“They’re not mine!” I butt in. “We’ve only been going out for eighteen months.”
Signor Mancini scrunches up his forehead.
“Theo used to be married to a woman,” I explain. “He came out as gay when they split up, two years ago.”
Theo looks uncomfortable.
I’m annoyed at myself: I need to remember he doesn’t like sharing the personal details of his story, especially those that have been the source of intense emotions—thatcontinueto be the source of intense emotions, emotions that I know torment him and keep him awake at night.
“Did you say the house is eleventh century?” I quickly toss in. “Or is that just the castle?”
Signor Mancini smiles. “Both. The rooms at that end are the oldest.” He points to the section farthest from the castle. “That part was originally a tower. Sorry, I’m not sure how to say it in English: it was where soldiers watched for enemies.”
“So it was a lookout post?” says Theo.
“Yes, exactly! Then later it was extended and became a farmhouse. Over the years more and more rooms were added.”
“That’ll be why there are no corridors and the layout’s a bit random,” Theo suggests.
“But why’s it so run-down?” I ask. “Why haven’t the bathrooms been modernized? Did my uncle have no money?”
Signor Mancini throws up his hands. “I’m afraid I know very little about Mr. Treadwell. But he did not leave any savings—just a few hundred euros in a regular bank account.”
I’m desperate to know more but there’s no point in persisting. “Do you know how he died?”
“Yes: Mr. Treadwell died in his sleep. His neighbors found him—Signor and Signora Fiore. I understand they helped him with jobs on the house and land.”
“Well, it’s the perfect way to die,” Theo remarks. “Isn’t that how we all want to go?”
I smile but feel a tug of sadness. I would like to die in my sleep but not on my own.
“Which was his room?” I ask the lawyer. “Do you know?”
Signor Mancini nods and guides us downstairs. On the right he opens a creaky door into a square room that has plastered white walls, a large wooden wardrobe and chest of drawers, and a wrought-iron bed on which lies a bare mattress. Standing next to it I spot a framed photo of two men. It looks like it was taken in the 1970s, as one of them is wearing flared jeans and a paisley shirt with a wide collar. This man’s probably around my age—in his mid-forties—but still has a boyish face and caramel-colored hair.
“Is this him?” I ask, picking up the photo. “Is this Wilfred?”
Signor Mancini peers at it. “I believe so, yes.”
“Let’s have a look,” says Theo.
I hand it to him.
“You can see the family resemblance,” Theo comments. “He’s got the same dimples in his cheeks!”
I lean in to examine it. “Oh, yeah.”
“Although he isn’t as cute as you, Ads,” Theo says, handing back the frame.
I smile my thanks.
“And who’s the other bloke?” I ask Signor Mancini. The second man is quite a bit older than Wilfred, with a bald head and five-o’clock shadow, and is dressed more traditionally, in a crisp white shirt with beige chinos and brown leather shoes. The twomen look stiff and uncomfortable next to each other. I wonder if they might have had some kind of business relationship. Except it looks like the picture was taken outside the house.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” confesses Signor Mancini. “There was no mention of this man in the will.”
I put the photo back on the nightstand and sit down on the mattress. The old coils squeak.
“I must also show you the wine store,” says Signor Mancini, exiting the room and trotting downstairs. “It occupies most of the ground floor.”
