Chapter Forty Seven
Shadows Of The Past
Palazzo Niccolini, Via dei Servi, Florence.
As he was about to step out into the Via dei Servi, Fergal smiled broadly. It had all been faintly ridiculous, even comical. An Irishman, nominally still a subject of the British Crown, living in Heidelberg, Germany these past eight years, working for the Abwehr, German military intelligence in Berlin, taking English afternoon tea in Italy.
However, that is precisely what he had done the very last time he was here in Florence, just over a year ago; sitting in the Gran Caffé Doney on the Via Tornabuoni close to the British consulate, to all intents and purposes doing nothing other than watch the world go by. The haunt of the aristocracy and the upper middle classes, with its daily gathering of English expatriates living here in Florence, apart from being delightful, Doneys was precisely the place in which to gather and pick up all kinds of interesting pieces of information.
Over the years, apart from his abiding hatred of the British and having an uncanny ear for mimicry, one of the other reasons why Fergal had proved so adept in his chosen profession as a spy was his ability to assume all manner of disguises and to blend in with his immediate surroundings. That afternoon he had been playing the part - and playing it to perfection - of an Irishman but this time from the north, from Londonderry; a fervent and staunch Unionist, with an unequivocal detestation and hatred of the so-called Free State and everything it stood for. So, smartly dressed in a single breasted, three button, peak lapel suit in a grey two tone chalk stripe with a red striped shirt and a red green tie he had sat alone at a table in one of the front windows of Doneys reading his newspaper - the latest available copy of the Times. This too had been chosen with equal deliberation and purchased just over an hour ago from a street news vendor not far from the main railway station in the Piazza Santa Maria Novella.
From behind his newspaper, Fergal had been keeping a discrete and watchful eye on all the comings and goings and more importantly listening to what was being said by whom and with equal interest to whom it was being said. Seated in Doneys. quietly sipping his tea - in fact these days he much preferred coffee - he had found himself thinking back to taking afternoon tea with his late mother in her fine house on North Mall in distant Cork shortly before Christmas 1920. It had been just after she had given him a new pair of trousers by way of a Christmas present that Miss Maeve, as he then thought of her, had told him that in the New Year she was intending to return and live at the Big House, just as soon as her late cousin's wife and child had left and gone back to England.
The knowledge that Maeve was his mother had come somewhat later; some four months later to be precise. By which time Skerries House was nothing more than a blackened burned out shell and Sybil and little Danny had returned home to live at Downton. It had been in the office of an old solicitor on St. Patrick Street, Cork, shortly after he had learned, to his utter amazement, that he was the sole beneficiary of the estate of the late Miss Maeve Branson formerly of Skerries House and of North Mall in Cork, that Fergal had been handed the letter the elderly Mr. Fitzmaurice had for him in safe keeping.
Picking up a long white envelope from off his desk, the solicitor held it out to him. It was clear that Mr Fitzmaurice had no intention of moving from his comfortable chair, so, with the solicitor's arms, like the rest of him, being both podgy and short, Fergal was obliged to stand up to take from Mr. Fitzmaurice the letter he now proffered. That done, he had sat down heavily once again in his chair.
"It is from Miss Maeve...ahem, and as you see, ahem, addressed... ahem... to you".
"You've read it?"
"Certainly not!" had snapped Mr. Fitzmaurice, sounding appalled at the very suggestion that he would ever read the private correspondence of a late client.
"Then how do you..."
"I... ahem... recognise... her script".
"Her script?" Fergal had asked with evident puzzlement.
Mr. Fitzmaurice had sighed; said with great forbearance:
"Her hand... ahem... her writing".
Fergal tore the envelope open and began slowly to read the letter contained within. At the very first words, his brow had puckered in disbelief.
"My dearest, darling boy...
The silence in the room lengthened as, watched by Mr. Fitzmaurice, he read on.
