Chapter 10
Signora Colombo’s friend and neighbor, Maria, proved to be a wealth of knowledge.
She explained to Miss Wheeler that Signora Colombo had retreated inward since the death of her son from a fever.
She kept to herself, preferring not to linger at the market with the other women.
Maria had persisted with the friendship, despite Signora Colombo’s standoffishness, knowing what it was like to lose a child herself.
When Miss Wheeler asked if Signore Colombo had any enemies who would want to kill him, Maria became cagey.
She said he was well-liked in the village.
I’d been about to suggest to Miss Wheeler that she ask Maria to elaborate on whether he had enemies outside the village, but Oscar got in first. He wanted to know about the man called The Angel.
Maria’s lips flattened at the mention of him. At Miss Wheeler’s prompting, she gave a lengthy response.
“The man’s real name is De Angelis,” Miss Wheeler translated. “He and his friend arrived in Pecco a few days ago from Milan. Maria describes them as brutes, up to no good, with De Angelis being a huge man.”
“That’s them!” I cried. “That’s the men we saw here last night.”
“Maria says The Angel had business with the boatbuilder, something his wife didn’t like, although Maria can’t say what Signora Colombo had against De Angelis specifically.
Maria didn’t detect any animosity between De Angelis and Colombo on the two times she saw them together, but Signora Colombo took an instant dislike to him.
Maria wondered if Signora Colombo simply didn’t trust him because he was a stranger and had a roughened look about him.
Apparently, Signora Colombo has a bit of a reputation for being uppity.
She isn’t from around here, and marrying a boatbuilder in a small fishing village was a step down for her and she never let her husband forget it. ”
“Ask Maria if she thinks Signora Colombo knew De Angelis before he came to Pecco,” Oscar asked.
Miss Wheeler translated the question into Italian. At Maria’s headshake, she thanked her.
The older woman’s worried gaze fell on the boatshed then the house. She crossed herself. “La famiglia è maledetta.”
“The family is cursed,” Miss Wheeler interpreted for us.
Maria walked off, but I had one more question. “Er, scusi. Maria.”
She turned. “Si, Professore?”
“Miss Wheeler, please ask her if the boatbuilder had any enemies outside of the village.” At Miss Wheeler’s frown, I added, “She mentioned he had no enemies in Pecco, but I felt as though she was being specific for a reason.”
When Miss Wheeler put the question to Maria, it was clear she didn’t want to answer.
She waved us off with a rather vigorous sweeping motion of her hand and went to leave.
Miss Wheeler dogged her steps and spoke to her in rapid Italian.
Something she said made Maria stop. The older woman shook her head violently then responded.
I caught only one word: Abate.
“Did she say the abbot?” I asked as Maria left.
“Apparently, he was here three days ago. He argued with the boatbuilder, but no one overheard what the argument was about and it wasn’t violent.
Maria was reluctant to tell me about it.
It was only after I mentioned that if the family is cursed, Signora Colombo could be next.
By helping us find the murderer, we could end the curse. Maria seems to believe in curses.”
Oscar and I exchanged glances. We both recalled an incident India and Matt had investigated where a curse had been placed on a toymaker.
Miss Wheeler missed nothing. “Why are you two looking at one another furtively? Are you going to tell me you believe in curses, too?”
“We believe in them because they’re real,” I said. “Curses are a rare branch of magic, quite specific to the Romany people. They can place curses on a human body.”
“The abbot is not Romany.” Miss Wheeler walked off. “And besides, the sort of curse Maria is talking about applies to an entire family. I’m inclined to think the deaths are terribly bad luck in this instance.”
“The child, perhaps,” Oscar said, falling into step with her. “But not Signore Colombo. Luck wasn’t involved there. It was murder.”
“But not premediated.” Miss Wheeler put up her parasol and quickened her steps. “If the murderer brought his own hammer, he would have taken it with him when he departed. He wouldn’t have left it behind. That hammer was used because it was within reach, I’m sure of it.”
They were both walking fast, their steps in perfect synchronicity, and we’d just hit the base of the steep climb out of Pecco. When Oscar realized I’d fallen behind, he stopped to wait for me.
“You go on,” I urged him. “I’ll meet you there.”
“We haven’t discussed where we’re going,” he said.
“No need. We all know our next destination is the abbey.”
“We stay together,” Miss Wheeler said. “There’s a very good chance the murderer is one of the men we saw last night at the boatshed, and if they decide to go after the people who can place them at the scene… Well, we’re safer together.”
