Sara Craven Tribute Collection

Oh, where were those capsules? Her unshed tears were like an iron band tightening behind her eyes. She up-ended the case on the bed, and Violetta’s car keys fell with a clunk on to the floor at her feet.

She bent, slowly, and retrieved them. Held them in her hand.

Guido had said there was no escape. But here was Fate intervening, and showing her a way out.

And she had to take it. Because the simple truth was she did not trust herself to stay another hour where Guido was. And certainly not another night.

She shivered, her fingers closing round the keys, digging them into her soft palm.

She would drive to the nearest station, she thought feverishly. Catch a train to—anywhere. Cover her tracks so well that even Guido’s power could not follow her.

Do what she should have done weeks ago. He’d thwarted her then. Now he would not get the chance.

She couldn’t risk taking all her things. Her leather shoulder bag was capacious enough to accommodate a change of underwear and a few essential toiletries, as well as her passport and money. So that would have to do.

Besides, if—anyone came searching for her, clothes left hanging in the wardrobe would give the impression that her absence was a temporary one. That she’d gone out for an evening stroll, perhaps. Which would give her some precious leeway.

She needed to change now, of course. She rifled along the hanging rail and dragged out a chocolate-coloured shift, and a hip-length cream jacket. She couldn’t afford to look too casual.

As she turned away to unzip her dress, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and saw what he had seen. A girl, her blonde hair dishevelled, her dark eyes wide and brilliant, and faint colour emphasising her cheekbones. The black dress hinted discreetly at the slender curves it concealed, down to the deep slash in the skirt, which showed off one slim, black-stockinged leg.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered, as tears stung her eyes and the image suddenly blurred. ‘He said I looked beautiful.’

She shook her head impatiently. There would be time enough to cry. Now she had to concentrate on her getaway.

She was half afraid Guido might have forestalled her by appointing one of the servants to wait outside her door, but the gallery and stairs were deserted. Judging by the hum of voices, they were all now in the dining room. And her quickest route to where Violetta’s car was parked would take her straight past the windows.

I can’t risk it, she told herself. I’ll go the long way round. Circle the house.

She made herself walk steadily, looking appreciatively around her at the twilit garden. Just as if she was taking an evening stroll.

Her steps slowed when she reached the chapel. There was scaffolding round it, and the damaged window had already been replaced.

An artist in stained glass from Florence had done the work, and it was magnificent, Violetta had enthused to her.

‘You must go to look at it, mia cara.’

She’d nodded, and smiled, and known she would do no such thing. She didn’t want to see the place where Guido and Paola would be married restored to its former glory. Unless, of course, the wedding took place in Rome after all.

The campanile was still out of bounds, however, while its damage was being assessed, but there was real doubt over whether or not it could be saved.

It had been a graceful, pretty building before the earthquake. Now its bell had fallen, and its top stones lay in rubble around the base.

It was securely boarded up, and as Clare went past she was surprised to see that some of the planks had been torn down, and were propped against the wall.

She was even more astonished to see a car parked at the side of it.

Maybe the architect had returned for another survey, she thought. But surely he wouldn’t choose to do so in the half-light. Unless, of course, Guido had invited him up to the villa for dinner.

But the car didn’t look as if it belonged to a successful professional man. It was too elderly and battered.

Frowning, Clare walked over for a closer look. As she reached the driver’s side and looked through the window she heard the sound of voices, and instinctively ducked down, peeping across the bonnet.

Two men came out of the campanile, carrying something between them. Something heavy, trussed up in sacking and rope.

For a moment she thought it was a body, and clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a scream.

‘Careful, you fool.’ Although Clare had only met the speaker once, his voice was instantly familiar.

My God, she thought. It’s Fabio.

‘If you break it, you’ve lost us a fortune,’ he went on impatiently.

They opened the boot and lowered their burden into it, muttering and cursing.

Clare stayed where she was. She’d no idea what they were doing, but she’d no wish to be caught watching them do it.

After a whispered interchange, they went back into the campanile and Clare straightened. They were clearly up to no good, and she knew she should report them. But going back to the house would give herself away too. And besides, her priority was reaching Violetta’s car.

I’ll stop at the first public phone, she promised herself, treading carefully to the back of the car and bracing herself for a swift sprint round the corner of the villa to safety.

The boot was open, and she was unable to resist a swift sideways glance. And froze. Some of the sacking had fallen away to reveal the calm stone face of the Minerva.

The statue, she thought, suddenly frantic. They’re stealing the statue.

‘Good evening, signorina.’ Fabio’s voice spoke behind her, and she whirled round with a cry. ‘I thought it was you, scrabbling in the dust. Not very dignified for Bartaldi’s woman.’

She said, ‘Don’t you dare to speak to me like that. And what are you doing with the Minerva?’

‘Oh, we’re just going to keep it safe while your Marchese decides how much it is worth to him. Paola showed me where it was, and told me the legend. If the statue falls, the house of Bartaldi falls with it.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I wonder just how superstitious the Marchese will prove to be?’

‘I thought you’d already learned that he doesn’t respond to ransom demands.’ Clare’s tone was terse.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But a piece of stone doesn’t talk too much, or leave letters lying about that it shouldn’t. Paola’s more trouble than she’s worth, but I should end up making more money than I ever dreamed of.’

‘You’ll never get away with it.’

‘No?’ His smile widened. ‘And who’s going to tell on us. You, signorina? I don’t think so. Because you’re going to be the icing on a very large cake. I think Bartaldi will pay handsomely to get you back, raggazza.’

He looked past her and nodded, and Clare found herself suddenly enveloped in a blanket, thrown over her from the rear. She kicked and struggled and tried to scream, but the cloth, old and musty, muffled the sound. Meanwhile a cord was being wound round her, pinning her wrists to her body. Still kicking, she was picked up bodily and thrown into the car.

For a moment she was winded, and lay gasping.

‘Not as soft as Bartaldi’s bed, eh, pretty one?’ Fabio’s voice was gloating and hateful. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon be back in it, once your lover hands over the money.’

She tried to cry out, to tell them they were crazy, that Guido wouldn’t pay one solitary lira for her, but the car engine started with a sullen roar, drowning her words.

It was a bumpy, jolting ride, and it seemed to last an eternity. Clare lay still, trying to gulp air through the holes in the blanket and avoid being thrown off the seat at the same time. She was also trying to work out in time and distance how far they travelled, but it was impossible. Being cocooned like this made her totally disoriented.