Page 4 of Far from Home
She dropped into Lucy’s office on her way home where the news that she was taking a holiday was greeted with satisfaction by her friend. When Lucy heard about the mystery bequest and the forthcoming trip to Italy she sounded enthusiastic.
‘How amazing, Amy! And you have no idea who the guy is? Wow! How long are you going over for? Did you say Tuscany? I’ve never been there but everybody says it’s gorgeous. If you need company just say the word – I still have a few days’ holiday left over from last year. I was going to go off to the Caribbean for a dirty week with a guy from the gym, but he can keep.’
‘I’ve no idea how long I’ll be staying. Maybe just a day or two. I guess it’ll depend on the state of the property. Gav’s coming with me on Friday but if you can keep your gym guy on the back burner for a day or two, I’ll give you a call at the weekend and let you know.’
Amy and Gavin flew to Pisa three days later and rented a car at the airport. Gavin drove while she checked the map and they headed inland to Sant’Antonio. The drive took them less than an hour and the little town was visible from some way off, set on the flank of a gently sloping hill in the middle of a sea of other gently sloping hills that stretched off into the distance. The approach was up a good, if winding, road through olive groves and vineyards, which occupied most of the hillside apart from the ubiquitous umbrella pines and cypress trees that dotted the landscape.
After passing the sign announcing their arrival in Sant’Antonio the road narrowed as they entered thecentro storico. On both sides of the increasingly tortuous Via Roma were typical Tuscan town houses, some bare sandstone and others in varying hues of ochre from the palest cream to faded pink and even rich orange, all with the trademark Tuscan matt green louvred shutters. They drove past a small selection of shops ranging from what looked like a traditional butcher to an ironmonger with galvanised buckets and rolls of hosepipe stacked outside its doors. Beyond them was apasticceriaemanating a wonderful aroma of freshly baked pastries that wafted enticingly into the car and reminded both of them that they had skipped lunch.
Beyond these the road widened and levelled out into a slightly lopsided piazza that was unmistakably the town centre. Old stone houses ringed the square, with the remains of the medieval castle on the right-hand side dominating the surroundings and overlooking the valley below. Behind the row of houses on the opposite side of the square they could see the hillside continue to rise, cloaked in a series of vineyards, fields and olive groves. A hotel/restaurant with tables and chairs added a burst of colour to the scene with its red and blue parasols, and the overall impression was quaint, historic and quintessentially Italian.
Along the top end of the piazza were a series of imposing, probably Renaissance era, buildings on either side of the town hall which was recognisable by the green, white and red flag hanging limply outside, while a branch of the Credito degli Agricoltori bank occupied the far corner. Plane trees at regular intervals provided welcome shade, casting deep shadows beneath their branches and there was a dustyboccecourt over to one side although it was currently empty apart from a couple of elderly men sitting on a bench under the nearby tree. All in all, it was a charming place and the views down over the wooded hills as far as the hazy blue sweep of the Mediterranean, only twenty or thirty kilometres away with its golden beaches, were equally delightful.
On Amy’s instruction, Gavin drew up in the shade of a particularly leafy tree and turned off the engine. ‘That looks like the lawyer’s house right there.’ She pointed towards a grand-looking building directly ahead of them that bore the number 5. A fine brass plaque below it announced the offices of Alfredo Lucchese, Notary.
The whole journey had been surprisingly smooth; the flight had been on time, Pisa airport not too crowded, and Amy found she was relishing being in Italy again. In fact, she hadn’t been back for about five years now but, growing up, she had spent most of her summer holidays in the north. Tuscany was completely new to her and from what she’d seen so far today, it looked gorgeous. Warm sunshine was a real bonus after one of the coldest, wettest Aprils on record back in the UK and she felt remarkably relaxed. She reflected that the tall specialist would no doubt have approved. She opened the door and climbed out, breathing deeply, glad to be out in the open air.
‘What time do you make it, Gav?’ He got out as well and stretched. He was looking happier now, no longer sulking about having to miss a tennis match scheduled for tomorrow.
‘Three fifteen. The solicitor said any time after three, didn’t he? Go on. I’ll wait for you here. On second thoughts, I’ll wait for you in the café over there. I really fancy a real Italian ice cream.’
