Free A Dead Man in Naples by Michael Pearce Page A

have been through them. Or he could simply have met someone at a party. There were plenty of those. Anyway, he got to know D’Annunzio and after that he was simply carried away. On the crest of a bicycle, you might say.’
    ‘D’Annunzio was an enthusiast for bicycling?’
    ‘No, no. At least, not actively. He liked to watch the young officers, with their over-developed thighs, but to watch was about all he wanted. I think he was afraid he might fall off. He wasn’t bothered about hurting himself but he was afraid he might look ridiculous. He couldn’t bear to appear ridiculous. No, riding horses was more his line. He was a divine horseman. Oh, and aeroplanes. He liked driving aeroplanes. Anything that smacked of the cavalry. Not bicycles, however. But it could have been at a race that they met. D’Annunzio took a fancy to him and after that he was always in his company.’
    ‘And whirling in a great social whirl?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘Meeting people he would not otherwise have met?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And hearing things that he would perhaps not otherwise have heard?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘You know why I am asking this, Marchesa. There is a story making the rounds that he had heard something that he ought not to have done.’
    ‘I have heard the story.’
    ‘You may even, I think, have been the one who passed it on to the British Embassy?’
    ‘It is possible.’
    ‘Why did you do that?’
    The Marchesa was silent for a moment.
    Then she said: ‘I was angry. Poor little Scampion! What had he done to deserve that? He was an innocent, as I have told you. An innocent always in a world that had turned nasty. Why did they have to kill him?’
    ‘They?’
    The Marchesa smiled.
    ‘One hears so many things at parties,’ she said.
    Vincente reappeared carrying a tray on which was a solitary drink.
    ‘Look, I’ve done it!’ he said triumphantly, setting the glass down on the table beside her.
    ‘Oh, my dear, how clever of you!’
    ‘It was,’ he said. ‘They hadn’t got anything I needed. I had to send round the corner for it. Even for the Martini. Of course, they had a Martini but it wasn’t the one I wanted. It makes a difference, you know.’
    ‘I’m sure it does,’ said the Marchesa vaguely. ‘What would I do without you, dear?’
    ‘Actually,’ said Vincente, ‘I wanted to talk to you about that. Or at least get you to talk to Alessandro.’
    ‘I never talk to Alessandro,’ declared the Marchesa. ‘It is a matter of principle. Since he treats me so abominably.’
    ‘Yes, well, couldn’t you this once make an exception?’
    ‘Don’t be tiresome, Vincente. I know what you want me to ask him and the answer is No. No, to my asking him and No to him doing anything about it. We cannot spare you, Vincente. The family has decided. Your mother would be round every day if he let you go to Libya, and you know he can’t bear her. You’ll just have to face up to it, Vincente: you can’t go to Libya. Now, be a brave man and get back on your bicycle.’
    The Marchesa went off to make some more purchases and Vincente walked back with them in the direction of the Porta Capuana. The racers had all moved round now to the piazza in front of the Palazzo Reale and were packing up. Some were riding on their bicycles, other putting their kit into hand-carts.
    As they were standing there a file of red-shirted bicyclists rode past at the other end of the piazza.
    ‘Hello!’ said one of the racers. ‘What are they doing here?’
    ‘It’s the Redshirts,’ said someone else. ‘They’re here to bring about the Revolution.’
    ‘They’ll have a job! Why don’t they stick to bicycling?’
    ‘Or take up racing.’
    ‘Why don’t you suggest it, Guglielmo?’
    ‘Challenge them to a race?’
    ‘They’re not racers. They’d never do it!’
    ‘Give it a try! They might.’
    ‘They’d be fools if they did.’
    ‘But they are fools. They might be tempted.’
    ‘Put one across on the army. Wouldn’t that