

  “More or less,” Lucas agreed.

  “What the devil can I do about it?”

  “Today, nothing. But tomorrow or the day after…” He shrugged. “God knows. Be ready…”

  Churchill grunted again. “Come inside and have a decent whisky.”

  “Thank you,” Lucas accepted, and fell into step with him.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Elena slept, but it had been far too tumultuous a day for her to rest easily. Her emotions were slipping out of control. After Aiden’s disgrace and the pain and humiliation that it brought her, she had been determined never to fall in love again…at least not to the point where her judgment was impaired. She would love, certainly. To deny the possibility of loving was like choosing to freeze to death.

  And she had loved Aiden, hadn’t she? Or was she only in love with what she thought he was? He had fooled many people, most of all the Foreign Office! Everyone who worked with him had trusted him.

  But trusting someone and being in love with them are quite different things. When you are in love and there are things that go against your taste, instead of seeing them as a warning, you blame yourself for being narrow, intolerant, and continue lying to yourself as long as you can. You deliberately don’t ask the questions to which you would rather not know the answers. You call it trust. You know too late that it is cowardice. Handsome, charming, deceitful Aiden had taken them all in. Elena was at fault because she had known him better.

  She now shuddered and huddled her body into itself, drawing her knees up, as if closing herself off in defense against memory.

  She was hot with shame, and then shivering cold. It had all been there for her to see, if she had not been so dazzled by his gentleness, his good humor, his sophistication, and yes, she had been flattered, too. Of all the smart young women, well educated, ambitious, and clever, why had he chosen her? Had he really liked her at all? Or was she just the most gullible?

  No, she was the best placed to get him the information he wanted. She was Charles Standish’s daughter. How that stung! Her father had not forgiven her yet.

  So why was she falling in love now with Ian Newton, whom she knew so briefly, and who had been so shaken yesterday by the death of a man he claimed not to know? Certainly he was good-looking. He was also charming, clever, and amusing, besides being a good dancer and a good listener. And he had tuned in to what interested Elena so that their dining together yesterday evening had felt easy and natural even on so short an acquaintance. There was a score of reasons for his reaction to seeing the dead man, perfectly innocent explanations she had no right to ask for. It might be as simple as a resemblance to someone else. She had called out to a man in the street once, he looked so like her grandfather. But when he had turned around, he was nothing like him at all. Tall, with gray hair, that’s all. She was doing it again. Silencing the voice of fear with cool reason, because she liked Ian enormously already. She should quiet her mind with explanations and go back to sleep.

  She woke early when the first light came in through her curtainless windows. They had wooden shutters on them, and she had deliberately left them open to let in the soft night air and the smell of the sea. Now it was pale, faint light filling the room, though not yet dawn.

  She got up, washed and dressed quickly and silently, without disturbing Margot. She crept out and closed the door behind her. She would go for a walk. They were facing more or less east; she could watch the sun rising over the land, the light suddenly bursting above the horizon and flooding the sky, picking out every east-facing window to mirror itself, every dome, every wall in soft peach or blush pink.

  The air was cool, and Elena was only on the first flight of steps down from the hotel when she saw Ian standing by the railing. He heard the slight sound of sandals on the steps and turned. His face lit with pleasure when he recognized her. “Come and watch,” he said quietly, indicating farther along the terrace where there was a view of the town rising up behind the hotel. “This is a perfect place to see the victory of light over darkness.” He held out his arm.

  She fought against all her old anxieties and went to join him.

  The light was spreading rapidly now, and even as they stood there, it tipped above the town and leaped across the sky. It spread a silver path over the distant water and bathed the white walls in the town, touched the burning reds and purples of bougainvillea. What a photograph this would make, if the camera could catch the color! Or the silence, or the smell of the sea.

  All sorts of ideas tumbled through Elena’s mind about light and darkness, but she said nothing. This was a time when those things did not need words. As if in tacit understanding, Ian did not speak either.

  Half an hour later, in full daylight, they found a café serving crusty bread still hot from the oven, butter, homemade apricot jam, and hot coffee. Words were still unnecessary, an intrusion, even a misunderstanding.

  After they had finished the last fresh roll, and each had a second cup of coffee, they walked out onto the street and deliberately turned in the opposite direction from the hotel. They ought to return and work, but without needing to glance at each other, they knew they did not intend to. They walked instead toward the old city, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes sharing their thoughts. Elena told him that, after the conference ended the following day, she planned to go to Paris before returning to London. The air was warm, with a light wind. The weather was infinitely changeable along Italy’s western coast, and the locals discussed it exhaustively, and could forecast it with skill built up over generations. It would be fine all day today, the café waitress had told them.

