Page 8 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

Casper took over again. ‘We were given strict instructions to arrive yesterday at three o’clock – which we did. Ines let us in, but only an hour or two later, we received the news of the death of our father the previous night. Are you quite sure it was murder?He was eighty-six, after all.’ He sounded more frustrated than saddened.

Even so, Marco offered his condolences. ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. He was definitely murdered. I’m very sorry he died before you could see him again.’

Luuc gave a dismissive shrug of the shoulders. ‘Speaking personally, I’m glad I didn’t see him. I would have had nothing to say to him – at least nothing polite – and, to be honest, I didn’t want to come here at all. I only came because Casper and Emma thought we should.’

Casper explained. ‘After receiving the invitations, the three of us got together to decide what to do and we finally agreed that it was probably to our advantage to come.’

‘Have you seen his will?’

They all shook their heads and Marco and I exchanged glances again. What was going through my head once more was the very important question of who stood to benefit from the old man’s death. Could it be that his original will had left everything to his Italian partner, and when she had heard that he was planning on distributing his wealth among his children, she had taken drastic action to do away with him before he could make any changes and cut her out? Alternatively, was his killer sitting in front of me right now?

After a few more questions, Marco stood up. ‘Obviously, the important thing now is to get hold of your father’s will. I’ll get my people to do this, unless you have any objections.’ This was met with blank faces all round, so he closed his notebook. ‘I’d like you all to stay here for the next couple of days. I’ll need to speak to you again, but I won’t keep you here any longer than I have to. As soon as I have details of the will, I’ll be back in touch. Now I’d like to go and speak to the housekeeper.’

5

SUNDAY MID-MORNING

We left the family sitting there in silence and walked back to the entrance hall. There was a little hand bell on a side table and Marco picked it up and rang it. A few seconds later, the housekeeper appeared and headed for the front door.

‘Are you leaving, gentlemen?’

Marco shook his head. ‘Not yet,signora. First, I’d like to ask you some questions. Is there somewhere we can go?’

She turned back and led us along a short passage to the kitchen. Although the room had been designed to look like a traditional Tuscan farmhouse kitchen with hefty oak beams spanning the ceiling, there was a battery of modern kitchen equipment along one wall. We sat down around a fine old wooden table in the middle of the room and the housekeeper offered us coffee. While she made this with the aid of a professional-looking coffee machine, Marco embarked on the questions.

‘I gather you’re the housekeeper and you’ve worked here for twenty years. Is that correct?’

‘That’s correct. My name is Bianchi, Ines.’

‘Thank you, Signora Bianchi. Is there a Signor Bianchi?’

She nodded. ‘My husband works for a textile company in Prato. We live in Campi Bisenzio.’ I recognised the name of a fairly unprepossessing suburb of Florence only a few kilometres from Signa.

‘What hours do you work?’

‘I used to come in at eight and leave at four but nowadays, I normally come in at midday. Signor Berg always leaves… left home at seven-thirty so there was no need to make breakfast for him. As a result, I spend the afternoons here and leave again at eight, after preparing his dinner. This weekend, because we have guests – and, believe me, that is very, very unusual – I’m here all day.’

‘So having guests in the house was unusual? How unusual?’

‘Extremely. There are six bedrooms here and, apart from Signor Berg’s room, none of them have been used for years. The last time there was a guest here was probably four, five years ago – and only for a single night.’

‘Can you remember who that was?’

‘I don’t think I ever heard his name, but he was a tall Dutchman – maybe about your age. He didn’t speak Italian and he never said a word to me. He arrived one afternoon and left again early next day. He and Signor Berg spent hours locked in the study together, so it was clearly a business meeting.’

‘We understand that Signor Berg originally moved from Holland thirty years ago with an Italian woman. Do you know her? Were they still a couple?’

‘Yes, she lived here with him so I knew her well, but I’m afraid she died back before Christmas.’

I couldn’t help reflecting on the synchronicity of both Berg’s original wife and his Italian partner dying at almost the same time. ‘Can you give me her name, please?’

‘Greco, Claudia Greco.’

‘Did they marry? Did they have a family?’

‘No, they had no children and they lived together as man and wife, but without making it legitimate.’ Ines Bianchi’s tone expressed disapproval. ‘Still, she was a good woman and she must have had the patience of Job to have stuck with him for so long.’ She brought over two little cups of strong, black coffee and set them down on the table in front of us. ‘He wasn’t an easy man to get on with.’ She hesitated before taking a seat at the end of the table. ‘I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Signor Berg wasn’t a very nice man.’

‘In what way?’

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