The Tuscan Child Page 3

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX JOANNA June 1973 By eight o’clock the meal was ready. “I think outside, don’t you?” Paola said. “Since it is such a beautiful evening.” So a table was laid with a white cloth out in the garden under the cherry tree. This time there were no simple ceramic beakers, but silverware and crystal. I took my place looking out away from the farmhouse. The sun was setting over the western hills, and bats flitted through the pink twilight. The air was scented with honeysuckle and jasmine. It was almost like being in a dream. Angelina came to join us, bringing olive oil and a plate of olives. It turned out that Renzo had brought wine from his father’s vineyards. We started with a crisp white as Paola brought out the tray of crostini. I had to try one of each topping as I had done my first night in San Salvatore in the piazza. The asparagus wrapped in slivers of uncured ham and drizzled with truffle oil; the thin slices of fennel, which was another new flavour for me; the sharp s

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN HUGO December 1944 As soon as Sofia had departed, Hugo got to work lugging pieces of masonry, as big and heavy as he could carry, to pile on top of the old door. He was still working when the sun came up. He admired his achievement—the area now matched the rest of the rubble on the floor. No one would ever suspect that an entrance to the crypt lay beneath. The beautiful boy was safe. Then he attacked the next phase: hiding any trace of his occupation of the chapel. He had already been wearing all the extra clothes to keep out the cold, so set about dismantling his shelter, hurling the pieces of wood around the chapel. He took the blanket, sheepskin, bowl, and spoon and scattered them around the rubble, then tossed a few rocks on to them for good measure. When he was done he looked around in satisfaction. Nobody would ever know that he had been here. All he had to do now was wait. He didn’t think it was likely that Sofia would be able to bring the cart to him that v

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT JOANNA June 1973 As soon as I awoke the next morning the first thing that came into my head was that I was leaving San Salvatore today. Renzo would drive me to the station, and I’d never see him again. And it occurred to me that I might have misunderstood Cosimo’s desire to get rid of me in a hurry. Maybe it was not a fear that I knew something dangerous—maybe it was that he sensed Renzo was becoming attracted to me. It was quite a coincidence that everyone Renzo fell in love with was somehow whisked away from him. Was that Cosimo’s doing? I asked myself. Had he arranged for the local girl to attend a fashion design school she couldn’t possibly afford? And bringing him back from England when he had a stroke was understandable, but keeping him here, needing his assistance every moment, was that really necessary? Cosimo was clearly one of those people who see themselves as the centre of the universe and see others only when they can be useful. This thought led to ano

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE JOANNA June 1973 We carried the painting over to where the sunlight came down the steps. “Oh.” There was nothing more I could say. The radiant child, laughing as he held his chubby little hands out to the fluttering cherubs—I had never seen anything more exquisite. “So they were down here,” I said. “And I bet they hid that painting away so that nobody could steal it before the war was over and they could come back to rescue it.” “Yes,” Renzo said. “That must have been true. Behind the door of a passage that went nowhere. And only someone as thin as you could squeeze around. Quite safe where nobody would ever find it.” “As you say, quite safe,” said a voice from above. Cosimo stood at the top of the steps, his large shape blotting out the sunlight. “Father, how did you get up here?” Renzo asked. “With difficulty, but I made it. I drove up in the Land Rover and hauled myself up the steps. I wanted to make sure you were safe after the earthquake.” He was speaking calml

  CHAPTER FORTY HUGO Early 1945 Hugo opened his eyes to a soft touch on his cheek. A young woman with dark hair and a sweet face was standing over him. “Sofia?” he whispered. “My name is Anna,” she said in English. “You are awake at last. That is good news.” “Where am I?” He took in the white ceiling and the white curtains around his bed. “You are in a hospital near Rome.” “How did I get here?” “You’re a lucky man. You were found when the Americans advanced toward Florence. God knows how long you’d been there. They almost gave you up for dead, but then they felt a heartbeat and rushed you back to a field hospital. They transferred you here after a few days when you’d been stabilised. You’ve been in a coma for a couple of weeks. Head injury, collapsed lung, and a real mess of a leg. Yes, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive.” He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. “I need someone to write letters for me.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “All in good time.” “Have the Allies taken the are

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE HUGO Spring 1945 Weeks passed and there was still no letter from Sofia. Hugo told himself that the postal system in Italy was just not up and running yet. Maybe her letter had got lost in the mail. He’d wait until the official end of the war and then write again. Or better still, he’d go over and surprise her. But then he had a visit from the family solicitor, Mr. Barton. “I’m sorry to meet in such distressing circumstances,” he said. “I understand you will not contest the divorce your wife requests?” “I will not,” Hugo said. “Then that matter can be taken care of simply. But your father’s death has created the serious matter of death duties. I am afraid they are quite considerable based on the size and value of the estate.” “What do you mean when you say ‘quite considerable’?” Hugo asked. “Almost a million pounds.” “A million pounds?” he demanded. “Where am I going to get that sort of money?” “If you can’t raise it I’m afraid the estate will have to be sold.” “But th

