Harry was on board, a happy passenger, by the time they reached the grotto. In fact it was here, standing before the story of Daphne and Apollo, that Harry figured out Federico Docci's chosen method of murder: poison.
It took them more than an hour to complete the circuit, hampered by Adam's injured ankle as well as their protracted discussions.
They only left the garden when they were both satisfied that the new hypothesis held.
Nearing the villa, Harry stopped suddenly and turned to Adam. 'That's got to be the weirdest thing we've ever done together.'
'Weirder than when we nipped over the back wall to spy on Mrs. Rogan?'
'Okay, second weirdest.'
Harry managed to make it through to the evening before reneging on his promise not to break the news about the garden.
Maurizio and Chiara were long gone by then, but Antonella had shown up for dinner, arriving directly from work with a leg of cured ham—a gift from her grateful boss, because of the lucrative order they'd just received from one of the American buyers.
Maria sliced ham from the bone and they washed it down with vintage champagne. Cases of the stuff had been delivered that afternoon and it was in need of 'testing' before the party, said Signora Docci. Even Maria permitted herself a glass.
Adam raised a toast to Antonella and the fact that her creations would soon be on sale in New York.
'But what if they don't sell?' she asked with a pained expression.
'That's easy,' said Harry, 'they won't order any more.' He then called for another toast. 'To Adam. He's also got some good news.' 'Do I?'
'You know you do.'
'Harry—'
'Stop bleating and tell them.'
'The garden . . .' guessed Antonella.
'There's more to it than meets the eye,' said Harry. 'Much more.'
Antonella was smiling at Adam. 'You solved the rest of it?'
Signora Docci leaned forward in her chair. 'The rest of it?'
Antonella turned to her grandmother. 'He told me a bit already.'
'Traitor.'
'I don't share everything with you, Nonna.'
'That's clear to me now.'
They turned their eyes on Adam, waiting.
'I couldn't have done it without Harry.'
'It's true,' confirmed Harry, 'he couldn't.'
Signora Docci raised her hand abruptly. 'Don't say. I want to be there when you say. In the garden.'
'Nonna, we're about to eat and it's getting dark.'
'Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow morning before you go to work.'
'How will you get down there?'
Signora Docci slapped the top of her thighs. 'On these of course. And I have two strong young men to help me.'
'But I want to know now.'
'Then you can ask—once I've gone to bed.'
But when Signora Docci made her way upstairs after the meal, Antonella didn't ask. She chose to live with the anticipation for a while longer. Harry assured her she wouldn't be disappointed.
The three of them took their glasses and made for the lower terrace. They lay on the grass under the stars and talked about films they had seen, books they had read, life in England, life in Italy, and even—until Adam told Harry to shut up—Crystal Palace Football Club's recent promotion to the newly formed national Division Four.
Adam felt good, stretched out there on the grass, basking in the soft night air and the conversation, the quiet satisfaction of the breakthrough on the memorial garden washing over him. Only now that it was lifted could he appreciate the true load he'd been shouldering since that first visit to the dark valley down the hill. The place had unsettled him immediately, infected him. It had consumed most of his waking hours, and many of his sleeping ones too. Life had gone on, but it had unfolded around him in a half-haze. He had lived it at one remove.
Now that the spell was broken, things were falling back into focus. Even Antonella appeared different: sharper, crisper, more distinct. And more desirable than ever. He wished, a little guiltily, that Harry wasn't there, that he was on his own with her. He even flattered himself that she was thinking the same thing.
It was annoying that she'd arrived by car; it denied him the opportunity of walking her home. He hadn't forgotten that it was while strolling through the garden with her on just such a night that she had kissed him. He could still recall the soft cushion of her full lips against his own, and the way her hand had snaked around his waist
