Eagle House #2
I collect my luggage, and we move back into the coolness of the house.
I follow her up the broad, low rise of stairs to the first floor, where she stops before an open door.
Inside the vast bedroom, the walnut four-poster bed with a white, gold-embroidered bedspread is almost lost. Plump white towels are already laid out on a leather storage bench at the end of the bed.
“This is your room. Please move around the house freely. The only place I ask you not to go into is our private annexe, where Lorenzo and I live. Professore Callico was happy with this arrangement, and I hope you will be, too.”
“I am more than grateful to have a roof over my head.”
I sense her eyes rest on me then and wonder what might be going through her mind, and what Albert might have told her about me.
“There is a bathroom at the back of your room. I am sure you will want to shower and change. I will see you downstairs for dinner at eight.”
She departs without waiting for a response, and I step into the coolness of the bedroom.
Once again, the simplicity of the decor and furnishings strikes me as being very Albert.
I dump my rucksack onto the leather bench and pull out a change of clothes.
Only as I sift through the clothing do I realise I packed for cold Belgium, not temperate Italy, with a woollen sweater, jeans and thick socks.
Fortunately, I have a couple of polo shirts, a few T-shirts and a pair of chinos that are thin enough for the warmer weather.
Before anything, I pull out my wash bag and head to the bathroom.
At odds with the understated bedroom, the bathroom is a modern mix of light brown marble and chrome.
A freestanding bath has been installed opposite dual sinks, and—thank you, Albert—a walk-in shower is built into one corner.
I set the water running first before peeling off the clothes I have worn for the past few days.
Checking myself in the bathroom mirror, I realise I need a shave.
Trimmed, showered and refreshed, I tie the towel around my waist and open the balcony doors in the bedroom.
Cool breezes ruffle the drapes and dry my damp skin, as the vague scent of lemons and wild lavender creeps into the room.
After laying out clothes on the bed, I realise I have not checked in with Josh and Nishan and fish the phone from my trouser pocket.
Nishan answers after only two rings, with a remarkably clear line. I can tell he has put me on speaker because my voice echoes from the other end.
“Hi, Gabe. Perfect timing. Josh just walked in the door.”
“What time is it there?”
“Six. Why?”
“Is Josh working part-time?”
“Oi, you cheeky sod,” comes Josh’s voice.
“He just finished a twelve-hour shift,” said Nishan.
“Started at five this morning. Be nice to him. Anyway, before we let you tell us all about your adventures, all is good this end. Not sure if I mentioned, but my dad has a furnished flat across town which is currently vacant. We’ve stowed your mobile phone there in a charger, and I pop over every day to pick up post and check and reply to any of your texts.
You’ve had no calls, and only a couple of people have texted.
Alice, of course, to check you’re fine, and someone called Tim from the charity to ask when you’ll be returning to work.
I think they’re missing you. Anyway, I used your own wording to reply to Alice, saying you’re doing okay but need this time out to regroup.
And Josh told me I should tell Tim to fuck off—”
“Don’t tell him that!” says Josh, laughing in the background.
“But I did the sensible thing and said you’re not sure right now, but will let him know as soon as things settle down.”
“Nice,” I answer, taking the phone onto the balcony.
“Where are you staying?” asks Josh. “Please tell me you’re not camping out in that leaky tent of mine. Was the guest house open?”
“Okay. You may want to sit down for this. A lot has happened.”
I tell them about my travel adventures and about finding the house newly renovated and fully functional, with live-in staff.
As I absorb the beginnings of a glorious sunset across the Tuscan landscape, the moody chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt masterpiece, my attention is drawn to the sound of running water, and my gaze travels to the back of Signora Bellacci’s annexe, where a man is showering naked in the open air.
He is lean but muscled and well-proportioned.
One side of his body is covered in tattoos from his shoulder down to his foot.
Is he the man with the hoodie I saw in the bar at Pensione Galli?
He has his back to me as he tilts his face into the flow of water, scrubbing foam from his long black hair.
When he turns around to face my way, I am transfixed when I glimpse dark chest hair and a trail of suds descending to a generous cock in a mound of black pubic hair.
I assume this must be the son Mrs Bellacci mentioned.
When he freezes, I wonder if he has seen me, and I step back into the shadow of the bedroom, embarrassed at my voyeurism.
I realise I’ve faltered a moment on the phone, but I continue immediately.
I don’t want to describe the sight to Josh and Nishan, otherwise, I will never get them off the phone.
“I have a feeling Albert planned to use this place for holidays once he retired. Like I told you, I never had an inkling that he was buying a place abroad, let alone renovating. And despite what Josh may tell you, I do pay attention.”
“Seems to me your man was adept at keeping secrets,” says Nishan.
Once again, Nishan nails what I am thinking.
But what bugs me most of all is why. It was not because he couldn’t trust me, because we’d once had that discussion.
Nothing he ever told me would go any further.
He knew that, even with me being friendly with Alice.
I only confided in Josh and Nishan about his secret message because he was no longer alive and I needed impartial help.
Moreover, I knew they would tell nobody else.
The only thing I can think of is that Albert did so to protect me. But from what or whom? His family?
“Have you had any luck finding out about Luriabio?” asks Nishan.
“Not really. I only arrived late this afternoon, but I’m having dinner with a local doctor. He knew Albert. Maybe I can see if the name rings a bell.”
“Before you do that, you may be pleased to hear,” says Nishan, “that my lovely boyfriend has been doing some research of his own. Over to you, Josh.”
“I only Googled, but I had a shit-ton of hits on this Russian geezer called Alexander Luria, who is credited as the father of modern neuropsychology. Yeah, I had no idea what neuropsychology is either, so listen to this. Neuropsychologists are trained to assess and treat people who experience difficulties with memory, concentration, planning, language, reasoning and other aspects of learning and understanding.” Josh is clearly reading from somewhere.
“It’s the first bit about people with memory difficulties that caught my attention because of your condition.
This is a total shot in the dark, but does Albert have any books there? ”
“A whole library full of them. The room is stuffed wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling with all manner of books.”
“Maybe Albert meant you to find a biography on this bloke. Again, just a thought. Ignore the idea if you think it’s bullshit.”
“No, no. That’s brilliant, Josh. I’ll check tomorrow. You think a book would have gotten him killed?”
“Maybe the two things are unrelated,” says Josh. “But it’s in his message. Find Luriabio, and maybe you’ll find your answer.”
I hear a deep male voice downstairs speaking Italian, one I recognise as Dr Romano’s. I realise I need to hurry and get dressed.
“You guys are brilliant,” I say, ripping off the towel. “I wish you were here.”
“Listen, sunshine,” comes Josh’s voice. “Once this bloody malarky is over and done with, we are coming out there to claim our payment for services rendered. With a very long holiday. Capiche?”
I laugh aloud. “And you’ll be more than welcome. But I’ve got to go now. The doctor has just arrived. I’ll catch up with you again tomorrow and brief you then. Take care, guys.”