Angels of the Flood (6 page)

She went up the wide, shallow steps and paused to glance up at the words carved in the white marble above the doorway. A simple inscription read:
IN MEMORIAM FRANCESCA BERTONI 1946—67
. That was all. Just her name and the dates. She was still standing there, staring at the letters, when a red-haired woman appeared and asked what she wanted. Kate told her she was looking for Signora Bertoni, the sister of Francesca. Ah yes, said the woman, she’s at the Valletta where the theatre is. Simona is at the theatre.

Kate tried to look as if that was what she’d been expecting to hear.

Simona. That was the name of the little sister.

Simona.

Kate’s nerves tightened. So, the Bertonis were still here after all. She had been half hoping strangers had taken over the Villa Beatrice, half hoping that the picture had been sent from somewhere else and she’d have to admit defeat and return it to the dealer in Florence through whom it had come. But Simona was here: Simona, whom she’d last seen through a cloud of dust, running in panic and distress just before Francesca was killed…

‘Signora,
do you want to see her?’

‘Yes.’ The woman’s question returned Kate abruptly to the present. ‘When are you expecting her back?’

The redhead smiled. ‘The theatre is here,
signora,
at Villa Beatrice. I will take you.’

Kate followed her round the side of the villa and down a long gravel walk that led from the formal gardens near the house through some sparse trees to an area of open ground. La Valletta, it turned out, was an open-air theatre formed from a wide basin in the side of the hill.

‘Shall I tell Signora Simona you are here?’ asked her guide.

‘No, thank you, I’ll wait.’

Kate stood on the rim of the amphitheatre and looked down on the scene below. She assumed some kind of dramatic exercise was taking place, though it looked more like a weird initiation rite. About twenty people were crawling around on the grassy floor of the theatre, but there was no way of telling which was Simona since they were all wearing rigid white masks. Kate had always been uncomfortable around masks. It was something to do with the frozen face and the eyes that didn’t belong, a lack of context for the character, everything hidden from sight. Those rigid masks meant that in theory any one of those figures could have been Francesca’s little sister.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile phone, then scrolled down to David’s number.

‘Are you there yet?’ He answered almost at once. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Weird,’ said Kate. ‘I’m watching some kind of outdoor drama group.’

‘Have you found the sister yet?’

‘I think I’m looking at her, but I can’t be sure.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, but I wish you were here too.’

‘I can drive up tomorrow if you want.’

‘Why? Aren’t things going too well with Lucy?’

‘It’s okay. But, well, to be honest, it could be better.’

‘We can meet up tomorrow, but not here. I’m only staying for an hour or so. My taxi’s on hold. David…’

‘What is it?’

‘I was just thinking… it’s so weird being back here. I recognize bits, and yet it’s completely different, like it’s some kind of a facsimile of the Villa Beatrice we knew. The same, but not the same at all. And my memories of the place are such a jumble. It feels as if they’ve been stored away in some damp dark cupboard and they’ve been nibbled by woodworm and mice. There ought to be a new profession: memory conservators. People who do what I do with pictures, but with memories.’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘What do you think? Then you’d be able to call someone up to repair the damage.’

Her tone of voice must have betrayed her unease. There was a brief silence at the other end, then David said thoughtfully, ‘Kate, just find out who’s been sending the paintings and get them to stop. Then leave. That’s all you have to do. We’ll meet up tomorrow.’

‘But…’ Kate lowered her voice. ‘Okay, someone’s coming. I’ll call you later.’

While she’d been talking on the phone, one of the ghostly, white-clad figures—a female one—had looked up at her, pale mask gleaming where it caught the sunlight, then detached herself from the others. There was tension in the shoulders and the slightly outstretched arms. So much could be detected when the face was rubbed out. Now she was walking up the steep slope to the ridge where Kate was standing. Long, easy strides. Purposeful. Kate slid her phone back into her bag and gripped the case that held the painting against her side. Like a shield.

Halfway up the hillside, the figure paused and tugged off the mask, releasing a tumble of grey-brown hair. Kate stepped half a pace back in shock.

