A Dead Man in Naples (8 page)

‘Well, then I married Tonio, and of course, I was happy. Children came and I was happier still. And the world Tonio had spun for me seemed just around the corner, there, waiting for me to seize it.

‘And then Tonio was killed. Shot. By my own people. But by then I did not know who were my own people. Were they my people, or Tonio’s? And what of the children? Where they children of my people or of Tonio’s?

‘Marcello was in no doubt. You know Marcello? Well, you know of him. He is Maria’s and Giuseppi’s son, Francesca’s father. And he was a good friend of Tonio. Moreover, he was his cousin, and had duties. And he said: “Tonio would have wished it, Jalila, and so you must do it. You must come to Naples.” And I thought, well, perhaps I will never get out of my cage now, but perhaps, this way, my children will. So I agreed.

‘There was someone he knew. A captain. He was Tonio’s captain, too. And he had a powerful friend in Rome. And through this friend they were able to fix it, to arrange for us to come to Italy, and be received by Tonio’s family.

Seymour came round the corner and greeted them. Jalila thanked Chantale and detached the little girl’s hand. They moved away.

‘Let’s just walk back down this street,’ said Chantale. ‘Would you like some ladies’ thighs?’

Would you like some ladies’ thighs?’

‘What?’ said Seymour, startled.

Chantale linked her arm through his. ‘People here adore them.’

* * *

‘They always say it’s the Camorra,’ said Richards dis-missively. ‘But, in my experience – and I’ve been here six years – it never is. There was a time when they were all-powerful in Naples but in recent years they’ve lost ground. Nowadays they stick to minor stuff, protection and that sort of thing. But Naples is a very conservative place and their old reputation lingers on. It’s part of the local folklore. Anything out of the ordinary that happens they put down to the Camorra. If there’s a big accident, say. But accidents happen all the time in Naples, as in any big city, and that’s nothing to do with the Camorra. Or an especially gory murder. But there’s seldom any real reason to suppose it’s anything to do with the Camorra. It’s, as I say, part of the local folklore. Like the Magic Number.’

‘Magic Number?’

‘The one that will win the lottery. Every time. If you can only find it. Look, old man, I don’t want to go on about this, but Naples is not England. It’s not even Italy, or, at least, modern Italy, the Italy of the north. It’s still locked in the past, more backward, superstitious. And the Camorra is part of the superstition.’

‘They speak of it as if it was real.’

‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? That’s what I mean. Look, I’m not denying that they exist. But they’re not the force they were. They may still do the occasional favour for an old acquaintance but mostly these days they stick to collecting protection money.’

‘And Scampion had only just come here and had nothing to protect?’

‘Unless you count the consulate and, believe me, old chap, we’re not quite that desperate!’

Seymour laughed.

‘It was just that the man I spoke to seemed so sure,’ he said.

‘Oh, they’re all sure,’ said Richards. ‘Sure, but wrong. Look, it couldn’t have been the Camorra because he hadn’t been here long enough for them even to have heard of him. He couldn’t have done anything to get across them because since he arrived he hadn’t actually done anything at all! Once I saw what he was like, I took good care of that!’

‘Maybe, then,’ said Seymour, ‘it was something he did
before
he got here.’

Richards shook his head.

‘Not even that,’ he said. ‘If it’s the Camorra you’re thinking of, you’ve got to rule them out. The Societies stick to their own territory. The Mafia to Sicily, the Camorra to Naples. They never, but
never
, encroach on anyone else’s territory. What Scampion did before he got here is no concern of theirs.’

Seymour had lingered in the consulate longer than he had intended and now he was late for collecting Chantale. He had promised to take her out to dinner at a little fish restaurant that Giuseppi had told him about. The restaurant was along the Posillipo promontory, just beyond the boats, and that was where she would be waiting for him. He had just reached the Capuana Gate when someone hailed him.

It was Miss Scampion.

‘Oh, Mr Seymour, I am so glad to have caught you. There is something I must tell you.’

‘Really, Miss Scampion? I am afraid I am in rather a hurry just at the moment –’

‘I have been thinking about it all day.’