“De Angelis,” Oscar muttered. “The Angel. We need to find out more about him.”
“Perhaps the abbot can help. It’s quite a coincidence that De Angelis arrives in Pecco around the same time the abbot is seen arguing with the victim. I’m rather suspicious of coincidences.” Her cool gaze settled on Oscar. “More often than not, they’re a result of careful planning.”
Oscar grunted. “I see you’re not going to forgive me for manipulating our visit to coincide with yours.”
“I will, in time.” She took my arm and we walked off together, her parasol protecting us both from the hot sun.
Oscar moved up alongside her. “In my defense, I’d like to point out that you are having much more fun with us than you would with just Defoe for company.”
“You overstate my pleasure at seeing you again.”
“That may be so, but I’m not overstating your enjoyment of the hunt, Miss Wheeler, and you wouldn’t be investigating the murder if not for us.”
“I suppose it’s true that there is nothing quite as invigorating as a good investigation. Now, I’ve not met the abbot. What’s he like? And how do you propose we get him to talk?”
We arrived at the abbey at the same time as a cart pulled by a donkey. One of the two monks accompanying it was Brother Eduardo, the abbey librarian. He seemed to have some difficulty climbing down from the cart, as if he’d suffered an injury.
His smile was half-hearted, even wary. “Welcome again, Professor, Mr. Barratt. Have you come about another book?”
I introduced Miss Wheeler and informed him that we were yet to locate the previous book we’d discussed. “Unfortunately, Signore Scala sold the books from the abbey, including that volume. We were most disappointed.”
Brother Eduardo’s face fell. “Sold! But…he should not! He did not say he would sell them.”
“Did he need to inform you?” Oscar asked.
Brother Eduardo lifted his shoulders in a shrug so typical of the Italians.
“No, but it is a kindness to mention he would not keep them. You told me where you would take them, Mr. Barratt, and for that I was grateful. It is a courtesy.” He seemed suddenly self-conscious and collected himself.
He bowed his head to Miss Wheeler. “I am sorry for my outburst. Please, forgive me.”
She smiled one of her warm smiles that I’d grown to find comforting. “There is nothing to forgive, Brother. Those books have been in this abbey for centuries, so it’s entirely understandable you’d feel a sense of ownership toward them.”
He indicated the cart, being unhitched from the donkey. “We have just come from Monteoro. We sell our honey, olives and lemons at the market. I saw Signore Scala there, with his friend.”
“He didn’t tell you he’d sold the books?” I asked.
“We did not speak.” Brother Eduardo lowered his head and mumbled into his chest. “He does not like us here at the abbey.”
“Probably because your abbot calls him greedy and depraved,” Oscar muttered.
I shot him a glare, but Oscar merely took a leaf out of the Italians’ book and shrugged.
“Do you think Signore Scala is the devil?” he pressed.
Brother Eduardo’s mouth opened and shut without any words coming out, and his cheeks flushed.
The composed, self-assured man I’d met in the abbey library was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps the monk was at his most comfortable when surrounded by books and felt anxious in other situations. I sympathized. I felt the same.
Brother Eduardo looked away, clearly wanting to leave, but Miss Wheeler addressed him again. “What friend?” she asked.
He blinked, uncomprehending. “Pardon?”
“You mentioned Signore Scala was with a friend at the market. Do you know the name of the friend?”
I wasn’t sure of the relevance to anything, but I stayed quiet and watched as Brother Eduardo’s face went even redder.
“I do not know the man’s name. He is the very good friend of Signore Scala.”
Understanding dawned on Miss Wheeler’s face, but I still didn’t follow. “What does he look like?”
“Young, dark hair, handsome. He dresses with more elegance than most men.” Brother Eduado bit his lower lip and took a step back. “I do not know him. We have not met.”
It wasn’t De Angelis. The heavyset fellows we saw in the boatshed didn’t match the description of Scala’s friend.
Brother Eduardo removed his straw hat and fanned his face. “It is hot, yes? Excuse me, I must help unload the cart.”
We watched him cross the forecourt and join the other monk removing unsold goods from the back of the cart. Brother Eduardo received a large basket from his colleague, only to wince and arch his back.
“That was enlightening,” Miss Wheeler said. “But not in any meaningful way that will help us solve the murder.”
I pushed my glasses up my nose and peered at her. “Do you mean because Signore Scala’s friend is clearly not De Angelis?”