apparently taking a walk after dinner last night. He slipped on a path and fell to his death.”
I expected the collective gasp that rose from the group. What I was watching for were the flashes of expression on faces that suggested something other than grief—and there were a few, I noted. I wondered what those meant, and filed the names away for later.
Jane was still talking. “While I am sure we are all saddened by this news, we don’t need to let it interfere with our plans for today. If you would like to take a few moments to collect yourselves, we can delay our departure for, say, half an hour. There is also a small church up the hill, if you’d like to take advantage of that to remember the professor. And of course if you’d like to stay here, that’s your choice. Is everyone all right with that?”
People exchanged uncertain glances. Most probably had no template for something like this: an unscheduled half hour to mourn the passing of someone they might or might not have known, but had at least seen, very much alive, the night before.
Someone’s hand shot up. “Are the police investigating?”
Jean said quickly, “The police are here now, and they have called this an unfortunate accident. We are free to come and go as we like. Anything else?”
Cynthia looked at me and arched one expressive eyebrow in question. I mouthed “Later.”
Jane seemed relieved that nobody else had anything to say. “Then we’ll meet at the vans at nine thirty. I’m so sorry this had to happen while we’re here together, but I hope you won’t let it put a damper on your trip. Please, go ahead and finish your breakfast—there’s no rush.”
My plate was empty but I wanted more coffee. I stood up and walked through the crowd, back to the serving area, catching snippets of conversation along the way. “Think he was alone last night?” “Oh, the poor man.” “What a waste.” “He was probably drunk.” “I knew those paths were dangerous—we should all have been given flashlights.” It was a curious mix.
I carried my refilled cup of coffee carefully back to my table. As I walked, I was thinking: nobody knows I found him. Who knew which room he was in? I hadn’t, until we spoke after dinner. Was he alone, after? Did I really believe his fall was an accident? Did Cynthia hear anything after I fell asleep? How many people in the room had known him back in the day? And how many of those had unhappy memories of him?
I had reached our table, so I sat down. Diane, whom I vaguely recalled hearing say she was a doctor, said, “Isn’t it too bad about the professor? But I’m glad Jane and Jean are going ahead with the schedule. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the lemon garden at the Villa di Castello. I read that it was designed by Cosimo di Medici when he was quite young, and then improved by Vasari later.” I gave her a perfunctory smile.
Cynthia, after one more glance at me, chirped, “Oh, that’s right—you’re interested in plants, aren’t you, Diane? Can you tell me anything else about the garden we’ll be seeing?”
Their empty conversation carried me through the second cup of coffee, by which time the crowd had thinned. I stood up. “Cynthia, I’m going to go on up and get … my sweater.”
“I’ll come with you. Thanks, Diane, now I’ll know what to look for when we get to the villa.”
Cynthia and I walked out of the dining hall together, but we didn’t say anything until we were halfway up the hill—out of earshot of our classmates. “Okay, what’s going on?” Cynthia demanded.
“You were still asleep this morning, so I took a walk, over to the swimming pool. I found the body.”
Cynthia gave me a probing look and apparently decided I wasn’t emotionally devastated. She knew me well. “Was it awful?”
“No. He’d fallen down the hill, so I didn’t see anything up close. No blood or anything, but he was obviously dead.”
We’d reached our small patio and I stopped.
I expected the collective gasp that rose from the group. What I was watching for were the flashes of expression on faces that suggested something other than grief—and there were a few, I noted. I wondered what those meant, and filed the names away for later.
Jane was still talking. “While I am sure we are all saddened by this news, we don’t need to let it interfere with our plans for today. If you would like to take a few moments to collect yourselves, we can delay our departure for, say, half an hour. There is also a small church up the hill, if you’d like to take advantage of that to remember the professor. And of course if you’d like to stay here, that’s your choice. Is everyone all right with that?”
People exchanged uncertain glances. Most probably had no template for something like this: an unscheduled half hour to mourn the passing of someone they might or might not have known, but had at least seen, very much alive, the night before.
Someone’s hand shot up. “Are the police investigating?”
Jean said quickly, “The police are here now, and they have called this an unfortunate accident. We are free to come and go as we like. Anything else?”
Cynthia looked at me and arched one expressive eyebrow in question. I mouthed “Later.”
Jane seemed relieved that nobody else had anything to say. “Then we’ll meet at the vans at nine thirty. I’m so sorry this had to happen while we’re here together, but I hope you won’t let it put a damper on your trip. Please, go ahead and finish your breakfast—there’s no rush.”
My plate was empty but I wanted more coffee. I stood up and walked through the crowd, back to the serving area, catching snippets of conversation along the way. “Think he was alone last night?” “Oh, the poor man.” “What a waste.” “He was probably drunk.” “I knew those paths were dangerous—we should all have been given flashlights.” It was a curious mix.
I carried my refilled cup of coffee carefully back to my table. As I walked, I was thinking: nobody knows I found him. Who knew which room he was in? I hadn’t, until we spoke after dinner. Was he alone, after? Did I really believe his fall was an accident? Did Cynthia hear anything after I fell asleep? How many people in the room had known him back in the day? And how many of those had unhappy memories of him?
I had reached our table, so I sat down. Diane, whom I vaguely recalled hearing say she was a doctor, said, “Isn’t it too bad about the professor? But I’m glad Jane and Jean are going ahead with the schedule. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the lemon garden at the Villa di Castello. I read that it was designed by Cosimo di Medici when he was quite young, and then improved by Vasari later.” I gave her a perfunctory smile.
Cynthia, after one more glance at me, chirped, “Oh, that’s right—you’re interested in plants, aren’t you, Diane? Can you tell me anything else about the garden we’ll be seeing?”
Their empty conversation carried me through the second cup of coffee, by which time the crowd had thinned. I stood up. “Cynthia, I’m going to go on up and get … my sweater.”
“I’ll come with you. Thanks, Diane, now I’ll know what to look for when we get to the villa.”
Cynthia and I walked out of the dining hall together, but we didn’t say anything until we were halfway up the hill—out of earshot of our classmates. “Okay, what’s going on?” Cynthia demanded.
“You were still asleep this morning, so I took a walk, over to the swimming pool. I found the body.”
Cynthia gave me a probing look and apparently decided I wasn’t emotionally devastated. She knew me well. “Was it awful?”
“No. He’d fallen down the hill, so I didn’t see anything up close. No blood or anything, but he was obviously dead.”
We’d reached our small patio and I stopped.
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