about.’
‘Well . . .’
‘If I’m talking out of turn just say so.’
‘No . . . No. I was wondering, do you ever talk to the old nurse?’
‘The tata? Always. I always go in and take her a few sweets. She reminds me of the witches in the Scottish play except that she tends to tell you about the past rather than the future. She’s pretty batty though, you know.’
‘But you like going in to see her?’
‘I’ve already told you about my taste for the decadent and the theatrical! She’s both in a big way.’
‘I ought to talk to her myself . . .’
‘But she waved her stick at you and warned you off the Ulderighi territory.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
They smiled at each other like good friends.
‘She’s done that to me before now,’ William admitted. ‘There are days when she doesn’t recognize me. I go back five minutes later and she welcomes me with open arms. Half the time she thinks I was one of her Ulderighi babies.’
‘But why . . . I mean, why do you . . . ?’
‘Why do I bother? I collect eccentrics. One day I’m going to write a play of my own. In the meantime I keep a notebook—no doubt you keep one yourself?’
‘I—yes, but for information—’
‘So is mine for information.’ He whipped out a notebook very like the Marshal’s own. ‘Listen to this: Two large and wealthy ladies are floating down the Grand Canal and one says to the other as she stares at the crumbling grandeur drifting by, “I thought these places were supposed to be beautiful.” And the other one says, “They are.” Then she looks at them for a bit and adds uncertainly, “On the inside . . . ” ’
‘I don’t—’
‘Wait—wait! A Florentine one: Tourist couple standing looking at the Baptistry. Wife reads from guidebook: “Probably built between 1059 and 1150. Nine hundred years that’s been standing right there!” And her husband says, “Well, it’d probably cost too much to pull it down.” You see? I collect treasure everywhere and one day I’ll write a comedy. While collecting for me I can be collecting for you. I often think I could have been a policeman. What do you think?’
‘I’m sure you’d be a great detective with your brains.’
‘Another Sherlock Holmes? Is that how you think of your job?’
‘My job? Good Lord, no. My job’s just routine stuff. We don’t often get anything more exciting than handbag-snatching at my little station, and just as well since I haven’t your brains.’
‘But you notice things.’
‘What?’
‘You notice things. My lack of luggage, the invisible spare bed, that sort of thing.’
Once again that lurch of anxiety. He’d pushed it to the back of his mind, but he had noticed—how could he not have noticed?—a dark patch on the side of Corsi’s face and him lying on his back and nobody had touched him, they said.
‘I hope I haven’t offended you? You did notice those things. It’s to your credit, after all, isn’t it?’
‘I’d better go.’ He’d hardly heard what the lad said. ‘I really must . . . I’ll come back, though—when will I be able to talk to your sister?’
‘Sunday. She’ll be back Sunday afternoon—I’m hoping she’ll be in time to come to the theatre. Sunday’s our last night. I’ll tell her you were here— and, as I said—I’ll be chatting to people. You never know, I might just hear something useful.’
As he opened the door, the Marshal saw between the columns a short black figure approach the lift and stand waiting. The lift door opened at once and the man stepped inside. When he turned the Marshal saw his dog-collar and also that he was carrying a small black case. The lift doors closed on him but the Marshal had got a glimpse of the person who had brought the lift down for him. It was the Marchesa Ulderighi. Her face was very white. She appeared not to have noticed the Marshal.
Under the brilliant June sunshine the cathedral square was swarming with people. It always
‘Well . . .’
‘If I’m talking out of turn just say so.’
‘No . . . No. I was wondering, do you ever talk to the old nurse?’
‘The tata? Always. I always go in and take her a few sweets. She reminds me of the witches in the Scottish play except that she tends to tell you about the past rather than the future. She’s pretty batty though, you know.’
‘But you like going in to see her?’
‘I’ve already told you about my taste for the decadent and the theatrical! She’s both in a big way.’
‘I ought to talk to her myself . . .’
‘But she waved her stick at you and warned you off the Ulderighi territory.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
They smiled at each other like good friends.
‘She’s done that to me before now,’ William admitted. ‘There are days when she doesn’t recognize me. I go back five minutes later and she welcomes me with open arms. Half the time she thinks I was one of her Ulderighi babies.’
‘But why . . . I mean, why do you . . . ?’
‘Why do I bother? I collect eccentrics. One day I’m going to write a play of my own. In the meantime I keep a notebook—no doubt you keep one yourself?’
‘I—yes, but for information—’
‘So is mine for information.’ He whipped out a notebook very like the Marshal’s own. ‘Listen to this: Two large and wealthy ladies are floating down the Grand Canal and one says to the other as she stares at the crumbling grandeur drifting by, “I thought these places were supposed to be beautiful.” And the other one says, “They are.” Then she looks at them for a bit and adds uncertainly, “On the inside . . . ” ’
‘I don’t—’
‘Wait—wait! A Florentine one: Tourist couple standing looking at the Baptistry. Wife reads from guidebook: “Probably built between 1059 and 1150. Nine hundred years that’s been standing right there!” And her husband says, “Well, it’d probably cost too much to pull it down.” You see? I collect treasure everywhere and one day I’ll write a comedy. While collecting for me I can be collecting for you. I often think I could have been a policeman. What do you think?’
‘I’m sure you’d be a great detective with your brains.’
‘Another Sherlock Holmes? Is that how you think of your job?’
‘My job? Good Lord, no. My job’s just routine stuff. We don’t often get anything more exciting than handbag-snatching at my little station, and just as well since I haven’t your brains.’
‘But you notice things.’
‘What?’
‘You notice things. My lack of luggage, the invisible spare bed, that sort of thing.’
Once again that lurch of anxiety. He’d pushed it to the back of his mind, but he had noticed—how could he not have noticed?—a dark patch on the side of Corsi’s face and him lying on his back and nobody had touched him, they said.
‘I hope I haven’t offended you? You did notice those things. It’s to your credit, after all, isn’t it?’
‘I’d better go.’ He’d hardly heard what the lad said. ‘I really must . . . I’ll come back, though—when will I be able to talk to your sister?’
‘Sunday. She’ll be back Sunday afternoon—I’m hoping she’ll be in time to come to the theatre. Sunday’s our last night. I’ll tell her you were here— and, as I said—I’ll be chatting to people. You never know, I might just hear something useful.’
As he opened the door, the Marshal saw between the columns a short black figure approach the lift and stand waiting. The lift door opened at once and the man stepped inside. When he turned the Marshal saw his dog-collar and also that he was carrying a small black case. The lift doors closed on him but the Marshal had got a glimpse of the person who had brought the lift down for him. It was the Marchesa Ulderighi. Her face was very white. She appeared not to have noticed the Marshal.
Under the brilliant June sunshine the cathedral square was swarming with people. It always
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