Seymour stopped resignedly.

‘About what, Miss Scampion?’

‘About the betting slip.’

‘The one you found in your brother’s trousers?’

‘That’s right. I think, in retrospect, that I may have given you the wrong impression.’

‘I think I may have implied, or even said, that my brother had been deceiving me. Or, at any rate, holding something back from me. And when I found the betting slip I immediately feared the worst. But, as you very rightly told me, there could have been a quite innocent explanation. And, thinking it over calmly – I am afraid that when I spoke to you I was far from calm, I was still, under the impact of the discovery, greatly shocked – I feel I may have been doing him an
Injustice
.

‘I had been assuming, God forgive me, that the lottery ticket was evidence of his own . . . his own depravity. That he himself was betting. But that need not have been so, need it? Perhaps somebody else was betting, a friend of his, perhaps, and Lionel was very angry with him, and had, perhaps, taken the slip
away
from him, to save him from the consequences of his actions –’

‘Well, yes, Miss Scampion, that is certainly possible, I suppose –’

‘That would have been very like Lionel. He always had a very keen sense of what was right and wrong. It would have been very like him to have seized the ticket and said: “No, I cannot allow you to do this!”’

‘Well, yes, Miss Scampion –’

‘And that would account for his anger.’

‘His anger?’

‘Yes. I – I think I mentioned to you, Mr Seymour, that I had been feeling for some time that something was amiss. Something had been troubling him, something had been making him angry. And that was most unusual, for normally he had such a sunny disposition, he never seemed to lose his temper. But for some time he had been – well, angry is the only word. He was
angry
.

‘And I thought, when I found the lottery ticket, God forgive me, that he was angry with himself. But that need not have been so, need it, Mr Seymour? He could have been angry with the other person. Or, rather, at the sin and not the sinner, as they always taught us in church.’

‘Well, yes, that could be so, Miss Scampion –’

‘It was so unusual. This anger. I kept out of his way. I had learned that, of course, very early on. To keep out of his way when he was in one of his moods. For often when he was angry, it would spill over on to other things – on to me, for example, which I thought most unfair, as well as the thing which had made him angry in the first place. And this was what happened on this occasion. He became very angry, for instance, about the bicycle parts.’

‘Bicycle parts?’

‘Yes. He was
very
angry about them. They had sent the wrong ones, you see.’

Seymour began to edge away. ‘Well, of course, that is always very annoying. Especially if he needed them –’

‘No, no, they weren’t for him. It was up at the army base. They had sent the wrong ones. And there were, apparently, rather a lot of them. Lionel became very angry about it. Of course, that was just like him. Taking other people’s troubles on his own shoulders. Strictly speaking, of course, it was none of his business. He admitted that. But he said that someone ought to do something. And no one else seemed to be going to. The Italians are a bit like that, I’m afraid. They have a saying about how sweet it is to do nothing. But they carry it to extremes. They are so lax! Even in the army, I’m afraid.’

‘These parts were for the army, then?’

‘Yes. Doubtless they were defective in some way. And no one was bothering! But one
should
bother, shouldn’t one? My uncle – the army one, you know – always used to say you should care for public money as it if was your own. And this almost certainly
was
public money, wasn’t it? Someone was wasting it in some way and Lionel had spotted it.

‘He was quite acute on things like that. I remember once in the schoolroom he hauled me over the coals for the number of rubber bands I had been using. “Waste not, want not!” he said. I was quite taken aback, and I felt it was very unfair, too. He never seemed to listen to the sermon in church and yet he produced this!’

‘The Devil can always quote scripture to suit his own purpose,’ said Seymour, sententiously.

Miss Scampion went pink.

‘I don’t think that is quite appropriate, Mr Seymour!’ she said severely.

Chapter Eight

Seymour and Chantale were still sitting at breakfast when the Arab woman, Jalila, came into the room, holding a child with each hand. Her face was radiant.

‘It’s come!’ she said. ‘It came through this morning.’

