The Villa in Italy

‘I tell you what, it’s a miracle burglars aren’t in and out all day long. It’s hardly difficult.’

‘There’s an alarm I put on at night and when I go out,’ Delia said. ‘It makes a terrific racket, like an air raid siren. Good thing it wasn’t set, or you’d have had the heart attack and plunged to the ground. Oh, Lord; I can guess why you’re on my fire escape. Reporters?’

Jessica nodded.

‘Here?’

‘Staked out at the front, two of them, would you believe it? They know you’re a friend of mine; honestly, wouldn’t you think they had something better to do than follow me around?’

Delia went into her sitting room, edged round the Schiedmayer grand piano which took up nearly all the available space, and peered down into the square.

‘You’re absolutely right, there they are, bold as brass, not even bothering to lurk or look inconspicuous. The neighbours will be complaining, and pointing out that this is a nice area.’

‘Is it?’

‘Not really, or I couldn’t afford to live here. Respectable is what they mean. What’s up? You look all in. I can see your ghastly husband hasn’t agreed to give you a divorce. What’s he done now?’

‘Haven’t you seen the papers?’

‘Not that foul Giles Slattery again?’

‘No, although he’s one of the reporters hanging round the front door downstairs. No, this is important news, headlines in The Times kind: Richie’s been appointed a junior minister at the Foreign Office.’

‘Hell,’ Delia said. ‘That’ll make him even keener to stay respectably married, won’t it?’

Delia was Jessica’s oldest and best friend, and the only person who knew and understood her predicament, the only person whose advice she trusted. Despite the fact that their lives had taken such very different paths, and despite the fact that Jessica’s husband, Richard Meldon, disliked Delia almost as much as she did him, Delia and Jessica had remained the closest of friends. It was inevitable that if Jessica was in trouble she would come to Delia for refuge, advice, sympathy, good sense, and, Delia not being one to mince words, the truth.

‘How long have you got before he gets back from Hong Kong?’

‘One of the reporters outside my house shouted out something about him being back next week. Because of the new job, do you think? Or maybe just fed up with China.’

Jessica threw herself down on Delia’s large and comfortable sofa, and her dog jumped up beside her.

Delia’s sitting room was like Delia herself: exotic, larger than life and full of bright colours and untidiness. Delia, who was taller and had more curves than Jessica, liked bold colours on herself as well as in her surroundings, and she was dressed today in a huge scarlet sloppy joe jumper, with red sneakers on her feet and large gypsy hoops in her ears.

She looked at Jessica with affection tinged with anxiety. Jessica used to be a colourful dresser herself, favouring the blues and greens that suited her silvery blonde hair and the deep blue eyes set in a long Plantagenet face, but since her marriage she had become more and more neutral, camouflaging herself in camels and beiges and pale greys, none of which suited her colouring or her personality.

‘Come on, what else did the damned reporter say?’

‘Oh, he asked if Richie would be joining me in the Chelsea house.’

When Jessica had stormed out of the matrimonial home, a house in Mayfair, she had moved into a tiny house in Chelsea that belonged to friends who had been posted abroad, and Delia knew how happy she had felt there, in a place untainted by the husband she so hated.

They looked at each other in silence. ‘You’re welcome to stay here,’ said Delia. ‘Any time. You and Harry the pooch.’

Jessica’s dog, named Harry because he had come from Harrods, had been Delia’s wedding present to her. ‘So that at least there’ll be someone for you to love,’ Delia had said with savage percipience.

Richie had disliked the little dog from the start.

‘What is he, some kind of mongrel?’

‘He’s a Heeler.’

‘A what? Never heard of any such dog.’

‘They come from Lancashire. They nip at the heels of cattle.’

‘You believe that, you believe anything. What a stupid little tail, curled over like that. Why didn’t you ask me? I’d have bought you a proper dog.’

‘Thank you, Harry’s perfect.’

Delia knew that Richie wasn’t a man who could easily be kept out of anywhere he wanted to be; her Chelsea house would no longer seem safe to Jessica.

‘Talk about not wanting to take a hint,’ she said. ‘Why doesn’t he accept that the marriage is over, that it’s been a failure?’

‘Why ask? Nothing Richie does can be a failure.’

