Dead Man in Marche
A  Mystery By David Sheppard

Il postino of Monte San Nicola, Beppe Troiani, pattered down the dark steps and emerged into the village square. It
was bathed in warm Central Italian sunlight and the brick walls glowed soft pink, so much more comfortable than the
blasted heat and seared colours of the previous month, August. Beppe reached into his cumbersome bag and
fished out the sunglasses that his grandson had given him for his birthday in June. These opaque shades were a
real danger in the dark, dank alleys of the centro storico of the village but as he emerged from the almost sub
aquatic chill of the narrow streets, the glare was too much for his eyes. And anyway, he looked pretty cool in them,
so his wife had told him and that wink from Widow Zega seemed to confirm that view, too.

Though not especially short, the postman was somewhat dwarfed by the bag slung across is side and he wondered
how his diminutive predecessor, Zio Tonino, had coped. Now he had been a tiny man and did not have a Poste
Italiane Panda to help him, just a donkey. The weighty, though almost empty sack added to his momentum as he
descended into the piazza proper. He looked over his shoulder up towards the municipal clock tower. It was coming
up to 11.30 and this was confirmed by the two tuneless gongs from the bell followed almost immediately by two peels
from the more sonorous campanile of the parish church of San Nicola across the car-filled square. There was a time
when the Church was second to noone, Bepppe mused.

Despite the large number of cars parked, there were very few of the village's inhabitants evident although there was
Gino the butcher leaning against the outside of his shop absentmindedly smoking. He took a final drag and flicked
the butt at the posse of cats who had a very good living loitering outside his shop. As he crossed the street, Beppe
was buzzed past by a three wheeled Ape decked out patriotically in Red, White and Green. A red Team Ferrari flag
fluttered from the highly polished chrome roll bars, safety measures for the unlikely event of the vehicle turning itself
over at the heady speed of 30kph. These three wheelers were driven solely by the pubescent and decrepit. Beppe
harrumphed to himself about his impending retirement and pulled a cigarette out from his bag. His Panda was
parked outside Caffe Bellesi where four groups of silver-bearded anglo saxons sat around tables savoring their
cappuccinos and studiously ignoring one another.

Beppe could never understand how this late in the year these lanky anglo saxons, with their neat white beards, neat
white hair and neat white-bobbed wives could still wear t-shirts and shorts.  He winced at their knobby bald knees,
socks and sandals. It was well into September now, October was just around the corner. Beppe involuntarily
shuddered at the thought- shorts were for the beach and the beach was in August and that was that. He had lost
the village sweepstake that year when one of the asparagus-like men had been seen wearing shorts in the village in
February; Beppe had bet on the more realistic date of the third week of Lent. The following day the weather
changed to its more usual state for that time of year- sunshine and clear blue skies but also half a metre of snow.
The same fellow had been spotted in the grocers the following week in snow boots and ski suit. Without snow
chains, his 4x4 had failed to negotiate the steep track that so many of these Northern Europeans insisted on living
at the end of. The onset of snow had turned what had been for them a simple five minute drive into an hour's stiff
march overnight.

Still, it made Beppe's job more interesting and the influx of post that these new-comers brought with them meant
that, though his morning's work was extended, he got paid overtime and he could also squeeze in another couple of
coffee breaks, too. And after all, Beppe mused as he cast the almost empty bag into the passenger's side, they had
done a great job restoring the rickety old farmhouses dotted the rolling hills and valleys around Monte San Nicola
like so many gravestones. These windowless old wreaks used to stare out accusingly like skulls. Now restored,
these oblong farmhouses ceased to be blots on the landscape but rather underlined Man's benevolent command
over Nature. That was the correct scheme of things, after all. The aquamarine pools that they had installed came as
a bit of a shock at first, though. But  they all brought money into the commune's coffers; the village had  never
looked better and the children were all thrilled with the new adventure playground. He did not have any post for this
group of stranieri clustered outside Bellesi so he gave them a theatrical shrug which raised  momentary chuckle
from the desperate groups. He then clambered into his van.

last delivery of the day: Prince Alexis Pullenyov, Casa Timo, Contrada Molino, 62020 Monte San Nicola. le Marche.
Italy. So said the label on the package. It was strange though, Alex, as everyone called him, was English, having
such a grand Russian name but must also have relations in South America because he was always receiving
packets marked Amazon. How impossibly glamorous and cosmopolitan! Beppe would have to ask him over aperativi;
for it was no accident that he made Contrada Molino his last delivery destination of the morning. Alex would always
offer him a coffee or something stronger and together they would chat, one in Italian, the other in dialect about the
things that fellows across the world could always talk about:- football, women, the past and the state of the world
today rounded off with a bit more football.

Alex had promised him a spin in his Ferrari on his last day on the job as a retirement present and Beppe was thrilled
at the prospect as it was only a few weeks away now. He always received a bottle of J&B whisky from Alex at
Christmas. 'For services to the Italian Postal System!' would be the toast. Beppe had once found Alex's exhaust pipe
on the side of the road . Having strapped it onto the roof of the van, careful not to scratch the chrome ends, he had
delivered it together with a final demand from Telecom Italia. That had saved Alex a small fortune, Alfredo the
garagista had informed him. 'Held together with bailer twine and a prayer, that car is. Made for the race track not
these rutted old strade bianche. Sacrilege really.'