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO JOANNA June 1973 A week later I was reluctantly preparing to go home to attend the auction of my painting when the man from the post office came up to Renzo and me. “I have received a telephone call from the home where Father Filippo resides,” he said. “It seems he is failing fast and would like to talk to Signor Bartoli and the young lady from England.” Mystified, we drove in Renzo’s Alfa Romeo to a nearby town. The home was a pleasant, modern building a little away from the town centre. We were escorted to Father Filippo’s room by a young, fresh-faced nun. “He is very weak,” she said, “and in distress. His mind may be wandering, but I hope you can put him at peace before he goes.” Indeed, the old man looked almost transparent as he lay under white sheets. His eyes were closed. Renzo said softly, “Father, it is I, Renzo Bartoli. I have come as you wished and brought the young lady from England with me.” The old priest’s eyes fluttered open. “It is good,” he said. “I

  AUTHOR’S NOTE The village of San Salvatore cannot be found on any map. It exists only in my imagination, although it is based on Tuscan hill towns I have visited. The German Gothic Line, north of Lucca, was real.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Pier-Raimondo and Cajsa Baldini were wonderful hosts in Tuscany and were kind enough to read my manuscript and offer suggestions. Penny and Roger Fountain were perfect hosts in Lincolnshire and found WWII museums where I could check out a Blenheim bomber, as well as experts on the Blenheim to answer my questions. They even attended an air show to take pictures of a Blenheim actually flying for me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2016 John Quin-Harkin Rhys Bowen is the New York Times bestselling author of the Royal Spyness, Molly Murphy, and Constable Evans mystery series, as well as the #1 Kindle bestseller In Farleigh Field. She has won the Agatha Award for Best Novel and has been nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel, among numerous other awards, nominations, and starred reviews. Bowen was born in Bath, England, studied at London University, married into a family with historic royal connections, and now divides her time between Northern California and Arizona.

  PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN’S IN FARLEIGH FIELD

  “Well-crafted, thoroughly entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The skills Bowen brings . . . inform the plotting in this character-rich tale, which will be welcomed by her fans as well as by readers who enjoy fiction about the British home front.”

 
; —Booklist

  “In what could easily become a PBS show of its own, Bowen’s novel winningly details a World War II spy game.”

  —Library Journal

  “This novel will keep readers deeply involved until the end.”

  —Portland Book Review

  “In Farleigh Field delivers the same entertainment mixed with intellectual intrigue and realistic setting for which Bowen has earned awards and loyal fans.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “Well-plotted and thoroughly entertaining . . . With characters who are so fully fleshed out, you can imagine meeting them on the street.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  “Through the character’s eyes, readers will be drawn into the era and begin to understand the sacrifices and hardships placed on English society.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  “A thrill a minute . . . highly recommend.”

  —Night Owl Reviews, Top Pick

  “Riveting.”

  —Military Press

  “Instantly absorbing, suspenseful, romantic and stylish—like binge-watching a great British drama on Masterpiece Theatre.”

  —Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author

  “In Farleigh Field is brilliant. The plotting is razor sharp and ingenious, the setting in World War Two Britain is so tangible it’s eerie. The depth and breadth of character is astonishing. They’re likeable and repulsive and warm and stand-offish. And oh, so human. And so relatable. This is magnificently written and a must read.”

  —Louise Penny, New York Times bestselling author

  “Irresistible, charming and heartbreakingly authentic. Rhys Bowen’s knowing voice transports Downton fans into a riveting family saga—a compelling journey through history, loss, honour and love. When war gets personal, every heart is in peril.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, author of Say No More

  ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN

  In Farleigh Field

  CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES

  Evans Above

  Evan Help Us

  Evanly Choirs

  Evan and Elle

  Evan Can Wait

  Evans to Betsy

  Evan Only Knows

  Evan’s Gate

  Evan Blessed

  Evanly Bodies

  MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES

  Murphy’s Law

  Death of Riley

  For the Love of Mike

  In Like Flynn

  Oh Danny Boy

  In Dublin’s Fair City

  Tell Me, Pretty Maiden

  In a Gilded Cage

  The Last Illusion

  Bless the Bride

  Hush Now, Don’t You Cry

  The Family Way

  City of Darkness and Light

  The Edge of Dreams

  Away in a Manger

  Time of Fog and Fire

  ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES

  Her Royal Spyness

  A Royal Pain

  Royal Flush

  Royal Blood

  Naughty in Nice

  The Twelve Clues of Christmas

  Heirs and Graces

  Queen of Hearts

  Malice at the Palace

  Crowned and Dangerous

  On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503951822 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503951820 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781503951815 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1503951812 (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  This book is dedicated to Piero and Cajsa Baldini, who made my recent Tuscan experience so wonderful and provided insights for this book that only natives of the area could give me. My thanks as always to my brilliant agents, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe; the whole team at Jane Rotrosen; and most especially to Danielle and the whole team at Lake Union, who gave me the chance to write the book I had always dreamed of writing! And finally, as always, to John for his love and support.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE HUGO

