“I will now go to Francesca,” Paola said. “You should take a little sleep. We have had a long day.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I am not tired. Would you like me to come with you?”

A big smile crossed her face. “Oh yes. I should like that very much. I always like company, and seeing a young, fresh face like yours will cheer up Francesca in her hour of grief.”

In truth my volunteering to come with her was not entirely selfless. I wanted to have a chance to speak with Gianni’s widow. Maybe he had told her some of the things he’d wanted to share with me. Paola put together a big basket of food: fruit and vegetables from the garden, baked goods, and some of the leftover ragu.

“She won’t feel like cooking, the poor soul,” she said.

We set off along the track away from the village, then we turned off up the hill to our right. It was a steep climb. I had offered to carry the basket and now regretted it. I realised how unfit I still was. If I stayed here for long I’d make sure I took plenty of good walks, I decided. Then it struck me that I didn’t want to leave, regardless of the unpleasantness with the police. In spite of getting nowhere in my search for the truth, I liked being here. I liked being with Paola and feeling that I was part of a family.

Gianni’s house was at the edge of the woodland that crowned the hills. It was a humble sort of place, built of old stone, with a slate roof, and looking as if it might fall down at any moment. Chickens wandered around outside the house. A dog was chained in the yard. It rose up, growling as we approached.

“Francesca,” Paola yelled in her big voice. “It is I, Paola Rossini, come to pay you a visit.”

The front door opened and a thin woman in black came out. She looked as if she had been crying constantly for some time. But she managed a weak sort of smile. “Paola. It is good of you to come.”

“I was concerned when I didn’t see you at the feast day.”

“How could I come and be joyful when one of the people eating and drinking there had killed my husband?” she demanded.

“You don’t know that, Francesca. It could well have been an outsider.”

“What sort of outsider? Which outsider would know about your well? They say he was jammed in there with his head down and left to drown. What kind of monster does that?”

“Maybe Gianni had made enemies,” Paola said. “He was not always wise in the company that he kept.”

“Gianni was always looking for a deal, that is true,” she agreed. “But he stayed away from criminals, from Mafia and gangs. There were rumours about him that just weren’t true. He liked to talk big, you know. Liked people to think that he lived with danger and intrigue. But it just wasn’t true. He was quite a timid man. But it does no good talking about it, does it? I don’t suppose they will ever get to the bottom of the murder. And where does it leave me? With no man to look after the sheep, to lift the heavy pots that make the cheese. I’ll have to sell up, if anyone will buy. Make do with my chickens and our few olive trees.” As she finished this tirade she seemed to notice me for the first time, standing back in the shadow of a cherry tree. “And who is this?” she asked.

“This is the young English lady who is staying with me,” Paola said. “She was kind enough to carry the basket for me up the hill.”

I felt those dark eyes analysing me critically. “The one who . . . ?” she began.

“That’s right,” Paola said. “The one who found your husband’s body with me.”

“It must have been a shock for her,” Francesca said.

“A shock for both of us,” Paola said. “I thought my heart would never start beating again. The poor man. What an end.”

“As you say, what an end. A most brutal and vicious man must have done this. And for what? Because Gianni wasn’t always wise in what he said?” She stopped, her hands toying with the apron she wore over her dress. “You’d better come in and have a glass of wine with me.”

“Of course,” Paola said. She motioned me to follow and we stepped into the darkness of the house. It was cramped and spartan inside but spotlessly clean. We sat at a wooden bench in the corner. Francesca took an earthenware jug from a shelf and poured us glasses of red wine. Then she put a plate of olives and some coarse bread out on the table. “Your health, Signorina,” she said, still examining me as if I was a creature from Mars. Perhaps I am the first foreigner she has met, I thought, but then I reminded myself that she had seen plenty of Germans during the war. That might have made her suspicious of all foreigners.

The two women talked. They spoke so rapidly and in their Tuscan dialect that much of what they said was lost on me. I found my attention wandering. I stared past them out of the window. There was a good view of San Salvatore from here. I picked out Sofia’s former house with the peeling yellow paint. Then I stared a little more intently. The windows at the back certainly opened onto the parapet. But from here it looked as if a stairway went down the outside of the wall just to the right of her house. So there was a way to bring up someone she wished to hide. I couldn’t wait to tell Renzo.

Finally, and to my relief, Paola got up. “I should be getting back to my daughter and the grandchild,” she said.

“Will you be attending the dancing in the piazza tonight?” Francesca asked, looking at me as well as Paola.