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Authors: Magdalen Nabb
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when the Captain and the magistrate were here. Even if he knows nothing, he needs to change his attitude or he'll find himself in trouble.'
'Do you think he really knows nothing?'
'At this point I've honestly no idea - no, that's not strictly true. In my opinion, in a town this small everybody knows something about whatever happens. I'll talk to him anyway.'
'I can wait for you in the car if you want to see him alone,' suggested the Marshal.
'You're to stay with me, no?'
And the Marshal had no choice but to follow reluctantly in his wake as he took the steps two at a time and strode into the factory, making his way towards the source of heat and noise through the labyrinth and grumbling each time he mistook his way: 'What a place!'
When they entered the kiln room the Marshal all but took a step backwards, not so much because of the intense heat which hit him in a sudden wave but at the sight of the kiln itself, which he had last seen gaping and dark and which now seemed alive as it roared and trembled, the flames licking around holes in the bricked-up front as though some dragon inside were trying to fight its way out. There was no sign of Moretti but the big man in the woolly hat was there, bending over to adjust the tap on a gas pipe leading to the fire. Niccolini tapped him on the shoulder and he looked round without straightening up. His face was red and sweat trickled down from his hat which made the Marshal wonder that he didn't take it off.
'Where is he?' bellowed Niccolini.
The man looked up at the high, blackened ceiling and pointed without troubling to try and make himself heard, then indicated with a brief nod the direction they should take.
In the next room a man sat working alone, gouging deep patterns into a red jar that revolved slowly between his knees. His hands and face and clothes were stained with the same rusty tint and his boots were buried in the leathery red ribbons he had cut away, so that he seemed to have been planted there and to have absorbed the predominant colour of his surroundings over the years. He watched them walk by with eyes devoid of expression and with no pause in the rhythmic movements that sent more ribbons of clay spinning on to the pile at his feet.
Niccolini strode past without bestowing a glance on him, but the Marshal met his blank gaze, conscious again of being an intruder and of having no real existence for these people. He would have liked to stop, to insist on making some sort of contact, but the last thing he wanted was to get lost in this maze of a place alone and Niccolini was already into the next room and blustering:
'Looking for Moretti! Where's the staircase?'
The Marshal had no choice but to follow him.
One of the three throwers working side by side at their wheels withdrew a muddy red arm from inside a spinning cylinder to point: 'Through there on your right.'
There was no chance to linger here either but, even so, Guarnaccia's big eyes took in the room at a glance and he murmured as he passed the man who had spoken: 'Who works there?' There was a fourth wheel with a wedge of clay waiting on it.
'Moretti.' The thrower plunged his arm back into the cylinder and bowed his head over it as its sides suddenly bulged and grew at the base.
He caught Niccolini up on the wooden staircase, puffing a little in an effort to keep up with the Iatter's determined strides.
'What a place,' Niccolini went on grumbling, 'what a shambles . . . Now where are we . . . ?'
They paused at the top of the stairs, doubtful as to which way to go next until they heard voices ahead, two voices, one of which suddenly rose above the other in anger.
'And I'm telling you, like I've always" told you, you'll not get away with it twice. The girl's dead, for God's sake!'
The other voice made some inaudible reply. The Marshal and Niccolini moved towards the noise, quickening their pace slightly as if conscious of some impending danger.
'What's it got to do with me? The same as it's got
'Do you think he really knows nothing?'
'At this point I've honestly no idea - no, that's not strictly true. In my opinion, in a town this small everybody knows something about whatever happens. I'll talk to him anyway.'
'I can wait for you in the car if you want to see him alone,' suggested the Marshal.
'You're to stay with me, no?'
And the Marshal had no choice but to follow reluctantly in his wake as he took the steps two at a time and strode into the factory, making his way towards the source of heat and noise through the labyrinth and grumbling each time he mistook his way: 'What a place!'
When they entered the kiln room the Marshal all but took a step backwards, not so much because of the intense heat which hit him in a sudden wave but at the sight of the kiln itself, which he had last seen gaping and dark and which now seemed alive as it roared and trembled, the flames licking around holes in the bricked-up front as though some dragon inside were trying to fight its way out. There was no sign of Moretti but the big man in the woolly hat was there, bending over to adjust the tap on a gas pipe leading to the fire. Niccolini tapped him on the shoulder and he looked round without straightening up. His face was red and sweat trickled down from his hat which made the Marshal wonder that he didn't take it off.
'Where is he?' bellowed Niccolini.
The man looked up at the high, blackened ceiling and pointed without troubling to try and make himself heard, then indicated with a brief nod the direction they should take.
In the next room a man sat working alone, gouging deep patterns into a red jar that revolved slowly between his knees. His hands and face and clothes were stained with the same rusty tint and his boots were buried in the leathery red ribbons he had cut away, so that he seemed to have been planted there and to have absorbed the predominant colour of his surroundings over the years. He watched them walk by with eyes devoid of expression and with no pause in the rhythmic movements that sent more ribbons of clay spinning on to the pile at his feet.
Niccolini strode past without bestowing a glance on him, but the Marshal met his blank gaze, conscious again of being an intruder and of having no real existence for these people. He would have liked to stop, to insist on making some sort of contact, but the last thing he wanted was to get lost in this maze of a place alone and Niccolini was already into the next room and blustering:
'Looking for Moretti! Where's the staircase?'
The Marshal had no choice but to follow him.
One of the three throwers working side by side at their wheels withdrew a muddy red arm from inside a spinning cylinder to point: 'Through there on your right.'
There was no chance to linger here either but, even so, Guarnaccia's big eyes took in the room at a glance and he murmured as he passed the man who had spoken: 'Who works there?' There was a fourth wheel with a wedge of clay waiting on it.
'Moretti.' The thrower plunged his arm back into the cylinder and bowed his head over it as its sides suddenly bulged and grew at the base.
He caught Niccolini up on the wooden staircase, puffing a little in an effort to keep up with the Iatter's determined strides.
'What a place,' Niccolini went on grumbling, 'what a shambles . . . Now where are we . . . ?'
They paused at the top of the stairs, doubtful as to which way to go next until they heard voices ahead, two voices, one of which suddenly rose above the other in anger.
'And I'm telling you, like I've always" told you, you'll not get away with it twice. The girl's dead, for God's sake!'
The other voice made some inaudible reply. The Marshal and Niccolini moved towards the noise, quickening their pace slightly as if conscious of some impending danger.
'What's it got to do with me? The same as it's got
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