Delia had her own opinion about that. Richie was a failure as a human being, and not all his glowing war record as an ace fighter in the RAF, the brilliance as a speaker that had taken him into Parliament, his dashing good looks, his wealth, his connections or his influence made up for the fact that, deep down, ‘He’s a shit,’ she said.

‘I know that, and you know that, but he’s no such thing in the eyes of the world, and that’s why I’m now the demon woman for daring to leave him. My loving husband, so wonderful, how could I want to divorce him?’

‘Yes, it’s tough on you that the press eat out of his hand. Did you know that he and Giles Slattery go back a long way? They were at school together.’

Delia saw the flash of anxiety in Jessica’s eyes, those eyes that always showed when a sensitive spot had been touched.

‘I had no idea,’ Jessica said. ‘That’s an unholy alliance, if you like. Oh, God, do you suppose Richie sicked Slattery on to me? Just to torment?’

‘I expect so. It’s a good way of keeping tabs on you, while keeping his own nose clean.’

‘I’m going to have to get away. Go abroad. Only do you think the reporters would follow me there?’

‘What, send out search parties all over the Continent? You aren’t that much of a story.’

‘I wish I weren’t any kind of a story at all. Oh, why didn’t I listen to you? If I had, I wouldn’t be in this fix now.’

Delia had never really got to the heart of the reason why Jessica had married Richard Meldon. On the surface, it seemed a perfect match, but to one who knew Jessica as well as she did, it was doomed to disaster. Her reaction to Jessica’s engagement to Richie had been openly unenthusiastic.

‘Marry that man? Jessica, you can’t be serious. Go and take a cold bath, or hop on a banana boat to South America, anything to make you come to your senses.’

‘What’s wrong with Richie? He’s handsome, successful—’

‘And rich. Is he in love with you, or the fact that your family goes back for nine centuries? And what about his liking for older women?’

‘What older women?’

‘He has a reputation, that’s all. He’s discreet about it, but I heard from Fanny Arbuthnot that—’

‘Fanny’s a tedious gossip and always has been.’

‘Maybe, but she stayed with some people in the south of France and your Richie was among those present, and spent a good deal of his time in the company of Jane Hinton, who must be quite twenty years older than he is. And Fanny says he’s known for it.’

‘As it happens, I don’t care. My past is past, and so is his. Neither of us is coming virginal and innocent to the bridal chamber, why should I mind who he’s slept with before me?’

‘It’s who he’ll sleep with after you that you should worry about,’ Delia muttered.

‘Make me a cocktail,’ Jessica said. ‘A strong one.’

‘You’re drinking too much.’

‘It keeps the goblins at bay.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity you ever married the wretched man,’ Delia said. ‘I still don’t understand how you came to do anything so stupid. It wasn’t as though your friends didn’t warn you.’

‘Oh, trust me to make a mistake,’ Jessica said. ‘When you get into scrapes, you somehow manage to wriggle out of them, don’t you? With my scrapes, I end up having to live with the consequences.’

‘Richie’s more than a scrape.’

‘Unfortunately, he is. And marriage—God, what a colossal mistake that was. A few words said in front of an indifferent clergyman, and bang! you’re bound in chains.’

‘He’s still adamant about no divorce?’

‘Of course he is. He won’t hear of it, just shouts me down. I always thought divorce was quite simple. Didn’t you think, as I did, that the man of honour hops off down to Brighton to be found in bed with the chambermaid or whoever he’s paid for the privilege, and bingo, six months later you’re a free woman?’

‘Only Richie won’t do the honourable thing.’

‘Has Richie ever done an honourable thing in his life?’

They adjourned to the kitchen, where Delia rescued the coffee and they sat on either side of the kitchen table, with Harry between their feet.

‘Abroad isn’t such a bad idea,’ Delia said. ‘Where could you go? It would have to be somewhere Richie couldn’t track you down. It’s tricky, because even if you book yourself into some pension in a remote French village, you have to fill in all those forms for the police. And what officials know, Richie will be able to find out.’

‘I know,’ said Jessica. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ She looked down at the table. ‘You haven’t opened your letters. That’s me barging in and distracting you.’

‘They’re hardly important. An electricity bill, a moan from my agent and a lawyer’s letter.’ Delia began to cough again, and Jessica silently rose and got her a drink of water.

‘It doesn’t sound as though you’ve got rid of your bronchitis.’

