Two Women in Rome Read online

  Minutes went by.

  The uncomfortable chair became more so. The silence felt heavy and unwelcoming. She thought about the Roman Catholic Church and its seeding into Rome. If this had not happened … if St Peter had not stamped his presence on the ancient imperial city one way or another… there was a chance that Rome might just be an antique and half dead.

  Twenty minutes elapsed and she wondered if it was deliberate. Almost certainly.

  ‘Signora Archer.’ Cardinal Dino entered the room.

  She rose to her feet. ‘Your Eminence.’

  A handsome man with swept-back white hair, spare and stooped, he was dressed in a soutane with a sash and scarlet facings so immaculately pressed it suggested vanities.

  He moved stiffly towards a chair and levered himself into it. His shoes were small mirrors – polished by the nuns, no doubt. Once settled, he indicated in the manner of a man used to compliance that she, too, should sit. ‘Signora Archer, how did you get my name?’

  ‘I read about you in a newspaper article and I traced you to here.’ She had decided not to bring Paul into this.

  ‘So, a detective?’ The tone was neutral, but the expression was not. ‘And an able one.’

  ‘Your Eminence, I wanted to ask you about a woman called Nina Lawrence. You attended her funeral in December nineteen seventy-eight.’

  His reply was slow in coming. ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘That’s curious,’ Lottie said. ‘It was only when I mentioned her name that you agreed to see me.’

  He regarded her from white-lashed eyes. ‘Signora, I’m sure you don’t mean to be offensive?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied calmly, her instincts informing her that this was a prelate who did not like women. Antediluvian. Tiresome. Reductive.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘you had better tell me.’

  She gave him the photograph. ‘This is Nina Lawrence. I wondered if you knew her.’

  The cardinal studied the photograph. ‘Should I?’

  She gave him a prompt. ‘Signorina Lawrence was English, living in the Trastevere and murdered under the Ponte Sisto in October nineteen seventy-eight. Her case was in the papers for weeks.’

  ‘What makes you think that I would read papers, Signora?’ He sounded impatient. ‘What is all this to do with me?’

  ‘You really don’t know, Eminence?’

  The hard gaze did not modify. ‘You’d better explain.’

  ‘Eminence, you attended the funeral with your assistant and a representative from the British Embassy.’

  ‘I’ve been in the service of God for many years and presided over many funerals.’ His gaze was unsmiling, instilled with certainty. ‘Many.’

  ‘Perhaps I could help?’ Lottie read out a newspaper report of the murder and Nina’s burial. Looking up from the text as she finished, she observed his resistance crack. There was no point in denying his presence at the burial, but whether he would choose to remember or not was still in the balance.

  ‘Signora, it shows Christian spirit that you care about a dead woman after so long a time. Do you have a personal connection?’

  ‘No.’

  He positioned his hands on the arms of the chair. ‘Why, then, are you interested?’

  He had every right to pose the question, to which there were several answers. She glanced around the white and forbidding room. ‘Justice was not done and I’m interested to know why.’

  The cardinal smoothed the soutane over his knee and said nothing and, despite the warmth, she felt his icy disapproval.

  ‘Nina Lawrence was abandoned in her death, which was a horrible one. No one seems to have minded about it. Or cared enough,’ she said. ‘Or, perhaps, they weren’t aware.’

  ‘Aware of what?’ The question was softly posed. ‘Are you suggesting that proper procedures were not followed?’

  ‘Was there something being hidden, Eminence?’

  His hands fell into his lap. ‘Signora, it’s refreshing to meet someone with such an active imagination. I don’t know for certain because I told you I do not remember, but I fear there’s nothing to tell.’

  This was like digging in a heavy clay soil. The voice of prudence murmured in Lottie’s inner ear; she ignored it.

  ‘I believe those were difficult years. There was unrest and violence.’ She allowed a second to elapse. ‘Church and politics were caught up in the troubles. Individuals were. Could Nina Lawrence have been so too and, somehow, she crossed your path?’

