it, time to recover his temper, but at that moment his wife produced a vacuum-cleaner and started pushing the furniture about.
'Couldn't you do that later?'
'But you said you were going out . . .'
The telephone rang.
'Is it for me?'
'No.' And his wife began an incomprehensible conversation, evidently something or other to do with the school their two boys attended, probably another parent. He would have liked to talk to her for a minute, not that she could help, just to get it off his chest. But the conversation went on and on.
'No, no . . . you're right, absolutely right, and if we wait until the next parent-teachers meeting . . . She did? And what did he say? No . . . No, it isn't. Well the distance wouldn't be a problem if - exactly. Exactly!'
In the end the Marshal stepped over the vacuum-cleaner and stumped out of the room, leaving the door open.
The hill of broken pottery looked as though it were steaming in the watery sunlight that was breaking through the mist. From where he stood at a distance the Marshal could see men climbing over it, moving slowly and with difficulty, sometimes going down on all fours. They must have been trying their best not to disturb anything but every now and then the sherd ruck would cave in under them, upsetting their balance and sending a flurry of potsherds rattling down the side of the heap. A man in civilian clothing, no doubt a magistrate, was talking vehemently to Niccolini, sometimes pointing across the glistening wet field beyond the sherd ruck to where the town was shrouded in thick mist below the line of dark cypress and the faint outline of the villa, sometimes at the ramshackle factory where the chimney was smoking fiercely and radiating waves of heat that were visible in the cold air. The Marshal stood very still, watching it all from behind his dark glasses, his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his black greatcoat. He was too far away to hear anything the magistrate was saying but after a moment he heard a shout and one of the men scrambling on the ruck held something up. Niccolini and the magistrate dropped their conversation and went over to examine the find. Where they had been standing a shrouded white form became visible on the ground. After a moment, Niccolini returned and stood looking down at it, rubbing a big hand over his face. Then he looked up and spotted the Marshal and raised his hand in salute. He came tramping across the wet field, his cheeks red and his eyes bright in the cold sunshine.
'Good morning, good morning! A bad business, this. A bad business altogether. Well, we've found your missing girl for you. It remains to be seen whether we find whoever did away with her. That might not be so easy. Well, some saint or other will help us out.'
'Let's hope so.' What had the Captain said to him? Was Niccolini, though as hearty in his greeting as ever, a little embarrassed? The Marshal had no intention of interfering unnecessarily, but he couldn't help being intrigued. His glance shifted to the right and the shimmering heat around the black chimney.
Is it his, all this?'
'Moretti's? No, no. All the land around here belongs to Robiglio's estate. Moretti rents this field off him including where the factory stands. The orchards over there belong to the chap who found the body. He was going over there to do some pruning. The sherd ruck's Moretti's, of course, although any number of people make use of it to dump anything they want to get rid of.'
Including our friend Berti?'
'No, Berti no. Though he fires here so anything of his that's spoilt or broken gets dumped here.'
They were silent for a while, watching the men who continued to search the sherd ruck.
'No sightseers,' the Marshal observed.
'I cleared them off first thing. I must say I wasn't expecting this. Wherever that lass might have finished up I wouldn't have thought . . . I've never had anything serious since I've been here bar one or two burglaries, never anything like this. Well, there
'Couldn't you do that later?'
'But you said you were going out . . .'
The telephone rang.
'Is it for me?'
'No.' And his wife began an incomprehensible conversation, evidently something or other to do with the school their two boys attended, probably another parent. He would have liked to talk to her for a minute, not that she could help, just to get it off his chest. But the conversation went on and on.
'No, no . . . you're right, absolutely right, and if we wait until the next parent-teachers meeting . . . She did? And what did he say? No . . . No, it isn't. Well the distance wouldn't be a problem if - exactly. Exactly!'
In the end the Marshal stepped over the vacuum-cleaner and stumped out of the room, leaving the door open.
The hill of broken pottery looked as though it were steaming in the watery sunlight that was breaking through the mist. From where he stood at a distance the Marshal could see men climbing over it, moving slowly and with difficulty, sometimes going down on all fours. They must have been trying their best not to disturb anything but every now and then the sherd ruck would cave in under them, upsetting their balance and sending a flurry of potsherds rattling down the side of the heap. A man in civilian clothing, no doubt a magistrate, was talking vehemently to Niccolini, sometimes pointing across the glistening wet field beyond the sherd ruck to where the town was shrouded in thick mist below the line of dark cypress and the faint outline of the villa, sometimes at the ramshackle factory where the chimney was smoking fiercely and radiating waves of heat that were visible in the cold air. The Marshal stood very still, watching it all from behind his dark glasses, his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his black greatcoat. He was too far away to hear anything the magistrate was saying but after a moment he heard a shout and one of the men scrambling on the ruck held something up. Niccolini and the magistrate dropped their conversation and went over to examine the find. Where they had been standing a shrouded white form became visible on the ground. After a moment, Niccolini returned and stood looking down at it, rubbing a big hand over his face. Then he looked up and spotted the Marshal and raised his hand in salute. He came tramping across the wet field, his cheeks red and his eyes bright in the cold sunshine.
'Good morning, good morning! A bad business, this. A bad business altogether. Well, we've found your missing girl for you. It remains to be seen whether we find whoever did away with her. That might not be so easy. Well, some saint or other will help us out.'
'Let's hope so.' What had the Captain said to him? Was Niccolini, though as hearty in his greeting as ever, a little embarrassed? The Marshal had no intention of interfering unnecessarily, but he couldn't help being intrigued. His glance shifted to the right and the shimmering heat around the black chimney.
Is it his, all this?'
'Moretti's? No, no. All the land around here belongs to Robiglio's estate. Moretti rents this field off him including where the factory stands. The orchards over there belong to the chap who found the body. He was going over there to do some pruning. The sherd ruck's Moretti's, of course, although any number of people make use of it to dump anything they want to get rid of.'
Including our friend Berti?'
'No, Berti no. Though he fires here so anything of his that's spoilt or broken gets dumped here.'
They were silent for a while, watching the men who continued to search the sherd ruck.
'No sightseers,' the Marshal observed.
'I cleared them off first thing. I must say I wasn't expecting this. Wherever that lass might have finished up I wouldn't have thought . . . I've never had anything serious since I've been here bar one or two burglaries, never anything like this. Well, there
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