In every person's lifetime, whether by word or deed, whether by commission or even by omission, indeed in every single act, there lies the inherent potential to sow the seeds of tragedy.
It had been in January 1921, and with no sense of premonition, that Maeve Branson had sat down at her writing desk in the elegant drawing room of her fine town house on North Mall in Cork to compose what was destined to be the very last letter she would ever write to her as yet unacknowledged son; which, after it was finished she had placed directly into the hands of Mr. Fitzmaurice with the clear instruction that it was to be given to Fergal only in the event of her death. This had occurred but a matter of days later, during the Irish War of Independence, when Maeve and her lover Captain Miles Stathum were both shot and killed in an ambush mounted by the Black and Tans against the IRA at the Imperial Hotel on South Mall in Cork and in which Fergal himself had played a part.
Not that Fergal was aware that his mother had been caught up in the crossfire and the hail of bullets that had peppered the walls and upper landing of the hotel. By then, with most of his IRA compatriots already dead or severely wounded, in the ensuing confusion he had already made good his escape down a darkened back staircase and out into a deserted side street. With nothing to connect him to what had taken place at the Imperial other than a dark stain on the front of his trousers where both his bladder and his nerves had failed him, Fergal had not stopped running until he reached the Parnell Bridge and only then so as not to attract attention of the British soldiers on duty at the army barricade.
Not that in the letter she had written to him Maeve had gone so far as to tell Fergal the whole truth about his parentage. That she was his mother, this she had openly admitted to be the case; that Fergal's father had been her own brother Christopher, that he was a child born of an incestuous relationship, not unsurprisingly, she had left this part of the story untold; had carried it with her to her grave. After all, the reality of it was too awful to contemplate, let alone set down in black and white on paper even if that letter was only to be opened in the event of her death. Obviously Maeve had to say something regarding the identity of Fergal's father but she had done so in a round about way; had referred to him obliquely. Had made mention of a cousin who had betrayed her and who thereafter had run away to Dublin. Not that she actually went so far as to say that Tom Branson was the young man's father but the implication, at least to Fergal, was clear enough.
And then, years later, Tom Branson had returned to Skerries House with a posh English wife in tow by whom he had a child; never once, as far as Fergal was concerned owning the wrong he had done his cousin Maeve or acknowledging him as the son she had born him out of wedlock. Now a man grown, mistakenly believing that both he and his mother had been left abandoned and that he had been cheated out of his birthright, standing by his mother's forlorn, windswept grave in the abandoned family cemetery hard by the burnt out blackened shell of Skerries House, Fergal had sworn vengeance on Tom Branson and all he held most dear. Not even his marriage to Margarethe Rieck and the birth of their three young sons, along with a successful career in German military intelligence, had deterred Fergal in this. His hatred of the man he considered had so wronged him festered like a running sore and now, all these years later, a seemingly chance encounter on the railway platform at Modane on the Franco-Italian border, had placed Tom Branson once more within his reach.
Convinced that when the Rome Express had pulled into Modane, the two Meyer children had been on board the train and that somehow they had eluded the grasp of the border police, not that he had any proof, Fergal was certain too that Tom Branson had a hand in this. Down the years, those who had the misfortune to cross Fergal, those that had lived to tell the tale, would readily attest that he did not like being made to look a fool. And if, as Fergal believed, Tom Branson had helped the Meyer children evade discovery, then that was something else to be laid at his door and Fergal would make it his business to see that he paid dearly for his involvement in the affair.
However, this warm July evening as he stepped out from the imposing Palazzo Niccolini which housed Fascist headquarters and into the narrow, darkened thoroughfare that was the Via dei Servi, intending to walk to the Piazza del Duomo for a bite to eat, still with the memory of Doneys uppermost in his thoughts, Fergal was in a far happier frame of mind.
