“Of course not. I thought this would be a building site. And as I say, I have legitimate business in Florence. I’m booked into the Four Seasons downtown. Very exclusive. The driver they loaned me drove me here in the hotel Bentley, can you believe? But this lane is a little narrow and dusty. A nice man in the inn down the road pointed us in this direction, asked if Mrs Somebody-Or-Other—Italian name—was expecting me. I told him I was looking for you, and he seemed to understand. Anyway, when we reached a wider part of the lane, and I could see the house, I told the driver to let me out, said I’d walk the rest of the way. He’ll return to pick me up at five. Earlier, if I call him.”
We move into the shade of the hallway, and Alice slows to take in the space with evident approval. I notice Lorenzo through the glass door leading out to the veranda, setting the table with a jug of something orange that looks like Negroni.
“The Mrs Somebody-or-another you mentioned is Mrs Bellacci, the housekeeper. She’s out shopping right now, getting supplies in town. There’s also Lorenzo, the groundsman. You’ll probably meet him. The house is staffed by the two of them and managed by a local doctor.”
“And Albert arranged all of this?”
“He did.”
“Tell me honestly. Did you know?”
“Alice. I had no idea. His local contact, Dr Romano, said he was going to surprise me later in the year. I think we’re having cocktails on the veranda. Do you want to freshen up? There’s a downstairs cloakroom.”
Alice does, and once I show her the room and the door is closed behind her, I hurry to the library. The book by A. R. Luria sits on the desk still. I close the pages, lock the volume into a desk drawer, and pop the key into my pocket. Once Alice has left, I plan to recheck the contents, although I feel confident this is not the book Albert meant, a medical journal, not a biography.
I’m already seated at the patio table when Alice reappears. She stands in the doorway for a moment, her eyes wide, appraising the view from the veranda.
“Albert Callico truly was a man of mystery. What an incredible place. I thought I’d lucked out at the hotel, but this is simply stunning. What is it? Eighteenth century?”
“Originally seventeenth. But extensively renovated and modernised over the years.”
“Lovingly so, I’d say,” she says, lowering herself demurely into a seat. “And now it’s all yours. Best all round if nobody mentions this to Edward.”
I finish pouring generous measures of the cocktail and push a glass across the table to her. She does not move but stares me straight in the eye.
“Come on,” she says. “Get me up to speed? What’s been happening?”
I exhale and recline against the rigid spine of the metal chair, quickly assessing how much I can tell her. I detail the trip to the solicitor, assuming she will know that much from Edward. She knows I stayed with friends and I embellish more when I talk about my journey, especially about being met with a finished villa rather than a bomb site. She nods her understanding as I speak, repeatedly sipping from the glass.
“Enough about me. What’s been happening back in England?”
In true Alice style, she rolls her eyes heavenwards.
“Edward’s insisting we move into that bloody family crypt. Apparently, it’s expected of us. I agreed on the basis that I’m not giving up our place in Marylebone. The bastard will have a fight on his hands if he tries to sell that.”
Hearing her badmouth Edward, I decide to ask something that has bothered me for years.
“Now that we’re far from London, Alice,” I say, clinking my glass with hers. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“When did you ever ask permission?”
“Edward and you. I don’t get it. You’re nothing like each other. You do everything for him. What does he ever do for you?”
Alice sighs deeply. During my time in Callico House, we discussed many things, but never the one I find most intriguing.
“He gets things done, Gabriel. And we make a good partnership. He’s wildly ambitious but, as you know from first-hand experience, he rarely thinks things through before he acts and has no scruples about pushing people who disagree with him out of windows. My job is to manage him. I advise on the implications before he makes rash decisions, especially those I foresee as bad. And if he still decides to hurtle downhill, I ensure something happens very quickly afterwards to make him sit up and take notice, to reevaluate and, hopefully, revoke his decision. Do you remember the so-called financial whizz he took on as his director of finance? Son of Lord Ponsonby-Poshnose—or some equally ridiculous double-barrelled surname. Father’s one of those entitled pricks who sleeps in the House of Lords.”
“Lord Porter-Dunholme.”
“If you say so. I advised Edward not to employ him. Said not only did the brat lack relevant experience, but his credentials did not stack up. More importantly, there had been rumours from very credible sources about his dubious businessactivities, which could have tarnished our company’s reputation. Naturally, Edward ignored me.”
“You were right in the end. Didn’t Edward let him go after one of the Sunday tabloids did an exposé on his involvement with alleged human traffickers?”
“Amazing what one can achieve when one knows the right people, isn’t it? So you see, the more times Edward fucks up and I have to clear up his mess, the more he seeks out my advice.”
“You manipulate him.”
“I prefer the word manage.”