Daggers and Men's Smiles (13 page)

“Oh, I think it's a crime of passion, sir, but what passion precisely I am not sure.”

“I see,” Chief Officer Hanley responded, sounding as though he did not. “Keep me informed, won't you?”

“So, Chief Officer Hanley got an earful from Mr. Ensor,” said Liz Falla, shifting gears with a subtle flick of the wrist. “I had a word with the Ensors' driver, Tom Dorey — he lives near my parents — and he says he's as nasty a piece of work as he's driven in a while. Says he feels sorry for his wife, having to put up with him.”

“Did he express an opinion as to whether Ensor might become violent? To his wife, or to others?”

“I asked that. Said it was mostly running off at the mouth, as far as he could see.”

“That's my feeling too. Here we are, and I think they're waiting for us.”

As they pulled up in front of the main door to the manor, it was opened. The marchesa stood there, with her son on one side, and Monty Lord on the other. As Liz Falla put out a hand to open her door, Moretti stopped her.

“DC Falla — what I want you to do this morning is watch these women, particularly the widow. I don't think I need explain what I mean, do I?”

Liz Falla looked at him gravely. “No, sir,” was all she said, but there was something in her eyes that suggested irritation.

“I don't want to say feminine intuition, but I do mean impressions, that kind of thing, right?”

“Right.” Liz Falla looked toward the waiting group. “Well, I'll tell you right now, Guv, that the waiting committee looks set to repel all boarders. Talk about a united front.”

The marchesa's heavy handsome features were sombre, and she was dressed in black — not peasant black, but something chic that suited her well. She still wore the hefty necklace of the day before but, as if responding to the solemnity of the occasion, her black-grey mane of hair was pulled back in a heavy chignon low on her neck. Like his partner, Moretti had the impression of forces marshalled, loins girded, the putting on of public faces. The marchesa spoke first.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector. You are here to see my daughter. She is waiting for you.”

“My sister is distressed,” said Gianfranco Vannoni, in Italian. “You will remember that, Inspector.”

“Oh, he'll remember that,” added Monty Lord in his impeccable Italian.

They stood side by side in the doorway and, for a moment, Moretti wondered if he and DC Falla would have to charge the trio and break through their line of defence. Then the marchesa moved back into the house and the others followed, with Moretti and his constable behind them. Somewhere in the house someone was playing a Chopin mazurka. It sounded inappropriately frothy in contrast with the joyless trio who had confronted them.

Anna Albarosa was seated at a grand piano in the dining room close to the main reception room in which Moretti had first interviewed Monty Lord and the Vannonis. She stopped playing as soon as they came in, and rose to face them.

Toni Albarosa's widow had not inherited her mother's good looks, nor her imposing height. In front of them stood a small, overweight woman, probably in her late thirties, wearing glasses and no makeup, whose short hair was already going grey, and whose clothing was so commonplace that Moretti had difficulty remembering afterwards if she had worn a dress, a skirt, or pants. What stuck in his mind, however, was that she wore pastels, and not black, like her mother. He introduced himself and Liz Falla, and expressed, in Italian, their sympathy at her loss.

“Thank you.” Anna Albarosa replied in English. If she were indeed distressed, as her brother claimed, then she was concealing it magnificently. “Your Italian is good, but I speak English. I spent some time there, at university.” She turned to the phalanx at the door, speaking this time in Italian. “I can manage, thank you.”

The marchesa looked taken aback. As she opened her mouth to speak, her daughter went forward and kissed her on the cheek.
“Grazie, mamma.”
As the trio turned and left, the marchesa turned and gave a last warning look at Moretti.

“She's only trying to protect me, you know.” Anna Albarosa's smile gave her plain face an individual warmth and charm, if not beauty. “So difficult being a mother — you never know what to do for the best. To hold on, or to let go. In my mother's case, she has always opted for complete control, and never doubted she was right. As in the case of my marriage to Toni. Please sit down.”

Anna Albarosa indicated two chairs near the window, and sat down on a sofa opposite. She seemed quite calm, completely self-possessed.

“You are a mother also?” asked Moretti.

“Yes. I have a boy of ten and a girl of six. I am glad to say that my daughter has inherited her father's looks.” Her smile contained no rancour, no bitterness that Moretti could see.

“I must ask you first of all, Mrs. Albarosa, to confirm that you were not on the island when your husband was killed.”

“I was at my home in Fiesole, Inspector. I have witnesses up to about midnight, which I imagine would cover even the use of a private plane.” Anna Albarosa suddenly leaned forward and said, “You may have noticed that I am not crying, or emotional, Detectives.” Behind her glasses, her eyes seemed mildly amused. “In fact, you should check out my alibi carefully, or put me at the head of your list of suspects.”

“Why is that?” asked Moretti, although he was sure he knew the answer.

“Because I know where Toni was probably going — or coming from — that night. The poor, stupid man!” There was now some emotion in her voice, but it sounded more like anger than grief.

“I see. Did someone tell you?”

“Oh, I watched him at the party that was held to greet the cast and crew in Florence, lining up Vittoria Salviati in his sights. It was how he usually operated: arrive, reconnoitre, stalk, and then in for the kill. Only this time, it was Toni who got killed.” Anna Albarosa's laugh had none of the attractiveness of her smile. “I had become quite used to it. I did feel some pity for the girl, who bought Toni's sweetness and light act. Just as my mother and I did, ten years ago.”

“Did you challenge him at any point, ask him if he was having an affair?”