Of course, it was only to be expected that the Carabinieri, the Italian military police, were very well aware of the presence here in Florence not only of the earl of Grantham but also of the deputy editor of the Irish Independent. The earl of Grantham's views on the use of force to settle border and territorial disputes were well known following a speech which he had given recently at the League of Nations in Geneva wherein he made a passing reference to the Italian government's bombardment and subsequent occupation of Corfu back in 1923 during a dispute with Greece; a matter about which even now the Fascist government was extremely sensitive. Accordingly, as with all foreigners not known for their sympathies towards the present government in Italy, the Carabinieri were presently keeping a watchful albeit discrete eye on the new residents of the Villa San Callisto. Given his contacts in the Fascist Party, having duly learned of what was afoot, Fergal had determined to make it serve his own purposes.
Indeed, he had already done so.
Just as he had been on the point of leaving the palazzo, he encountered two young men being dragged inside the building. With the power out all over Florence, in the ensuing darkness they had been caught red handed, daubing anti Fascist slogans on the walls of buildings in the city. Having had the misfortune to be caught and found also to be in possession of forged papers, they had now been brought in here for questioning. The head of the Fascist Party here in Florence owed Fergal a favour or two and, at length, after questioning, the now beaten and bloodied men were released into his custody.
As far as they were aware, they were being set free, in exchange for undertaking some as yet unspecified task. Not that Fergal disabused them of this supposition but once they had served the purpose he had in mind for them, what the Carabinieri then chose to do with them, a bullet in the head and their bodies dumped in the Arno, was of no concern to him whatsoever.
Villa San Callisto, Fiesole.
In all the years that had passed since that long hot summer of 1914, Mary had never once spoken to anyone of her dalliance with the handsome military attaché at the Austro-Hungarian embassy in London.
Now tonight, as they met again, most unexpectedly, for the first time, all these years later, here in the magnificent candlelit hall of the Villa San Callisto in Fiesole, in the most embarrassing of circumstances, with Friedrich now her sister Edith's fiancé, Lady Mary Crawley countess of Grantham remained impassive as if carved out of ice. She did not return Friedrich's smile, at least not immediately; she merely nodded her head. He smiled again; seemingly amused by her feigned indifference. Even in the darkened hall, lit as it was presently, only by the light of candles, their recognition of each other had been both mutual and instantaneous but what would happen next was anyone's guess. It all rather depended on the two people present most directly concerned. Releasing Mary's hand, Friedrich now straightened up.
"Edith has told me such a very great deal about you. I feel…" He paused, seemingly searching for the just right words to express his feelings.
"As if you know her already," put in Edith helpfully. She laughed happily singularly unaware of how right she had been.
"Indeed. In fact, my darling, I couldn't have put it better myself," said Friedrich; Nor indeed could he. His own eyes lit with cold amusement at the predicament in which both Mary and he now found themselves.
"How very kind of you". Mary shot a positively viperous look at Edith. Her dark brown eyes smouldered.
"Really?" Friedrich smiled again. "I rather suppose it does all rather depend on just what she had to say about you," he said, softly sardonic. At his words, Mary's eyes glittered and patches of red flamed upon the usually flawless ivory complexion of her face. Nevertheless, outwardly she maintained her composure, seeming to treat what Friedrich had said as words spoken in jest.
"Oh, knowing Edith as well as I do, I'm sure she positively relished the opportunity to be… very forthcoming," said Mary evenly.
"Indeed. Forgive me; my English is not as good as it should be. Forthcoming? Now, would that I wonder be the same as forthright?" he asked of her quietly.
At this Mary's icy composure faltered. A muscle in her face twitched and she grimaced, if but for the merest second, betraying her innermost feelings. Clearly, there was nothing whatsoever at all wrong with Friedrich's ability to speak English even if accented. In fact, his present command of the language was well nigh perfect which, from what she recalled of it when last they had met nearly twenty years since, had not been the case. Since then, of course, he had met Edith. Not that Mary would have considered her sister to be a gifted teacher; not even after having become aware of Edith's hitherto unknown flair for learning foreign languages. In fact there was little if anything with which Mary would credit Edith other than being guaranteed to give her a splitting headache and raise her hackles. And not necessarily in that order; the two were interchangeable one with the other.
