Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

jeans and pass it over to Lorenzo Mura.
    They exchanged a few more words before the man nodded and walked to a pickup truck that was parked in front of the wrought-iron gates giving access to the driveway up to the villa. He got in this truck and in a moment had made a quick turn around and was heading out of the place. Lynley observed him as he passed. He’d put on dark glasses and the kind of wide-brimmed straw hat that shades one’s face from the sun. It was, thus, impossible to see any particulars of what he looked like aside from his beard, which was dark and thick.
    Lynley approached Lorenzo. Within the paddock, he saw, five donkeys stood, a male, two females, and two foals. They were grazing beneath an enormous mulberry tree, their tails swishing to ward off flies, feasting on the fresh, sweet growth of springtime grasses. They were handsome animals, all five of them. They looked well cared for.
    Without preamble, Lorenzo told him that raising donkeys for sale was another way that he supported life at Fattoria di Santa Zita. The man who had just left the property had come to purchase one of the foals. A donkey, he said, was always useful to those who lived and made their money off the land.
    Lynley didn’t think that the sale of one or two or twenty baby animals was going to go far in supporting everything about this particular
fattoria
that needed supporting, but instead of mentioning this, he asked about the old farmhouse and the work going on in, on, and around it.
    This, Lorenzo told him, was being turned into rooms for letting to tourists who wished to experience life in the countryside by staying at one of Italy’s many
agriturismi
. Eventually, he added, they would have a swimming pool, terraces for sunbathing, and a tennis court.
    “Big plans, then,” Lynley noted pleasantly. Big plans, of course, required big money.
    Sì
, there would always be plans for the
fattoria
, Lorenzo told him. And then he shifted gears entirely, saying to Lynley in English, “You must talk to her,
Ispettore
. Please, you must tell her to allow me to take her to the doctor in Lucca now.”
    Lynley frowned. He switched to Italian, asking Mura, “Is Angelina ill?”
    “
Venga
” was Lorenzo’s response, to which he added that Lynley could see for himself up at the villa. “All the day yesterday she has this sickness,” he said. “She keeps nothing inside. Not soup, not bread, not tea, not milk. She tells me not to worry because this is the pregnancy
.
She reminds me she has not been well from the first day of it. She says to me that this will pass. She says I worry because this is
my
first child but it is not
her
first child and I must be patient because she will be well soon enough. But how can I be patient when I see she is ill, when I believe she must visit a doctor, and when
she
believes she is not ill at all?”
    They were walking up the sweeping loop of the villa’s formal drive as Lorenzo spoke. Lynley thought of his late wife’s pregnancy. She, too, had been ill for the first part of it. He, too, had been concerned. He told Lorenzo this, but the Italian man remained unconvinced.
    Angelina was on the loggia. She was lying on a chaise longue with a blanket covering her. Next to her, a mosaic-topped metal table held a transparent jug of what appeared to be blood orange juice. A drinking glass stood next to this, but nothing had been poured into it. A plate sat near to this glass, its offering of a circle of biscuits, meat, fruit, and cheese all disregarded save for one very large strawberry out of which a single bite had been taken.
    Lynley could understand why the Italian man was worried. Angelina looked weak. She smiled wanly as they crossed the loggia to her. “Inspector Lynley,” she murmured, as she struggled to sit upright. “You’ve caught me napping.” She searched his face. “Has there been word of something?”
    Lorenzo strode to the table and inspected its rejected offerings. He said, “
Cara, devi mangiare e bere
.” He poured orange juice into the glass and pressed it upon her.
    “I did try, Renzo.” She indicated the single strawberry with its marking of a minuscule bite taken. “You’re worrying far too much. I’ll be fine with a little bit of rest.” And to Lynley, “Inspector, if there’s something—”
    “She must to see a doctor,” Lorenzo said to Lynley. “She will not listen.”
    Lynley said, “May I . . . ?” and indicated a wicker chair nearby.
    “Of course,”