  They looked at mosaics in the pavement, endless statues of Madonnas smiling with benevolent patience on the visitors, admired churches whose tiled floors were smoothed by the feet of over a thousand years of the faithful, the grieving, the penitent, and those seeking refuge from day-to-day turmoil.

  “Did you know,” Ian asked suddenly, “that there is a saying here that when the people born in this place die, if they go to heaven, it’s just a day like any other?”

  Elena looked at him to see if he had really heard that, or was making it up. She knew from his eyes—the laughter, the softness, almost wistfulness—that he was speaking the truth. “No,” she answered, “but I believe it.”

  They continued, st
opping occasionally to consider a painting, a dome seen against a perfect sky, the grace of a statue. She could feel his arm around her, and sometimes his hand in hers, and that was all that was necessary.

  * * *

  —

  When they arrived back at the hotel, the police were still there asking questions about the man whose body had been found in the linen cupboard.

  Elena glanced at Ian, saw him hesitate, a shadow crossing his face. “Did you know him?” she asked quietly.

  Ian’s silence stretched out to half a minute. “No. When I first saw him, he reminded me sharply of someone I knew. It was foolish of me, because the man I knew is dead. I saw him when he was dead…and seeing this man reminded me of it. I’m sorry, I should have—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she interrupted. “We shouldn’t be feeling guilty because we can’t forget the people we’ve known, or even the ones we haven’t. It’s not…it’s not a fault to grieve over the dead, just to make it about ourselves when it isn’t; it’s about them.”

  He smiled at her with sudden sweetness, a warmth in his eyes that made Elena catch her breath.

  The next moment, one of the police spoke to him. “Signor Newton? I believe you were the one to find the body of the dead man late yesterday evening? That is so, yes?”

  “Not quite,” Ian answered. “The housemaid found him and let out a cry. I was very close, on the way to my room, and I heard her. She had opened the linen cupboard and the body fell out.”

  “You recognized this man? You were disturbed at his death? Perhaps you can tell us something about him.” The man was courteous, but his face was solemn, even stern.

  Looking at him, Elena could see the suspicion in his eyes.

  “I was distressed, yes,” Ian replied, his tone equally serious. “He was clearly dead—”

  “Clearly?” the policeman interrupted. “That much was plain to you? You have experience in such things, yes?”

  “No,” Ian replied steadily. “But what live man is ashen-faced, and goes into a linen cupboard in a hotel, shuts the door on himself, and then falls so unconscious that even when the door is opened and he pitches out with his head at an impossible angle—”

  “Yes. Yes, I see. You knew he was dead from the angle of his head, you are saying?”

  “Yes. And the place he was found,” Ian added.

  “But you recognized him?”

  “No, I am not aware of having seen him before. But I may have, of course. If he is a local vendor. Works on the street, or behind a counter…” He let the sentence remain unfinished, as if the rest was obvious.

  Standing beside him, Elena wanted to tuck her arm in his, to let him know that she was with him—and maybe let the policeman know, too. But it would be too obvious. Better not to speak unless she was asked. Overeagerness would raise suspicions—at least, it ought to. Did the policeman sense that somewhere in there, there was a lie? Maybe an important one? But since the man had clearly been murdered—you don’t fall down and break your own neck in a linen cupboard—who was to know what mattered and what did not?

  The policeman turned his attention to Elena. “And you, Signorina…Standish, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen this man before? Did he trouble you? Was he perhaps overfamiliar? A nuisance? Did he pester you to buy something?”

  She had had time to think. She gave a sad little smile. “No, I am certain, because nobody pestered me. Unless he was a waiter somewhere, I have never seen him before.”

  “You think he may have been a waiter?”

  “I’m saying I don’t remember seeing him, but I don’t remember everyone’s faces. I have been at an economic conference taking photographs, and I can definitely say he is not one of the delegates.”

  “Why do you take pictures of economists?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “I see. Thank you, signorina, signore.” He waved his hand in a gesture inviting them to leave.

  They did so, Elena with an air of relief that she sensed Ian felt, too, although he said nothing.

  They each went to their own rooms and met again fifteen minutes later in the dining room. Everyone seemed to be lunching late, and the room was crowded, filled with laughter and even a few people dancing, although it was only two in the afternoon. They found a table and Elena looked around, but she did not see Margot. Perhaps she had gone along the coast to Sorrento? She had mentioned the possibility once or twice.

