‘No one said anything to you about a host or hostess, did they?’ Jessica said. ‘I mean, there could be a horde of Malaspinas.’
‘I told you, there was nothing to be got out of Mr Winthrop, it was like talking to a deed box. But the French lawyer did say there was no one living at the villa now. Perhaps we’re all to gather here, for a formal reading of the will.’
‘Or to be bumped off, one by one, like in a detective story,’ Jessica said cheerfully. ‘In any case, they’ll have to lay an extra place, if four are expected, since they can’t have known I’d be coming as well.’
‘I suppose the others were held up by the wind. Or maybe they’ll arrive at the last minute. It’s not the end of the month yet; the others might not be able to get away as easily as us. Let’s hope they’ll know something about the mysterious Beatrice Malaspina. Or perhaps it will all turn out to be a dreadful mistake, and they’re the grieving heirs and will toss us out into the storm.’
‘Doesn’t look like there’s any storm in the offing just at present,’ Jessica said.
Delia stood beside the French window, restless, wanting Jessica to hurry and finish her breakfast.
Jessica poured more coffee. ‘Are we going to look round the house?’
‘Before anything, I’d like to go to the sea,’ said Delia, catching her breath after a sudden fit of coughing. ‘Sea air will do me the world of good.’
‘You and your fascination with water,’ said Jessica. ‘No, don’t fidget and fret. I’m hungry, and I’m going to finish my breakfast in my own good time. Then we’ll go and indulge your Neptune complex.’
Delia loved the sea, and water in all its forms, and the sight of the shining Mediterranean from her bedroom window had filled her with longing to go down to the shore. ‘Besides, it’s not as though we’d rented the house. It seems rather rude just to prowl around it,’ she said, sitting down again and trying not to look impatient.
‘Do you suppose there’s a private beach?’
‘Probably,’ said Delia, thumbing through her dictionary. ‘Spiaggia is the Italian for beach. I shall ask Benedetta.’
‘Can you manage that? When did you learn Italian? Didn’t you only do French and German at Cambridge?’
‘We musicians pick up quite a bit, and I bought a Hugo’s Italian in Three Months to study during rehearsals, there’s a terrific amount of sitting about. Crosswords get boring, and I can’t knit, so I decided to improve my mind and expand my horizons.’
Benedetta came in to offer more coffee and Delia enquired about the beach, which brought a volley of head-shaking and finger-wagging.
‘Can’t we go?’ Jessica asked.
‘I don’t think it’s territorial, more concern for our health.’
Benedetta was pointing at Delia’s chest and making hacking noises.
‘Especially for you. She’s noticed your cough.’
More Italian poured out of Benedetta, accompanied by much gesticulation.
Delia shrugged. ‘She’s lost me. We’ll just have to find our own way. Il giardino?’ she said to Benedetta.
Which brought more frowns from Benedetta, and a reluctant gesture towards the steps and the garden and, finally, a dramatic rendering of a person shivering, crossing her arms and slapping herself vigorously.
‘She wants you to put on a coat or jacket,’ Jessica said. ‘I don’t need Italian to understand that.’
‘Compared to England…Oh, all right, I can see you’re about to fuss as well.’
Once outside, Delia was glad of the jacket she’d thrown over her shoulders; the air was fresh and the light breeze had none of the heat of the southerly wind of the night before. Jessica had pulled a jumper on over her shirt and thrust her feet into a pair of disreputable plimsolls.
They went out through the dining room into the colonnade, blinking in the strong sunlight.
‘There are paintings on the walls,’ said Jessica, stopping to inspect them.
Delia was already running down the steps to the garden, eager to be moving, to get to the sea. How absurd, like a child full of excitement at the beginning of a summer holiday, longing for the first glimpse of the sea, wanting nothing except to be on the beach. She turned and gave the frescoes a cursory glance, then came back up the steps for a closer look. The colours had faded, but the graceful lines of three women in flowing robes set among a luxuriance of leaves and flowers delighted her.
‘They look old,’ said Jessica. ‘Or just faded by the sun, do you think? What are those words written in the curly banners above the figures? Is that Italian?’
‘Latin,’ said Delia. ‘Sapientia, Gloria Mundi and Amor.’ She pointed to each figure. ‘Wisdom. Glory of the world, which is power, and Love.’
‘Not the three graces, then. I must say, Wisdom looks pretty smug.’
‘Love even more so. Her expression is like a cat who got the cream.’
‘And Gloria Mundi reminds me of Mrs Radbert on speech day.’
Their headmistress had known all about power and possibly wisdom, but love had never tapped that severe woman on the shoulder, Delia was sure. She laughed. Jessica was right; Gloria Mundi only needed an MA gown to be Mrs Radbert’s double.
The garden to the front of the house was a formal one, a pattern edged with bedraggled box hedges, and a desolate, empty fountain in the centre.
Jessica stopped under a broad-leaved tree. ‘It’s a fig. Look at the leaves, did you ever see such a thing? Like in all those Bible paintings. You don’t realise how apt a fig leaf is until you see one, do you? I think if we follow this path, it’ll take us to the sea.’
‘Through the olive trees. Only think, this time last week we were in damp and foggy London, and now…’ Delia made a sweeping gesture. ‘All this. It’s heaven. And I can smell the sea.’
‘No Giles Slattery, no Richie.’
‘No one knows where I am except old button-mouth Winthrop,’ said Delia. ‘Not even my agent, who’ll be furious when he finds out I’ve vanished.’
They were walking through pine trees now, umbrella pines that cast a web of shadows around their feet. The ground was dusty and strewn with pine cones and needles, and a smell of resin lingered in the air. It was startling to come out of the darkness into bright sunlight and find the sea stretched out before them, a shimmering, radiant, turquoise blue under a blue heaven.
Delia stood and gazed, the light almost too much to bear, the beauty and the still perfection catching at her throat. In a tree just behind them, a bird was singing its heart out.
‘Perfect,’ said Jessica with a sigh. ‘A little beach, utterly private. With rocks. Isn’t it quite, quite perfect?’
‘Stone steps going down to the cove,’ said Delia, already on her way down. ‘Bit slippery, so watch your footing.’
She felt drunk with the colours and the light and the beauty of the place. ‘Trees for shelter, rocks to lean against, and this exquisite private place,’ she said. ‘Lucky old Beatrice Malaspina to have lived here. What a pity it’s too early in the year to bathe.’
‘We don’t know how long we’ll be here,’ Jessica pointed out. ‘Don’t Italians take their time about the law, like late trains and so on? The Mediterranean sense of time, or rather non-sense of time. For myself, looking at this, I feel I could stay here for ever.’ She paused. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t want to, not with your music to get back to.’
She