The Art of Killing Well (6 page)

After a few seconds, the guests began to look at one another furtively. Then, amid growing embarrassment, the baron turned to the bearded man, who gave a stern, tacit acknowledgement of assent with his eyes.

The baron cleared his throat.

Then he cleared it again.

Then, having caught his breath, he opened his mouth and said in a solemn voice, “I am extremely sorry to have to inform you that we have not gathered here to eat.”

Oh, no!

“Dottore Bertini,” the baron said, while the bearded man nodded, confirming even to the least attentive that he was indeed the aforementioned Dottore Bertini, “has an extremely regrettable
piece of information to share with you. I ask you to listen to him in complete silence.”

It was an unnecessary request. There was such tension in the room by now that not a breath could be heard. They all stood there, apart from the dowager baroness (who was paralytic) and Signorina Ugolina Bonaiuti Ferro (who did not understand a damned thing about what was going on around her), and waited.

In the prescribed silence, a chasm opened in Dottore Bertini's beard and a voice much less cavernous than expected, indeed almost like that of a sprite, said, “Thank you, Barone. I must ask you all to be patient for a moment. I have just made a preliminary examination of the body of Teodoro Banti, as a result of which I find myself unable to issue a death certificate.”

He looked dead enough to me, Lapo would have liked to have said, but even he realised that now might not be the best time to make jokes.

“In short, ladies and gentlemen,” the sprite said from the depths of the woods, “I will need to perform a full autopsy. But even as things stand, I am almost convinced that poor Banti's death was not due to natural causes. To be quite honest …”

Here he turned to the baron in evident embarrassment. Without looking at anybody, the baron completed the sentence for him with a kind of furious determination: “To be quite honest, the doctor maintains that Teodoro was poisoned.”

Consternation (to say the least).

As the guests remained silent, the doctor continued, “As some of you know, for years now I have been responsible for the health
of those living in the castle, at the baron's express request. Consequently, I am familiar with the medical history of every single member of the servant body from birth. Teodoro Banti is no exception.”

Having said this, the doctor tilted his head forward onto his chest and seemed to fall asleep, using his beard as a pillow.

After a few moments, Gaddo ventured to open his mouth. “So …”

“That is why,” the doctor said, as if he had been waiting for that signal to resume speaking, “I was very surprised when Signor Ciceri here present told me that Banti seemed to have died as the result of a heart attack. Because, you see, Banti never in his life manifested any symptoms of heart disease.”

This said, he again fell asleep on his beard.

Hearing his judgement called into question, Ciceri made an attempt to speak up. “I hazarded that guess after seeing how flushed his face was …”

The doctor woke again. “When I arrived, there was, indeed, intense flushing on the face and neck of the corpse. But not the flushing typical of a heart attack. It was of the pruriginous kind, caused by phlogosis, not by congestion, as witnessed by the scratches on the throat and neck. The poor fellow must have been trying to relieve the dryness of his skin by scratching himself. In addition, the dead man's pupils were dilated in a way that immediately struck me as non-physiological. Last but not least, the position of the body—”

“Are all these grisly details really necessary?” asked the
dowager baroness sternly, breaking in unexpectedly on the doctor's speech.

“These grisly details, as you call them, Baronessa, are the evidence I am putting forward to explain to your noble persons why I cannot issue a death certificate and must, in fact, arrange for the judicial authorities to be notified of what has happened.”

“What?” Gaddo said loudly. “Are you intending to bring the police in on this?”

“It is my duty, Signorino Gaddo,” the wood sprite said.

“Don't you ‘Signorino' me! You were summoned here to certify a death, not to have the police descend on our home!”

“I regret, Signorino Gaddo, that the two things cannot be separated. Just as I have taken an oath to serve the sick, of whatever class, race and condition, so it is my clear duty, whenever a sickness has been inflicted with malicious intent, to report the matter to the authorities.”

“Stop acting so high and mighty, you charlatan!” Lapo cut in with his usual tact. “You're nothing but the son of a shepherd, and we paid for your studies so that you could become the quack doctor that you are. Without us, you'd still be rounding up sheep. You should show some respect to those who dragged you from the gutter.”

The baron looked at his son as if he had suddenly become phosphorescent.

“With all due respect, Signorino Lapo,” the doctor replied with almost complete equanimity, “you paid for my studies, you didn't pay for me. As a human being, I am not for sale. My
services may be remunerated, not bought.”

“Forgive Lapo,” the dowager baroness said. “The poor boy is accustomed to paying for the company of the people he frequents. I hope, Dottore, that you will at least have the decency to spare us all this commotion.”

“That, Baronessa, I cannot promise you. Barone …”

The baron cleared his throat for the twentieth time. “I have already given orders to my estate manager,” he said, “and he has left for Campiglia to collect the local police inspector. If no accidents have befallen them, they will be here shortly.”

In other words, farewell lunch.

A real murder. It was almost unbelievable.

