The Marshal at the Villa Torrini by Magdalen Nabb Page A

from. A very cosy room, though he wondered about the strength of the piece of bamboo furniture on which he was gingerly sitting. Pretty but frail, he thought, trying not to move an inch. When he did, it creaked.
    Forbes was talking. He'd hardly drawn breath since the Marshal arrived. Talking mostly about himself. The Marshal wasn't listening—at least not to the content, only to the noise, the accent, the tone, the fear. When Forbes did at last present himself at the fireside, he brought with him two cups of coffee.
    'You were only being polite, right?'
    And after that it would have been an exaggeration not to drink it. Blast the man! Hadn't the Signora Torrini said that Forbes did things for her even though she didn't really want him to, so as to make himself liked? He understood that now. He had very much wanted the excellent coffee, but he hadn't wanted it from Forbes. Probably, the Signora Torrini had wanted her lemon trees protected but she wanted it done by her son. No doubt Forbes had done a good job. He had also made good coffee. Which made matters worse. How he talked! He was in the bamboo armchair opposite now, legs crossed one over the other, a long delicate finger caressing his beard and his elbow poised on one knee. The knee was shaking. Only very slightly, but it was shaking.
    He was losing his hair very quickly, the Marshal thought, looking at the receding temples and remembering the almost bald crown. Yet he looked young. Perhaps because his skin was so soft and pink, as was often the way with northern people.
    'In this job you can't allow your emotions to interfere or you're out. I have a deadline to meet.'
    'Job . . . ?' The Marshal came briefly to the surface. As far as he knew, Forbes had no job.
    'This article I'm writing for an English Sunday. The deadline's tomorrow. I'm trying to work in spite of everything. She would have wanted it.'
    The Marshal stared at him. He took a sip of the coffee without thinking and then, annoyed with himself, placed it on the low bamboo table between them.
    Again he looked hard at Forbes before announcing: 'I'm here to tell you—' Forbes had never asked why he was here—'that Substitute Prosecutor Fusarri has signed a release order for your wife's body. You might wish to bury her tomorrow or the next day at the latest.'
    'I can't. My friends, a couple we know—she's English and he's Italian—-they're going to see to everything for me. They think a lot of me and they know I need to write this piece and I can't deal with things like that.'
    'There comes a time in all our lives,' pointed out the Marshal, 'when we have to deal with "things like that". Are they friends of yours, these people, did you say, or were they friends of your wife's?' Signora Torrini might be daffy but she'd got this chap sized up, and very useful it was, too.
    Forbes's face was red with annoyance. 'Mine, if anything. Especially Mary, the wife. To be honest . . . well, she's always been a bit in love with me. These things happen, you understand, in certain circles. They're accepted.'
    Very nice, the Marshal thought, particularly if it results in someone else organizing your wife's funeral for you.
    Forbes sat back elegantly in his bamboo armchair and opened one hand in an adopted Italian gesture.
    'I shouldn't have brought it up. I realize it's difficult for someone like you to understand. There are different standards in different ambiences.' The flourish of the hand was perfectly controlled but the Marshal knew without needing to look that the leg swung over his knee was still shaking and that the foot was tapping at the air to cover it up.
    'Very nice furniture, this,' he said to try and cover up a sinister creak, the result of his shifting a little, to observe Forbes better.
    Forbes was disconcerted, and the further speeches he was working up to on the question of different ambiences disintegrated on the spot. The Marshal was equally disconcerted at having started a hare when least expecting to.