The Marshal Makes His Report (16 page)

A Benedictine monk was stationed near the family tomb awaiting the arrival of the cortège. He wore large black-rimmed glasses that gave him an owlish look and the instant the coffin came into view he began to bustle about officiously. Once or twice his glance caught the Marshal as though he was wondering where to put him, but the Marshal kept just enough distance to be out of earshot of the whispered orders.

The coffin was placed at the entrance to the tomb. Then the Marshal saw Neri Ulderighi for the first time. What had he expected? He wasn’t sure, but certainly not what he saw. Neri was bigger, bulkier somehow than so much talk of his weakness led one to imagine. In fact, had he not been standing beside his mother with the priest supporting his arm on the other side, the Marshal would never have guessed who he was. There was hardly time for this to register before other people on the Marshal’s side of the coffin obscured his view and he was obliged to shift his position as surreptitiously as possible under cover of the Archbishop’s prayers which he hoped would hide the noise of his footsteps on the clean gravel. There. He could see them both now . . . and an older woman standing beside the Marchesa, perhaps the aunt. She looked sick, the Marshal thought, her face chalk white with reddish bags under her eyes. She was leaning on a stick.

‘Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust . . .’

He shifted a little further. As he had imagined, the old aunt’s legs were swollen. But Neri, Neri was so unexpected. His stance was that of a middle-aged man. The aunt stood there rigid with the help of her stick. The Marchesa was as upright and immobile as the white marble angel whose wings reared up behind her head against the blackness of a cypress tree. But Neri, even with the priest supporting or restraining him, was restless. His head was never still for an instant. How old had they said he was? In his early twenties at any rate. His hair, blond like his mother’s, was already thinning. The head that was never still but bobbing and jerking, this way and that, as if in search of something, was too big even for that large and rather flabby body. He might have been an imbecile, yet the Marshal could just make out his eyes and they were bright and intelligent.

‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God . . .’

Just a little nearer. He might never get another chance . . . When he did get nearer he was yet again surprised. The bright eyes, the unquiet stance, the jerking head, all had a very simple explanation. Neri Ulderighi was weeping.

The Marshal’s eyes scanned the rest of the mourners. There was a family group, parents and a small girl, who looked as though they didn’t quite belong, though they must, from their position, have been close relatives— Corsi’s relatives, that must be it. The unfortunate Prince Consort had a family of his own and the Marshal had never given them a thought. There were a number of people in deep mourning who might well have been further branches of the Ulderighi family. Then some obvious city dignitaries, some of whom the Marshal recognized and some he didn’t. The family retainers . . . Grillo looking very strange in his tiny suit. He couldn’t see the old tata but no doubt she was far too old and frail to go out . . . Leo! That must be Leo, it couldn’t be anyone else. Thick-necked and bullet-headed. His hair was shaven, no doubt so that no one could grasp him by it on the field. His parents weren’t visible but they would be there somewhere. The retainers hadn’t been in the chapel, only the family and the important guests. There was no sign of any of the tenants.

The Marshal wanted a good look at all of them but he couldn’t concentrate. His gaze returned again and again to Neri Ulderighi who never ceased to cry during the ceremony.

He was up there screaming . . .

William Yorke had heard him screaming when he thought he’d heard a shot. Screaming in the darkness. The Marshal, too, had heard him in the darkness. At least, he couldn’t be sure but he thought he had. Playing the flute in the dark. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the Marshal that the boy might have some problem with his eyes and he looked at him now, from behind his own protective glasses, with even more curiosity. How often it had happened to the Marshal to be stared at by people who thought he was crying when he’d simply forgotten to put his glasses on? But the movements? The way his head kept jerking and falling forward? He was crying, he must be.

The prayers were over and the coffin was being carried inside the tomb, the only noise the feet of the bearers on the gravel, then silence, punctuated by birdsong. The Marshal, looking about him for his boy, was drawn to Neri again and this time, with a little start of surprise, he realized that Neri was looking straight back at him. He seemed to have stopped weeping but he was nevertheless being supported by the priest, who began trying to lead him away. Neri stopped him and spoke urgently in his ear. Then he looked again across at the Marshal. What could he want? The Marshal himself had a strong impression, which he could give no logical reason for, that he wanted help.