She went across to old Giuseppi, caught up his hand and kissed it.

‘I owe it to you!’ she said.

‘Nonsense!’ said Giuseppi, patting her awkwardly on the head. ‘It is only your desert. As the widow of an Italian soldier.’

‘Without you I would have done nothing!’ declared Jalila.

‘It has really come through?’

‘
Si
.’

She took out a letter and brandished it.

‘It says here that I will receive fifty on the first of every month. And with it there was a piece of paper I had to take to the post office and then they would give me the money. And I took it,’ said Jalila triumphantly, ‘and they gave it!’

Maria came out of the kitchen and embraced her.

‘It will make all the difference, Jalila,’ she said. ‘Now you will not have to beg.’

‘No one should have to beg,’ said Giuseppi. ‘Least of all, when it is your due.’

‘I am glad of it for the sake of the children,’ said Jalila. ‘It is bad for children if they see their mother begging.’

She looked at Maria.

‘And I am glad for the sake of Tonio, too,’ she said. ‘He would not have liked to see his wife beg.’

‘He would have been angry,’ said Giuseppi, ‘that his wife should have had to wait so long!’

‘And Marcello, too!’ She looked at Maria. ‘For I am sure he has had a hand in this.’

‘Marcello is a good boy!’ said Giuseppi.

Francesca came out and put her arms round Jalila.

‘I will write to him and tell him,’ she said. ‘I know he will be pleased.’

‘And your brother, too,’ Jalila said to Giuseppi. ‘He has done what he could for me. But I know it has not been easy.’

‘He would have done more if he could.’

‘I know.’

Giuseppi blew his nose loudly.

‘I have brought some eggs,’ said Jalila. ‘It is little, I know,’ she said apologetically, ‘but –’

‘You shouldn’t have,’ said Maria. ‘You should have given them to the children.’

‘For you!’ Jalila insisted.

‘For the family. I shall make a cake. For everyone. And the children will help me.’

She took the children by the hand and started to lead them into the kitchen. Then she stopped.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Francesca will make the cake.’

‘
Can
Francesca make a cake?’ asked Giuseppi doubtfully.

‘She certainly can!’ said Francesca snootily, going out with her nose in the air.

But then she reappeared.

‘Butter?’ she said anxiously.

‘What did I –’ began Giuseppi but Jalila cut across him quickly.

‘I will help, Francesca,’ she said. ‘If I may. I would like to.’

‘Make the one your father likes,’ decreed Maria.

‘I can do that,’ said Francesca, relieved, and she and Jalila went off into the kitchen.

‘Why isn’t that girl like her mother?’ asked Giuseppi. ‘Julia always makes very fine cakes. She’s good at cooking.’

‘Francesca takes after you, that’s why,’ said Maria.

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Always arguing. With you it is all talk. And that is what she has learned from her grandfather. Instead of the useful things that I and her mother try to teach her.’

‘It is true she questions things,’ said Giuseppi. ‘But is not that a good thing?’

‘It is,’ acknowledged Maria. ‘Except that she tends to do it whenever I ask her to do something practical.’

‘She helps out here,’ objected Giuseppi.

‘That’s because she can talk while she cleans the dishes. No talk, nothing done. Like her grandfather.’

‘I do sometimes worry what sort of a wife she will make,’ confessed Giuseppi.

‘The danger is no man will have her.’

‘Giorgio likes her.’

‘Even he gets restive when she keeps putting him right. And half the time he doesn’t understand her. What she needs to do is marry a
professore
.’

‘
Si, si!
A
professore
from the left!’

‘They are always from the left,’said Maria tartly. ‘That is why they have no money. And, talking of money –’

‘I have given it you!’ cried Giuseppi.

‘No, no, it is not that. It is this pension of Jalila’s.’

‘It is good that it has come through.’

‘Yes,’ said Maria, ‘but
why
has it come through? Now? After not having come through for so long?’

‘It is because I went to the office and asked. I demanded. I said it was her right. As a widow of an –’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Maria impatiently. ‘But who did you ask
with
?’