Sitting almost contritely, without touching the chair with his back, Ispettore Artistico was taking notes as the doctor's testimony emerged from his beard.

“… the redness on the face was fading, as I said, but it was quite visible on the neck, which is a typical symptom of belladonna poisoning.”

Ispettore Artistico's first reaction when the doctor had sent for him had been one of annoyance. To tell the truth, the doctor had always rubbed him up the wrong way: firstly because he was a socialist, secondly because he was one of the most boring and pedantic people he had ever known, and last but certainly not least, because every time the inspector was out walking with his daughter and met the doctor, the doctor invariably kissed her hand in the most brazenly lecherous manner imaginable. More than once the inspector had been on the verge of cutting short this greeting by thrashing him with his stick. He had even imagined himself scalping the doctor and running off with his beard as a trophy.

“What, however, led me to believe that a poisoning had taken place was the dilation of the pupils, which was quite unnatural.
At this point, I felt the limbs of the corpse with my hands, and obtained an impression of stiffness not compatible with rigor mortis. It was obvious, in other words, that the poor fellow had been prey to convulsions and violent spasms before his death. At this point …”

At this point, overjoyed at the fact that he could actually report something that had happened in a nobleman's castle to the police, the doctor had demanded that the authorities be called in. In other words, Ispettore Artistico – who, although continuing to fantasise about the possibility of sprinkling the doctor's beard with pitch, setting fire to it, and savouring the scoundrel's screams of terror, could not help almost liking him at this particular moment. Because for years, Ispettore Artistico had been suffering horribly.

“… I consider that the poison was in the glass of port wine the poor fellow had in front of him, and of which there still remain a few drops at the bottom. Belladonna actually has a pleasant, sweetish taste, rather like julep, which could easily be mistaken for the sugary taste of that wine. I therefore suggest analysing …”

For years – almost ten, to be precise. Since he had been sent to Campiglia Marittima in 1882, after his promotion, the only murder he had had to deal with had been the killing of Ginocchino, the donkey of the baker Artemio, beaten to death with a stick by the tenant farmer Pancacci after the animal had eaten Pancacci's good trousers, which he had hung over a pole in order not to ruin them while he slept off a hangover in the baker's stable. Apart from that, lots of thefts of chickens and a few brawls
among peasants who were too drunk to do each other serious harm. What made it worse were the visits at Christmas time by his father-in-law, Lieutenant of Carabinieri Onorato Passalacqua, who had taken part in the expedition which years earlier had put an end to the career of the famous brigand Stefano Pelloni, better known as the Ferryman. Every year without fail, his father-in-law would brass him off with his account of that heroic enterprise, especially the gun battle which had ended with the whole gang in irons and the Ferryman himself mortally wounded – a deed for which the good lieutenant, although not saying it in so many words, implied that he was responsible. And the inspector would sit there, swallowing bile along with Christmas cake, all too aware of the fact that in this godforsaken swamp where he had been sent, even if he was a hero, there would never be a way to show it.

“… and I'd stake my life on these conclusions. Well, my dear Ispettore, I've done my duty and, believe me, it hasn't been easy. But now I'm happy to leave it all up to you.”

“That is my duty, my dear Dottore,” the inspector said.

It will be a pleasure, he thought.

“Tell me, Ispettore, what I must do.”

The baron sat waiting by the table, upright without being rigid. A true nobleman, in tragedy as in good fortune. The inspector had thought of interviewing him before the others, both as a form of respect and because, at first glance, he seemed the person most affected by the matter.

“A few questions should suffice, Barone. I need to know what happened this morning in detail. A painful duty for you, and, believe me, equally so for me.”

In a monotone voice, the baron recounted that morning's events. When he came to the point where he had entered the cellar, the inspector stopped him.

“So the door was bolted from inside?”

“Precisely, Ispettore. In order to enter, it was necessary to force it free of its hinges.”

“I understand. Please excuse the interruption. Now, if you'll allow me, I must ask you some specific questions. When you entered, was there a glass of port in front of the dead man, together with the corresponding bottle?”

“Yes, there was.”

“Had you ever seen that bottle before?”

“Of course. It's part of my personal reserve. Porto Garrafeira, manufactured by the Niepoort company, and given to me by His Excellency Barone Ramalho, the Portuguese Ambassador, who deigned to visit our vineyards and cellars six years ago.”

“So you are accustomed to drinking that wine. When was the last time it was served to you?”

“Last night, after dinner. We gathered in the billiard room to toast the success of my good friend Barone Cesaroni's horse Monte Santo. I had champagne served to my guests, as is fitting for a toast, but I had my port brought expressly for me. You see, I suffer from dyspepsia and cannot indulge in champagne with impunity. So I apologised to my guests and served myself.”

“Did you serve yourself personally? I mean, did you pour the port into the glass?”

I'm not a tramp like you, replied the baron's eyes. Since when do members of the nobility do things with their own hands?

