Page 12 of Murder at Christmas

‘I needed a change of scene. My original intention was to go into politics, so when I left Cambridge, I got a job as assistant to my local MP.’ He produced a little grin. ‘It took me a few years, but I finally decided that politics was far too complicated for me – not to mention very poorly paid. I was brought up to tell the truth and to believe what people told me, but I soon found out that that’s just about the first thing that goes out of the window when you get involved with politics.’

I could sympathise with him. During my time with the Metropolitan Police, I had come into contact with a number of political figures and had noted the remarkable way that none of them seemed capable of giving a straight answer to a simple question. As I knew that my previous career and my current profession were being kept a closely guarded secret while I was here, I made no comment and turned towards Ingrid to see if I could shake the sour expression off her face.

‘What about you, Ingrid? Are you familiar with Piedmontese food?’

For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse to answer, but she finally decided to make an effort. ‘Do I know Piedmontese food? I’ve had nothing but Piedmontese food for the last three years, ever since I married my husband.’ Her English was excellent, with a distinct French accent.

‘And you don’t like it?’ I took a closer look at her. From her perfectly styled dark hair and giant pendant earrings to her antique coral necklace and long, manicured nails, she looked impeccable – and expensive. Beneath the sour expression, she had an attractive face. What was it Bartolomeo had called her:Ingrid, lovely Ingrid? She certainly was that. She ran her tongue across her dark-red lips, exposing a set of gleaming white teeth, before responding.

‘I’m not saying I don’t like Piedmontese food, but what is it you English say? Familiarity causes contempt or something like that? I’m only too happy to go back home to France as often as I can for some real food.’

I was pleased to hear her starting to communicate so I tried to keep the conversation going. ‘Whereabouts are you from in France?’

‘Brittany – far over in the west of France.’

I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I know it well. We had several family holidays near La Baule. Beautiful sandy beaches, but not a lot of mountains there. I imagine it’s not just the food that you’re finding so different here.’

For the first time, a hint of a smile appeared on her face. ‘I do sometimes dream of sitting by the sea with a plate ofmoules marinièreand a glass of Muscadet.’ Her smile broadened. ‘And now that Vincenzo is no longer here, I should be able to get back there more often.’

I kept the smile on my face, but I couldn’t help a feeling of disbelief that thought of her husband’s recent violent death should have brought a broader smile to her lips.Moules marinièreor not, Ingrid was a cold fish.

Marina appeared from the kitchen with a magnum of sparkling wine and filled our glasses. We then heard the sound of a knife being tapped against a glass and all eyes turned towards the head of the table where Bartolomeo was on his feet.

‘I would like to thank you all for coming here and, in particular, to thank Selena, our illustrious guest and hopefully, the new face of Aquila Sports.’

I checked Selena’s expression, but it was inscrutable. Presumably, she had yet to sign the contract.

‘Wishing you all a relaxing few days here in the mountains and a very happy Christmas later this week.Salute, cin cin.’ He raised the glass to his lips and drained it before beaming across the room at Marina. ‘An excellent choice, Marina. Who needs champagne when we make such outstanding wine here in Piedmont?’

We all joined in with the toast and, although I’ve never been terribly keen on fizzy wine, I had to agree that this was indeed excellent – dry but with a lovely fruity aftertaste. I resolved to ask Marina for the name of it so I could add a few bottles to my slowly growing cellar. The reason my wine collection isn’t growing faster is because I don’t have the willpower to resist drinking it. And with my daughter due to be married in the new year, I had a feeling a few bottles of this super bubbly wouldn’t hang around for long either.

Marina returned with a platter loaded with the first round of antipasti. I had been expecting a big plate of different salami and maybe some Alpine cheese like Fontina, but I wasn’t prepared for the sophisticated dishes that we were served over the next half-hour. These started withcardo gobbo– which translates as ‘hunchback thistle’. This white vegetable, reminiscent of curved celery, was served raw, covered withbagna cauda. I had never heard ofbagna cauda– ‘warm sauce’ in the Piedmontese dialect – and Fiona kindly filled me in, telling me it was a sauce made with cream, anchovies and garlic. This sounded decidedly daunting, but I’m always open to a challenge, so I took a tentative mouthful. It was unexpectedly delicious – considering its potentially overwhelming ingredients – and I cleared my plate with relish. A quick glance up the table told me that Anna was happily tucking in as well, so there would be no risk of my garlicky breath asphyxiating her later.