Now it was the priest who was talking, his hand gesticulating close to his mouth as though he spoke in a whisper. The Marshal was standing so still watching them that a blackbird hopped right by his big shoes, chinking its love song and hopping away on the grass behind him. The priest’s arm went round Neri’s shoulder. Neri was much taller and bigger, yet it was plain to see that the priest was controlling the situation. Neri might have been a big child. It was just what a child would have done when thwarted, to turn back as he was led away and insist on staring at the Marshal.

The Marshal could make nothing of it. He glanced at the Ulderighi tomb and then at the tall white angel guarding what he now saw was a small child’s grave. Corsi’s bones were at rest and tiny invisible birds were singing in the cypresses.

Seven

‘H
e’s a humper at the central market and, by all accounts, every bit as nasty as his mugshot suggests.’ Lorenzini had the photo in his hand as he made his bleary-eyed Sunday report. He hadn’t worked all night for a long time and his body ached all over. The Marshal hadn’t even told him to sit down. He was standing there at the window with his shoulders hunched and his back to the young brigadier and you’d think from his gruffness that he’d been the one to work all night.

‘I’m sorry, but there was just nothing,’ Lorenzini continued. ‘I’ll go on trying, of course, but what makes it look so hopeless is that because of the jobs they do one goes to bed practically at the time the other gets up.’

‘What about the football? Isn’t this Tiny character involved in that?’ There must be a point of contact between Tiny and someone inside the Palazzo Ulderighi. Who else could it be but Leo? ‘He sounds the type, thug like that.’

‘It’s the first thing I checked. He couldn’t play, naturally, because he’s got a criminal record—you may not believe this, but the players are theoretically meant to be the sons of noblemen of the city.’

‘Hmph.’

‘I suppose centuries ago they were. Anyway, this Tiny did have something to do with it but years ago, well before Leo got involved. He’s quite a lot older, you know.’

To Lorenzini’s relief the Marshal did at last turn from the window and take a good look at him.

‘Why don’t you sit down? You look worn out.’

‘Thanks.’ Lorenzini sank into the first chair he saw but the Marshal stayed on his feet, staring at the map of his Quarter as if it might reveal to him of its own accord the spot where Leo and Tiny made whatever deal resulted in Tiny’s prints on the shoes of Buongianni Corsi.

‘What about this club where Leo works?’

‘I went there last night. He’s a bouncer and on the door most of the night—but not last night because of today’s match. It’s a private club, a sort of mini disco. Ghastly place, underground and painted grey and black. Suffocating. I looked at the list of members. Tiny’s not on it. I showed the mugshot around as well in case the regulars had seen him there as a guest. Nothing. I stayed around till closing time. It seems hopeless. Tiny must start work at dawn when our friend Leo is snoring in bed.’

‘Try bars—and restaurants, presumably they’re both awake at supper-time. Maybe even that pizzeria opposite the palazzo. No, wait a minute. Go home and get some rest. Give me that.’

The Marshal took the mugshot, got into his jacket and slipped the picture into his top pocket. ‘I’m going to the Ulderighi place. I’ll make a start— What about his previous convictions? Have you—’

‘I spent all this morning on it, but Leo’s name never cropped up in any of the reports on Tiny—well, you did say it was unlikely . . .’

‘All right, all right. If there was nothing, there was nothing.’

‘I haven’t even had lunch,’ grumbled Lorenzini all but inaudibly. He might as well not have said it. The Marshal wasn’t listening, nor was he displeased with Lorenzini’s efforts. He was disturbed, and he couldn’t have put a name to what was disturbing him if you’d paid him for it.

‘Oof!’ That was nothing more than an involuntary protest against the fierce blast of the sun as he came out on to the unprotected forecourt of the Pitti Palace. Heat was shimmering above all the parked cars and the Marshal, sheltered by hat and dark glasses, wondered at the temerity of the tourists who seemed to want to expose themselves to burns.

Disturbed. He had been from the start but then he’d put it down to being afraid for his own skin, or at least his job. It wasn’t that now because, whatever happened, those prints of Tiny’s were a justification for an inquiry. He wasn’t harassing the Ulderighi family and he could even be protecting them. He didn’t believe that but somebody else might.

