Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

follow the sunlight. A door—its panels painted in faded depictions of the
cinghiali
that roamed the hills—was set at the precise centre of the loggia, and on either side of it old sculptures depicted the seasons in human form, with
Inverno
, unfortunately, having lost his poor head and the basket of flowers carried by
Primavera
having been chopped in half at some time in the past. There were three floors to the villa and a cellar as well, and there were rows of windows, all of them shuttered.
    After a moment of looking all this over, Inspector Lynley nodded. He glanced at Salvatore and said, “As you said, in England, we have places not unlike this: old distinguished homes belonging to old, distinguished families. They are at once a burden and a privilege. It is easy to understand why Signor Mura would wish to save this place.”
    Salvatore took the inspector at his word. He himself knew there were great houses aplenty in Lynley’s country. Whether Lynley himself actually understood the passion of the Italians for their family homes . . . ? That was another matter, of course.
    He drove them along the lawn on the gravel that encircled it. He parked near the steps up to the first floor of the place. Between these two sets of stairs, wisteria grew abundantly on the front of the building, nearly hiding another doorway, this one leading into the
piano terra
of the home. As they got out of the car, this smaller doorway opened, and Angelina Upman came out from what Salvatore knew was the part of the house where the kitchen and the other quotidian rooms were situated. She looked far worse than she had looked earlier that day. Lorenzo had not been exaggerating the truth of the matter. She was very thin, and beneath her eyes the flesh looked bruised.
    At once, she became emotional at the sight of the English policeman. Her eyes altered from dull to luminous with tears. She said in English, “Thank you, thank you for coming, Inspector Lynley.” To Salvatore she said in Italian, “I must speak English with this man, for my own Italian is not quite . . . It will be easier for me. You understand why I must speak English, Chief Inspector?”
    “
Certo
,” Salvatore said. His own English was somewhat serviceable, as she knew. If they spoke slowly, he would be able to follow what they said.
    “
Grazie
,” she said to him. “Please come inside.”
    So they entered into the bowels of the place where the light was dim and the atmosphere sombre. It was odd to Salvatore that she had chosen to lead them here. The
soggiorno
on the
primo piano
would have been more pleasant. The loggia outside also would have been welcoming. But she seemed to prefer the darkness and the shadows, which would make her less easy to read, of course.
    Another interesting detail, Salvatore thought. Indeed, in this matter of the missing child, there were interesting details aplenty.
    FATTORIA DI SANTA ZITA
    TUSCANY
    Angelina took them into a cavernous kitchen within the villa, a room that was hovering between centuries. It was outfitted with both the conveniences of a cooker and refrigerator and the curiosities of an enormous wood-burning oven, a vast fireplace, and a large stone sink in which one could bathe two Alsatians simultaneously. At the room’s centre, a scarred table held a pile of newspapers, magazines, daily crockery, and faded kitchen linens, and at this table Lynley and Lo Bianco sat while Angelina brought to them a bottle of the wine produced there on the farm, along with cheese, fruit, Italian meats, and some freshly baked bread. She poured them each a glass of Chianti but had none herself, choosing water instead.
    When she sat, she took up one of the linen table napkins and held it like a form of talisman. She repeated what she had said upon greeting Lynley: “Thank you so much for coming, Inspector.”
    “It’s mostly Barbara’s doing,” Lynley told her. “Frankly, she may have gone a bit too far this time to get her way in matters, but that remains to be seen. Hadiyyah’s quite important to her.”
    Angelina pressed her lips together for a moment. “I did a terrible thing. I know that. But what I can’t accept is that this—what’s happened to Hadiyyah—is to be my punishment. Because if that’s the case . . .” Her fingers tightened on the piece of linen she held.
    Lo Bianco made a noise in his throat that seemed to indicate his understanding of the concept: that there was always a connection between the forms of