Giotto's Hand

“Come in, then,” said Signora della Quercia in a thin, high-pitched voice, as if it had been her idea.

The room in which the old lady lived was about four metres by three, and one of the most crowded places Flavia had ever seen. There was a bed, a wash basin, a sofa, an armchair, two dining chairs, three tables, a wooden bookcase, half a dozen carpets, pot-plants, a small cooker, three lights, one of which glowed dimly, and such wall space as wasn’t covered with furniture was crammed with photographs, crucifixes, framed letters and other mementoes of an exceptionally long life. It wasn’t possible to take more than one step without tripping, and Flavia, without bothering to be asked, weaved her way carefully through the obstacles and sat down to avoid breaking something.

Signora della Quercia hobbled behind, and fluttered down to perch on a chair opposite.

“I need to ask you about one of your old employees,” Flavia screamed in her direction.

“I am a Medici, you know,” she said.

“I believe you used to run a school. For foreigners. Is that right?”

“I ran a school. For foreigners. One of the finest. Only the very best young ladies came here. The cream of Europe, they were. Such charming girls.”

I want to know about a woman called Maria Fancelli,” Flavia shouted hopefully.

“They were always so grateful to me. They used to regard me as their second mother. Of course, I didn’t encourage such intimacy. Girls like that needed to maintain a proper sense of position, don’t you think?”

“I understand you fired her. Is that correct?” Flavia bellowed, despite the strong feeling that the room was witnessing two conversations simultaneously.

“The English,” della Quercia twittered, blithely ignoring the question. “The English, now. They always had a strong sense of themselves. Very formal and dignified, most of them. Admirable. Of course, I do believe they have degenerated in recent years.”

“Fancelli?” Flavia called hopefully.

“And very respectful of Italian civilization, of course. Quite unlike the French. Just the sort of girls my school was designed for. The best. The cream of Europe. And married the cream as well.”

“Maid-servants?”

“None of that vulgarity that so disfigures modern womanhood, even though they could be so kind. A gentler age, it was, in those days. But then my young ladies began to get ideas. No chaperones any more, and some were even drinking at parties and dancing with people to whom they’d not been formally introduced. Can you imagine that?”

Flavia shook her head sadly.

“I’m so glad you agree. Shortly after that I began to think of retirement. Just as well, the things you read in the papers these days. Can you imagine it? Well brought up ladies, of good families, having ideas below their station?” She snorted derisively. “I used to tell them, if God had wanted you to work he would have made you working class. If he had wanted you to bring up your own children, he would have made you a bourgeois. They always listened to me. They respected me, you know. As a Medici, you understand.”

“Forster?” Flavia screamed, hoping that the word might trigger some old and dusty memory. The interview, after all, seemed to be proceeding by association. There wasn’t much point in asking proper questions.

“Fortunately, I never had any major scandals,” she fluted. “Although I believe I was lucky. Some of the boys hung around my girls like flies round a honey pot. Flies. Round a honey pot. Beasts. I always insisted on receiving only pure young girls, and always sent them back that way as well. Can you imagine the disaster if one had been returned damaged?”

Flavia sighed, resigned herself to the passive role of just sitting there, and looked surreptitiously at her watch. Time was running on.

“Such things only happened to servants,” she rambled on. “And what would one expect from them? Although some of the boys who were presented here as escorts scarcely deserved the name of gentlemen. Yes, I remember. Now, why did I think of that? Something must have put it into my mind. It was the year that Miss Beaumont attended my school, a servant disgraced herself and had to be dismissed. Maria, her name was. I knew she would come to no good, of course.”

By this time, Flavia’s mind was proceeding by association as well, and was beginning to leap ahead. She had mentioned Forster, and the word had triggered the old woman into talking about a servant called Maria. But that wasn’t good enough for her line of business.

“Forster,” she yelled again, on the off-chance.

“The boy involved was quite shameless. He’d been hanging around Miss Beaumont like a dog after its owner, trying to ingratiate himself. She treated him with the contempt he deserved, knowing what he was, and he consoled himself elsewhere. Which, if I may say so, was perfectly typical. Like always ends up with like. She married very well later, of course, as did so many of my girls. Now what was his name? Foster? Forster. That’s it. Now, why did I think of that?”