‘No, it just lingers. The dreadful weather doesn’t help, and there’s nothing I can do except wait for it to clear up, which the specialist says it will, eventually.’

‘You’ve seen a specialist, then?’

‘Of course I have. All we singers rush to our favourite man at the hint of a sore throat or a chest infection.’

Delia was an opera singer, still too young at twenty-seven for the really major roles, but she was considered a rising star, booked for Glyndebourne, Sadler’s Wells, the Royal Opera House—and due to make her Salzburg debut that summer.

‘That’s what my agent’s moaning about,’ she said, opening his letter with some reluctance. ‘Yes, here we go, fatal to get a name for unreliability, can I give him a firm date when I will be well enough…’ She scrunched up the letter. ‘And this one is from my father’s lawyers,’ she went on. ‘God knows what he’s up to.’

She slit open the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. ‘What on earth?’ She picked up the envelope again—yes, it was addressed to her, and the letter began ‘Dear Miss Vaughan’. Beneath the salutation was typed in capital letters, THE ESTATE OF THE LATE BEATRICE MALASPINA.

‘What is it?’ said Jessica. ‘Bad news?’

‘No,’ said Delia, passing her the letter.

‘Who’s this Beatrice Malaspina? Was she your godmother or something?’

‘I have no idea. I’ve never heard of her.’

They stared at one another. ‘How odd,’ said Jessica. ‘And yet she must have left you a legacy of some kind, otherwise why the letter? What do they say—please call at their office at your earliest convenience? How exciting. Get changed, and off you go.’

Delia had no intention of going to the offices of Winthrop, Winthrop & Jarvis, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and she said so. Jessica took no notice, and half an hour later Delia found herself sitting in a cab, wrapped up in a scarlet coat, ‘Like a matador’s cape,’ Jessica said, ‘but perfect for keeping out the cold,’ with a headscarf wound round her head.

Jessica had insisted on her taking a cab. ‘Walk, with that cough? Certainly not, and mind you come back by taxi, as soon as ever you can; don’t you see that I shall be dying of curiosity to know what it’s all about?’

Delia climbed the steep, ill-lit stairs which led to the sombre chambers of Winthrop, Winthrop & Jarvis, where the clerk eyed her with disfavour.

‘There’s no need to look at me like that,’ Delia said. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Winthrop. Tell him I’m here, please. Miss Vaughan. No, I don’t have an appointment, but I’m sure he’ll see me.’

‘I’m not sure whether—’

‘Just tell him I’m here.’

Reluctantly, the clerk disappeared through a dark door, to return in a few moments and, even more reluctantly, show her into the handsome panelled room which was the lair of Josiah Winthrop, senior partner of the firm.

Mr Winthrop greeted Delia with a formal, chilly courtesy that made her indignant. He was not a man ever to show much warmth, but he had known her since she was a child and there was no need to treat her as though she were one of his criminal clients. Bother him, Delia said inwardly; I know he wishes I weren’t here at all, but he could try to hide the fact.

‘Okay,’ she said deliberately, and watched him wince at the slang, so out of place in these surroundings where every word was weighed and considered. She took off her headscarf and shook her dark hair loose before sitting down on the hard wooden chair with arms that Mr Winthrop had moved forward for her. An uncomfortable chair, which ensured that undesirable clients didn’t outstay their welcome.

‘Spit it out,’ she said. ‘Who is this Beatrice Malaspina, and what has she to do with me?’

THREE

Jessica listened with rapt attention as Delia reported on her visit to the lawyers. Delia was sitting on the piano stool, while Jessica stretched out on the sofa, Harry curled up beside her.

‘So this lawyer is claiming they don’t know anything about her? But they’re representing her, they must know,’ Jessica said.

‘I don’t believe they do. I could tell from Mr Winthrop’s expression that he thinks it’s all most irregular. Mind you, he’s hardly a talkative man at the best of times; he’s the sort of lawyer who says as little as possible, as though every word came at a cost. Apparently, the instructions were from a firm of Italian lawyers, and they’re simply handling the English end.’

‘Are you sure there isn’t some connection with your family? After all, Winthrop is your father’s lawyer, isn’t he? And they’re a stuffy firm. Look how they’ve treated me; they won’t represent anybody who walks in off the street.’

‘I asked him, but he merely looked even more thin-lipped and said that his firm handled the affairs and estates of a great many clients. Which is true enough.’

