Read Online The Marshal Makes His Report by Magdalen Nabb - Free Book Online

leather shop further on, heedless of what was behind those great doors where he now paused, hesitating to ring the bell. For a moment he stood there, his bulky uniformed figure blocking the way so that the passing tourists had to step off the pavement to get by. Then he turned away and crossed the road to Gino’s.
    ‘Ah, it’s you . . .’ Gino looked surprised, given the Marshal’s parting remarks the night before. ‘I was afraid you didn’t enjoy your pizza last night.’
    ‘What? No, no . . . it was very good. You couldn’t give me just a cup of coffee, could you?’
    ‘Well, we don’t usually, but seeing as it’s you . . .’
    He served the Marshal himself. ‘You can sit down over there if you want to. We’re not so full by this time.’
    ‘No, no.’ The Marshal stood where he was at the cash desk, staring out across the street.
    ‘Something going on over there, is there? I heard her husband was dead?’
    ‘Yes, he’s dead.’ Her husband, the Prince Consort. Was that how everybody thought of him? Yet he had his own business, he must have been a person in his own right, at least for those who worked for him.
    ‘No offence meant.’ The unfortunate Gino, feeling himself repulsed yet again by the Marshal’s lack of response, made himself scarce.
    ‘Doctor Martelli? I’ve disturbed you, I see. I’m sorry.’
    ‘That’s all right. You must be the Marshal who . . .’
    ‘Guarnaccia. That’s right. I won’t keep you a moment.’
    He had woken her from her siesta, that was obvious. Her face was flushed with sleep, her cheek creased, and she was still buttoning her cotton shirt with one hand as she held the door with the other. She was fortyish and still pretty, with a mop of brown curls.
    ‘Do come in.’
    Still pretty but a spinster, the Marshal thought, looking round, hat in hand, as he entered a dainty and immaculate drawing-room. Sunlight from the tall window filtered softly through a pale silk blind.
    ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me while I make myself a coffee or you won’t get a sensible word out of me. Will you have a cup, too?’
    ‘No. No, thank you. I just had one over the road.’
    ‘Do sit down.’
    He sat himself gingerly on the edge of a silky light green sofa, laid his hat down beside him and then took it up again and kept it on his knees. While she was in the kitchen he took the opportunity to have a good look around him. It was all very nice, he thought. Some antique stuff, some very modern, a lot of books. Too many ornaments, though . . . those enormous vases and brass stuff and fancy boxes . . . you’d knock something over if you so much as moved . . .
    The Marshal sat very still, his big eyes roving. He heard her light the gas and then she looked round the door.
    ‘Are you quite sure you won’t join me?’
    ‘No, no . . .’
    She brought in a little tray with a silver sugar bowl on it and a prettily decorated coffee cup. ‘I see you’re fascinated by my father’s collection. You’re fond of chi-noiserie? I must confess I’m not passionate about it myself but having inherited it I’d feel rather guilty about selling. People are always nagging me to get it all properly valued and insured, but you know the way it is with these things . . .’
    ‘Of course.’ He wasn’t at all sure what she was talking about but he noticed that though her voice was still a little hoarse with sleep the flush had faded from her face and she looked paler and older than she had seemed at first.
    ‘That’s the coffee coming up. I’ll be right back.’
    She moved briskly, efficiently. He could imagine her going along a hospital ward, white coat flapping, though he knew she was a GP.
    ‘Monday’s such a heavy day for me.’ She sat down opposite him in a large white linen chair and poured the coffee. ‘A thing I never noticed when I worked in a hospital, but then every day was a panic. Being a GP is neither ambitious nor exciting but at least I get time to shop! That’s better,