"Your modesty does your credit," said Mary regaining control of her emotions and forcing a smile, thinking at the same time that it did Friedrich no credit whatsoever.
"You're too kind".
"You misunderstand me. That wasn't my intention at all. It's perfectly true. Why, you must have a positive flair for languages".
Friedrich shook his head.
"No, not at all; I just had the good fortune to have an excellent teacher".
"Really? Who was he?"
"Not he. She. In fact I'm sure you don't need me to tell you her identity". Here Friedrich shot a loving glance at Edith who blushed and smiled warmly back at him.
For her part Mary chose to be deliberately obtuse.
"Edith? Oh, come now. After all, our governess Frau Schmidt always said how utterly hopeless you were in the schoolroom". Mary saw Edith flush. She breezed on. "But then darling, you always were so good at keeping your light under the proverbial bushel. That reminds me…"
"Reminds you? Of what" asked Friedrich.
"Little Max".
"What about him?"
"Oh, nothing. Well, nothing in particular. We were all so very pleased to make his acquaintance back there in Calais. Such a sweet child. Of course, none of us knew a thing about him. Not even that he existed". Mary smiled. "And now, Edith tells us you and she hope to be married. How wonderful". The intonation in Mary's voice made her implication clear enough.
"Indeed we do," said Friedrich levelly. "By the way, when I was digging near Smyrna in Anatolia, before Edith and I had the good fortune to meet, I met someone who I believe knew of you".
"Really? I don't see how".
"A fellow archaeologist. A young man. Turkish by birth. I forget his name. Had an elder brother. Some connection with their embassy in London, before the war". Friedrich paused as if trying to recollect. "Pamuk. That was his name," he said innocently. All of which was true enough; the chance encounter with Aysun Pamuk back in 1921 had merely served to confirm what Friedrich had learned from his cousin on the Austro-Hungarian military mission to the Ottoman government during the Great War.
Ah, you weren't expecting that now, were you, he thought but before Mary could reply Friedrich had moved forward, now to be introduced to both Sybil and Tom.
"Friedrich, this is…" began Edith.
"And you must be Lady Sybil". Friedrich smiled warmly at his fiancée's younger sister, took hold of Sybil's right hand and raised it to his lips.
Unseen, upstairs on the landing, the two boys were still lying out on the landing looking down through the banisters and, at this precise moment, with Robert tickling his ribs, Danny was now doing his very best not to laugh. Although he knew very well that his mother had been born into a life of both privilege and wealth, these days he was equally well aware of just how much his beloved Ma disliked all such nonsense as she called it. So too did Da who, long ago, had likened all the formality at Downton to being on stage at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin. However, while it was true that both of his parents hated any kind of fuss, if push came to shove and they absolutely had to, as was now the case, then, with good grace, they would do whatever it was that was required of them.
Behind them in the darkness, a bedroom door softly opened and a floorboard creaked at which Robert quickly turned his head, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that it was not Nanny Bridges but instead young Max who had come out onto the landing in his pyjamas to investigate what was going on. Motioning him to be quiet with a forefinger placed to his lips and to keep himself low, Robert beckoned the young boy over where he snuggled down on his tummy between his two cousins.
"Mein Vater!" he whispered pointing down excitedly into the candlelit hall and with obvious and evident pride.
The two other boys nodded. A moment later, behind them there now came the clicking of claws on the floorboards and Danny felt a wet nose nuzzling against his right ear. Not to be left out, inquisitive as ever, little Fritz had trotted out of Max's bedroom and joined the three boys on the landing.
Nor too was there any disguising the pleasure in Max's father's voice at now meeting Sybil.