A few minutes later, Marina emerged from the kitchen with the next of the starters. Fiona, who was turning out to be aprecious culinary guide to me, informed me that this wasvitello tonnato. Thin slices of boiled veal had been spread with another creamy sauce, this time made of mayonnaise, capers, egg yolk and tuna, all mashed together. The combination of tastes was surprisingly light and delicate. This was followed by Paolo’s take on the traditional staple in Italy ofinsalata russa, made with a selection of different boiled vegetables chopped into little cubes and mixed with home-made mayonnaise. The final serving of antipasti was more meat, this time, thin strips of roast beef covered with flakes of the famous white truffles from the area around Alba, down on the flatlands of Piedmont south of Turin.

Along with the food, we were served water – with the usual choice of plain or sparkling – and wine. Although the red was from here in Piedmont, the white was from Burgundy, over the border in France.

I opted for the red and discovered yet another new wine for me. When it comes to food and drink, Italy is still very regional and, with a few internationally recognised exceptions like Barolo or Prosecco, people tend to drink the wine of their region rather than going for equally good wines from elsewhere. I checked the name of this one on the bottle and saw that it was Grignolino. It was a lovely light-red colour and very slightly fizzy when poured into the glass, but it quickly settled down into an excellent table wine.

There was a welcome break of about five minutes at the end of the antipasti, during which conversation restarted. I turned to my right and addressed Cinzia Naselli, who had been sitting in silence, lost in her own thoughts. Unlike our host, she was drinking just water and it occurred to me that he would have done well to follow her example. I asked her in Italian if she had been able to follow the earlier conversation in English, and she made a see-saw motion with her hand.

‘More or less, but my English isn’t very good. Calogero speaks it well, but I’ve never been a great linguist. Thank you for speaking Italian with me. You speak it very well.’

I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Well, as long as you don’t feel left out, that’s the main thing. I remember what it was like when I was learning Italian. Everybody seemed to speak so fast. Are you staying for the Christmas festivities?’

She shook her head. ‘No, we’re only here for another two nights – Calogero had a series of meetings with Signor Viviani today and he has more tomorrow. We’re driving down to Tuscany on Wednesday morning to spend Christmas with my sister and her family. They live in Lucca – do you know it?’

I had visited this historic Tuscan city the previous year, and we chatted about it for a few minutes, although I couldn’t shift the feeling that she was just going through the motions. Like others here in the villa, Cinzia Naselli didn’t look relaxed and happy.

Thankfully, the pasta course consisted of only one type of pasta, rather than four different ones as William had encountered previously. These were agnolotti – pockets of pasta like ravioli, filled with minced roast beef, spinach and parmesan cheese – in a sauce that my mum would have called gravy. Unlike some pasta, these were remarkably light and easy to digest, and if I hadn’t been forewarned by Fiona, I would certainly have accepted the offer of seconds when Marina came back around a bit later. Instead, I thanked her, asked her to pass on my compliments to her husband, and reluctantly said no.

I took a long look around at the faces I could see from where I was sitting and saw that most people – even sullen Ingrid – appeared to be enjoying this excellent meal – but not everybody. I couldn’t see all the guests, but one person stood out as looking far from happy. It came as no surprise to see that this was Orlando. Although he was sitting alongside Fiona, his wife,diagonally opposite me, he had made no attempt to speak to her or, indeed, to anybody else. He just glared down at his plate and shovelled up the food with no visible sign of enjoyment. Orlando, for whatever reason, definitely wasn’t a happy bunny.

Surely not because he was plotting to murder his father?

8

MONDAY EVENING