Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

Adam gathered himself, then took the plunge. "The last time I saw you, you said Gaetano changed his story about what happened the night Emilio died."

"Was I drunk?"

"You lied?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just tell me what you meant."

Fausto sighed. "Look, it was something Gaetano's uncle told my father the next day."

"What?"

"He said he was almost run down by the Germans when they were leaving."

"Gaetano said that?"

"To his uncle."

Adam digested this news. "He turned up later. He wasn't there when it happened."

"It was a long time ago. Who knows what really happened? Who cares?"

"I do."

Fausto leaned forward in his chair. "Listen to me. The Doccis' business is their own. Who are you? You've been here—what—a week? You didn't know them before and you'll probably never see them again. Just leave it alone."

"How do you know I didn't know them before?" "What?"

"How do you know I didn't know the Doccis before?"

"You said."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No."

"Porca l'oca! Look at you. Look at you! I'd chuck a bucket of water over you if the well wasn't dry. I warned you about that place. Didn't I warn you? Pull yourself together, this isn't normal behavior, you're acting like a crazy man. Just leave it alone."

Adam wanted to tell him that he'd tried to leave it alone—more than once—but he couldn't. He no longer had any choice in the matter.

"Did Maurizio kill Emilio?" he asked bluntly.

"I'm not going to answer that."

"Why not?"

"Because how the hell should I know?"

"But you think it's possible . . ."

"Anything's possible."

"Well, I think he did it."

"What if he did?"

"I think I can prove it."

"What if you can?"

"You don't believe in justice?"

Fausto gave a short, despairing laugh. "This is madness. You should go now. I'm serious. Go. Leave."

Fausto got to his feet to press home his point. He made no move to shake Adam's hand, so Adam turned and left.

Signora, are you awake?

Yes.

Shall I open the shutters?

Thank you, Maria.

Did you manage to sleep?

Not much.

Antonella called. She has bought fish for dinner this evening.

What kind of fish?

Does it matter? She knows I don't like cooking fish.

I'm sure she didn't do it to annoy you.

I'll mess it up. I always mess it up.

Maria, I've never known you to mess anything up.

Except the wild boar in chocolate sauce.

Yes, that was truly terrible. It was also twenty years ago.

Twenty-three.

It's good to see you've put it behind you.

Maurizio and Chiara have arrived.

Did they come by the villa?

No, I saw their car over at the farm.

We should invite them to dinner.

Antonella already has.

Oh, has she?

I like Chiara.

So do I, Maria. Where's Adam?

He went for a bike ride.

In this heat?

I was wrong about him.

Don't go soft on me now.

Signora?

In all the years we've known each other, I've never once heard you admit to being wrong about anything.

He's no fool.

No. But he's young, and therefore naive.

He's twenty-two next month.

He told you?

I saw his passport.

I'm not sure it's acceptable to go rifling through the guests' belongings.

I was cleaning his room. It was on the sideboard.

Then you're forgiven.

I think I'll bake it.

Excuse me?

The fish, Signora.

DINNER WAS A TRYING AFFAIR.

It didn't help that the meal was billed as being in his honor. He had always struggled with that kind of thing. Some children glowed with self-importance at their birthday parties; others blushed, even when they managed to blow all the candles out.

It didn't help that he was seated directly opposite Maurizio down one end of the table. It didn't help that Harry and Antonella had returned from Florence the worse side of two cocktails each, giggling like love-struck teenagers. And it didn't help that he now knew for certain that someone—someone at the table, or the someone serving them—had been going through his papers in the study.

He knew, because he had laid a trap, stacking his notebooks in an apparently careless (yet very particular) fashion, laying his ballpoint pen on a pile of loose papers so that its tip pointed directly to the upper left-hand corner of the top sheet. Simple yet effective. The idea of lacing the bait with something had only occurred to him at the last moment. He had slipped a sheet among the papers.

On it was written in big bold capitals: i know you're looking through my things.

Whoever it was had done a good job of covering their tracks. Not good enough, though. The notebooks were too neatly stacked, the pen slightly out of alignment. Fortunately, Antonella was beyond suspicion. He had set the trap after her departure for Florence with Harry, and it had been sprung before their return.

The ruse with the sheet of paper served him less well than he thought it might. In fact, about the only thing he learned was that it's impossible to second-guess someone who knows you're trying to second-guess them. He saw signs of guilt wherever he turned.

Maurizio and Chiara had moved into the house above the farmyard earlier in the day. They wanted to be around to help with the final preparations for the party, just two days off now. In an uncharacteristic display of selflessness—brought on, no doubt, by the brace of gin fizzes—Harry offered to vacate his room so that they could sleep in the villa.

Signora Docci sweetly acknowledged his noble gesture, while pointing out the obvious: that a lack of bedrooms was rarely a pressing concern at Villa Docci. No, it was a question of principle. "It's their farmhouse, and they hardly ever use it. It's good for them to use it.

"My mother's right. It's good for us to use it," said Maurizio tightly.

"It'll be one of their last opportunities."

Everyone looked to Signora Docci. She savored the moment before continuing.

"I plan to be living there myself next month."

"Mamma . . . ?" frowned Maurizio.

"That's right, I'm moving out of the villa. And you and Chiara are moving in, I hope."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Next month." She lowered her eyes modestly and said in Italian, "I'm sorry if it's taken longer than you thought."

Adam despised what he saw in Maurizio's face: the spark of deep satisfaction behind the eyes, the struggle not to smile. He would soon be master of Villa Docci. The long years of waiting were over. Finally, there was a concrete, tangible purpose to his crime.

Maurizio must have sensed Adam studying him, because he shot a quick glance across the table and the look vanished from his face. It was the same sudden composure he had brought to bear in the memorial garden, when Adam had sprung on him the subject of fratricide in Dante's Inferno.

The mask was not allowed to slip again for the remainder of the meal. Even when it came time for Adam to detail his discoveries for Maurizio and Chiara's benefit, Maurizio's expression never faltered. He was not shaken by all the talk of murder and intrigue. Quite the reverse. He embraced it, heaping praise on Adam for his achievements and firing off questions to keep the discussion alive.