Read Online The Italian Matchmaker by Santa Montefiore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Santa Montefiore
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piazza and took a seat on one of the benches. The gossiping mothers had gone home, the piazza was quiet.
‘Professor Caradoc Macausland.’ The professor shook the man’s hand.
‘Tancredi Lattarullo. So you live up at Montelimone.’ He smiled at the professor, revealing large black gaps between a few long brown teeth. His skin was tanned and bristly, life’s joys and sorrows imprinted in deep lines like arid rivers in a desert. He sniffed again.
‘My parents live there,’ interjected Luca in Italian. ‘My name is Luca.’
‘Yes, I know who lives in the palazzo . You’d never get a local living up there. They must be very brave, Luca,’ said Tancredi, his laugh rattling in his chest like an old engine.
‘Have you always lived here?’ he asked.
Tancredi was only too pleased to tell them a little about himself. Luca offered him a cigarette and lit one for himself. ‘I have lived in Incantellaria all my life,’ said Tancredi, exhaling a puff of smoke. ‘I survived the war. I fought for my country. The things I’ve witnessed are enough to turn your blood cold. But I was a hero. They should have given me medals for the things I did at Monte Cassino. Now look at me. No one cares. Life was better then. People looked out for one another. Not like now. Everyone is out for themselves. The young have no appreciation of what their countrymen fought and died for.’
‘Who lived in the palazzo during the war? Was it occupied by the Germans?’
Tancredi shook his head. ‘It belonged to the Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone. He was a little prince. Too good to mingle with the common folk down here. He had his own private Mass daily up at the palazzo . Father Dino would have to bicycle up that hill and back down again in the heat even though the Marchese had a chauffeur and a shiny white Lagonda. Like a panther it was, purring as it went, a real beauty. I remember it even now. It could have been yesterday. The only other person to have a car was the sindaco . Now it’s not just the mayor who has a car, but everyone and the smell gets up my nose.’ He sniffed again to make his point. ‘People become animals behind the wheel. They think they are invincible. In those days we travelled by horse and life was better.’
‘What happened to the Marchese ?’
‘He was murdered up there in your palazzo .’ Tancredi drew a line across his chicken neck. Luca quickly translated for Caradoc.
‘Ask him whether it was an honour killing?’ said Caradoc, looking years younger with excitement.
Tancredi shrugged, pulling a face like a fish. ‘ Bo! Nobody knows the truth. But my uncle was the town carabiniere and I have heard it whispered that the Marchese killed Valentina, his mistress, so Valentina’s brother killed him .’
‘An honour killing,’ repeated Luca. ‘No wonder no one wants to talk about it.’
‘Valentina’s death was all over the newspapers at the time because she was in the car with the infamous mafioso , Lupo Bianco, when they were both murdered. A small-town beauty in diamonds and furs on her way to Naples in the middle of the night.’ He raised his eyebrows, clearly taking delight in divulging the dirt. ‘You can imagine, it was a sensational story. Her daughter, Alba, lives here in Incantellaria. English, like you. But she came here thirty years ago and has never gone back to England. That’s what happens to people who come here. They don’t go back. But you won’t get her talking about it. It was a long time ago. No one likes to drag up the past. The Marchese got what he deserved. Valentina was the light of Incantellaria and he extinguished her.’
‘So that’s it?’ said Luca. ‘That’s the reason no one wanted to buy the palazzo ?’
Tancredi looked shifty. ‘It is haunted.’
‘Haunted? By the Marchese ?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Everyone knows. For years the palazzo was uninhabited. The Marchese left it to a man called Nero who let it rot like an unwanted
‘Professor Caradoc Macausland.’ The professor shook the man’s hand.
‘Tancredi Lattarullo. So you live up at Montelimone.’ He smiled at the professor, revealing large black gaps between a few long brown teeth. His skin was tanned and bristly, life’s joys and sorrows imprinted in deep lines like arid rivers in a desert. He sniffed again.
‘My parents live there,’ interjected Luca in Italian. ‘My name is Luca.’
‘Yes, I know who lives in the palazzo . You’d never get a local living up there. They must be very brave, Luca,’ said Tancredi, his laugh rattling in his chest like an old engine.
‘Have you always lived here?’ he asked.
Tancredi was only too pleased to tell them a little about himself. Luca offered him a cigarette and lit one for himself. ‘I have lived in Incantellaria all my life,’ said Tancredi, exhaling a puff of smoke. ‘I survived the war. I fought for my country. The things I’ve witnessed are enough to turn your blood cold. But I was a hero. They should have given me medals for the things I did at Monte Cassino. Now look at me. No one cares. Life was better then. People looked out for one another. Not like now. Everyone is out for themselves. The young have no appreciation of what their countrymen fought and died for.’
‘Who lived in the palazzo during the war? Was it occupied by the Germans?’
Tancredi shook his head. ‘It belonged to the Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone. He was a little prince. Too good to mingle with the common folk down here. He had his own private Mass daily up at the palazzo . Father Dino would have to bicycle up that hill and back down again in the heat even though the Marchese had a chauffeur and a shiny white Lagonda. Like a panther it was, purring as it went, a real beauty. I remember it even now. It could have been yesterday. The only other person to have a car was the sindaco . Now it’s not just the mayor who has a car, but everyone and the smell gets up my nose.’ He sniffed again to make his point. ‘People become animals behind the wheel. They think they are invincible. In those days we travelled by horse and life was better.’
‘What happened to the Marchese ?’
‘He was murdered up there in your palazzo .’ Tancredi drew a line across his chicken neck. Luca quickly translated for Caradoc.
‘Ask him whether it was an honour killing?’ said Caradoc, looking years younger with excitement.
Tancredi shrugged, pulling a face like a fish. ‘ Bo! Nobody knows the truth. But my uncle was the town carabiniere and I have heard it whispered that the Marchese killed Valentina, his mistress, so Valentina’s brother killed him .’
‘An honour killing,’ repeated Luca. ‘No wonder no one wants to talk about it.’
‘Valentina’s death was all over the newspapers at the time because she was in the car with the infamous mafioso , Lupo Bianco, when they were both murdered. A small-town beauty in diamonds and furs on her way to Naples in the middle of the night.’ He raised his eyebrows, clearly taking delight in divulging the dirt. ‘You can imagine, it was a sensational story. Her daughter, Alba, lives here in Incantellaria. English, like you. But she came here thirty years ago and has never gone back to England. That’s what happens to people who come here. They don’t go back. But you won’t get her talking about it. It was a long time ago. No one likes to drag up the past. The Marchese got what he deserved. Valentina was the light of Incantellaria and he extinguished her.’
‘So that’s it?’ said Luca. ‘That’s the reason no one wanted to buy the palazzo ?’
Tancredi looked shifty. ‘It is haunted.’
‘Haunted? By the Marchese ?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Everyone knows. For years the palazzo was uninhabited. The Marchese left it to a man called Nero who let it rot like an unwanted
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