Chapter 2
Amy was discharged from hospital on Saturday morning with a clean bill of health as far as her heart was concerned but with strict instructions from the specialist to ‘Take life a bit easier’. She did her best to heed this advice and rested on Sunday and stayed at home on Monday, but by Tuesday morning she couldn’t resist returning to Canary Wharf where she was greeted by a surprise. Just minutes after she got there, Scott called her into his office and laid it on the line.
‘I’ve been talking to Karl, and we both feel you need to take some time off. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends for years now and you need to start thinking about your health.’ He held up a hand to stave off her protests. ‘This is non-negotiable, Amy. You do a wonderful job but nobody’s indispensable, and we’ll get by without you while you take a good long holiday. I want you to just relax and recharge your batteries. You’re due a whole heap of time off anyway. Christian will be only too happy to step into your shoes for a month or so.’
Amy had to struggle hard to avoid grinding her teeth. Christian, with his Oxford degree and his plummy accent, had been cosying up to Scott for years now and openly eyeing Amy’s job. Amy knew the man would be overjoyed to step into the breach and she felt sure there would be trouble when she returned from her compulsory break and tried to evict him from her office. Still, she heard the resolve in her boss’s voice and couldn’t miss the fact that it sounded very much like what the tall specialist had told her, so she nodded meekly and agreed.
She left Scott’s office and went back to her own and, sure enough, barely a minute later she spotted slimy Christian leering at her through the glass, obviously relishing the prospect of taking over her desk. She shot him a disarming smile while growling to herself and set about collecting her things. As she did so, she realised that this did at least resolve one problem. She could now head off to see the Italian lawyer and, hopefully, find out what this bequest was all about.
She called Gavin to see whether he might be able to take a few days off and accompany her. He was a bit reticent at first but he finally agreed to see if he could get Friday off. That way he could make it a long weekend and only miss one day of work, if you could call it that. He worked for an international property company and his job seemed mainly to consist of trips to exotic locations – most of which had been without her because of the pressure of her own job – and games of golf and squash with clients, plus slap-up dinners at the top of the Shard. Nice work if you can get it.
She dropped into Lucy’s office on her way home where the news that she was taking a holiday was greeted with satisfaction by her friend. When Lucy heard about the mystery bequest and the forthcoming trip to Italy she sounded enthusiastic.
‘How amazing, Amy! And you have no idea who the guy is? Wow! How long are you going over for? Did you say Tuscany? I’ve never been there but everybody says it’s gorgeous. If you need company just say the word – I still have a few days’ holiday left over from last year. I was going to go off to the Caribbean for a dirty week with a guy from the gym, but he can keep.’
‘I’ve no idea how long I’ll be staying. Maybe just a day or two. I guess it’ll depend on the state of the property. Gav’s coming with me on Friday but if you can keep your gym guy on the back burner for a day or two, I’ll give you a call at the weekend and let you know.’
Amy and Gavin flew to Pisa three days later and rented a car at the airport. Gavin drove while she checked the map and they headed inland to Sant’Antonio. The drive took them less than an hour and the little town was visible from some way off, set on the flank of a gently sloping hill in the middle of a sea of other gently sloping hills that stretched off into the distance. The approach was up a good, if winding, road through olive groves and vineyards, which occupied most of the hillside apart from the ubiquitous umbrella pines and cypress trees that dotted the landscape.
After passing the sign announcing their arrival in Sant’Antonio the road narrowed as they entered the centro storico. On both sides of the increasingly tortuous Via Roma were typical Tuscan town houses, some bare sandstone and others in varying hues of ochre from the palest cream to faded pink and even rich orange, all with the trademark Tuscan matt green louvred shutters. They drove past a small selection of shops ranging from what looked like a traditional butcher to an ironmonger with galvanised buckets and rolls of hosepipe stacked outside its doors. Beyond them was a pasticceria emanating a wonderful aroma of freshly baked pastries that wafted enticingly into the car and reminded both of them that they had skipped lunch.
Beyond these the road widened and levelled out into a slightly lopsided piazza that was unmistakably the town centre. Old stone houses ringed the square, with the remains of the medieval castle on the right-hand side dominating the surroundings and overlooking the valley below. Behind the row of houses on the opposite side of the square they could see the hillside continue to rise, cloaked in a series of vineyards, fields and olive groves. A hotel/restaurant with tables and chairs added a burst of colour to the scene with its red and blue parasols, and the overall impression was quaint, historic and quintessentially Italian.
