Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
‘Well, why should he? It won’t be his mother who’ll be arrested. And I’m sure he isn’t as caring a son as you, anyway.’ Clare shook her head. ‘There’s no help for it, I’m afraid. When the police trace you to this house, as they will, my fingerprints will be everywhere. And your mother will be involved, up to her neck.’
Marco looked as if he was going to burst into tears. ‘I cannot let this happen. What can I do, signorina?’
‘We-ell.’ Clare hesitated, then plunged recklessly. ‘You could always let me go.’
‘Let you go?’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘To bring the police down on me and put me in jail? I am not a fool.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be that way,’ Clare said intensely. ‘Listen to me, Marco. If you help me get away, I’ll tell the Marchese exactly what you did. How kind you’ve been. How you looked after me. What’s more, I’ll remind him how long your family have worked for him. I’ll even ask for your job back. And there might be a reward,’ she added, mentally crossing her fingers.
‘He’s a good man—a fair man,’ she went on quickly. ‘He’ll forgive you—take you back—if I ask him. If you help me now. And you’ll have saved yourself and your mother.’
There was a long silence. Then, ‘But how do I know he will do these things?’
Clare lifted her chin. ‘Because you have my promise,’ she said. ‘Because, as Fabio said, I am Bartaldi’s woman.’
There was another tense silence. She saw him swallow. Then, ‘What do I have to do?’
She couldn’t let him see how relieved she was. Instead she tried to sound brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘I’m going to need the car. Does Fabio have the keys?’
He nodded. ‘He might wake…’
‘Only if there’s a missile attack.’
‘But I am not staying here. I am coming with you, signorina. When he does wake, he will be like a crazy man, and I do not want to be here.’
She couldn’t blame him, but she needed him like a hole in the head. She supposed he wanted to be sure she would keep her word.
She nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Marco. Get the keys and my bag, and we’re out of here.’
She watched him go into the room where Fabio was still snoring. After a minute, he reappeared. ‘Signorina— I cannot find them. I am afraid to search his pockets.’
Clare bit down on her impatience. ‘Don’t worry, Marco. I’ll look myself.’
There was nothing in his pockets, Clare discovered, rigid with distaste. Then, as he turned his head restlessly, cursing and grumbling obscenities in his sleep, she heard a faint chink of metal and found the car keys under his pillow.
‘Avanti,’ she said quietly. ‘I think he’s coming out of it.’
She waited in agony as Marco, who insisted on driving, fumbled with the ignition and clashed the gears. As they moved off, bouncing down the dusty track, she thought she heard a shout from behind them, and saw that Marco had registered it too, that he was looking in the mirror and braking.
She said urgently, ‘Keep going. I told you I’d look after you, and I will. But if you let me down, I’ll throw you to the wolves.’
He sent her a miserable look, his forehead beaded with sweat, then obediently put his foot on the gas.
The track bordered fields of sunflowers for nearly a mile. The road, when they found it, was not much better, carving its way through scattered woodland and scrub. But Marco insisted they were going in the right direction.
Clare sat forward suddenly with a gasp. ‘Oh, God. The Minerva. I—I forgot about it. Fabio still has it.’
‘No, signorina. It is still in the boot of this car. Last night he wished only to celebrate—to get drunk—so he left it there.’
They were coming to a junction. Clare said cheerfully, ‘Oh, dear. It just isn’t his day…’ And stopped with a gasp as a police car swung off the major road towards them, effectively blocking their passage.
‘Dio.’ Under his tan, Marco was as white as a sheet, as a second police vehicle followed. ‘They are coming for me.’
‘It’s all right,’ Clare soothed. ‘Stop the car, and leave all the talking to me.’
But, with a sob of fright, he pulled the wheel over and swung the car off the road into the trees.
‘Marco, this is crazy.’ Clare tried to speak calmly. ‘You can’t drive in this. Now stop the car, and everything will be…’ The words choked in her throat as Marco misjudged the distance between two trees and the offside crumpled on impact with a scream of grinding metal.
Clare was thrown forward, but her seat belt held. Marco, who wasn’t wearing his belt, hit himself on the steering wheel and sat back, blood pouring from his nose and a cut on his head.
‘Here.’ She grabbed a handful of tissues from her bag, and held them to his face as the police surrounded the car.
She thought hysterically, This can’t be happening. It’s like some ghastly action replay…
Her door was dragged open. She was aware of faces staring in at her. A babel of voices. Someone was asking her if she could move. She unfastened her seat belt and got out, steadying herself on the side of the car as the ground suddenly dipped and swayed.
Then the crowd around her were falling back, making way, and she saw Guido striding towards her, eyes blazing, face grim.
‘You are hurt?’ he demanded as he reached her, and curtly, over his shoulder, ‘an ambulance—at once.’
She realised there was blood on her hands, and on the linen jacket, and tried to laugh feebly. ‘Guido—it’s not mine. It’s poor Marco’s…’
She got no further. He was looking past her to where Marco had just been pulled from the car, and there was an expression on his face Clare had never seen before—bleak—almost murderous.
He reached him in three strides, lifting the younger man as if he’d been a rag doll. Shaking him, his hands gripping his throat.
Clare moved then, pushing her way through, throwing herself at Guido, trying to drag him away.
‘Don’t—please don’t hurt him. He helped me. I promised I’d make it all right for him.’ She pummelled him with her fists. ‘Guido—darling—let him go.’
‘Are you mad?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘He collaborated with that piece of vermin. Why should I spare him?’
‘Because he’s your man.’ There were tears running down her face. ‘Because his father worked for you—and his grandfather before that. Because it’s your land—your estate—and you are Bartaldi.’
Slowly Guido released his grip, and Marco slid to the ground at his feet, crimson-faced and choking.
‘Yes, he’s been a fool, and worse than a fool,’ she went on quickly. ‘But he’s sorry, and I would never have got away without him. I gave my word that I’d look after him. That I wouldn’t let him be arrested.’
‘And what gives you the right to make such a dangerous promise?’ His tone lashed her.
She looked up at him, longing to kiss the rigidity from his mouth. To smooth away the lines of strain from his dark face.
She said quietly, and very simply, ‘Because I’m Bartaldi’s woman. Now take me home—please.’
The silence was electric as he looked into her eyes, then he took her hand and raised it to his lips, before turning to the nearest policeman. ‘Take the lady to my car, if you please, while I see what is to be done here.’
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