  An angry red stained the cardinal’s cheeks and Lottie felt marginally encouraged that she was getting somewhere.

  ‘Signora, The Holy Mother Church is above politics. Let us be clear on that. Yet, I must own you are persistent and, since you have made it your business to pry into the matter, I will be frank.’

  He removed a speck of whitewash that had drifted down on to his soutane and his gaze shifted to the small window set into the white wall. ‘I’m reluctant to speak about this, but the woman who interests you was a lost soul and a sinner.’

  Really?

  ‘Would you be prepared to give me some details?’

  His disapproval could not have been more marked. ‘It is not your business to ask for details or for me to reveal them. Discretion has kept me silent to this point. All I will tell you is she had a bad lifestyle and her death was not surprising. Many others like her have ended that way, may God rest their souls.’

  A quick anger fired in Lottie. ‘Are you saying Nina Lawrence was a prostitute or a criminal? A lost sheep?’ She chose the Biblical image deliberately.

  ‘God instructs us not to speak ill of the dead, but her lifestyle was questionable. She got herself mixed up in a sin and the wrong society and with people who are not merciful.’

  ‘And the Church is?’

  He fixed a cold gaze on Lottie. ‘Signora, I must insist. The Holy Mother Church is merciful.’ He got to his feet and, after a few seconds, Lottie rose to hers. ‘This woman lived an immoral and selfish life, which set a bad example to all who knew her. She merited punishment on earth and her end was part of the punishment. But God will pardon her if others cannot.’

  Lottie was shocked into silence. Eventually, she said, ‘Eminence, I am grateful.’ She picked up her bag but could not resist one final attempt. ‘Your assistant. Would I be able to talk to him?’

  Cardinal Dino shook his head. ‘No.’

  The answer was unexpectedly fiery and contrasted oddly with the froideur that had characterised the interview. It was also intended to be final. ‘I think you should go now. This woman was murdered. That inescapable fact will have influenced other lives for the worse and they need, and are owed, peace. She should be left … she must be left to the silence of the grave.’

  ‘I do see that point of view,’ said Lottie politely. ‘But fresh eyes are always useful. I am sorry to disappoint Your Eminence, but I will continue my enquiries.’

  He raised his arm as if to give a blessing but, spying more errant flakes of whitewash, gave a bad-tempered exclamation and brushed them off.

  He did not look up as she left the room.

  Lottie emerged into sunlight strong enough to make her eyes water and she searched for her sunglasses. She pushed them up her nose and took stock.

  Encountering misogyny was not unusual but this had been blatant. From what she had seen – and she conceded there would be other sides to him – Cardinal Dino was a myopic and rigid man mired in attitudes of the past.

  Yet, she must concede that his point about leaving the dead to rest in peace had virtue, and any rational person would advise Lottie: Stop this crusade. You do not know this woman.

  Lottie understood she could only empathise with what the journal revealed. As with the cardinal, there would have been other sides to Nina, aspects of her life that would remain hidden, and it was impossible to achieve genuine intimacy with the dead.

  Perhaps in searching for Nina, she was searching for the answers about herself?

  ‘L
ottie …’

  Startled, she looked up and all the edginess of the past days fell away. ‘Tom!’ she said, delighted. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  He was dressed in his not-so-smart linen suit, which tended to be his office garb. ‘I tracked you down.’

  ‘How thrilling.’ Kissing his cheek, she sniffed the familiar aftershave. ‘Why?’

  ‘Can I talk to you?’

  She shut her bag. ‘Has something awful happened?’

  ‘Nothing like that. Nothing bad.’ He reached for her hand, which, since it was hot, she was reluctant to yield to him. ‘Are you up to walking?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They retraced the route that Lottie had taken earlier, past a row of cramped-looking medieval buildings with outer steps leading to the upper floor. Past a substantial house with an impressive portone through which she peered. At the centre was a marble well with well-worn steps surrounding it and lacy ferns sprouting from its base. It looked old, settled and slightly forbidding.

