Page 47 of Bloodlines and Birthright

“You think she’s in league with the men who most likely killed her husband?”

“Perhaps he was in league with them. Perhaps they had a falling out and killed him, but they never retrieved his gun.”

“That’s actually a good theory, Gavin. You’re full of them today.” He followed Maria, crooking her finger for us to follow.

“Oscar!” I snapped. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

“I won’t.”

I dogged his steps. “I think this is a bad idea. Miss Wheeler, can you tell him it’s foolish to go inside?”

“It’s foolish to go inside, Mr. Barratt,” she said, her tone flat and not at all convincing. “Just as foolish as it was for you to go upstairs at the villa on your own last night, Professor.”

Oscar placed a hand to his chest and sketched a bow to her without breaking stride. “Thank you for taking my side, Miss Wheeler.”

“I’m taking sides because I don’t believe you’re going in.”

“Oh? What am I going to do?”

“Look through the back window. Might I suggest that you’re more likely to see something, or someone, through the first-floor window.”

Oscar arched his brows at her. “You expect me to scale the wall?”

“If you don’t think you can manage, I’ll do it, although I’d rather not shock Maria. Can you manage, Mr. Barratt?”

“I used to climb trees as a boy, not walls. I suppose we’ll soon find out if I’m capable.”

I threw my hands in the air, exasperated. “Do neither of you understand the consequences?”

Oscar patted my shoulder. “I understand. Do you, Miss Wheeler?”

“Thoroughly understood.” She took my arm. “It’s not that high, Professor. If he falls, he won’t be too hurt. As for being caught, I’m more concerned about finding Signora Scala alive at this point. I do think we should be as silent as possible, just in case someone is inside, holding her hostage. On the other hand, if she’s holed up with her son by choice, which I think is more likely, then we still ought to be quiet, just in case she is the murderer. I’ve warned Maria not to make a sound.”

Oscar lowered his voice. “You’re well ahead of us both, Miss Wheeler.”

She matched his quiet whisper and said, “There’s a barrow and some crates to stand on. They look new and quite solid.”

We’d arrived at the back of the houses and boatshed. While the front facades were painted in earthy tones, the backs were left bare. Patches of stucco had fallen off, exposing the stone walls like sores. The tiny courtyards seemed to be used as storage for broken things that didn’t fit inside, with an outhouse tucked into the far corner. Beyond the packed earth courtyards was a communal kitchen garden and orchard. Some of the trees and shrubs were covered in netting to protect the fruit from birds. Compared to the houses and courtyards, the garden was well cared for.

The barrow Miss Wheeler mentioned had been pushed up against the wall, the crates stacked nearby. She was right about them being solid. Compared to the broken rooftiles and the pot with a crack through it, the barrow was in perfect condition. As quietly as possible, Oscar moved one of the crates onto the barrow, testing its strength as he did so. He removed his hat and handed it to me, but Maria took it before I could. Then he carefully climbed onto the barrow. He blew into his fingers as he studied the task ahead. From the crate, he could reach the windowsill of the first floor window, but it would mean clinging by his fingertips. He blew into them again then flexed them.

Maria watched on, biting her lower lip as she clutched her cross with one hand and Oscar’s hat in the other. If I could speak Italian, I’d have pointed out that the barrow and crate looked sturdy and should hold him. I opened my mouth to ask Miss Wheeler to tell Maria, but she no longer stood beside me.

She squatted at the rear door, hairpins in hand. She unlocked the door and entered, but only took one step in. Beside me, Maria’s sharp intake of breath had me glancing in the direction of Oscar. He dangled from the windowsill, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the wall. Somehow he managed to find a notch for the toe of his boot to use to push himself higher.

I resisted the urge to call out for him to be careful.

On the ground level, Miss Wheeler took another step into the house. What was she doing? She’d mentioned herself that Signora Colombo could be held hostage, or could be the murderess. We’d agreed to peek in, not enter.

I followed her as far as the doorway then peered into the gloom. With the curtains closed, it was quite dark and my eyes took a moment to adjust. Once they did, I joined Miss Wheeler further inside and looked around. Everything was as it should be in a sleeping household. There was nothing cooking on the stove, no dishes to be washed. If I hadn’t known it was the middle of the day, I’d have thought it was the middle of the night.

Aside from the lack of domestic activity, the only thing different in the kitchen from our last visit was the small case on the table and the missing photograph from the shelf. I suspected the latter had been packed away in the former.

Signora Scala and her son were leaving, most likely that night. They were probably napping now upstairs to ensure they weren’t tired later.

To my great relief, Miss Wheeler didn’t want to go any further. She signaled that we should return outside.

Oscar was in the process of lowering himself gently onto the crate. From there, he stepped down to the barrow then the ground. He placed his hands together on one side of his tilted head to indicate the occupants were asleep. He then put up two fingers to represent two peopl.