The Villa in Italy: Escape to the Italian sun with this captivating, page-turning mystery. Elizabeth Edmondson

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       FIVE

      From the Villa Dante, it was possible to see the small town of San Silvestro, its tiled rooftops sprawling beyond ancient walls that hugged the lines of the hillside. Towering above the low houses were the remains of a fortress, huge and grim.

      ‘Do let’s go and see what it’s like,’ Delia said to Jessica when they came down to breakfast.

      ‘All right. Shall we go in the car, or walk?’

      ‘Oh, walk. I want to be on the move.’

      ‘Yes, but is the exercise going to make your cough worse?’

      ‘I’m not coughing so much, I’ll be fine.’

      ‘Liar. I heard you hacking away during the night.’

      Delia was secretly relieved when Marjorie and George refused her invitation to join them on their walk, an invitation that had caused Jessica to make faces of dismay at her.

      ‘I’d planned to explore the gardens today,’ Marjorie said. ‘What about you, George?’

      George hesitated, and Delia had the strong feeling that what he wanted was to be on his own. ‘I, too, should like to see around the gardens,’ he said politely.

      It was nearly midday by the time they set out. They had lingered over breakfast, and then Delia had wanted to iron her skirt, creased after its time in her suitcase. The iron was electric but erratic, and then it had seemed a pity to go without joining the others for more coffee, brought out on to the terrace by a reluctant Benedetta, who clearly considered that mid-morning coffee was not good for the system.

      It was tough walking at first, along the stony track that led to the road. ‘I shouldn’t have worn sandals,’ said Delia ruefully, as she stopped for the third time to shake a sharp stone out of her shoe. ‘Look at my toes, white with dust.’ She flexed her foot, and leant down to blow the dust off her toenails, which were painted a brilliant scarlet shade. She was a colourful figure, in a green swirling skirt and a red top, especially beside Jessica who wore white Capri pants and a cream blouse.

      Jessica undid the buttons at her wrists and pushed back her sleeves. ‘It may only be April, and it may be about to snow, or whatever you warned the weather did in Italy, but I find it hot.’

      ‘It is warm, and just smell the air. Pine and sea and I don’t know what else, but it’s heavenly. And listen, I hear a cuckoo.’

      ‘The herald of spring.’

      ‘Spring is already here, so it isn’t a herald, more a celebrant, wouldn’t you say?’

      As they rounded a bend, the town came into view again, silhouetted against the cloudless sky.

      ‘Fairyland,’ said Delia. ‘Just like in a painting. I always thought those Italian painters made up their landscapes, but here it is, all around us.’

      They walked on through a grove of olives, and out on to the road, which had a pitted surface that was scarcely better than the track. An aged woman in black, bent double, and leading a laden donkey, passed them the other way, her wrinkled face breaking into a toothless smile as Delia greeted her with a friendly ‘Buon giorno’.

      ‘She’s probably about forty,’ said Jessica, standing in the road and looking after the woman and the donkey.

      ‘Or she might be eighty,’ said Delia.

      They were at the final approach to the town and the road ahead led steeply up to a stone archway. Inside the walls, the narrow street was paved with large, smooth stones and, after the bright sunlight, it was dark and somewhat sinister, with tall buildings on either side looming over them.

      They jumped out of the way as a horn pooped behind them, and a laughing girl on a scooter with a small boy clinging behind her whizzed past.

      Above them, washing fluttered on lines strung out across the street, sheets and petticoats and extraordinary knickers. A dog, all ribs, gnawed at fleas in a doorway, and a thin brindled cat slid through a narrow gap between brown shutters.