‘You know. Rinaldo and Pietro. Why, you suggested –’ ‘I didn’t suggest that Rinaldo tell them that Our Friends had an interest.’

‘It was just to get them moving –’

‘And that Rinaldo would go and talk to Our Friends afterwards.’

‘That was just to make it right with them. So that they wouldn’t think we were using their name without permission.’

‘But you
were
using their name without permission.’

‘They wouldn’t mind! On a thing like this. If we told them.’

‘No, they wouldn’t mind, all right. They’ll just send the bill in afterwards.’

‘There’s no question of money –’

‘No. But perhaps there will be a question of repayment. What have you done, Giuseppi? What have you done?’

After breakfast Seymour went for a walk. His walk took him to the Porta del Carmine and the top of the street behind, the street down which, according to the
acquaiolo
, Scampion’s murderer might have escaped. It was a street Seymour already knew – it was the one with the snail restaurant in – but now he looked at it anew in the light of what the
acquaiolo
had told him.

He saw a different Naples from the one he saw when he had looked out over the piazza. That one was broad and open and buzzing, filled with people and sunlight. The street on the other side of the Porta was narrow and dark and close, and although it, too, was congested, it was full of a different kind of life.

It was a working street, lined with
bassi
, the half workplace, half dwelling place, of the Neapolitan artisan. Things spilled out from the workshops: wood from the carpenters and turners, sheets of cork newly cut from the trees on the hills above the city, great sweeps of sailcloth spreading right across the street, blocking off the view; half-completed rush mats, wickerwork baskets and chairs still being worked on, their spokes pointing up into the air, low wooden racks filled with pipes in various stages of progress.

A man walking down the street – or, more probably, running – would be invisible within a few yards. Especially if, as the
acquaiolo
had suggested, he had gone into a
basso
.

And that would have been easy. Many of the
bassi
had half-doors like those of a coach house, which folded open and remained open all day. Often they opened on to the street, indeed, were often pulled half across the street, protruding like fences or walls and marking off not just the working space for each
basso
but also a kind of extra living space for the family. Children played there, the wife prepared her meals there. Elderly relatives sat there, for most of the day, moving only from sunshine in the early morning to shade at noon.

And, everywhere, hanging from windows and balconies, dangling sometimes into the
bassi
themselves, were clothes, newly washed and quickly drying, but almost at once, especially when, as was usual, there were small children in the family, as quickly replaced.

Hard, then, to see a man hurrying down the street.

And he might not even have been hurrying. He might have taken his time in a
basso
and then sauntered out some time later.

Even so, with all these people about, someone must have seen him. But how could Seymour prise that out of them? In London it would have been simple. (‘Just making a few routine inquiries.’) But here he was not a policeman, he was just a stranger casually chatting.

And in Italian, too! Seymour was fairly fluent in Italian but his command of the language wasn’t quite up to this. For a start, the Italian they spoke in these back streets was not the Italian he knew. It was dialect, a Neapolitan language of its own. He had met it at the snail restaurant. The carpenter and the
acquaiolo
spoke it habitually. But they also spoke, and shifted into it for his benefit, a standard Italian. The people he tried speaking to in the street were nearly incomprehensible, especially if, as was often the case, their reply came from a mouth practically without teeth.

But that was not the most difficult part. The difficulty was that as soon as he got near the subject of the killing (‘Just at the end of the street!’) they clammed up. Was it, he wondered, simply the usual tactic of the poor, to keep your mouth shut and your head down when something came along that might cause trouble? Or was it usual reaction of a close-knit community to a stranger and, especially, a foreigner? Or was it something else?

As he came out through the gate of the Porta he saw the Marchesa coming across the piazza towards him. She was with a group of smartly dressed young men.

‘Why, Signor Seymour! How nice to see you!’

‘And nice to see you, Marchesa!’

‘You see,’ the Marchesa said to the young men, ‘he speaks Italian!’

‘Why shouldn’t he speak Italian?’ one of them said.

‘Because he’s an Englishman. And a policeman. He has come out here to find out who killed Scampion.’