‘Excuse me . . . Excuse me . . .’ Why the devil didn’t people move? Standing there blocking the pavement that was anyway only wide enough for one. ‘Excuse me . . .’ He could do without arriving at the Ulderighi house with smears of ice-cream on the sleeve of his uniform.

It wasn’t until he stopped under the scaffolding to ring the porter’s bell that he remembered the match. All these people collecting on the pavements were there to get a good view of the procession. What was the matter with him? The kids had been on about the match all morning and all through lunch, still annoyed, of course, that they weren’t allowed to go and would have to watch it on television. Teresa had, at some point during the meal, put an infuriated stop to the whole discussion and already he’d forgotten that the match existed. Asleep on his feet. His mother used to say it, his teachers often said it. Teresa, if she hadn’t said it in front of the boys, had likely enough thought it, because he hadn’t, as far as he could remember, contributed a word to the argument.

‘Oh, it’s you . . .’ The porter’s usual greeting, accompanied by the usual piano music.

The Marshal stepped inside without even answering. He was getting pretty sick of being treated like a door-to-door salesman. Once they were through the gates and within range of the feeble light-bulb the Marshal pressed the light-switch and thrust the photograph from his pocket at the porter. ‘Have you seen this man?’

‘Seen him? How do you mean?’

‘I mean what I say. Have you seen him? Has he been in this building? Is he a friend of your son’s?’

‘I don’t know who he is. All these questions.’

‘That’s one question I didn’t ask you. I already know who he is. I want to know if you’ve seen him.’

‘Well, I haven’t.’

‘You might have to swear to that on oath.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

The Marshal didn’t answer but crossed the courtyard to ring the bell of the music studio. The music didn’t stop at once but continued to the end of a phrase. The Marshal, glancing behind him, saw that the porter had vanished into his lair.

‘Oh, it’s you!’

Ah well, at least he said it pleasantly. He was as spruce and shining as ever.

‘Do come in. Is there any news?’

‘Not really. I won’t come in but I wanted to show you this.’

‘Heavens! What a monster! I tend to look like a wanted criminal myself on my passport photographs but this must be the real thing.’

‘Yes. This is the real thing. Have you ever seen him before?’

‘What, in the flesh, you mean?’

‘Yes. Hanging around this house, for instance, or with the porter’s son.’

‘Absolutely not! Oh, I suppose he doesn’t look quite as bad as that in real life but I think he’d be fairly memorable just the same, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I think he would. If you should see him, even hanging about in the street near here, would you get in touch with me?’

The Marshal offered him a card with his telephone number and tucked the photograph out of sight. ‘I’ll want to show this to the other tenants if they’re about.’

‘Well, Hugh might well be in but Flavia went away for the weekend, I think.’

‘Yes, I think I heard her say she was going away. It’s of no importance. I’ll need to come back tomorrow, in any case, when the dancing school’s open. I’m sorry to have disturbed your playing.’

‘That’s all right—oh, I knew there was something I wanted to tell you if you came back! It almost slipped my mind but, talking about disturbances, do you know that there was a noise the other night that sounded exactly like a shot? Woke the whole place up and gave yours truly
a fright!
Well, I mean, after what’s happened . . . Still, I suppose it could have been anything and we’re all present and correct. Wasn’t it weird, though?’

‘You needn’t have worried. It was a firework.’ The Marshal had no intention of saying who’d let it off but it did occur to him to say, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about this right away, given, as you say, what’s happened.’

It wasn’t an accusation. He said it very mildly.

‘Well, I expect I would have if I’d seen you and you’d asked. I mean, one doesn’t go rushing round to the cara-binieri to say one’s heard a noise, if you see what I mean.’

‘Yes, of course.’ The Marshal wasn’t all that convinced of the logic of this statement but within a day or two he was to be convinced of its truth.

‘Marshal . . . a word with you.’

Emilio had returned to his piano. This whispered appeal came from the other side of the courtyard where the lift had just descended. The Marshal peered across through the gloom and saw, standing by the lift doors with the keys in his hand, the family priest. The Marshal walked slowly across to him, the familiar disturbed feeling of foreboding coming to the surface once again.