Chapter 24 - Poetry Sessions

Picture copyright Matteo Vistocco from Unsplash

When Ike, Brigitte and Boris arrived in the gardens of Villa Borghese the next morning, they noted with glee Lord Byron was still short of a head. Well, Ike and Brigitte did. Boris was more interested in sniffing the pillar.

The head hadn't got lost, mind you. No, some practical joker had crammed it into the crooked arm of the bard where it nestled among the chiselled folds of the statue's coat. Amazingly realistic, the stony garment fell towards booted feet, the tip of the left one missing. A broken pillar and a sculpted skull completed the somewhat morbid arrangement.

First, you lose your life, then you lose your head.

Ike found it hard to suppress a grin as she crossed the grass, wet from a shower that had drummed down on the seven-plus hills earlier this morning. The rain had stopped; the sun was back out, but a nasty nip crisped the air. Winter showing its baby teeth.

Still, as far as weather was concerned, this place was more pleasant than her come country: The UK forecast that followed the morning news had featured single digits schmoozing with zero all across the country. For the murder, the outlook was better: The BBC anchorwoman had not shared Shalon's death with the world.

Odd, given how quickly Mrs Baxter's accident hit the news.

Ike stopped next to the statue. Brigitte ignored her and marched towards the back where she bent over and peeped through the hedge.

"Nothing."

"You weren't expecting the murderous gardener to hang around?"

"No. If he really was the gardener, he's probably busy killing other people. If my favourite murder mysteries are to be believed, it seems to be part of their job description. That's assuming Mrs Dee didn't get things wrong and what she saw was, in reality, one of those odd ladies we met in the catacombs."

"Mhm, yes. Two sets of villains seem too much of a coincidence."

"Exactement. If only he—or she—had left that pole behind. I still can't work out how that person would have been able to push the head off the statue from over here. These bushes are a lot further away from the statue than I thought. In the picture, it looks different."

Ike joined Brigitte at the pedestal, Boris at her heels. The statue had class, no two ways about it. The stonework at the back had been carved with the same precision as the one facing the visitors. No skimping here. That was amazing, given that Byron, just like the other novelists and poets scattered over the gardens of the Villa Borghese, had once been donated by the British government.

But that was ages ago. Unlikely, the present incumbent of Number 10, Downing Street would ever be caught wasting money on anything that didn't boost his image, and, by proxy, his massive ego.

"May I have another look at that pic?"

Worldlessly, Brigitte handed over her phone, then bend down to tickle Boris under his chin, getting her hands licked for her troubles.

Ike scrutinised the photo of the gardener stroke potential assassin and the long thin stick protruding from shrubbery. "Somebody must have seen that guy running around with a fishing rod."

"They have ornamental lakes here, non?" Brigitte straightened her back to rummage in her bag from where she retrieved a wet-wipe

"Not right here." Ike squinted at the rod. The looming Four-oh notwithstanding, her eyesight was as sharp as it had always been.

"I don't think this is fishing gear. It seems to be collapsible though. Which would explain how that chap trundled around in the garden without attracting attention?"

"How annoying," said Brigitte, bunched the wipe and shoved it back into her bag.

Boris whined.

"You're bored, aren't you, furry? They have a lawn here where dogs can run. We'll get there in a moment." Ike could have sworn the grin her four-footed friend wore on his furry face widened.

None too gently, a thought pushed to the forefront of her consciousness. "Bri? Do you think Boris could sniff the head and track the guy with the pole?" She hadn't finished the sentence when the answer crept in. Not possible. Not unless that person had touched the head with his hands afterwards. "Ah, forget it."

Brigitte's gaze bounced from the little dog, towards the statue. Boris tilted his head, question marks jiggling in his soft brown eyes. "It might be worth a try. Somebody picked up Lord Byron's missing bit and stuck it under his arm. That would have stopped the scent from getting washed off. Worth a try. The question is more, how do we get Boris up there? I wish, they hadn't placed Lord Byron on a pedestal."

"Yes, well, that's nobility for you. Always causing problems. I'd say, we need to have a bash at climbing."

Ike scanned their surroundings. An expanse of lawn, still patchy from the summer heat but catching up. The flecked bark of pine trees soaring behind them, their prickly canopy a sharp contrast to the blue skies. Between the stems, she spotted a white building with a flat tile roof. From its general direction floated shreds of words and broken conversation, indicating a largish group. But they didn't seem to be on the move. If anything, they were pulling away from the part of the garden that housed the bard.

Nobody else around. The gravel paths lay empty.

It was now or never.

Ike bent down and picked up the dog who had not got lighter since she last carried him. He seemed to enjoy the experience and licked her nose. "Ugh, don't. Here, you hold him while I get up there. I'm a tick younger, so I guess that makes me the candidate of choice."

Brigitte's grin sent a sparkle into her dark eyes. She held out her hands to receive the dog. "Come to Tante Brigitte, Boris."

Ike didn't want to leave the prints of her trainers on the neat inscription that decorated the front of the statue, so she headed for the side. There she stepped onto the plinth that lined the pedestal at its bottom, grabbed the gritty stone ledge, felt foolish, heaved a deep breath and powered herself up by her arms, her legs scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone. Somehow she made it up top and stood, using the stony folds of the coat as handles.

Easy, peasy. No reason to be so winded.

A quick scan, but the garden was unchanged. Still empty. "Pass me the dog, please."

Careful, lest she drop off her perch, she grabbed the wriggling bundle Brigitte lifted towards her. Ike held the dog close to the statue's head. "Sniff this for me, will you?"

Boris snuffled obediently. Then he whined, wriggled out of her hands onto the pedestal and glued his nose to the shoes of the statue. And the coat. And the broken pillar. Not the skull, for it was out of reach, hidden behind Ike's legs.

The Corgi barked once, and Ike sought Brigitte's gaze. "You reckon he's found something?"

"No idea, but I suggested you both come down, those noisy people are returning."

The Frenchwoman was right, a commotion seemed to have broken out behind the hedge. Ike handed down the dog, then slowly turned on her heels to have a look.

She spotted people scattered across the immaculate lawn, the ladies in crinolines, feathery hats and holding umbrellas, the men wearing tasselled breeches and brocade great coats. The phenomenon was explained when somebody hidden behind a pine tree shouted: "And action!" sending the bright costumes into a glittery whirl.

They were pursued by a cameraman and a sullen-looking young woman carrying a furry microphone on a pole.

"Somebody's filming," Ike reported her insight and shimmied back down the side of the statue. At the last moment, her palm scraped across a rough patch, and a burning pain shot up her wrist. Did she get her tetanus shots? She remembered the GP mumbling about injections but couldn't remember if she actually got them.

Bugger that. She compromised on sucking her hand, the copper tang of blood coating her tongue.

"That lot were here last time," Brigitte said.

Ike swallowed to get rid of the taste and, hopefully, any nasty bacteria with it. "They were?"

"Yes. Only they wore different clothes. Swimming costumes from the Fifties or something similar. Not a good idea at this time of year."

"Never mind the outfits. The question is, would they have noticed the gardener? Or mysterious women skulking in the bushes?"

Brigitte didn't respond. Instead, she stared across the hedge. "I wonder . . ."

"Can you wonder more loudly? So I can catch your drift?"

A smile skipped across Brigitte's thin lips, then it was gone. Her dark eyes narrowed. "I wonder whether our murderous gardener and that fascinating tool might be connected with the film crew."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.