‘I am here on holiday,’ said Seymour. ‘With my fiancée.’

‘A most charming and beautiful woman,’ said the Marchesa. ‘I recommend you all to make her acquaintance. Especially as you seem to have mislaid your own fiancées.’

‘It’s no joke, Luisa,’ said one of the men.

‘You have left them behind, I know. To guard the hearth and await your return. But cannot you do as sailors are supposed to do? Why not have a fiancée in every port?’

‘We might have other things on our mind when we get to Libya,’ one of the men said. Seymour thought he recognized him. Umberto, was it? One of Vincente’s bicycling friends.

He looked around, Vincente wasn’t there. He could well have been, though. Seymour guessed that they were all young officers.

‘Oh, you are serious!’ said the Marchesa. ‘But, then, you have just been to Mass.’

‘So have you, Luisa,’ one of them pointed out.

‘No, not me,’ said the Marchesa. ‘I just went there for the singing.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Luisa!’

‘That’s the trouble with Mass: it depresses you for the day,’ said the Marchesa.

Several of the men sighed.

‘We have just been to a Mass,’ the Marchesa told Seymour. ‘For those going out to Libya, and for those who have already gone.’

‘And for those who have already gone and now will stay there,’ said one of the men quietly.

The Marchesa, conscious of the reproof, turned away and began talking to some of the other officers.

Two of them came up to Seymour.

‘Is it true, Signor? That you are a policeman?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have come here to find out who killed Signor Scampion?’

‘Among other things, yes.’

‘I hope you do,’ said the man he took to be Umberto. ‘He was a good friend of ours.’

‘A bicycling friend?’

‘Not just a bicycling friend. We met in other ways, too. But not only here. We knew him in Florence.’

‘And in Rome,’ said the other young officer. ‘I used to meet him at parties. But I didn’t really get to know him until I got to Florence and he started to come to our meetings.’

‘Meetings?’

‘We used to meet regularly. A group of us. To discuss things. Serious things, I mean. Not just any old things. It wasn’t just a social club.’

‘What sort of things did you discuss?’

Umberto laughed. ‘Life. Italy. Religion.’

‘The big questions,’ said his friend.

‘You are not, by any chance, members of the Sursum Corda?’

‘Well, yes, we are,’ said Umberto, surprised. He turned to the other officer.

‘Isn’t that interesting?’ he said. ‘Here’s another Englishman who knows about us.’

‘Another? Scampion was the first, I take it. Was he actually a member?’

‘Not a member, no. He couldn’t be. There is a religious issue. But he used to come to our meetings.’

‘He was a serious man,’ said the other officer, ‘and we hoped that in time he would come to see things as we did.’

‘He saw so many things as we did,’ said Umberto. ‘It was surprising in an Englishman. Because the things seemed so deeply Italian. The need for Italy to raise its head again. And redeem itself.’

‘After that disgraceful war!’

‘The Abyssinian one?’ said Seymour.

‘Call it by its proper name,’ said the other officer. ‘Defeat: that’s what it was.’

‘And you hope that you can, perhaps, put that right through the war with Libya?’

‘We
will
put it right.’

‘In that case I
am
surprised. That Signor Scampion should identify so strongly with your cause.’

‘We were surprised, too. But, you know, he was a man of generous enthusiasm. And I think he was fired in the way that we were fired. By the same ideals.’

‘And by the same person.’

‘The same person, yes.’

‘We were fortunate in that our soirées were attended by a very remarkable man, a poet and a visionary.’

‘Visionary, yes. He was certainly that. We were all inspired by him. And I think Signor Scampion was, too.’

‘It wasn’t just a narrow thing, you know.’ said Umberto. ‘Not just a question of Italy. It went much wider. It was a question of recognizing ideals and values that have been lost. And I think that struck a chord with Signor Scampion.’

‘He was a good man.’

‘I could hardly believe it when I heard.’

‘I could hardly believe it when ‘These Neapolitan streets!’

‘
And
when he was on an errand of mercy.’

‘Errand of mercy?’ said Seymour.