Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

He waited for Fanucci to get around to the purpose of this evening’s command appearance in Barga. He knew better than to suggest that il Pubblico Ministero might want to reveal the significance of this encounter and not waste his time with social niceties or anything else. Fanucci would play out this meeting in whatever way he’d decided to play it out. There was no point to pushing the man. He was as immovable as a boulder. So Salvatore asked after the man’s wife, after his children, after his grandchildren. They talked of the wet spring they’d had and the promise of a long and hot summer. They spoke about a ridiculous dispute among the vigili urbani and the polizia postale . They considered how to manage the crowds for an upcoming battle of the bands that would occur in Lucca’s Piazza Grande.

Finally, when Salvatore was beginning to despair of getting away from il Pubblico Ministero before midnight, Fanucci brought forth the reason for his request of Salvatore’s presence. He removed from the seat of one of the other chairs a folded newspaper. He said, “And now we must talk of this, Topo,” and he unfolded it to reveal the headline.

With sinking spirits, Salvatore saw that Fanucci had got his hands on an early copy of tomorrow’s edition of Prima Voce , the leading newspaper that covered the entire province. Da Tre Giorni Scomparsa introduced the subject of the number-one story, and below it was a picture of the British girl. She was a pretty creature, which gave the story its importance. What promised more coverage in the days to come, however, was her connection to the Mura family.

Seeing this, Salvatore understood at once why he had been called to Barga. When he’d informed il Pubblico Ministero about the situation with the missing English girl, he hadn’t mentioned the Muras. He’d known that, just like the paper, Fanucci would have been all over this, putting his fingers where Salvatore didn’t want them. For the Muras were an ancient Lucchese family, silk merchants and landowners of old, whose influence had begun two centuries before Napoleon’s unfortunate sister was given control of the town. As such, the Muras could cause trouble for any investigation. They hadn’t done so yet, but their silence in this matter was something upon which no wise man would want to depend.

“You made no mention of the Mura family, Topo,” Fanucci said. His voice was friendly—mere idle curiosity this was—but Salvatore was not deceived by its tone. “Why is this so, my friend?”

“I did not think to, Magistrato ,” Salvatore told him. “This child is not a Mura, nor is her mamma. Mamma and one of the Mura sons are lovers, certo —”

“And you think this means . . . what, Topo? That he wishes the child not be found? That he hired someone to kidnap her and get her out of the way of his life with her mamma?”

“Not at all. But I have until this moment been concentrating my efforts on those likely to have abducted the girl. As Mura himself was not one of my suspects—”

“And your others have told you what, Salvatore? Do you keep other things from me as you have kept the Mura family’s involvement with this child a secret?”

“It was not a secret, as I have said.”

“And when they phone me demanding answers—these Muras—asking for updates, wanting names of suspects and details of the investigation and I do not even know their connection to this girl . . . what then, Topo?”

Salvatore had no answer for this. His objective had been to keep il Pubblico Ministero as much at a distance from this case as he could. Fanucci was an inveterate meddler. Knowing what to tell him and when to tell him was an art that Salvatore had still not perfected. He said, “ Mi dispiace , Piero. I was not thinking. This sort of lapse”—he indicated the copy of Prima Voce— “it will not happen again.”

“To make sure of this, Topo . . . ,” Fanucci said and then made a pretence of considering his disciplinary options when Salvatore knew quite well that he had chosen one and planned it out in advance. “You shall give me daily reports, I think.”

Salvatore had to protest. “But so often there is nothing new to tell. And then other days, there is so little time in which to fashion a report.”

“Ah, but you will manage it, won’t you? Because, Salvatore, I do not wish to learn anything more about this investigation by dipping my nose into Prima Voce . Capisci , Topo?”

What choice did he have? None at all. “ Capisco, Magistrato ,” he said.

“ Bene . Now. We go over this case together, you and I. You tell me everything. Every detail.”

“Now, Piero?” Salvatore asked, for truly the hour was growing late.

“Now, my friend. For now that your wife has left you, what else have you to do, eh?”

VILLA RIVELLI

TUSCANY

She was a sinner. She was a woman who had promised God the gift of her person if He would grant her a single prayer. He had done so, and now she was here, in the simple handmade cotton of summer and the rough wool of winter, where she had been for nearly ten years. She kept her breasts bound tightly against temptation. The thorns of the rose bushes within her care she tediously removed from stems of the plants, and these she fixed within the undergarments she wore. The resulting pain was constant, but it was required. For one did not pray for a sin, be cursed with its granting, and then go untouched to the end of one’s days.

She lived simply. Above the barn into which she herded goats for milking, her rooms were small and plain. A bedroom furnished with a single hard bed, a chest, and a prie-dieu with a crucifix above it, and the rest of her lodgings merely a kitchen and a tiny bath. But her needs were few. Chickens, a vegetable garden, and fruit trees provided food. The occasional fish, flour, bread, cow’s milk, and formaggio came from the villa, and this she received in exchange for the care that she took of the villa’s grounds. For its inhabitants never left the place. No matter the season or the weather, there they remained within the walls of Villa Rivelli. And so she had lived, year after year.

She wanted to believe that God’s grace would come upon her at some time. But as the years passed, it had begun to seem that a different truth lay at the heart of the matter: Sometimes our temporal suffering is not enough. Nor will it ever be.

He had said to her, “God’s will isn’t something we can anticipate when we pray, Domenica. Capisci? ” And she had nodded. For how could she not understand this simple tenet of her faith when his eyes spoke of the sin she’d committed, not only against God and against her family but against him most of all?

She had reached to touch him then, only wanting to curve her hand on the warm flesh of his cheek and to feel the plane of a cheekbone that gave his face its handsome structure. But his lips formed a sneer of distaste, so she dropped her hand to her side and lowered her eyes. Sinner and sinned against. This was who they were to each other. He would never forgive her. She could not blame him.

Then he had brought the child to her. The girl had skipped between the great gates of the Villa Rivelli, and her astonishment at the wonder of the place was ablaze upon her pretty face. She was dark like Domenica herself, with eyes the colour of caffè , skin the colour of noci , and hair a cascata castana : waves of darkness shot through with red in the sunlight, falling to her waist and asking for fingers to caress it and hands to brush it and someone—like Domenica—to tame it beneath the springtime sun.