“I come from Calabria in the south,” she tells me as I follow her into the shaded reception hall, where a wide wooden low-rise staircase on my right leads to upper floors. “Casa dell’Aquila is a perfect example of historic Tuscan architecture. The house has two storeys and five bedrooms. There is a small annexe with two bedrooms on the grounds, which is my quarters. From there, I have easy access to the house to clean and prepare food whenever guests come to stay.”
Dr Romano is right about her English, which is almost flawless. She pauses to straighten a hollow wooden globe sculpture as we head to the rear of the house.
“Have you already had guests?” I ask.
In my socked feet, the smooth and cold terracotta flooring feels refreshing. My eye catches on the high reception ceiling decorated with a mix of stucco and coffered wood, and the lead-framed glass doors standing open at the far end of the room, allowing a cooling breeze to waft into the structure. A sturdy but stylish wooden chandelier hangs above our heads, something unpretentious and straightforward that Albert would most certainly have chosen. From the fixtures and furniture in the reception hall, nothing is ostentatious or overdone. Everything is understated, designed to draw the eye to the exquisite masonry, the restored murals and the plasterwork.
“In July,” she says, eventually, in answer to my question. “Theprofessorecame for a final meeting with the building contractors and to help Enzo and me supervise the movers, and make sure everything went into the right room. Of course, they could not recreate the murals, but they did their best. He brought a guest, a female colleague named Leblanc. They stayed for three nights only. He told me he intended to bring you here later in the year.”
I am still trying to get my head around Albert keeping this place from me. I’d thought we shared everything. Not that I hadmuch to share. Perhaps he’d genuinely wanted to surprise me, which would have been entirely in character.
We pass a doorway on the left that appears to be an immense library with floor-to-ceiling dark oak shelves of books filling each wall, hundreds upon hundreds of them. There is also a circular staircase of black iron at one end ascending to an upper floor, as well as an elaborate stone fireplace. I want to go in and investigate, but Bellacci heads outside through the tall glass-panelled doors, and I feel impelled to follow. I step out onto more terracotta tiles beneath a covered terrace of simple arches and colonnades. A sight that lifts my spirits greets me. Beyond the immaculate lawn sits a full-size swimming pool identical to the one in Callico House’s basement, beckoning me like an old friend. If I had any doubts about Albert’s presence here, this sight dissolves them.
“Did anyone tell you what happened to Albert? Professor Callico?” I ask.
She continues across the lawn around the side of the swimming pool until we reach an expansive grove of what I guess to be olive trees. I cannot help but notice dead leaves and other flora floating on the water’s surface, a sign of the unused pool’s neglect. Before we enter the olive grove, she stops and turns back to me.
“Il dottorRomano called earlier to tell me you would be coming. He also said theprofessoredied in a traffic accident. What happened?”
“He was on his way to a conference with medical colleagues. Only Dr Leblanc survived. The last I heard, she was still in a coma.”
“What happened?” she asks.
“The police believe the driver fell asleep at the wheel. They think he might still have been under the influence of alcoholfrom the night before. I understand they are not treating the accident as suspicious—”
“You believe this?”
I’m unsure whether I want to share my recent experience and suspicions with someone I have just met, so I keep my answer as innocuous as possible.
“I have no reason to think otherwise.”
“Cavolata,” she mutters, almost under her breath. With a wave of her hand, she indicates something behind me. From this viewpoint, the house is stunning. Above the covered terrace, on the first floor, there is a large balcony overlooking the back of the house, a patio table and chairs are set up there, and large glass doors lead into a room, probably a bedroom. Like the rest of the house, the whole rear façade is painted in pale lemon cream, and just like inside, there are beautiful design embellishments over windows and above doorways, concrete- or plaster-moulded symmetrical swirls and twirls painted in pristine white.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, but then remember the earlier words she spoke. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What did you say in Italian?”
“Let us go and take a seat out of the sunshine,” she says, leading the way back to the covered terrace with a cast-iron table and cushion-covered chairs. “What I meant was that police everywhere are often too quick to make assumptions. To get cases closed and filed away. Did you see this driver? On the morning of the accident?”
“No,” I answer, resting my backpack on the floor before taking a seat. “But someone else in the house said they chatted with him. Said he seemed fine.”
“Mm-hm. And they were all medical professionals, you say? Travelling together with theprofessore?”
“That’s correct. Three of them, including Albert.”
“And you do not think they would have noticed something in this driver’s behaviour, or at least smelled alcohol on him or in the van? Do you think theprofessorewould have allowed the man to drive if he had suspected him of being even a little drunk?”
She is absolutely right. Albert once made us get out of a cab in an unfamiliar suburb of London because he was convinced our driver was under the influence of cannabis.
“Rest here a moment while I go and fetch something to drink. You must be thirsty. Do you like iced lemon tea?”
“I do. Thank you.”
When she heads off towards a doorway at the end of the covered terrace, I take in my implausible surroundings. Little touches jump out at me. Blue-and-white mosaic tiling lines the swimming pool’s perimeter, similar to the tiles in Albert’s bathroom back in London. Wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling books in the library are Albert’s idea of a wet dream. The tasteful yet understated furniture in the entrance hall is something we both favoured. This classic Italian house reflects everything Albert would have chosen as a retirement sanctuary. After only a minute or two, Bellacci returns with a tray I suspect she had ready for my arrival. After pouring us both a chilled glass of amber liquid from a large jug filled with lemon slices and ice cubes, she takes her seat again.
“Why do you come here?”
Her tone is abrupt, but the question is actually a logical one. Once again, I don’t know how much to tell her, but I can’t help the exhalation of breath that escapes me.
“I needed some time away from London. From everything. And I only recently received news about this house. I thought I would come and investigate, keep myself busy.”