Free Property of Blood by Magdalen Nabb

place brought his few belongings to the Contessa and among them was an unopened box delivered from Pineider, the fanciest stationers in Florence. It contained headed letter paper and envelopes and elegantly engraved visiting cards announcing in English ‘Count Ugo Brunamonti, Exporter of Fine Italian Wines’ and gave the number of the little flat he died in and a U.S. number which turned out to be his mother-in-law’s. She knew nothing about it, of course, since no such business existed. The Contessa paid the stationer’s bill and the amounts outstanding to the landlord. That wasn’t the end of it. For months afterwards more bills kept arriving: tailor, shoemaker, wine merchant—he hadn’t drunk his imaginary wine—and even a year’s rent on an office he’d taken and long since abandoned. The Contessa not only paid the rent but sent her maid round there to make sure the place was clean before giving the keys back. No doubt ‘clean’ included clean of any other evidence of his folly. It was pathetic. A good enough room with a view of red rooftops and a slice of the cathedral dome. A desk and chair, a telephone, unconnected, a leather desk set that had been the Professor’s and which the maid brought home.
    What was really incredible was that there were a lot of offices in that building, and all their occupants had seen Brunamonti going in and out on a regular basis until about a year before, keeping real office hours in a real office and running an imaginary business. This was before the wine—an antiques business it was, that time. There was a brass plate on the door. That would have been the period when he was still living with his ex-mistress and no doubt she believed he was going out to work every day. He was always very plausible and kept his good looks until she left him to starve. After his death, relieved of the Brunamonti burden, the Contessa—who never used her tide again except on dress labels—soon made her fortune in the fashion world. She was talented and hardworking, and the banks, who for years had watched her rescue the family estate against all the odds, had absolute trust in her and backed her all the way. By now, the Contessa label was well known in Europe, America, and Japan.
    ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s happened?’
    ‘Oh yes. I’ll be back. I’ll just go up there and have a word if you’ll excuse me …’
    As he went out through the front part of the bar, a waiter was lining up carafes of red wine on the glass counter. The unmistakable smell of roasting pork with roast potatoes and aromatic herbs awoke the Marshal’s appetite with a sharp pang. He glanced at his watch and then, hat in hand, went next door and entered the Palazzo Brunamonti.

 
    Four
    H e plodded slowly along the dark carriageway, past a boarded-up porter’s lodge, until he came out into a cloistered garden where a fountain played quiedy and winter jasmine flowered on the ochre walls. Sheltered from the mountain wind, yellow and purple crocuses made splashes of colour around the stone base of the fountain and sparrows hopped among them chirping cheerfully. An idyllic picture. The Marshal looked upwards. All but two of the tall brown shutters were closed on this inner facade, too. It seemed to him too quiet.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    He turned. Beyond the cloister to his left a plump, grey-haired woman stood holding open a glass door. He walked towards her.
    ‘Perhaps you could tell me which entrance to use … I’m looking for Leonardo Brunamonti—I should say Conte—’
    ‘No. He’s never used the title. He’s not well, I don’t…’ She looked back at the long room behind her. *You’d better come inside.’ He followed her. It was a very high-ceilinged room that had perhaps been built to house carriages rather than people. The spent light from the courtyard was ideal for the Marshal’s sun-allergic eyes but the many people at work there had individual spotlights on their sewing, cutting, and