"Or, from what Edith has told me many times, should that just be… Sybil?" Friedrich smiled warmly at her again and Sybil found herself smiling back.
"Actually, I do prefer just Sybil".
"So Edith told me. And you must be…
"Branson. Tom Branson". Each seeking the measure of the other, Tom and Friedrich shook hands firmly.
"Ah, the journalist. I've read a very great deal of what you've written over the past few years; very eloquent. Your recent piece on the Disarmament Conference in Geneva was most informative".
Tom smiled and nodded his head in the direction of Matthew.
"Thank you. But I can't claim all the credit for that particular article. My brother-in-law was at the conference for some of the time. The information which he provided me with proved invaluable for an understanding of what was taking place for sure".
"No doubt, but it was an incisive piece nonetheless. Edith always permits me to read the copies of your newspaper which you send her. I do so sincerely wish that your paper was available in Vienna, although somehow I doubt it would find favour with Herr Dolfuss and his thugs. But enough of the trials of my own country! On behalf of Edith and myself, may I offer both of you our heartfelt and sincere thanks".
"Whatever for?" Tom asked, genuinely mystified.
Friedrich smiled and shook his head.
"For your son, Danny. From what I hear, he's a very fine and resourceful young man. Just like his father. He's a credit to you both, just as Robert is to his father… and his mother". The pause was of the slightest duration but nonetheless it was there and while Mary registered no emotion she could not fail to have heard what Friedrich had just said.
Apart from the fact that there were only the three couples, owing to the power cut, it had been decided to dispense both with cocktails and with the ladies going through into the drawing room. So now, at this point, with Innocenti having announced that dinner was served, Matthew offered Edith his arm to escort her through to the dining room; the order of precedence meaning that Mary was left with no choice but to pair up with Friedrich; even though that meant Tom escorting his wife into dinner. Not that either he or Sybil minded; nor cared a fig for the correct order of things. In any event, it simply couldn't be helped.
"He seems very pleasant," said Sybil nodding her head in the direction of Friedrich's back as he escorted Mary through into dinner.
"Yes, he does. He and Edith seem very well suited".
"Like us!" Tom chuckled.
"And very well informed too".
"Well it stands to reason that he would be for sure," drawled Tom.
"Why's that?" asked Sybil.
"Because he reads my articles," laughed Tom.
"So full of yourself, aren't you, Mr. Branson!" Sybil giggled. "By the way…"
"By the way what?"
"You look awfully smart in your dinner jacket and tuxedo". Her voice had taken on an undeniably husky tone and, from past experience Tom knew very well what that betokened. He grinned at her. Even if there wasn't trifle on the menu for dessert, unless he was very much mistaken, in a few hours' time he was guaranteed a most delightful end to this evening's proceedings.
"Shall we tell them?" he asked with a boyish grin.
"Tell them what?"
"Our happy news".
"About the baby? You mean over dinner?"
"Why ever not? After all, it might keep Mary from needling poor Edith; in fact from needling the both of them".
"Well, all right. Mind you, while your continuing concern for her does you great credit, I'm sure that if Edith can get herself across all the way across Mesopotamia over to Alexandria and then fly to Genoa, let alone cope with Max, I'm certain she's more than perfectly capable of looking after herself thank you very much; especially now Friedrich is here to fight her corner. He stood no nonsense from Mary".
"Yes, so I noticed. I wonder what on earth's got into her. After she and Matthew made their peace earlier on this evening, I would have thought she would have been in the very best of moods".
"So would I".
"Have they ever met before?"
"Who?"
"Mary and Friedrich".
"Whatever makes you ask that?"
"I don't know. Just a hunch for sure!"
"Well, hunch for sure or not, I don't see how on earth they could have".
Tom nodded.
"I'm with you on that for sure. I can't explain it other than to say it was the way I saw Mary look him when they both first arrived. It was almost like she'd seen a ghost".
"Tom, darling, it was Ma who had the gift of Second Sight, not you, remember? Next you'll be telling me you've seen a leprechaun!"
