‘A rude one, I bet.’ Stella tried to look stern.
‘There was a young lady from Puglia who came over all peculiar…’ he croaked.
Stella raised a hand. ‘I don’t think I’d better hear any more.’
Domenico took a huge swig of water. ‘Ah, how I needed that.’
Stella turned Violetta’s hat in her hands. ‘The state of you! And this! You’re right, this is beyond saving, even the lining is coming adrift.’ She stroked the silky material. ‘This is strange. It feels like there’s something tucked in here.’
‘It must be the way hats are made,’ Domenico said.
‘I don’t think so, it doesn’t feel right.’ Stella used her little fingernail to ease the loose stitching. ‘I can just see the edge of some paper, that’s odd.’
‘It probably replaced something Violetta couldn’t get hold of. People had to use all sorts during the war.’
‘I’m not so sure. Let me get some scissors.’ She stood up and headed for the bathroom. Retrieving a pair of nail scissors from the cabinet above the sink, she sat back down and put on her reading glasses. She snipped at the stitching and gave the thread a sharp tug. The lining came away, a piece of folded graph paper with it.
Stella unfolded the paper. It was crisscrossed with dotted lines and spotted with a series of dashes and crosses. ‘What on earth? This looks like some sort of little map.’
Domenico rubbed his eyes. ‘Let me see… Wait a moment, that dotted line there – it follows the shape of the path that leads through the hills, the one poor Pietro took when he tried to flee the village that day.’
‘Would that be Sant’ Agata’s?’ Stella pointed.
‘Not if that other line in the top left shows the mountain ridge. If this map is drawn to scale that cross wouldn’t indicate the centre of the village, it would mark the location of Fernanda and Violetta’s parents’ oldrustico.’ Domenico scratched his head. ‘But why would Violetta want to hide that in her hat? She must have known those paths like the back of her hand.’
‘An English POW on the run wouldn’t have.’
‘I know my brain isn’t as quick as it was, Stella. And with this hangover…’ Domenico winced.
‘That’s because you weren’t there last night when Fernanda showed us the two coin necklaces.’
‘Two necklaces? Now you really have lost me.’
‘Why don’t I make us some more coffee and I’ll tell you everything,’ Stella said. She hurried off to the kitchen, as keen to get back and share her discovery as Domenico was to hear it.
Her uncle stared in astonishment as Stella recounted her tale.
‘Don’t you see?’ Stella said. ‘Two pendants forming a heart, the message on the postcard and now this map showing the paths leading from the oldrustico– it all proves Violetta and Amy’s grandfather Lance were in love and she was helping him. And maybe other prisoners on the run.’
‘But Violetta was a fascist – that German boyfriend, those parties in Sanremo. Everyone knows that woman betrayed the village.’ A vein was jumping in Domenico’s forehead.
‘Maybe all that was a front. Don’t you see? What if Violetta wasn’t passing information to the Germans, what if she was spying on them?’ Stella’s voice came out all in a rush. ‘What if Violetta was working for the partisans?’
The cup dropped from Domenico’s hand; dark coffee spread across the table.
‘My dear, dear friend Fernanda! How I have wronged her.’ Tears sprang to the old man’s eyes.
‘It’s okay, Domenico.’ Stella dabbed at the coffee with a tissue. ‘You can’t blame yourself. The whole village had it the wrong way round, Violetta kept up the pretence so well. And you and Papà weren’t the only ones to disapprove of the way Fernanda refused to disown her sister.’
‘No, no, it is all my fault.’ Domenico wrenched at his hair, his eyes wild. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to conceal the truth. I shouldn’t have kept quiet all these years.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stella asked, trying to play down her concern at her uncle’s near hysteria.
Domenico’s shoulders sank. He turned his grey face to hers. ‘I had an argument with your papà on the morning of the day he died. I told him I’d discovered something about your nonno. Something you should know.’
Stella swallowed. She had a strong suspicion she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.
‘Arturo was so angry that day,’ Domenico began.