“My butler usually caters to my needs, Ispettore, and those of my guests. As I was saying, I had the port poured for me, while the others toasted with champagne. But yesterday I must have been suffering from some indisposition and did not feel at all well, so I barely took a sip of the port.”

“I see. How then, Barone, do you explain the fact that the glass found in front of Teodoro was empty?”

The baron gave the inspector a dirty look. After a moment, he smiled slightly. “I've always suspected that Teodoro finished my drinks whenever I left anything. I frequently noticed that he filled my glass once too often, from which I deduced that he was filling it for himself. He was crafty, the poor boy. He knew that I could keep an eye on the level in the bottles, but the glass … It was a little trick of his, God rest his soul.”

“Excuse me, Barone. You said earlier that in the course of the evening you felt indisposed. Do you mind my asking if you had a bad night?”

“Indeed I did. I didn't get a wink of sleep.”

“If I'm not being indiscreet, may I ask what kind of condition kept you awake?”

The baron appeared embarrassed. Some questions are simply not asked, he seemed to say.

“That's quite alright. As I've told you, I often suffer from digestive
problems. Because of my stomach ache, my heart was beating faster than usual last night. There were times when I feared I was on the verge of an apoplectic fit.”

“I understand. Barone, I see no reason to detain you any longer. I need now to speak to your two sons. I would ask you not to breathe a word to anyone of what we have said, at least until the day is over. My respects, Barone.”

“I am most grateful, Ispettore.”

One of the most common afflictions of powerful men is to have a stupid son. There is no shortage of historical examples, particularly in politics, from Cromwell onwards: it may be because when you are powerful you have no time to waste keeping an eye on your children, or because if you are influential your offspring are bound to grow up spoilt, but it is not a rare occurrence for a father in a position of authority to be succeeded by an idiot son. As you will all have gathered, Ispettore Artistico had given himself up to such reflections as soon as the baron's younger son, Lapo, had sat down facing him.

Even his way of sitting was irritating: not facing straight ahead, but with the chair angled to the right and his legs crossed, as if instead of dealing with a police officer the young fool were at the café with his friends, and it was in this way, without looking at the inspector, that he had started answering the questions.

“Do you remember at approximately what time the toast finished?”

“I have no idea. I left the company at about eleven in the
evening, and went to the village with some of my companions. I only got back this morning.”

“You can confirm, though, can you not, that there was a toast in the course of which you all drank champagne, and only your father was served port?”

“I can confirm that, yes. We hadn't toasted with champagne for a long time. You see, old Cesaroni's horse had won its race, and my father was quite excited.”

“I see. Is he great friends with Barone Cesaroni? Or are they partners in the stables?”

“No, not at all. Can you imagine? No, the fact is, my father had bet good money on that horse, which was supposed to be a worn-out old nag and actually won. My father, you know, has always been fond of betting on the horses, and has squandered a fair amount of money on it. A reprehensible vice.”

What about you? thought the inspector. The baron's passion for horseflesh was as well known in the area as his son's passion for female flesh (preferably enjoyed doggy-fashion), but the inspector had not expected that it would actually be a member of the same family who would broach the subject.

“I wouldn't have thought, Signorino Lapo, that this was a problem for your father.”

“You may think that.”

“What do you mean?”

Lapo looked about him circumspectly and put his hands up like someone realising a moment too late that he has just said something he shouldn't. “This is a somewhat delicate matter.
I'm not sure that now is the time to—”

“I am a police officer, Signorino Lapo, not a porter. Delicate matters are my business.”

“Of course. The thing is, this is a family affair, and I doubt that it's of any relevance to your investigation. We are entitled to be treated with a modicum of respect, I think.”

“Signorino Lapo, let me remind you that I show you respect every time I pretend not to see you commit one of your nocturnal feats. The next time we meet, you may well be directly beneath a street lamp, and it would be hard for me not to recognise you.”

Lapo looked down at the floor for a moment, then turned his chair to face the inspector. “Alright, then. A few days ago I was in Mademoiselle Marguerite's house when I overheard something that made my hair stand on end. You know Mademoiselle's house, I assume?”

“I frequently have to make arrests there when the customers start causing a disturbance.”

“Then you'll know that the walls are of plasterboard and you can hear every noise from the adjoining rooms. You wouldn't believe the kinds of noises people make in certain situations. Sometimes—”

“Signorino Lapo, I have no interest in these erotic shenanigans. Please get to the point.”

“Forgive me. I was merely trying to underline that, however inadvertently, what goes on in the other rooms is common knowledge. Anyway, without wandering off the subject again, no more
than a week ago I heard a man talking about my father in the next room, maintaining that he did not pay his debts.”

“What?”

“Exactly what I'm telling you. ‘All that splendour, and nothing in his pocket,' the man said. ‘To keep going he's been forced to turn to moneylenders. Among the guests invited to the castle for the hunt, there'll be one who's there for a very specific purpose.'”

“I see. So you're telling me …”

“Precisely, Ispettore. One of my father's guests is a usurer who wants his dirty money back. And I know who it is.”