"No I won't. This is Italy, not Ireland! Anyway, Bobby believes in leprechauns," he grumbled good-naturedly.
"Bobby would! Tom, in case you've forgotten, he's only five years old. If you ask me, you're imaging things!"
"Maybe. Only…"
"Only what, darling?"
Tom smiled; shook his head.
"Nothing. Just a hunch," he repeated again, this time more to himself than to anybody else.
"So, are we going to tell them?" Friedrich asked softly; clearly amused by the unexpected turn of events.
"Tell who what?" asked Mary without so much as a sideways glance.
"Don't play the innocent with me. It does you no credit".
"I don't know what you mean".
"Yes you do. All those years ago. In London. You haven't forgotten and neither have I".
"I don't know what you're talking about".
"Really? These things... don't just go away. So why deny it?" He smiled.
After all, nothing had actually happened; a harmless flirtation many years ago and, had it not been for Mary's earlier barbed remarks, not just those aimed at Edith but in particular the oblique slur on little Max, Friedrich would have been prepared to let the matter pass; make a jest of it without embarrassing her or indeed himself. However, all Mary's unpleasantness had actually done was confirm to Friedrich everything that Edith had told him over the years about her elder sister. He remembered also something she had said about what had occurred at a hotel in Dublin, just after the end of the war; a remark made by Herr Branson.
"Just because someone is born into a life of wealth and privilege doesn't mean that they should think they can trample over the dreams of others, treat people with contempt, as if they're not even human; there to serve their every need".
Remembered too how very kind Edith said Tom Branson had been to her at the time and also how very brave he had proved himself to be in rescuing not only his then fiancée but also his future sister-in-law from the wreckage of the hotel dining room in the aftermath of a terrible explosion caused by a bomb...
From outside, there came a terrific roar and for a moment the very ground seemed to shake. There was a blast of searing heat, and a huge sheet of orange and yellow flames, followed instantaneously by an enormous plume of thick dirty black smoke, pillared, towered upwards into the cloudless sky.
Inside the dining room, the two huge cut glass electroliers began to oscillate heavily back and forth, and large cracks suddenly appeared in the ornate plasterwork of both the ceiling and in the decorative cornice. The two electroliers continued to swing back and forth until the momentum became such that their fixings gave way. With an almighty crash both of them suddenly tore loose from the ceiling and fell to the floor. Those directly in their path never stood a chance.
The large windows of the dining room overlooking the road crazed, shattered, imploded, showering those within and nearest to them with deadly, vicious splinters of smashed wood work and lethal flying shards of plate glass, the room itself filling with an impenetrable, dense cloud of acrid, billowing, thick black smoke.
Along with several others, the table and everything on it between the Tom, Sybil, and Edith disappeared from sight; in fact, it simply ceased to exist.
From elsewhere in the darkened, wrecked room, and but dimly glimpsed, there came cries and screams for help. Gently, Tom helped first Sybil, and then Edith, to their feet. As he helped her up, Edith felt her shoes suddenly slip in something wet and sticky. Instinctively, she looked down and through the murk glimpsed what she would rather not have seen. Glancing down and seeing it for what it was, Tom grabbed at a nearby tablecloth, and in one deft move, now pulled it off the table in a cascade of falling china and cutlery; flung it down on the floor, covering the sickening sight, hiding it as best he could from Edith's horrified gaze.
"Don't look," he said curtly. Then, feeling her weaken suddenly against him, said less peremptorily: "Here, Edith, lean on me".
She did as she was bidden; sank wearily against the reassuring presence of Tom's warm body, feeling his strong arm tighten around her slender form. Then, slipping, stumbling, but with infinite care, Tom helped guide all three of them across the debris strewn floor of the dining room, towards the doorway which led out into the entrance hall of the hotel.