  Elena took her seat, requested a light salad and fresh seafood—a mixture of shellfish and crustaceans—and warm, crusty rolls again, and a glass of sparkling wine. She couldn’t face the frenetic laughter, the desperation to taste every bit of flavor, of sunlight, the world of pleasure without its help. She looked at Ian and saw his rueful smile. He felt it, too. The room was full of people who did not live here. This was a dream from which they would all be awakened too soon. It was like the hour before a dawn that would show the reality of a harsher world. Maybe they did not see this as it truly was, but they did not need to. If it disappeared when they left, they would not know.

  There was a small drama going on in one corner of the dance floor. The man was a little drunk and overamorous, the woman was slender, but with an impressive embonpoint. She was swaying to the music with her arms above her golden head and a woven garland of flowers hanging low around her neck. Several people were too tipsy to see that their antics were no longer amusing.

  Beside Elena, Ian was watching in appalled fascination. The veneer of glamour was beginning to crack. He half rose in his seat.

  “Sit down.” She leaned over and pulled on his arm. “You can’t help. You don’t know who they are or how they are together.”

  Ian looked at her, and the tension eased out of him.

  The girl with the yellow hair was laughing a little too loudly, her bosom swaying.

  A man called out something about her figure.

  “It is a bit much,” Ian agreed.

  “Hanging Gardens of Babylon.” Elena voiced the thought that came into her head.

  Ian stared at her, and then almost choked with laughter. This side of her was new to him, but she felt no need to conceal it.

  Suddenly there was a waiter beside Ian. “Mr. Newton, sir,” he said quietly. When Ian did not hear him, he repeated it with a light touch on the shoulder.

  “Yes?” Ian turned to him. “What is it?”

  “A telegram for you, sir. It has ‘Urgent’ on it.” He held out a tray with a single printed envelope. “It’s just arrived, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Ian picked it up and tore it open. Suddenly, all the joy in his face died. When he looked up at Elena, his eyes were hollow, as if he had been robbed of something precious.

  Fear rose inside her, catching her heart, her breath. “What is it?”

  “I have to leave. Immediately. I’m…sorry…I can’t explain to you. It would be a breach of trust. Come with me! As far as Paris, at least.” He stopped, perhaps aware of what he was asking of her.

  The music and the laughter went on around them, as if nothing had happened.

  She thought of Margot, but only for a moment. “As far as Paris?”

  “Yes, I have to go on after that. But if you’re going to Paris, and then on to London…please?”

  Her answer was instant. “Yes. Of course I will.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Elena went upstairs and packed, then left a note on Margot’s bed to say that she had decided to leave a day early and travel with Ian as far as Paris, before going to Calais and taking a ferry home. She added that she hoped Margot enjoyed the rest of her stay and then signed it.

  Next, she went downstairs and settled her account at the front desk. Ian was tactful enough to wait for her outside, but he was already there and standing at the door of a car, the driv
er at the wheel.

  He put her case in the trunk, beside his own, then held the door open while she got in the backseat. A moment later he was beside her and giving the driver instructions to drive to the railway station in Naples.

  As if by mutual agreement, they now spoke of all kinds of things, except the reason he had been called away. The only mention of Margot was from Elena: how she had left a note on her sister’s bed, just enough for Margot to know there was no cause to worry. Whether she would be angry was a different matter.

  They spoke of the history of Amalfi, the history of the whole coast, especially of Naples, and of course Vesuvius, one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world. No one had forgotten that when it had erupted two thousand years before, it had destroyed cities in minutes, immortalizing people and animals at their moments of death. It had darkened the sky and sent rivers of burning lava as far as the sea, taking whole villages with it. Today the Neapolitans sang more lyrical music than other people, and danced a little faster, because they knew life could end without warning.

  But still they did not speak of why he was leaving.

  They reached Naples, paid the driver, and had only a short time to wait for the next express train to Rome, where they would change and connect for Milan, and from there to Paris. They did not plan beyond that. Elena did her best not to think of it.

  The train was barely out of the station, and already she missed Naples. She had begun the journey back to reality. Her sense of regret at having left Margot with only a note on her pillow was not deep enough to spoil the warmth of this sense of hope. She liked Ian more than she could recall liking any other man. The more they talked, the more gentleness she found to his character, and it filled her with interest and a sense almost of familiarity, as if she were revisiting happy times.

  He was looking out of the window, leaning forward in his seat to catch the part of the skyline where the volcano was. Finally he sat back.