Along the top end of the piazza were a series of imposing, probably Renaissance era, buildings on either side of the town hall which was recognisable by the green, white and red flag hanging limply outside, while a branch of the Credito degli Agricoltori bank occupied the far corner. Plane trees at regular intervals provided welcome shade, casting deep shadows beneath their branches and there was a dusty bocce court over to one side although it was currently empty apart from a couple of elderly men sitting on a bench under the nearby tree. All in all, it was a charming place and the views down over the wooded hills as far as the hazy blue sweep of the Mediterranean, only twenty or thirty kilometres away with its golden beaches, were equally delightful.
On Amy’s instruction, Gavin drew up in the shade of a particularly leafy tree and turned off the engine. ‘That looks like the lawyer’s house right there.’ She pointed towards a grand-looking building directly ahead of them that bore the number 5. A fine brass plaque below it announced the offices of Alfredo Lucchese, Notary.
The whole journey had been surprisingly smooth; the flight had been on time, Pisa airport not too crowded, and Amy found she was relishing being in Italy again. In fact, she hadn’t been back for about five years now but, growing up, she had spent most of her summer holidays in the north. Tuscany was completely new to her and from what she’d seen so far today, it looked gorgeous. Warm sunshine was a real bonus after one of the coldest, wettest Aprils on record back in the UK and she felt remarkably relaxed. She reflected that the tall specialist would no doubt have approved. She opened the door and climbed out, breathing deeply, glad to be out in the open air.
‘What time do you make it, Gav?’ He got out as well and stretched. He was looking happier now, no longer sulking about having to miss a tennis match scheduled for tomorrow.
‘Three fifteen. The solicitor said any time after three, didn’t he? Go on. I’ll wait for you here. On second thoughts, I’ll wait for you in the café over there. I really fancy a real Italian ice cream.’
Amy rather fancied the idea of an ice cream herself but that would have to wait. She left him and walked across to the lawyer’s chambers. When she reached the front door, she rang the bell. It was an old bell pull and the noise reverberated around the interior of the building. A few moments later the door was opened by a mature lady wearing a dark skirt and a sober white blouse. She produced a welcoming smile.
‘Signora Sherwood?’
Amy nodded and shook the extended hand. Although she wasn’t married, she knew that women her age were generally addressed as Signora, rather than Signorina, and she answered in Italian. ‘Good afternoon. Yes, I’m Amy Sherwood.’
‘Please come in and take a seat. Signor Lucchese will be with you shortly.’
The woman showed her into a grand waiting room, furnished with a fine sofa and matching armchairs, with portraits of austere men on the walls. A crucifix took pride of place over the door. A low table was set out with a selection of leaflets dealing with everything from buying and selling houses to burying the dead. She picked up a copy of that day’s Il Tirreno, the local newspaper, and flicked idly through the pages, wondering once more just who this Martin Thomas Slater was and what his connection with her could possibly be.
Less than five minutes later the door at the end of the waiting room opened and an elderly couple emerged. Behind them was the lawyer. He was immaculately turned out in a dark suit, white shirt and sober tie and with his perfectly trimmed military-style moustache he wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Royal Courts of Justice in London. He shook hands with the old couple and saw them out through the main door before turning to Amy and giving her a formal bow of the head.
‘Signora Sherwood? Benvenuta a Sant’Antonio.’
Amy shook hands, after which he ushered her into his study. This was a magnificent room, dominated by an enormous bookcase filled with worthy legal tomes. Behind him, French windows opened onto a charming garden surrounded by high stone walls swathed with bougainvillea. Amy sat down opposite him with the elegant desk between them, and the notary wasted no time in getting down to business. He began speaking slowly and clearly but speeded up as he saw that she appeared to have no difficulty understanding. After taking a copy of her passport to confirm her identity he outlined the situation.
‘Signor Martin Thomas Slater passed away on the sixteenth of June last year. I have copies of the death certificate for you here. He died at home of a heart attack, brought on by his existing serious heart condition. It was very sad. He was only sixty-five years old.’ He glanced up. ‘I know the local doctor well and he told me Martin must have died almost instantly.’
