The Marshal at the Villa Torrini by Magdalen Nabb

Sequestration report for two medicinal capsules.
— Sequestration report for the passport of FORBES JULIAN.
— Photographic file.
— Statements obtained from TORRINI EUGENIA and MÜLLER ELISABETH.
    'Marshal?' Lorenzini tapped and came in with the package as the Marshal put his signature to this report which listed everything and concluded nothing.
    He accepted the small box tied up with string. 'Ask one of the lads for a lighter, would you?'
    Lorenzini held up a black plastic lighter between two fingers. 'Done'.
    'Ah. You go home, it's late. This can all be sent to the Prosecutor's office tomorrow. He'll hardly be there at this time.'
    But the Marshal was wrong. As he let the hot red wax drop on to the string of the parcel, his phone rang.
    'Damn!' Whoever it was had to wait until he had melted enough wax and had a hand free. It was Fusarri.
    'Glad I caught you. I gather you've been at the Medico-Legal Institute. Bad news, eh?'
    The Marshal, thinking it somewhat improper to give voice to the idea, said nothing. This only made Fusarri laugh. 'Now then, Marshal, don't tell me that a stomach containing a suitable mixture of alcohol and sleeping pills wouldn't have been as welcome to you as it would have been to me.'
    No point in angering the man unnecessarily.
    'Yes, sir. He would have said it was suicide, of course.'
    'Of course. But better than nothing, which is what we've got now. You think he did it.'
    'At present,' quoted the Marshal, referring unhappily to the report on his desk, 'no hypotheses of any specific crime—'
    'Oof! We shall have to find one. Go and see him. Take his statement.'
    'I thought perhaps that you—'
    'No, no, no. You're the man for it.'
    The Marshal's heart sank. Remembering just in time, he reached for the seal and pressed the State symbol and Carabinieri Tuscan Region Palazzo Pitti Station into the cooling red wax.
    'Are you still there?'
    'Yes, sir. I'll go tomorrow morning.'
    'Excellent. I gather he's an intellectual type. He'd try to talk all over me. Pah! I don't think he'll be able to do that to you. Pity I can't be a fly on the wall for this meeting of two diametrically opposed minds, but there it is. Tell him I'm issuing a release order for the body. He can bury his wife.'
    'And his passport . . . Should he ask, I mean.'
    'Oh no! He's not getting that. Make the proper excuses, bureaucratic delays, everything under control, matter of days, all that stuff. By the way, there's money, I believe, quite a lot of it. I've had a solicitor round here—but don't you worry about that, I'll deal with it and inform you.'
    'Thank you.'
    Could it be that the Captain was right? That perhaps Fusarri—but no. 'Meeting of two minds!' He could only be making a joke of him.
    'Not at all. It'll involve a few calls to England. Your talents are better employed elsewhere. You talk to Forbes. I rather think you'll frighten him.'
    'I . . . frighten?'
    'Do you wear those dark glasses of yours all the time?'
    'It's an allergy I have,' the Marshal defended himself, 'the sunlight hurts my eyes.' What the devil . . . ?
    'Good, good.' He rang off.
    It wasn't right. Somebody eccentric like that—it wasn't right. You needed serious men in this sort of business, men like Captain Maestrangelo. It just wasn't right.

CHAPTER 5
    A log fire was burning in the wide hearth. The Marshal was glad of it since there was no other heating in the converted barn. It hadn't been lit long, and every so often a fine curl of pale blue woodsmoke made its way up one corner of the mantelpiece. The sweetness of its perfume mingled with that of the freshly made coffee which the Marshal had reluctantly refused. He didn't want to accept anything from Forbes. He wasn't sure whether Forbes had just got up, or was making the coffee to give himself something to do other than sitting down and facing his visitor. Probably a mixture of the two.
    There was a long-haired white rug in front of the fire which the Marshal kept his big black shoes away