“And where is la Signora at present?”
“She is nearby but away from the house, in a convent watched over by a few nuns. She would not stay another night in the villa. She has sent for her sister, who is to arrive from Pienza tomorrow.”
“And her husband Sir Jaswant?”
“He is on his way, but will not reach here for several days.”
“And the factotum?”
“He is there and awaits his master. Singh has ordered him to watch over the Lady. He is Sir Jaswant’s oldest friend. He has been employed by the banker for many years, and he is completely loyal to him. He is a bit antipatico, a stout man, one who runs slowly and perspires a lot, but of great energy.”
Niccolini leaned back in his seat as the train raced forwards and said, “I must tell you that I do not trust this Habib. I am a local policeman, Signor Holmes. I have traveled little outside this place, my native Campania. I have seen deeply, not widely. And yet, despite this limitation, I can read the human soul through the face, the eyes, the gestures. I know when a man is lying to me or when he has done something wrong. We Italians are an antique people, one with long experience and, therefore, one that has a certain intuition as well. Il signor Habib is lying. There is something that he knows that he refuses to reveal. Signor Holmes, I must tell you that your countrymen and their retinues who have sought to retire here have brought a certain problematica, a tension per modo di dire, shall we say, to the region. The local peasantry is at once attracted by their wealth, but repelled by their habits.”
It was just after noon when we reached Amalfi, a rather squalid little town on the sea. Niccolini had arranged our accommodations in a small hotel, the Albergo Santa Croce, in nearby Ravello and far nearer to the Villa Alessandrini, he himself staying with a cousin in Amalfi, the better to learn what he could from the observations of the local population.
“I will learn much from the rumours in town,” he said with a smile as he bargained for a cab to take us up the steep hill. Once arrived, we found two excellent rooms awaiting us. From the windows, we could see the Villa Alessandrini resting on the top of a hill not far from us. Peach in color, its olive groves and its magnificent green forest extended behind it upwards into the Apennine Mountains and down towards the sea below. The gardens in front were English, no doubt created by Lady Singh. They were in full bloom, filled with masses of wildflowers, and in the fields to the left thousands of red poppies seemed to dance in the air.
“Come, Watson, let us see what the villa holds.”
Holmes lost no time. A rocky foot path led from the hotel to the villa, about a half mile away. As we approached, I saw Niccolini wave to us.
“Benvenuti,” he said halfmockingly. “You may examine the villa at your leisure. I hope that your luck is better than ours.”
He sat under one of the great trees, writing in a small notebook.
“Habib will guide you,” he said with the merest irony in his voice.
We nodded to him and walked to the entrance, where Sir Jaswant’s servant awaited us. Habib was as described to us, a fat man, with a disheveled appearance, somewhat obsequious in behaviour. His eyes darted constantly as if he were permanently on guard. I disliked him immediately.
“Where shall we begin?” he asked.
“The house is very large and there is no need to go through the whole building at once. I would like to see Lady Singh’s quarters and the place where the guard was attacked,” said Holmes. Habib nodded in assent.
If the villa on the outside was a delight to the eye, the mood on the inside was one of unrelieved gloom. Sir Jaswant’s vaunted millions had barely begun the changes necessary to a happier atmosphere. The baroque ceilings of the great halls and public rooms were covered with a century of soot and dust, the walls burdened with portraits of the Alessandrini in the style of the Neapolitan painter Ildebrando Rosa. Little light entered through the windows, for the surrounding trees blocked it. The feeling was one of unrelieved foreboding.
We followed Habib to the second floor. Just at the top of the stairs he pointed out the place where old Amendola had been attacked. The blood had been thoroughly cleaned. Holmes studied the spots that remained with his glass, but said nothing. His gaze took in every detail.
The Singhs’ own quarters were sumptuous indeed, and were presumably the result of Lady Singh’s efforts to redeem the villa from its past. Here there was light, and the Alessandrini were banished from the walls. Holmes paid little attention to the rooms themselves but examined carefully the large windows, the veranda on the north side of the house, and the branches of the trees that grew close by.
“The house has been swept clean since the incident in question,” he said pointedly to Habib. “A pity.”
“We did as we were told by Lady Singh,” said Habib in reply.
“No matter, I have already seen enough. Let us go to the roof. Is there a way?”
“Yes,” said Habib, “follow me.”
There were four stories to the villa. The highest was uninhabited and was filled with old Renaissance furniture and other dust-covered remnants. At first Holmes paid closest attention to the windows, then to a door that led out to a small porch. He spent several minutes in thought as he studied the door and its relation to the stairwell, walking back and forth between the two, his finger tips together. Then he got down on all fours, like a bloodhound, looking for what we could neither see nor yet divine. He arose expressionless and then went outside, and while Habib and I waited on the veranda, he climbed to the roof. I watched him as he stared intently below, gradually adjusting his gaze until it arrived at the roof itself and the trees that grew nearby, particularly those that were higher than the villa itself. As he re-entered, he took one last look at the trees.
“Very well, then, I have seen enough,” he said. “While there is still time, let us question the old guard.”
We descended to the ground floor. There waiting for us was Amendola, the old man who had been attacked by whatever it was that had come into the house.
He spoke quickly in his local dialect, Cylinder, as they called it. Holmes questioned him with Niccolini’s help.
“Ajja paura,” he said, “non ajja mai avudd ’na paura cumma ghesta”
“He says that he is afraid and that he was never as frightened as when he felt the presence of this creature.”
Amendola pointed to the bandage over his wound.
“Ask him,” said Holmes, “if he has any idea as to what it was.”