The Italian Matchmaker by Santa Montefiore Page A

saucers. Luca helped Caradoc with his stick and waited a moment while he shook out his legs. When he looked up, the little boy pulled his hand slowly out of his pocket and opened his fingers to reveal, sitting in his palm, a beautiful blue butterfly. It extended its wings and quivered with pleasure as the sun shone directly on to them. Luca smiled at the sight. This startled the little boy who seemed to want a reaction but was surprised when he got one. Luca wanted to talk to him, but the child slunk around the corner into shadow, making way for Rosa who emerged with a tray of steaming dishes.
    There was something strange about the boy. He seemed very much alone; or lonely. Luca found that he occupied his thoughts all the way back to the palazzo .
    ‘So what have you discovered, professor?’ asked Ma, putting down her needlepoint and looking at him over her sunglasses. ‘Or should we call you Holmes?’
    The professor took a chair at the table that was already laid for dinner. The terrace was deserted, except for Porci the pig who trotted over the stones in search of a cool spot to lie on. ‘Nothing that surprised me.’
    ‘How dull,’ said Ma. ‘I much prefer surprises.’
    Caradoc grinned like a schoolboy. ‘Only a couple of murders, an illicit love affair and a ghost.’
    ‘Not so dull. Go on.’ The professor told her what they had found out. Ma listened, enraptured. When he finished she gave a little sniff. ‘I don’t think you should tell Romina. She’s already over-excited at having discovered someone’s been sleeping in her folly. She accused Bill, but he’s protesting his innocence. If she thinks there’s a ghost up here she’ll expire.’
    Caradoc chuckled. ‘Well, that would be most inconvenient considering I’m just beginning to feel at home here.’
    ‘Me too,’ Ma agreed, shuffling on her sun-lounger, her sparkly blue kaftan spilling on to the stones like water. ‘But remember, she’s Italian and, although she claims to think nothing of the primitive superstitions of the natives, it’ll be in her blood. By the way, she tells me there’s the famous Festa di Santa Benedetta next week. Some sort of religious festival in the church. The marble statue of Christ apparently used to weep blood to ensure a profitable harvest. It hasn’t done so for fifty-seven years, not that it seems to have affected the olives or lemons. They are flourishing as far as I can tell. I’m going to go just to see what it’s all about. You might like to be my date, Caradoc, if only out of curiosity.’
    ‘I would be honoured,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring young Luca as our translator.’
    ‘Don’t mention it to anyone else. I can’t bear the sight of Dizzy’s ridiculous dog. It looks like a powder puff and what sort of a name is Smidge? Soppy or Rat-in-Rabbits’-Clothing would be more appropriate. Dizzy is aptly named, though. I’ll tell her where she can put all those carbohydrates she goes on about. If she gets any thinner, she’ll disappear altogether.’ She ruminated a moment. ‘Not a bad idea, actually. I can’t see what Romina sees in them. Anyone whose conversation revolves around first-class airport lounges and short cuts deserves a medal for banality. No, we’ll go just the three of us. Don’t breathe a word.’
    ‘So, which one of you took Francesco’s things out of Cosima’s room?’ Alba looked sternly at the three little faces. There was seven-year-old Alessandro with his chocolate-brown hair and silky brown skin; five-year-old Olivia who had inherited her mother’s beauty and her pale grey eyes, and three-year-old Domenica who was as brown as her brother and as mischievous as a squirrel. They stared up at their grandmother, their eyes wide and innocent.
    ‘You see,’ said Rosa. ‘None of them is guilty.’
    ‘Then who took them?’
    ‘How do I know? Cosima probably did it herself and doesn’t remember.’
    ‘You know you are not allowed into Cosima’s room, don’t you?’ Alba