She’d not reckoned on Simona reminding her so strongly of Francesca. Sure, the two girls had been similar. They’d both had those strange, wide-spaced green eyes, the thick brown hair and that sudden, disarming, toothpaste smile. But next to her glamorous older sister, Simona had been the ugly duckling. When Kate knew her she’d been lumpish and awkward, shoulders curved with teenage embarrassment at her woman’s budding figure, buck teeth and braces to make her shy of smiling.

Well, it had been a long time, so it was hardly surprising if the little sister had done what ugly ducklings do best and transformed herself—with the help, obviously, of the best orthodontist money could buy—into a beautiful swan. For there was no doubt that the woman, tall and slim and strong, who was approaching now, was strikingly attractive.

‘Simona Bertoni?’

‘Yes?’

‘I am Kate Holland.’

But the woman had known that without being told. There’d been a moment of recognition, a flash of understanding in those strange green eyes before her guard snapped in place, like a visor.

‘What are you doing here?’

Her voice was familiar too. That accent that was part American, part Italian, part English, an accent, like her sister’s, that seemed to belong everywhere and nowhere.

Kate didn’t answer. If Simona was the person who had sent the altered paintings, then it was up to her to make the first move. Kate certainly didn’t intend to give her any clues.

The other woman held her gaze for a few moments, then glanced down at the package under Kate’s arm. ‘You brought the painting?’

‘You know it?’

An almost imperceptible nod of the head. ‘Marsyas.’

‘Did you know it had been altered?’

Simona stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ she asked. No doubt about it, Simona was definitely nervous.

Kate said, ‘I thought perhaps you were expecting me.’

‘I had hoped…’ Simona’s voice trailed away.

For the moment, surprise had given Kate the upper hand. She said, ‘This painting will have to be returned to Signor Barzini in Florence, since it came to me from him. But I thought you might be able to tell me who has been altering the pictures. This is the second one I’ve received. It’s extremely irresponsible to allow valuable paintings to be vandalized in this way, as I’m sure you realize.’

‘Kate, stop. Please.’ Simona ventured a smile, though her expression was still haunted. ‘You’ve taken me by surprise and there is so much… Don’t be angry. It was so important that you come.’

‘Then it
was
you who had those details added? But why?’

‘Oh, so many reasons. But… you should have warned me you were coming.’

‘I don’t understand, Simona. If you wanted me to visit, why not just get in touch in the normal way?’

‘Would you have come?’

‘Maybe, but…’

Kate’s moment of hesitation seemed to give Simona the opportunity she needed. ‘Come up to the house, Kate. How did you get here? You must be thirsty after your long journey. Do you have any luggage?’ She had stepped into the role of hostess, filling those awkward first moments with the kind of conversation that would have done for any visitor. As they walked along the path through the trees towards the house, she pointed out the changes and improvements that had been made to the Villa Beatrice, gave a brief account of the work of the Fondazione.

‘We run courses all through the summer. This is the last day of the season. Tomorrow we have our closing ceremony—it’s quite an event. You’ll enjoy it. Luckily I have no guests at La Rocca so there’s plenty of room.’

‘La Rocca?’

‘You remember the tower house. Where my uncle lived.’

Kate shivered as another memory struggled up into the light. ‘I’m not staying,’ she said firmly. ‘I have a taxi waiting.’

‘A taxi? But of course you will stay. We have such a lot to talk about. So much catching up to do.’ And when Kate was about to protest again Simona said firmly, ‘You can’t go now, you’ve only just got here. And if you want to go later on then my driver will take you. Please, Kate, just stay a little while.’

Kate couldn’t think of any logical reason to refuse. It was the sensible thing to do, after all. She needed to get to the bottom of this business with the altered paintings; she had no other plans for the rest of that day and David wouldn’t be able to join her till tomorrow; it was an invitation to spend time in one of the most beautiful estates in Italy; she was interested in the work of the Fondazione… all perfectly logical reasons for accepting Simona’s invitation. On the opposing side there was nothing but the fact that her gut was twisted with anxiety at being here again—and that instinctive urge to flee.

Simona dealt with the taxi, laughing incredulously when she saw how much it cost Kate. ‘If you’d phoned me from Florence,’ she said. ‘I would have sent my driver to pick you up.’ She picked up Kate’s suitcase and put it into the back of an open-top car. ‘It’s lucky I drove down this morning,’ she said. ‘La Rocca’s so close, I usually walk. Maybe it was a premonition.’

