Free The Marshal Makes His Report by Magdalen Nabb Page A

mean it when you rejected my suicide theory and even more the suggestion that the son or somebody might have been responsible.’ She was almost but not quite laughing at him. ‘So! What in the world do you believe happened?’
    It was fortunate that the doorbell saved him from having to reply because he didn’t know the answer to that himself.
    He looked at his watch as she was answering the door. He should get on. There was no point in spending more than the minimum time necessary on these visits since he wasn’t meant to be finding out anything. The Martelli woman was talking rapidly to whoever had called on her. Talking rather under her breath, it seemed to him. Was she talking about him, sending someone away because of his presence? ‘Come back later when he’s gone and I’ll tell you all. He seems to be a bit stupid and contradicts himself all the time.’
    That wasn’t what he was hearing. He couldn’t make out a word. He was getting paranoid, that’s what. This house did something to his nerves, made him uncomfortable in his skin, unsure of himself.
    ‘It’s Hugh!’ Dr Martelli re-entered the drawing-room, followed by a very tall man with limp brown hair and a crumpled linen suit. ‘Hugh Fido. I mentioned him before, didn’t I? The painter from the flat next door.’
    ‘Oh . . . yes. Yes.’ The Marshal got up stiffly, clutching his hat.
    ‘Please don’t get up for me. Hugh Fido. Pleased to meet you. Flavia says you’re coming to talk to all of us about Corsi’s death. Are you coming to me now?’
    ‘If it’s inconvenient . . .’
    ‘Not at all. Flavia, is that all right for Friday?’
    ‘Of course. I said so. I can’t believe you really need me, but I’ll be there with pleasure.’
    ‘Fine. Great. Er . . . Marshal, is it? If you’ve finished here I’ll take you next door to the studio.’
    ‘If you need me again, do come back.’ Dr Martelli touched the Marshal’s arm lightly as he left. ‘It was interesting talking to you—Hugh, I must tell you afterwards about a theory we worked out about the way things function in this house. It’s absolutely fascinating. I’ll invite you for a drink after evening surgery and tell you all about it.’
    The Marshal, following the Englishman, was amazed at his lankiness. He really was extraordinarily tall. Nor was he the very young man he had seemed at first sight. The hair that fell forward over his eyes as he fitted the key into the lock was greying at the temples. He was probably as old as the Marshal himself, but looked twenty years younger.
    ‘Do come in. Where would you like to sit? Let me move this stuff and we’ll sit on the sofa, it’s the most comfortable spot.’ He lifted a pile of art magazines, foreign newspapers and catalogues and, finding no uncluttered surface to place them on, dropped them on to the floor. The Marshal was staring about him in amazement. He had never seen so much colour, so much elegant clutter, so many paintings, drawings, sculptures. Mountains of discarded sketches were piled on pieces of antique furniture, one whole wall was painted with a mural of prancing naked figures in a garden vivid with huge flowers, and everywhere in the long, light room grew plants that trailed and twisted and climbed and intertwined and cascaded.
    ‘It’s a bit untidy, I’m afraid,’ the painter said, watching the Marshal’s face.
    ‘Oh no . . . Well, yes, but it’s very interesting . . .’ His voice tailed off as his glance came round again to the mural and took it in better than the first time. Most of the figures in it were involved in or observing with glee an explicitly depicted orgy.
    ‘It’s . . .’ What on earth had he intended saying? Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? He could feel himself blushing and wished to God he’d noticed that thing better before accepting a seat on this sofa where they would have to face it for their entire conversation.
    ‘Allegorical.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘The mural. That’s perhaps