“What time is it, anyway?”

“After one. I could not leave before I was sure all the Germans had gone. They found some bottles of wine in the mayor’s cellar, and they stayed late, singing their stupid songs.”

“But you will get no sleep. You will make yourself ill.”

She patted his hand. “Don’t worry. Most nights the village is asleep by nine. It is only women and children. The men who remain go off with the partisans to do what harm they can to the Germans by night.”

“Are all the men part of the resistance?”

“Who knows? We do not ask and they do not tell us. Better that way if the Germans question anyone. All I can tell you is that partisans are active nearby and it is possible that our local men are involved. Not that there are many men in the village any longer. The few that are here were with the army in the south, fighting beside the Germans until we changed sides. Then they slipped away before the Germans could conscript them or send them to prison camps. They are brave boys, I am sure, although I am glad that they are off doing their destructive work. That Cosimo is a little too interested in me.”

“Cosimo?” His voice was harsh.

She nodded. “Some whisper that he is a leader in the partisans. No doubt a brave fellow. Not bad-looking. A powerful man. But I told him until my husband is declared dead, I am still married to him. All the same he has been hanging around lately. He brings us an occasional egg or flask of wine, and we don’t ask where he got it. But I think they are an excuse to visit me. So I am glad that he is away for days at a time.”

“He would not try . . .” Hugo forced out the words.

“Oh no. Nothing like that. He is an honourable man, I am sure. He is kind to my son. But I do not wish to be courted by him.”

“When I escape, you must come with me,” Hugo said.

She smiled sadly. “But what if Guido returned home to find I was not there? And I cannot leave his grandmother. I promised him when he went away that I would take care of her.”

He wanted to say something more, but every thought seemed so hopeless. So he asked, “Is there a saint for everything?”

“Oh yes,” she said simply. “Saint Anne for those wishing to have a child. Saint Blaise for throats. A saint for rheumatism, for chilblains . . .”

He laughed, then asked, “And one to protect women and children?”

“We ask la Madonna for that,” she answered. “She lost her own son. She saw him die. She knows how we feel.”

“Do you wear a medal of la Madonna?”

“I gave mine to Guido when he went away,” she said. “I only pray that it kept him safe and that he is still alive. But I fear it is not so. My heart tells me that he is dead.”

Hugo took her hand. She gripped his fiercely, and they sat close together in the small circle of flickering light, sharing their worry.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JOANNA

June 1973

Angelina was woken up and sent to fetch the Carabinieri. Two men in impressive military-style uniforms arrived, red-faced from running down the hill. It took them some time to extract the body, so firmly was it jammed into the well. When they laid it out on the gravel path, I gave a little gasp of horror. It was Gianni, the man who had offered to escort me home last night, only to be pushed aside in favour of the more reliable Alberto.

The two Carabinieri agents recognised him instantly. “But surely this is Gianni,” one said. And they exchanged a look I couldn’t quite understand. A doctor was summoned and pronounced that Gianni had been struck on the back of the head with a blunt object. He had then been pushed into the well with his head under the water. The cause of death was drowning.

I found I couldn’t stop shivering. It was too horrible to contemplate. Paola took one look at me and put an arm around my shoulder. “The poor young lady is in shock. And she has not even had her breakfast yet. Come, my dear, let me pour you some coffee and you will feel better.”

“And who is this young lady?” one of the policemen asked.

“She is a visitor from England,” Paola said. “She is newly arrived here and stays at my guest house.”

“This is the guest house?” the officer asked, pointing at my open door.

“It is,” Paola confirmed.

“So close to the well,” said the officer, a rather unpleasant-looking, pudgy individual with little piggy eyes, staring at me. “You sleep there, Signorina? And yet you heard nothing when this man was murdered?”

“I heard nothing,” I said.

He asked another question. This time the Italian was beyond me. “I’m sorry. I only speak a little of your language,” I said. “I will understand if you speak slowly.”

“I asked who found the body,” he repeated.

My brain was refusing to function properly. I couldn’t think clearly in English, let alone form sentences in Italian. “The signora and I found it,” I stammered, waving my arms as one does when speaking a foreign language and lacking the vocabulary. “I wanted to take a shower. There was no water. I went to the well, but . . .” It took me long enough to say these words, then my Italian failed me.

“She was not strong enough to remove the cover alone, so she came for me and together we lifted the cover,” Paola said. “We both saw the body at the same time, and I think we both screamed. We were certainly both alarmed.”