  CHAPTER TWO JOANNA

  CHAPTER THREE JOANNA

  CHAPTER FOUR HUGO

  CHAPTER FIVE JOANNA

  CHAPTER SIX HUGO

  CHAPTER SEVEN JOANNA

  CHAPTER EIGHT JOANNA

  CHAPTER NINE JOANNA

  CHAPTER TEN HUGO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWELVE JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN HUGO

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN JOANNA

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN JOANNA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN HUGO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JOANNA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN HUGO

  CHAPTER NINETEEN JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE HUGO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE HUGO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN HUGO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT JOANNA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY HUGO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE HUGO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR HUGO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN HUGO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT JOANNA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE JOANNA

  CHAPTER FORTY HUGO

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE HUGO

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO JOANNA

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  HUGO

  December 1944

  He was going to die, that was quite obvious. Hugo Langley tried to examine this fact dispassionately. The left wing of the Blenheim bomber was on fire and flames licked at the cabin. Behind him, his navigator, Flight Lieutenant Phipps, lay slumped forward over his instruments. A trickle of blood ran down one side of his face, seeping from under his flight helmet. And Gunner Blackburn was already dead, shot in the rear gun bay by the first wave of Messerschmitts. Hugo wasn’t sure whether he himself had been hit. Adrenaline was still pumping so violently through his system that it was hard to tell. He stared down at his blood-spattered trousers, wondering if the blood was his own or came from Phipps.

  “Bugger,” he muttered. He hadn’t wanted it to end this way, this soon. He had looked forward to inheriting Langley Hall and the title someday, enjoying the status in the neighbourhood as the squire, Sir Hugo Langley. He thought briefly of his wife and son and found that their images stirred little emotion. She’d be all right without him. She could go on living at the Hall with the old man until she found someone else, which undoubtedly she would do. His son, that strange, quiet little boy, would be too young to remember him. They’d talk of him as a hero when in reality he was a bloody fool, a sitting duck. This was a bombing mission that should never have been flown. Everyone knew the Blenheims were outdated, slower than the enemy planes. And in flying north from his base near Rome to reach his targets at the rail yards in Milan, he would have to fly over a hundred miles of German-occupied territory.

  He tr
ied to assess the situation rationally. The Blenheim couldn’t make it back to base even if he could get the old crate to turn around, which wasn’t likely with one engine on fire, one wing now useless. But he certainly wasn’t going to sit there and go down in flames like a cooked chicken. He glanced out of the windscreen and tried to assess the terrain below but could see nothing. The night was as black as pitch. Cloud cover above. No moon. No stars. No lights down below. But there was also no sign of enemy planes, unless they were still tailing him. He suspected they had decided he was finished and was no longer worth bothering with. From their last reported position, he guessed he must be well over Tuscany by now. Maybe even north of Pisa and into territory still controlled by Germans. Hilly, wild country. There was a chance he could hide out and make it safely to the coast if he could somehow parachute out without the chute going up in flames. It was a chance worth taking, anyway. He fumbled to release the glass hood of the cockpit. The latch came free, but the hood wouldn’t budge. For a moment, he felt pure terror—that he’d be trapped in here to be slowly roasted or plummet to earth in a ball of fire, whichever came first. He pushed with all his strength and felt the glass hood finally yield and slide backward. Instantly, the flames licked at him.

  “Go on, do it,” he urged himself. He glanced back at Phipps. “Sorry, old chap,” he said, “but I can’t take you with me.” His fingers, encased in their thick leather gloves, refused to obey him as he took off his flight helmet with the oxygen supply attached. Immediately, breathing seemed to be hard, but he was not flying that high, and it could have been just panic. He reached for his parachute and attempted to strap it on. It felt as if he was frozen in time, as if life had been reduced to slow motion. Eventually, he felt the harness snap shut. Trying not to rush, he attempted to stand, feeling pain shoot through his left leg. Damn. So he had been shot. Not much chance of running and hiding, then. Still better than being burned alive or crashing with the plane. With any luck he would land in territory no longer controlled by Germans. They had been driven back to what they called the Gothic Line, running across the peninsula just north of Pisa, and the Italians were no longer their allies. Having lived in Italy once, Hugo doubted the ordinary people ever had been incredibly pro-German or pro-war.