Madame Ciampi told her the police had already questioned Paoli Foggi, but he swore his innocence on all the blessed saints and Mrs. Shelley also declared her servant had not stirred from their home last night. Mary felt certain that Foggi had no compunctions about lying, and perhaps neither did his mistress.
Lieutenant Vannini asked to be allowed to question the maid again, but Lucenza continued to deny, between hiccups, sobs and sniffles, that she had seen anything of the attacker in the dark—only an arm, only a flashing blade, which had plunged into Roberto’s shoulder!
The police repeated their prohibition against Mary’s leaving Bagni di Lucca until the matter was resolved, which Mary would have defied as a matter of course, but she was waiting to receive Shelley’s reply. An exceedingly miserable week passed. Mary had no appetite for her dinner, no inclination for music, no patience for reading. She left her apartment only to rid herself of Lucenza’s company, for the maid was forbidden to stir abroad and such was her fear of encountering Madame Ciampi that she obeyed.
The last day of August was the hottest day of the year, and also the day which saw the end of Mary’s patience. There was still no answering letter from Shelley, and she could endure it no longer. She would declare herself to Mrs. Shelley and inform her that she and Shelley were returning to England. The heat was so oppressive she had to pause at the top of the street. Her breakfast was disagreeing with her. She took a few deep breaths, then knocked at the door of the Casa Bertini.
After a few moments of dreadful suspense, the door was opened by a man she had never seen before; not a servant but an older English gentleman, carelessly attired in rumpled clothing, with thinning hair and a prodigious nose.
“Yes, madam?” the man said.
“I am Mary Bertram,” Mary heard herself say. “Is Mrs. Shelley within?”
The man opened and closed his mouth twice, then said, “I—well—just a moment please.”
He turned back into the hallway and Mary could hear him calling, “My dear! My dear, there is a young lady here—she is looking for Mary....” A female voice answered from within, and at last, a handsome-looking older woman, plainly but neatly dressed, came to the door.
She glanced up and down at Mary with an intelligent, appraising look and said, “I am Mrs. Robinson, a friend of Mrs. Shelley. I’m sorry, I did not hear your name.”
“I am Mary Bertram—I have been staying here at Bagni di Lucca this summer, and made the acquaintance of...” Mary stopped herself—she could not say she knew Mrs. Shelley, because Mrs. Shelley would certainly deny it. But the older woman assumed what Mary had left unsaid.
“Oh! Mary told me, most positively, she had met no-one at all.”
“Yes,” added the man. “We thought she would be passing her birthday all alone, you know. That’s why we came from Livorno.”
Mary nodded. “Her birthday—yes, just so.” She had not anticipated having these two strangers for an audience and was adjusting her thoughts, when the lady asked: “Did she not inform you of her departure? Did she send you no note? But, to be sure, it was unplanned and she left in such a hurry!”
“What—is she gone then, ma’am?”
“Yes,” the man chimed in. “Yes, Mrs. Shelley and the children left for Venice this morning.”
“Not Venice, Mr. Robinson,” the lady corrected him. “They are going to—”
“But wait!” cried the man, looking at Mary suspiciously. “You are not enquiring in any official capacity, are you?” But Mary was too confused by the question to make any sort of reply, even in denial.
The lady laughed. “My dear, that would not be at all likely.”
“Perhaps she was sent by the landlord? Mary asked us—”
“Oh, tush, husband!” cried the lady. “She is English. Pardon me, madam,” she added, turning back to Mary. “Mrs. Bertram, you say? Mrs. Shelley, I am certain, did not mention meeting a Mrs. Bertram.”
“Rather,” Mary suddenly thought to say, “that is, my acquaintance was with Miss Clairmont, in point of fact—you say they are gone?” Mary tried to look past the Robinsons, into the house behind them. “All gone?”
“Yes, this morning,” Mrs. Robinson repeated politely.
“And—she took the dear, dear children with them?”
This last improvisation convinced Mrs. Robinson that the stranger on the doorstep was indeed a friend of the family, and she responded in a more confiding manner: “Yes, gone very early in the morning, and the poor baby was most unwell. She is teething. I am very anxious for her. It is dreadful to be travelling with little children in this heat! I advised her against it, but she would go!”
“I am quite surprised—that is, I was given to understand the Shelleys intended to remain here for another month at least, so I did not expect to hear they are gone so abruptly.”
“Yes!” nodded the man. “In point of fact, Mary—I mean Mrs. Shelley—had just invited us to come and stay with her here, whilst her husband was gone, but a letter arrived from him yesterday, urgently demanding she come away, and now, here we are, left behind to pack up the last of their things...”
“How very obliging of you, Mr.—Mr. Robinson?” Mary murmured uncertainly.
“Yes,” his wife repeated patiently. “I am Lucy Robinson and this is my husband.”
“So very pleased to meet you,” Mary returned, trying to think of an opening, more questions to pose. The sun was beating down on her back and she longed to be invited in. “Perhaps, Mrs. Robinson,” she ventured, “perhaps Mrs. Shelley’s sudden departure has to do with the Italian servant, and the—incident. Perhaps they wanted to