Amy rather fancied the idea of an ice cream herself but that would have to wait. She left him and walked across to the lawyer’s chambers. When she reached the front door, she rang the bell. It was an old bell pull and the noise reverberated around the interior of the building. A few moments later the door was opened by a mature lady wearing a dark skirt and a sober white blouse. She produced a welcoming smile.
‘Signora Sherwood?’
Amy nodded and shook the extended hand. Although she wasn’t married, she knew that women her age were generally addressed as Signora, rather than Signorina, and she answered in Italian. ‘Good afternoon. Yes, I’m Amy Sherwood.’
‘Please come in and take a seat. Signor Lucchese will be with you shortly.’
The woman showed her into a grand waiting room, furnished with a fine sofa and matching armchairs, with portraits of austere men on the walls. A crucifix took pride of place over the door. A low table was set out with a selection of leaflets dealing with everything from buying and selling houses to burying the dead. She picked up a copy of that day’sIl Tirreno, the local newspaper, and flicked idly through the pages, wondering once more just who this Martin Thomas Slater was and what his connection with her could possibly be.
Less than five minutes later the door at the end of the waiting room opened and an elderly couple emerged. Behind them was the lawyer. He was immaculately turned out in a dark suit, white shirt and sober tie and with his perfectly trimmed military-style moustache he wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Royal Courts of Justice in London. He shook hands with the old couple and saw them out through the main door before turning to Amy and giving her a formal bow of the head.
‘Signora Sherwood? Benvenuta a Sant’Antonio.’
Amy shook hands, after which he ushered her into his study. This was a magnificent room, dominated by an enormous bookcase filled with worthy legal tomes. Behind him, French windows opened onto a charming garden surrounded by high stone walls swathed with bougainvillea. Amy sat down opposite him with the elegant desk between them, and the notary wasted no time in getting down to business. He began speaking slowly and clearly but speeded up as he saw that she appeared to have no difficulty understanding. After taking a copy of her passport to confirm her identity he outlined the situation.
‘Signor Martin Thomas Slater passed away on the sixteenth of June last year. I have copies of the death certificate for you here. He died at home of a heart attack, brought on by his existing serious heart condition. It was very sad. He was only sixty-five years old.’ He glanced up. ‘I know the local doctor well and he told me Martin must have died almost instantly.’
Amy noted his use of the first name. Presumably the notary had known Mr Slater personally, too, so that boded well for an explanation of just who he was and, more to the point, what the connection might be between him and her.
‘Thank you. Can I ask you something, please? How is it that I’ve only been notified of his death now, almost a year later?’
The lawyer shook his head and reached into the file on the desk before him. ‘In total, four letters were sent to you at the only address we had for you. Alas, we never received any response at all until your email last Monday.’
Amy shook her head in disbelief. ‘That’s my mother’s address. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me. Four letters, you say?’
The notary nodded. ‘Here, we keep copies of all correspondence – you can see for yourself.’ He passed a handful of sheets across the desk to her.
Amy checked the address to which they had been sent. There was no mistake. Her mother must have received them and, yet, she had said nothing. How very strange.
‘I’m at a loss to explain why she never mentioned them to me or passed them on to me. And now I’m afraid she’s died as well, so we may never know. I’m very sorry you’ve had all this extra work.’
The notary waved away her apologies. ‘It’s nothing, Signora. My condolences for the loss of your mother. The important thing is that we’ve finally been able to locate you as the beneficiary of Martin’s will. Would you like me to read it to you?’
Amy sat back and listened as the lawyer read the words written by this unknown man. There were a number of bequests to local charities, including ten thousand euros each to the local fishing and tennis clubs, but when he reached the part where he left everything else to hisbeloved Amy, she felt genuinely moved, if greatly puzzled, and she found herself wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes.
‘The will is undisputed and so you are now the owner of his house, l’Ospedaletto, here in Sant’Antonio, the contents of the house, garden, garage and cellar, all lands surrounding it, and the sum of just over eight hundred thousand euros remaining in his bank account after payment of death duties, taxes and notary’s fees. My secretary has prepared documents, duly notarised, to that effect. If you present a copy to the bank, they’ll be able to transfer the money to you. It’s the Credito degli Agricoltori bank just along the square from here.’ He sat back and waited for Amy to reply. It took a few moments as she was still digesting the fact that she had been left not only a house but also a hell of a lot of money.