‘Are you going to ask your parents if they know who Beatrice Malaspina was? Or have ever heard of the Villa Dante?’

‘No. Mother won’t have known her—she hates all foreigners. And you know how things are between my father and me. We haven’t spoken for over a year, and I’m not going to get in touch with him about this.’

‘It’s about time your pa faced facts and realised you’ve chosen your career, and are doing very well at it, and he’s not going to be able to drag you into the family firm, however much he wants to.’

‘Father never sees what he doesn’t want to. Anyhow, if he got wind of a will, he’d winkle the facts out of Winthrop and the Italian lawyers, or get his horribly efficient hornrimmed secretary to do it for him. Then, if he knew I was thinking of going to Italy, he’d want to organise it all. Aeroplane? Far too expensive; he’d have all the continental timetables out, to look up the cheapest possible route, and I’d end up trundling across the Alps on some old bus.’

Lord Saltford’s thriftiness was too notorious for Jessica to be able to argue with Delia about that.

‘And he’s never mentioned any Beatrice anybody. I don’t see any reason why he should know her.’

‘Maybe it’s all a trick, to lure you away. Perhaps the oh-so-respectable Mr Winthrop is a secret white slave trader?’

‘What, and I’ll find myself being shipped out to Buenos Aires in a crate? Oh, very likely!’

Jessica fiddled with a cushion tassel.

‘Are you really thinking of going to Italy? Will you follow the instructions in Beatrice Malaspina’s will, and go to this Villa Dante?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Delia. ‘It’s tempting, and I have to say I am curious about the whole thing.’

‘Perhaps she’s left you the house, the Villa Dante, and a fortune.’

‘Italians leave property to their families, always. Maybe a piece of jewellery, a brooch or a ring. Only why? Why me?’

‘And why make you go all the way to Italy for a brooch? No, whoever she was, and why ever she wanted you to go to Italy, it must be important. And the only way you’ll find out is by going. Would you ever forgive yourself if you passed on this?’

‘Mr Winthrop doesn’t like all the mystery, I could tell; he looked as though he had a bad smell under his long nose.’

Jessica sat up. ‘Why don’t we go together? It would suit me to go abroad, and it would do you good to get away from this dreadful, everlasting fog and rain and wind.’ She paused. ‘No, I suppose you can’t really spare the time. You’re hardly ever able to get away, what with rehearsals and performances and so on. That’s what having a successful career is all about.’

Delia dropped her hands on to the keys of the piano, picking out the notes of ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’ with two fingers, then weaving an ornate variation as she spoke. ‘As it happens, I’m thinking of taking a bit of time off. I’m not due to start rehearsals for a few weeks. Everything’s rather in the air at the moment,’ she added. ‘With this cough of mine. And Italy might have better weather than we’ve got here.’

Jessica’s mind turned to practicalities.

‘What’s the best way to get there? We could fly to Rome, I suppose, but we’d be followed by those damn reporters, and then Richie would know exactly where I was.’

‘Let’s go by car,’ said Delia. ‘You didn’t leave your car at Richie’s house, did you? It’s a long way, but we can share the driving, and, according to the lawyers, as long as I’m there by the end of the month, that’s okay.’

‘Doesn’t it need a lot of arranging, going abroad with a car? It won’t just be a matter of driving to Dover and nipping on the next ferry, will it? There’s insurance and green cards and all kinds of formalities when you want to take a car across the Channel.’ Jessica knew that if she went near a travel agent or the RAC, the hounds would be on her heels. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Why is everything in my life so difficult just now?’

‘I have a friend who works at Thomas Cook,’ Delia said. ‘Michael will fix it all up for us. What’s the number of your car?’

She scribbled down the details. ‘We have to be inconspicuous, or the reporters will be on our tail. How can we drive away unnoticed if the press are camped on your doorstep? They must know your car.’

‘They do. I’ve been taking taxis everywhere to try to throw them off the trail. Pity we can’t take a cab to Italy. Do you think I should try to hire a car?’

‘To take abroad? I doubt if you could. No. Who looks after your car? Is it a local garage? Can you trust them?’

‘Do I trust anyone?’

‘You’ll have to, that’s all. Get them to collect the car from your house. If the reporters start nosing round, they can tell them it needs some work because you’re driving north at the weekend.’