From what he had already heard about him, even more so now that he had actually met him, Friedrich von Schönborn found he had very warm feelings indeed towards Tom Branson.
Not that tonight Friedrich had any intention of causing a scene. No gentleman would ever do such a thing. Nonetheless, given what had happened, it was his intention to teach Mary a lesson, one which she would never forget. This evening had all the promise of being a far more entertaining affair than he had expected.
Social etiquette demanded that the seating plan at dinner was such that Matthew and Mary sat facing each other at opposite ends of the table with Friedrich seated therefore unavoidably on Mary's left; Edith was on Matthew's right with Sybil across from her and Tom seated opposite Friedrich and to Mary's right.
Irrespective of her own feelings, as if nothing untoward had occurred, Mary continued playing the part of the perfect hostess to perfection.
"Friedrich, if you would sit here," she murmured without meeting his gaze. She indicated the seat immediately to her left. "Edith, you're over there, on Matthew's right. Tom you're here and Sybil. Yes, that's right, next to Matthew".
The menu for this evening's meal, approved by Mary upon their arrival, had been printed on cards set in elegant silver holders with one placed at each table setting. Unlike the menu on the train, fortunately for Tom, it was in English. At least this time, he thought, I can bloody well read it! Remembering how helpful she had been in translating the one in the dining car on board the Rome Express for him, Tom shot a fond glance at Edith sitting diagonally opposite him. He pointed to the menu before him, grinned and gave a quick thumbs up. Understanding what he meant, she smiled broadly, as Innocenti and a footman set about the business of serving all those present at the dining table their first course.
Fiesole Hills, north east of Florence.
Both of the young men looked as though they could do with a square meal and in an impromptu act of seeming kindness. Fergal bought them one, in a cheap eating house in a back street not far from the railway station. Thereafter, along with one of his own compatriots they drove the two men up into the hills near Fiesole. Having brought the motor to a stop in an isolated clearing close to the edge of an abandoned quarry, the two young men were ordered out of the Fiat and made to kneel on the ground, illuminated by the headlights of the car.
"Now, tell me again which one of you is the mechanic? asked Fergal. When there was no immediate reaction to his question he asked it once again, this time rapidly in Italian. "Chi di voi è il meccanico ?" The older of the two men nodded and pointed to himself and nodded his head.
"I, meccanico," he said in broken English.
"And your friend?"
"Un giocatore del violino".
"I have no use for a violin player," said Fergal and, drawing his silencer fitted Mauser C96 pistol, promptly shot the other dead. Disbelieving what was happening, his friend cowered on the ground, whimpering with fear, pleading for his life while Fergal's Italian associate heaved the lifeless body of the dead violin player over the edge of the quarry. A moment or two later there came a sickening thud as it hit the bottom.
"Alzarsi! "A meno che non si vuole finire come lui, fare esattamente come ti dico. Mi capisci? demanded Fergal's compatriot.
Clearly terrified, the other young man had no wish to end up dead at the bottom of the quarry too. Mutely he nodded his head; he would do exactly as he was told.
And, so now it began.
Author's Note:
The Palazzo Niccolini on the Via dei Servi is now a luxury hotel.
The Gran Caffé Doney on the Via Tornabuoni was exactly as described and plays a central part in Franco Zefferelli's wonderful film "Tea With Mussolini". Sadly, Doneys closed down in 1986.
For the death of his mother and for Fergal learning of his inheritance see "Reunion" - the second part of this trilogy.
As a result of a boundary dispute between Albania and Greece, Italy did indeed bombard and occupy the Greek island of Corfu in 1923.
Founded by W . B. Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory, the Abbey Theatre in Dublin opened in 1904. Rebuilt after a fire in 1951, it is still in business.
The Disarmament Conference in Geneva had opened in February of this same year (1932).
For the bombing of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin and its immediate aftermath, including Tom's rescue of both Sybil and Edith, see "Home Is Where The Heart Is" - the first part of this trilogy.