  It was becoming commonplace for Lottie to try to see the city as Nina must have seen it – in the twist of a street, the shadows, the fall of water from a fountain, in the closed shutters. This was unwise and she shook herself mentally.

  ‘What’s this about, Tom?’

  ‘The Nina Lawrence case,’ he replied. ‘We’ve discussed it already. But …’ His grasp tightened on Lottie. ‘You’re at a loose end. I understand, but it’s not a good idea to take it any further. It’s an old murder. Stirring up old history can be awkward in a city like Rome.’

  Lottie repossessed her hand. ‘Not good reasons.’

  ‘I have to ask you to trust me.’

  ‘A murder is a murder.’

  Their pace had slowed.

  ‘It wasn’t an important one.’ His voice held an edge.

  ‘Did I hear correctly? Did you mean that?’ Tom shoved a hand in a trouser pocket. ‘Anyway, you’ve contradicted yourself. If Nina’s murder does not matter very much why are you acting like the Grand Inquisitor?’

  ‘Italian politics are complicated.’

  ‘Are we talking politics? Or the unspeakable death of an English-woman who nobody seems to care about? Which, as the cardinal has just told me, she probably deserved.’

  ‘Lottie, Church affairs can be murky. There’s sometimes a line running between them and political affairs.’

  She sent him a sharp look. There was something here that she was not getting. ‘Sometimes …’ She halted. ‘As far as I can gather, they each sleep in the other’s bed.’ She repeated her original question. ‘How did you know I was here? And why couldn’t this have waited until I got home this evening?’

  ‘In his day, the cardinal was a powerful figure in the Church. Still is. And anyone who goes to see him gets checked out. I was a first port of call.’

  They were now standing under an umbrella pine. Its sharp sappy smell was almost dizzying, particularly combined with the heat and the dust.

  ‘You came all this way to tell me some gauleiter at the Vatican didn’t want me asking a few questions?’

  Tom shifted and his face fell into the shadow.

  ‘And you let them?’

  ‘Lottie, calm down. Please? I’ve been here a long time. They know that I know how it works and you’re my wife. Of course, they contacted me.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said, more appalled by this revelation of how Tom operated than the rebuke he was dishing out. ‘Let me get this straight: the Church, bless it, in the guise of the cardinal, doesn’t wish the story of a murdered woman to be aired. You agree with them and came running to tell me to keep quiet.’

  Her hand shook with a combination of fury and shock.

  Tom focused on the treacherous shakiness. ‘I know you’re not used to this way of doing things, and you’re not the only person to object.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s peculiar,’ she said.

  ‘I think you should stop ferreting.’

  She looked up at Tom. ‘When they discovered I wished to ask questions, they ran a trace on me and got you involved. Would they do that for the average visitor?’

  Tom was silent.

  ‘Would they? No. I’m thinking there must be something about this case that worries the Church.’ She checked herself as a hard, painful doubt pushed itself forward. ‘Or is it you behind this?’

  Tom had beckoned – ‘Marry me?’ – and she had followed him down the dewy path of desire, and the natural urge for companionship. Looking back – had Peter been right? – she had disobeyed her own rules and neglected to question exactly what he had done in the past, what he did now. His provenance.

  ‘Tom, who told you where I would be?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Tom, where did … does Clare work?’

  He took a while to confess. ‘The Press office, the UK section.’

  ‘Did she tip you off?’

  Again, the answer was not immediate. ‘Lottie, it doesn’t matter.’

  She looked squarely into his eyes and realised that trying to fathom out Nina was one thing but to understand that she did not know her husband was another.

  Tom returned her gaze with the seeming honesty that had now become equivocal.

  They parted acrimoniously and went their separate ways.

  Hot and jangled, Lottie returned to the Espatriati. There Paul was waiting to take her to his apartment for lunch, which had been arranged a couple of days previously.

  He took one look at her. ‘That went well, then.’