Amy noted his use of the first name. Presumably the notary had known Mr Slater personally, too, so that boded well for an explanation of just who he was and, more to the point, what the connection might be between him and her.
‘Thank you. Can I ask you something, please? How is it that I’ve only been notified of his death now, almost a year later?’
The lawyer shook his head and reached into the file on the desk before him. ‘In total, four letters were sent to you at the only address we had for you. Alas, we never received any response at all until your email last Monday.’
Amy shook her head in disbelief. ‘That’s my mother’s address. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me. Four letters, you say?’
The notary nodded. ‘Here, we keep copies of all correspondence – you can see for yourself.’ He passed a handful of sheets across the desk to her.
Amy checked the address to which they had been sent. There was no mistake. Her mother must have received them and, yet, she had said nothing. How very strange.
‘I’m at a loss to explain why she never mentioned them to me or passed them on to me. And now I’m afraid she’s died as well, so we may never know. I’m very sorry you’ve had all this extra work.’
The notary waved away her apologies. ‘It’s nothing, Signora. My condolences for the loss of your mother. The important thing is that we’ve finally been able to locate you as the beneficiary of Martin’s will. Would you like me to read it to you?’
Amy sat back and listened as the lawyer read the words written by this unknown man. There were a number of bequests to local charities, including ten thousand euros each to the local fishing and tennis clubs, but when he reached the part where he left everything else to his beloved Amy, she felt genuinely moved, if greatly puzzled, and she found herself wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes.
‘The will is undisputed and so you are now the owner of his house, l’Ospedaletto, here in Sant’Antonio, the contents of the house, garden, garage and cellar, all lands surrounding it, and the sum of just over eight hundred thousand euros remaining in his bank account after payment of death duties, taxes and notary’s fees. My secretary has prepared documents, duly notarised, to that effect. If you present a copy to the bank, they’ll be able to transfer the money to you. It’s the Credito degli Agricoltori bank just along the square from here.’ He sat back and waited for Amy to reply. It took a few moments as she was still digesting the fact that she had been left not only a house but also a hell of a lot of money.
‘Thank you very much, that all sounds amazing. The trouble is…’ Amy took a deep breath. ‘I have no idea who Signor Slater was. I’ve never heard his name before and I can’t begin to imagine why he should have left me his possessions.’ She looked across at the notary. ‘Can you enlighten me, please?’
The notary’s face was a picture. He now looked as puzzled as she felt. ‘You don’t know who he was?’ He leant towards her, elbows on the desk. ‘But, surely, you must know. After all, why should he name you in his will if you and he weren’t connected?’
Amy shook her head before replying. ‘It’s a total mystery to me. Did you know him well?’ The notary nodded. ‘And he never told you anything about me or my mum?’
‘Absolutely not, Signora. I must confess this is the first time in my professional life that I’ve come across a case like this.’ There was an awkward silence for a few moments before he shrugged helplessly and returned to the matter in hand. ‘Anyway, the property is undeniably yours, whether you knew Signor Slater or not. You’ll find l’Ospedaletto only a short walk from here. If you turn left on the far side of the piazza and then immediately right you’ll come to it in a matter of minutes. It’s one of the oldest and finest buildings in Sant’Antonio. As you’ll see from the deeds, the property comprises not only the house, but also six hectares of land – some of it currently rented to a local farmer, Signor Emanuele Montalcino – mostly planted with vines.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘As I understand it, the annual rent is paid in wine, and I can confirm from personal experience that it’s excellent.’
Amy grinned as the notary continued.
‘Here are copies of the deeds, some other documents and a bunch of keys. There’s also an envelope in there addressed to you. Maybe that will explain his connection with you.’
He handed over a small ring of keys, followed by a hefty brown envelope of documents. ‘If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’
‘I wonder if you could tell me more about Mr Slater? What sort of man was he?’
‘He was a fine man – generous and kind. He was well liked in the town.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘Do? You mean his job? I don’t think he worked. He never talked about what he did before he arrived here. Maybe he took early retirement from a well-paid job. I often wondered if it had been something in finance, seeing as he was well-off but, like I say, he never spoke of it.’ He smiled. ‘Who knows? Maybe he was fortunate enough to come from a wealthy family.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I have another appointment now. I wish you a good afternoon but don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any queries.’