Beppe shot out in reverse into the street and almost ran over Padre Paolo who was heading for the parochial house
with an armful of flowers; no doubt for Signora Luccarelli, his housekeeper. Beppe tooted his apologies and headed
off down from the village through the medieval gate past the avenue of trees each one planted to commemorate a
villager lost in the Great War. It was a surprisingly long avenue for a village of only fifteen hundred souls. One of the
plaques on the bark bore the name of Beppe's grandfather who met a bleak frozen death on the Alpine front a
million miles from this warm soft morning. Up above him to the right beside the ruined castle sat the old convent. It
now, too, had become overtaken by the present and had become the home of an American millionairess. It was the
highest point in the village and commanded a view of the Sibillini Mountains on onside and the crumpled eiderdown
of Le Marche stretching out towards the sea on the other.

Beppe was descending on the seaward side and looked out for the hulking form of Monte Conero some 60 kms
away as the crow flies and on this pin-sharp morning he could just make out the white mark of the abbey near its
summit. In between, the landscape rose and fell like a school of playful whales in the waves. Their backs not
studded with barnacles but instead the hilltop towns, static since time immemorial, clamped onto the land, yet part of
it too. From these towns white roads ribboned their ways in trickles down and outwards. The poet Leopardi, the
Italian Wordsworth, described this as the land of infinite hills.

He awoke from his reverie as he suddenly became aware of the ripping sound of a Ducati motorbike behind him; it
had appeared to  his rear but before he caught a glimpse in his mirror, it had already roared past and bellowed out
at each change of gear before disappearing around a bend within the blink of an eye. Beppe swung the van down
off the dark asphalt road onto the white track marked Contrada Molino. The stones loosened by a scorching
summer rattled up against the underneath of the van. He eased the Panda down past two ruined farms; roofless,
swamped by ivy, encroached upon by heat blasted grass and weed. The plants on either side of the lane had been
dusted like a stale cake. The house came into view now and then as the track wound its way down into the valley.
Below it, sharp drops considered beyond the toil of terracing and  now considered too risky to cultivate even with
caterpillar tracks. In past times these houses were literally at the end of the line where only the poorest contadine
scraped an existence generation after generation.

Casa Timo was an oblong farmhouse typical of the southern Marches. Built about 200 years earlier with corners of
rose colored brick and local stone the colour of baked sand probably cannibalized from earlier structures on the
site. There were the three distinctive arched doors on the ground floor, the central one of which would lead the
stairs to the living quarters on the first floor. The two either side, opened into the cantina and stalla where the
livestock had dwelt and provided the humans above with the heat rising up off their bodies. Beppe still found it a
rather unpalatable thought that the old animal stalls were now used as kitchens by these new-comers. He had been
assured by Alex that everything had been thoroughly sand-blasted clean, but still, mused Beppe, cooking and
eating where the animals had lived for centuries; really.
     Although he had never been outside Italy, Beppe had heard a tale or two about the world beyond; one of which
involved these anglo saxons preferring animals to humans; this had always been accompanied with knowing winks
and nudges around the bar.
The windows had been replaced but kept in the local style with chestnut shutters. The coppa tiled roof was pierced
by two chimneys. Both designs had changed little over two millennia. To Beppe's eye it looked correct; natural and
in keeping. This was important to him as he had an aversion to the incorrect, unnatural and outlandish. All of which
resided somewhere beyond the horizon.

As the van climbed up the knoll to the house, Beppe immediately noticed that the red sports car was not parked
outside; no aperativo today, then. The house did not possess a postbox so Beppe would leave the parcel beneath
the table under the loggia where he and Alex had spent many a happy hour putting the world to rights whilst
enjoying the beer, the olives, the company and the long view down the wooded valley with the ruined watermill at the
far end. Beppe was fumbling in his bag to dig out the package and did not take proper notice of the bundle of rags
in the middle of the corte until it was almost too late.

The van skidded to a halt amid a cloud of dust which drifted and obscured the object between him and the house.
He hopped out as the cloud lifted and he saw what looked like a spilt sack of squashed figs, a mess of black and
pink fleshy pulp. He then realized what the scene meant and he stumbled back onto the bonnet of the Panda,
involuntarily putting his hand up to his mouth.

It was a body.

The body of a man dressed in what would have been a light green cotton suit now mottled and marked. The sight
reminded him of a frog he had run over a few days earlier- it lay all grotesquely splayed out legs and arms- but this
was no frog but a spatchcocked man. Always of a squeamish disposition, Beppe was unwilling to check for a pulse
or even poke the body to check for vital signs. This fellow was a gonner for sure. It looked like some wild boar had
had a go on him; there were snuffle marks in the gravel around the left hand. Amid the dried gore shone a golden
spot, a ring.

It then struck him that the strange sight was no stranger at all but the mortal remains of his friend Alex. Prince Alexis
Pullenyov was no more.
Chapter Two: Dead Man In Marche
Contact: David Sheppard Falcovini@hotmail.com


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