  Lottie managed a smile. ‘What am I missing, Paul?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Paul’s one-bedroomed flat was a bus ride away from the archive. ‘It’s not so far from Cinecittà,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I walk down to the studios’ entrance and peer through, hoping to see the ghosts of Burton and Taylor.’

  ‘Or Fellini?’

  ‘I crave spectacle.’

  The flat was cool, airy and book filled. An ambrosial aroma greeted them as they went in. Paul explained that he had got up early to make the special ragù that had been slow cooking during the morning.

  It was excellent and Lottie begged for the recipe, which Paul handed over. ‘It was given to me by a friend who had it from a friend of his. This means you have joined the chain. It’s for people who belong here.’

  ‘I love that idea.’

  Lottie watched while Paul made coffee. ‘Nina Lawrence knew it was dangerous to be writing things down but she risked it because she wanted someone to know about her life. Probably Leo?’

  Paul turned off the heat under the coffee pot. ‘From what you tell me, she was living a double life. That brings immense strain, and writing the journal offered release.’

  Lottie returned home in the early evening to discover the hated standard lamp in the passage outside the front door, with its flex neatly coiled and tied.

  She went in search of Concetta, who she discovered rubbing its vacated patch of floor to eye-watering brilliance, using the polish she favoured whose smell reminded Lottie of school dinners.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Concetta sat back on her knees and dusted her hands on her overall. ‘Signor Tom said the lamp was to go.’

  Lottie’s stomach lurched. ‘When did he say that?’

  ‘He telephoned at lunchtime. He said you did not like it.’

  ‘I don’t and that is nice of him.’ She glanced down at her hands. ‘I gather he and Signorina Clare bought it together.’

  Concetta sent Lottie a shrewd look. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, surprising Lottie with her diplomacy. ‘It’s a good lamp and it works.’ The duster was being wielded with hard swipes. ‘Plenty of people would like it. They don’t have money to throw out good things.’

  What possessed me, wondered Lottie, to hand over to Concetta a just cause on a plate? The lamp’s right to life was now a battle of moralities.

  ‘It’s a good lamp,’ Concetta repeated.

  In a flash, Lottie got
it. Concetta wanted the lamp but could not possibly ask for it. ‘You’re right,’ she agreed with utmost tact. ‘Do you know someone who might want it?’

  ‘No,’ said Concetta.

  ‘Why don’t we leave it outside our front door for the time being and see if anyone takes it? Then, someone else will be able to use it.’

  Concetta’s gaze shifted this way and that, but it appeared Lottie’s suggestion was a master stroke of diplomacy and a solution that would work. The lamp would be carted away to Concetta’s place, Lottie would not enquire who had taken it and proprieties would be maintained on either side.

  Concetta nodded. ‘Sí.’

  The matter settled, the atmosphere improved.

  Lottie sat down on a vacant chair. ‘Concetta, we have discussed Signorina Clare coming here …’

  ‘The signorina is nice …’ Concetta got slowly and perilously to her feet. ‘A good person to work for.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you miss her, but I will make sure that I am a good person to work for too.’

  Lottie could have done with a little more enthusiasm in response, but she had to make do with Concetta’s: ‘certamente’.

  There was a pause while options were weighted up.

  Concetta plumped for prudence. ‘You know, Signora, the lamp was difficult to clean.’

  ‘I’m sure that whoever takes it will cherish it very much.’

  A silence followed, which, to Lottie’s surprise, was not hostile, merely one in which an acceptance of the status quo was acknowledged.

  Concetta picked up the polish and duster.

  ‘I had a wonderful lunch,’ said Lottie. ‘Cooked by a colleague. Pork loin cooked very slowly with red onions and juniper berries, olive oil, butter and white wine eaten with rigatoni pasta.’

  Food. Italian food … cooking. It was the trigger. A spark ignited.

  ‘I know it.’ The duster disappeared into Concetta’s pocket. ‘Very good. Not everyone can cook it. If you would like we can make it together.’

  Lottie smiled. ‘I would like.’

  Tom was staying late in the office preparing for a conference. Lottie phoned him. ‘Thank you,’ she said.