Free City of Devils: A Novel by Diana Bretherick

companionable silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The events of the previous day seemed a long time ago.
    Being November, the sun was already setting, casting a rosy glow over the water. As they walked through the Parco Valentino towards the Piazza, the Via Po and the university, James thought to himself that he felt happier and more fulfilled than he had for a long time. His initial reason for going to Turin had almost been forgotten and he began to wonder whether he could finally put the past behind him and begin afresh.
    Suddenly Lombroso shivered slightly. It might have been the cold air. After all, the sun had almost set and dusk was nearly upon them, but James wondered if, despite his best efforts to put it from his mind, the murder of Giuseppe Soldati had returned to haunt the professor. Again the tiniest of doubt about Lombroso intruded into his own mind but he put it aside, preferring for the moment to enjoy the experiences his new life was providing.
    Lombroso turned to Ottolenghi. ‘I must go back to the university now. There is some work I must finish. Why don’t you take Murray for a tour of the city? Then perhaps you could go for some refreshment in one of our fine cafes and tell him of our current projects? I will see you both later at the house – if it is convenient for you, Murray, of course.’
    James nodded, happy to be included. They watched Lombroso hurry off through the park into the distance.
    Ottolenghi smiled at him. ‘He must like you. It took me two months to get an invitation to one of his salons and you’ve only been here two days!’
    James’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t realise that was what he meant.’
    Ottolenghi laughed. ‘How do you feel – nervous?’
    ‘Should I be?’
    ‘A little, perhaps, it is a kind of initiation, I suppose, in the professor’s eyes.’
    James grinned. ‘I’d better pass then!’
    Ottolenghi patted him on the back. ‘Don’t worry; I’m sure you will. Anyway I’ll be there to help, if you need me and I’m sure that you won’t. I think perhaps we will need to discuss your strategy, though.’
    James looked up to the skies in mock despair. ‘Ach, you think I need a strategy – that will need a drink!’
    ‘Well, maybe strategy isn’t quite the right word! But tour first, drink later,’ laughed Ottolenghi, ‘and not too much. You’ll need to have your wits about you at the salon.’
    They wandered out of the park and towards the Via Po where they hired a cab. Ottolenghi was an excellent guide and they drove through the streets, pausing every now and again for him to point out this building or that landmark – museums, galleries, palazzos and piazzas – until James was almost intoxicated by the sight of them all. Then they took a turn out of the centre of the city and drove through some of the less prosperous areas. The people stared at them listlessly as they drove past, as if want had drained the life from them. James could smell the poverty as it drifted in through the windows. No olive oil or herbs here, just filth and decay. He recalled smelling the same odour as he walked through the streets from the asylum on his way back from visiting his father. The thought of it made him feel nauseous. Once or twice James looked over to his companion. His face was kind and artless, trustworthy somehow. Like Lombroso his eyes darted about, taking everything in, and occasionally he would mutter something as if he was making a mental note. Eventually he rapped on the window with his cane and the driver nodded, having been told of their final destination before they set out. They had arrived at the Piazza Solferino.
    Ottolenghi indicated a cafe on the corner. As they went in, James looked in wonder at the decor, which was heavy with gilt and mirrors, like a Parisian palace. In the centre of the room was a pyramid of delicacies, perched precariously on one another, little toasts loaded with salami and ham, quails’ eggs, roasted peppers and tomatoes,