‘By which time, we can be in France.’

‘If Michael gets a move on, yes.’

FOUR

‘Climbing in and out of windows, I ask you,’ Jessica said to Delia, as she clambered in through the kitchen window once more. ‘I just hope that my daily locks up securely tomorrow.’

‘Does your daily know where you’re going?’

‘She does not. She thinks I’m going north, to my parents’ house. She’s going to look after Harry for me. She knows he fights with Mummy’s dogs, so she won’t wonder why I’m not taking him. Are you packed, is that suitcase all you’re taking?’

‘I’m used to travelling light,’ said Delia, attempting to stuff a slip down the side of the case.

‘Let me,’ said Jessica. ‘Honestly, with all the travelling you do, why haven’t you learned to pack properly?’

‘It all comes out creased, whatever I do.’

Jessica was unfolding and refolding and tucking everything in with swift and expert hands. ‘There, plenty of room if you pack it right.’ She shut the lid and clicked the catches into place. ‘Ready?’

‘Do we really need to use the fire escape? Surely no one will be outside at this time of night?’

‘They know I’m staying with you; don’t you think they might be out there in a parked car, with the windows steaming up? We can’t risk it.’

They manhandled Delia’s suitcase down the metal fire escape, Jessica wincing at every sound they made. The back way from Delia’s flat led into a quiet street of Victorian houses. There was a shimmer of frost in the air, and Delia began to cough.

‘Control yourself, or you’ll wake the neighbours, hacking away like that,’ Jessica said.

‘Can’t help it. Where did you leave the car?’

Jessica’s racing-green MG was parked near the corner of a silent street that was inhabited only by a tabby cat slinking home after a night on the tiles. They squeezed Delia’s suitcase in beside Jessica’s case. Jessica got into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. ‘There’s a road atlas in the glove compartment,’ she said. ‘Are we heading for Dover?’

‘No, we’re going to Lydd airfield, in Kent. I’ll map-read for you. We’re flying the car over to Le Touquet. Expensive, but it’s worth it. Michael suggested it. The papers have stringers at the ports, but they won’t bother with a small airfield like that. And they won’t be expecting you to flee the country, not if they think you’re going up to Yorkshire.’

FIVE

Dawn was breaking as a weary Delia and Jessica drove the last few miles to the airport. It was hardly more than a landing field, with a man so clearly ex-RAF in charge that Jessica said in an appalled whisper to Delia, ‘Let’s hope he didn’t know Richie.’

The plane was waiting on the runway, heavy-bellied and stubby-winged. A laconic mechanic took the key and ran the MG up the ramp and into the dark space inside. He clattered back down the ramp and directed them to some rickety steps set against the side of the plane.

‘Hardly luxury travel,’ Delia said, as she stooped to enter the plane. They sat down on one of the two benches that were placed on either side of the fuselage. Opposite them, a man in a grey suit was reading a newspaper, and beside him were a pair of sleepy-eyed Frenchmen who said good morning; one was smoking a French cigarette that filled the narrow space with strong, foreign fumes.

The plane lumbered along the runway and heaved itself into the air. The sound of the engines was too loud for any conversation; Delia twisted herself round and looked out of the small window. She could see the whirring propeller, and, looking down, the crests of white peaking on grey waves. They flew low across the Channel, so low that, as they approached the French coast and flew over a fishing boat straggling back to harbour, Delia could see the face of the man at the tiller.

The flight only took half an hour, and by mid-morning, refreshed with black, bitter coffee, they had left Le Touquet and were motoring along straight French roads towards Paris. A slight mist lingered in the air, and it was no warmer than England, but to Delia it felt as though she’d landed in a new world.

‘Oh, the relief of getting away,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m so grateful to you. I hope you meant it about the work.’

‘I did. You know me, I’m a pro. If I couldn’t spare the time, I’d have said so, even though you are my oldest friend.’

Jessica looked over her shoulder. Behind them the road stretched away between two neat lines of plane trees; the only other person visible was a cyclist in a beret, pedalling slowly and deliberately.

‘Do stop looking round,’ said Delia. ‘We haven’t been followed—we’d know by now if we had. Or do you think Giles Slattery will be after us, disguised as a Frenchman on a bicycle?’

‘You may joke, but you’ve no idea how persistent those ghastly reporters can be.’