Kate hesitated, her hand on the top of the car door. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ she asked.

Simona pretended to search her memory for the answer, though Kate had an idea she knew perfectly well. She said, ‘I think it must have been seeing your name in a magazine—that’s right, it was
International Conservation
a couple of years back. Didn’t you write a piece about the Goya forgery that was sent to you? There was a photograph beside your name—of course, it helped that you kept your maiden name.’

‘But I still don’t understand why you couldn’t just write…’

Simona laughed, though her eyes remained wary. ‘Well, you know what they always say: a picture’s worth a thousand words.’ She got in, and reached over to open the passenger door.

Kate felt annoyed. She was impatient to discover what Simona was up to, but she sensed that the more she pushed, the longer it would take to find out. Somehow, Simona had gained the initiative and she wasn’t comfortable with that but, just for now, she didn’t know what she could do about it. A group of young people, laughing and talking, appeared round the corner of the villa.

‘Quick,’ said Simona. ‘Before I get waylaid with some problem.’

Kate got into the car and Simona started the engine.

‘It’s the reason I moved up to La Rocca,’ said Simona, following the drive that led further up the hill. ‘It became impossible to carry on living at the villa. The kids were all right, but the staff never left me alone. I’m incredibly lucky to have such a dedicated team, but if I’m within shouting distance, they come to me with every little problem. Even though La Rocca is only half a mile away, the fact that I’m out of sight means they’re somehow miraculously able to cope on their own. Which is better for everyone.’

Kate didn’t answer. The road wound between spacious trees. When she’d been here before it had been winter. Now there was a scent of dust and warm pine needles. She was aware of the hard edge of the case that held the painting pressed against her thigh, a trickle of sweat edging down between her shoulder blades.

La Rocca appeared briefly through the trees, then vanished again, and then they drove round a final bend into sunlight and the house was before them. A square, medieval tower, it had been built just below the summit of the hill, with only a bare triangle of rock rising up behind. In winter, it had been grim and imposing. Now, with the late afternoon sun warm on its walls, festoons of creeper round the windows just starting to take on autumn colours, it looked mellow, almost welcoming.

Simona turned to Kate with a smile. ‘Remember this? My uncle used to live here. And La Rocca is a better size for just two people.’

Kate assumed she must be talking about her partner. ‘You’re married?’

Simona turned away to get out of the car. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I was married years ago but it didn’t work out. I live here with my mother.’

In spite of the afternoon warmth, Kate felt a chill pass through her. Simona’s mother. Signora Bertoni. The woman who’d made Kate the target of her grief-crazed hatred. Now Kate had an even better reason for making this visit as brief as possible. She had to force herself to get out of the car and say, ‘And your father?’

‘He died six years ago. Mamma carried on living in Verona for a while, but recently she’s gotten confused a lot, so she came here. We thought it was best.’

Kate wondered who the ‘we’ referred to. She said, ‘I’m sorry about your father.’ She could play the game of polite platitudes just as well as Simona.

‘It was cancer,’ said Simona simply and then, ‘Leave your things,’ as Kate lifted the picture out of the car, ‘Dino can bring them in later.’

‘But I must keep this with me until I return it to Signor Barzini.’

Simona looked shocked. ‘It’s
my
painting,’ she said, and then, quickly, ‘We’ll phone Barzini straight away and tell him what’s happened. Will that make it okay?’

‘I suppose so. But you’ll have to check it first.’

‘It’s okay, I trust you.’

‘For God’s sake, that’s not the point.’ Kate was annoyed. It was bad enough that Simona had made her a player in some elaborate secret game, but the way she’d abused valuable works of art was unforgivable. She said, ‘Both those paintings you sent me are worth a small fortune. God only knows why you put such a ridiculously low figure on them for insurance.’

‘But they’re only copies,’ protested Simona.

‘Yes, but extremely valuable copies all the same. I didn’t investigate them at all, but my hunch is the Marsyas is late-sixteenth century, maybe even a replica from Titian’s own workshop. And the other is no later than mid-seventeenth century.’