Suddenly, Matthew’s attention was no longer there in the grand hallway, but down under Convento delle Viole. In the dark corner of the cellar.
Sensing a change in him, Sarah asked, ‘You alright?’
Matthew’s expression tightened. ‘I’ve just remembered that marble case Petunia’s crew dug up when they cleared the barn.’
Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘That’s right. Where did you put it?’
‘In the cellar.’ He suddenly stood up, stiff-legged from the prolonged sitting, and gestured to Riccardo. ‘Can you give me a hand with something?’
Sarah had wiped the case clean as best she could and it now lay in their kitchen trough. The black marble was polished and smooth, despite some weathering and damage. Across the top of the case was the engraved insignia of an ornate crucifix, around which blooming violets were entwined.
The case was fastened with a crumbly rusted iron lock, which took no strength at all for Matthew to snap off, and he dropped the remnants into the trough. The iron oxide tainted the colour of his hands a deep gold.
Sarah collected the case and placed it on the kitchen bench. ‘Any guesses?’ Margherita and Riccardo shrugged, and Matthew shook his head. ‘Who wants to do the honours?’
‘You do it,’ Matthew said.
Sarah slowly lifted the lid, which pivoted on its hinges. They gave away instantly, and the entire top came off in her hand. ‘Ok, so that was easy.’
Inside they found a bundle of letters held together by some decaying twine.
‘Wait!’ Margherita said sharply. ‘Don’t touch them. Do you have gloves?’
‘Will these do?’ Matthew handed her a pair of latex gloves he found in the first-aid kit under the trough.
‘Perfetto!’
‘You do it, Marghe,’ Sarah said. ‘You know what you’re doing.’
Matthew’s nod of approval prompted her to slip on the gloves and withdraw the papers. ‘Sarah, do you have some paper towel?’
‘Yes!’ She quickly laid out a makeshift tablecloth for Margherita.
‘These are very old,’ she said, carefully separating each one until she had identified six separate documents by their signed dates. Some were letters, others were recounts, as if taken from someone’s personal journal. ‘Look, 1416!’ she said, opening the first of the documents. She lined them up in chronological order. ‘Are we ready?’ she asked.
‘Please, Marghe,’ Matthew said. ‘Can you read them?’
Margherita did her best, but the aged ink and practically translucent paper made it a challenging task. ‘The Italian is very old,’ she commented, as she began to read the first to herself. The three watched on with trepidation as Margherita’s eyes darkened, then suddenly widened. She paused, casting her gaze to the floor to the right of her, as if searching the deepest recesses of her memory to place something. Suddenly, she inhaled and her chest rose sharply and the pace of her eyes running over the words quickened. Racing, she moved briskly ahead and was now silently mouthing the words to herself until she came to the final line. All of a sudden, her hands dropped to the benchtop and she said, ‘This case was meant to be found. But the secrets within, on these pages, had to be kept hidden for a long time. Averylong time.’
‘What is it? What does it say?’ Matthew frantically asked.
‘A noblewoman died in childbirth. Her husband, a count – there’s no name given here – ordered for the baby – a daughter – to be killed as punishment. She was to be thrown in the Arno River in the middle of the night. The order was to be kept secret and was to be carried out by a priest.’ Her eyes traced back over the words to fill the gaps. ‘The priest didn’t do it, though . . .’
Sarah suddenly felt the vice which had clamped around her chest loosen a little. She exhaled. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Instead, the baby was brought here, to Convento delle Viole. Smuggled across the border by the priest in the dead of night. He left her with the Mother Superior to keep her safe. He told her everything. She called her Viola.’ Three pairs of wide-set eyes watched Margherita as she placed the document down. ‘It’s a journal entry. Torn from a book, look.’ With a gloved finger she indicated the rough edge to the paper. ‘It was written by the Mother Superior.’
‘Is there a date?’ asked Riccardo.
Margherita’s eyes returned to the top of the page, and suddenly her jaw dropped. ‘Sarah, it’s May thirteenth.’
Sarah did a mental stocktake. That date . . . why was it so familiar? Then it dawned on her. ‘The Conte D’Adamo! The Contessa Marchione!’ She ran from the kitchen and tore through the hallway. Arriving at the D’Adamo family tree she had made for Matthew, she whipped it off the wall and raced back to the kitchen. ‘Date of death . . . 12th of May 1416. Contessa Marchione and her stillborn child. How long would it have taken back then to go from Florence, across Tuscany and into Umbria?’
Riccardo piped up. ‘Depending on the time you left, up to a day. Assuming a horse or similar mode of transport.’
‘The dates check out,’ Sarah panted, looking back at Margherita.
‘Shit,’ Matthew whispered under his breath.