“Not anymore. After a while, I didn't care. I had got what I wanted out of the marriage — a name that equalled my own, two children I adore, and the pleasure of being made love to from time to time by Toni Albarosa. In many ways he really was a sweet man, you know, and a good and kind father. Only he just couldn't keep his pants on.”

“You saved your mother from hearing all this. How much did she know?”

“Not as much as she thought she did,” was Anna Albarosa's cryptic reply.

“Your father and mother live apart, I believe?”

“What has that to do with Toni's death?” Moretti had a sense of guards going up, shutters closing.

“I don't know that it has anything to do with your husband's death, but at this stage of the investigation we try to build up a complete picture.” Abruptly, Moretti changed tack. “So what do
you
think, Signora Albarosa? You say you should head our list of suspects. You were not here, so — if not you — then who do you think killed your husband?”

Toni Albarosa's widow frowned. “At first I assumed it was a jilted lover or a cuckolded husband — there are any number of those in Toni's past — but it's not as if he was in Italy when it happened. Then I was told about the attack on the writer and the business with the costumes. Now I simply don't know.”

“Can you think of any reason why these daggers have been used?”

At this question, there was one of those flickers of expression across Anna Albarosa's face that reminded Moretti of Sydney Tremaine's reaction to Giulia Vannoni's arrival at the murder scene.

“No,” she said. “None.”

“Thank you.” Moretti stood up and Liz Falla followed suit, pocketing her notebook. “I gather you are not directly involved with the making of
Rastrellamento
?”

“No. It was really my father's suggestion they could film here.”

“Why? He doesn't live here, does he? Do you know?”

At this, Anna Albarosa started to laugh. “To annoy my mother, perhaps? You'd have to ask him.”

“Perhaps I will. Will he be coming to Guernsey?”

“No, not unless he is required to do so. You'd have to go to him, Inspector.”

As they walked to the door of the dining room, Moretti thought of something Anna Albarosa had said earlier in the interview. “You said, Signora, that Albarosa was a name that equalled your own. What exactly did you mean?”

“That the two families are of equal standing in Italian society. Let me show you something.”

Instead of turning toward the front door, Anna Albarosa went toward the principal reception room and a short distance along a side corridor. It opened into another smaller reception room with a huge stone fireplace that dominated the space, and above it hung a coat of arms.

Beneath a gold coronet was a quartered shield, holding a device in each quarter: a stylized olive branch and a bunch of grapes across the top, a snake and arrowhead across the bottom. The quarters were enclosed in a wavy border made up of what looked like vines and initials.

“This,” said Anna Albarosa, “is the combined family crest of the Vannoni and Albarosa families. It was not combined for my marriage, I assure you, but many years ago, when Vannonis and Albarosas first united in matrimony. It is quite usual in Italy — I don't know about other countries — particularly when a father has only a daughter to whom he can leave his fortune and property. If the woman brings that wealth and land into her husband's family, part of the two original crests is combined, with the woman's heraldic devices on the sinister side — the left side as you are wearing it, or carrying your shield, but the right as you are viewing it.”

“Interesting.”

Moretti watched Liz Falla's mouth open. He looked at her. She closed it again.

“Just one last thing, Signora — it is clear from this that your mother has immense pride in her family traditions and still thinks of herself as Italian. Why on earth is she in Guernsey?”

Again there was the flicker in Anna Albarosa's eyes. “The separation from my father was very painful. Family, you understand. So important in my country. Loss of face. I don't know. And something to do with money, I think. My mother never talks about such things.”

She sounded stilted, her English no longer fluid, and Moretti sensed she was regretting the impulse that had taken her around a corner to give him a look at the crest. She moved ahead of them and led the way back to the main foyer, where the marchesa erupted from her study at the sound of their approach.

“I hope you have been considerate of my daughter's feelings. This has been a great shock to her.”

“Mother, I'm fine. It is in all our interests that the detectives do their job.”

“Of course.” The marchesa looked irritated at the patronizing tone in her daughter's voice, and Moretti decided to ask a provoking question while the woman's lofty sang-froid was shaken.

“Marchesa — why do you think your husband suggested the filming of
Rastrellamento
at your home?”

He expected anger, or outrage at his
lèse-majesté
, and he got it all. Moretti felt lucky those long nails were not scoring his face, as they had Gilbert Ensor's.

“What has this to do with the murder of my son-in-law? My feelings about the filming here are none of your business, Detective Inspector, and if you try to drag my family's good name into this inquiry, I shall insist you are taken off the case. The lieutenant-governor is a good friend of mine.”

There was something else in the marchesa's face, besides anger.
She's frightened
, thought Moretti.
Something about the question terrifies her
. Unfazed, intrigued, he replied. “Your family's good name is already dragged into this enquiry, Marchesa. It was dragged in when your son-in-law got killed on the grounds of your home at four o'clock in the morning. We can only hope that the mainland press don't pick up on this too swiftly, but inevitably they will. The murder has already been reported in the
Guernsey Press
, on BBC Guernsey, and Island FM, but the death of a location manager is not quite as newsworthy as one of the stars would have been. We will do our best to help you avoid the mudslinging a murder like this attracts.”

Moretti could feel the heat from the marchesa's eyes burning holes in his jacket as he and Liz Falla returned to the car.

“Want my first impression, Guv? She really hates her husband.”

“I've no doubt she does, DC Falla, but that's not what that was about.”

“I nearly said something when we were looking at that shield, but I saw your face. It's got something to do with dagger handles and that shield thing, you think?”