Somehow I must get through the ordeal of viewing the bodies later this morning. And then we will go to Carrara, no matter what. I am set on that course. I must see the hotel where they met their untimely end. That is imperative. Then, hopefully, this Italian nightmare will come to an end. Later this week we will take their bodies home, to Yorkshire, where we will bury them in that benign earth, and they will rest in peace…
Insistent knocking on the door interrupted Edward’s thoughts, and he strode to open it. Will Hasling was standing there, appropriately dressed in a black suit and carrying a black overcoat on his arm.
‘I’m not too early, am I?’ Will asked, a brow lifting.
Edward shook his head. ‘Come in, Will.’ He opened the door wider and moved into the room, his friend following closely behind.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ Edward asked as he took his overcoat out of the wardrobe.
‘Yes, thanks, and so have you, I see,’ Will responded, glancing over at the tray which stood on a small side table. He frowned. ‘Coffee and a roll. Is that all you’ve eaten?’
‘I’m not very hungry.’ Edward glanced at the clock on the wall, and continued, ‘It’s only ten past nine, we’re early, I think. Fabrizio Dellarosa is not due here until ten-thirty.’
‘I know, but I was certain you would be up, and I thought we could go for a walk, take a breath of fresh air before his arrival. By the way, is Alfredo Oliveri also joining us?’
‘Dellarosa didn’t mention him in the letter I received last night. But I’m presuming he is. After all, he’s the one who lives in Carrara, and will therefore have the most information. At least, in my opinion he will.’
Will nodded in agreement, sat down on a chair and folded his overcoat across his knees. ‘Have you ever met him? Or is he a stranger, too?’
‘He’s a stranger, just as Dellarosa is, but my father always spoke so highly of Oliveri. He obviously liked the man and I think the feeling was mutual.’ Edward buttoned his three-quarter length jacket, put on his overcoat and said, ‘Shall we go, Will?’
‘Perhaps we ought to let Neville know we’re going out,’ Will ventured as they left the room.
‘It’s not necessary. The arrangement was for us to meet in the main lounge at the given hour. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’ Edward’s voice was clipped, almost curt.
‘That presents no problem to me,’ Will answered, stealing a glance at Edward. He knew he was suffering inside, filled with apprehension about what lay ahead in the next few hours. As big and strapping as he was, Will knew, nevertheless, that Ned was a sensitive and compassionate man inside. Just contemplating the manner of their deaths must be an agony for him; this aside, Ned was devoted to his family. They came first with him, and he had been particularly close to his brother Edmund, and his father and he had been closely bonded.
The two men were silent as they went down the wide staircase which led to the grand entrance foyer, and several opulent lounges. Marble abounded, and there were ceramic tubs holding potted palms placed here and there; on the walls hung a number of lovely paintings of Florence displayed in heavy gilded frames, and pieces of sculpture on plinths were placed along each side of the foyer.
Within a few seconds they found themselves standing outside the Bristol on the Via de’ Pescioni, near the Santa Maria Novella and directly opposite the Palazzo Strozzi. This was one of the most elegant districts in the city, where other important hotels were located as well as fine shops, art galleries and museums.
‘Here we are, in the greatest Renaissance city in the world, Ned,’ Will said, taking hold of his arm. ‘Let’s stroll along, go this way, and enjoy the sights for a short while.’
Edward nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Will, I know I’m being gloomy…’ He did not finish, merely shook his head, his expression suddenly sorrowful. His enthusiasm for life seemed to have fled.
‘Think about this,’ Will remarked, ignoring Ned’s comment about gloom of a moment ago. ‘Here we are in the city of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. Just think, Boccaccio wrote the Decameron here, and that book became the model for prose the world over, a model that’s been popular for hundreds and hundreds of years. And still is.’
Ned glanced at his friend. ‘Niccolo Machiavelli lived here and wrote The Prince in Florence, let us not forget about him. We can all learn quite a lot from Machiavelli, you know.’
Will laughed, catching the mischievous gleam in Ned’s eyes. ‘I know what you mean, still it is a wonder to be here in this city, you know.’ He looked at Ned and then all around him, and up at the sky, and said in a voice full of awe, ‘We are walking along streets where Leonardo Da Vinci walked and Michelangelo and Botticelli, some of the world’s greatest artists…it’s unbelievable really, Ned…how incredible that this city bred such talent, such genius.’
‘Poets, princes and politicians,’ Ned murmured. ‘And the Medicis. Their dynasty lasted for several centuries, something of a record, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Indeed I would.’
A silence fell between them, and as they walked Will wondered how to bring a little cheer to Ned, to make him feel better. Instantly he realized nothing could make him feel better at this moment. First he had to deal with the dead, bury his dead, and only then would he be able to move forward, see his way to the future. He needs to close this ghastly affair, Will thought, pick up the pieces and create a life of his own making. A new life.
Neville Watkins was a striking looking man. Tall, though not quite as tall as Ned, he was of slender build, without an ounce of extra fat on him, very strong and athletic. His face was sharply chiselled; he had an aquiline nose and a smooth, rather high brow. His wide-set eyes under curved black brows were a curious pale blue, almost turquoise in colour. Clear and transparent, they were alive with immense intelligence. His colouring was dark, he had black hair, like most of the Watkins clan, and on occasion he had a strong look of his aunt, Cecily Watkins Deravenel, his father’s sister.
This morning he sat at an antique writing table in the sitting room of his suite in the Hotel Bristol, making notes for himself, trying to put some of his thoughts on paper for the meeting with Fabrizio Dellarosa in a short while.
After a few moments he put his pencil down, satisfied he had covered the relevant points. He sat back in the chair, staring out into the room.
Neville’s motto, borrowed from his father, was this: Think with the head, not the heart. This he always did in business, and often in his private life, as well. Long ago his father had cautioned him to be ice cold at all times when he dealt in business. Without emotion, inscrutable, revealing nothing. ‘Never display weakness, never lose face. That is what your grandfather taught me,’ his father had explained when he had first entered the world of commerce. They were words he had never forgotten, and he had always lived by them to this very day.
I must train Ned to be like me, Neville now thought. Certainly his father taught him many things, but I’m not quite certain Richard knew how to teach Ned to be truly cold-hearted. After all, his uncle had been a warm and loving man who should have moved against his treacherous cousin Henry Grant years ago. Grumbling about inequities, and his rights, and what should have been his, and was, in fact, his, had accomplished nothing and made many enemies within Deravenels. Deadly enemies, if the truth be