what way do you mean that?”
“The whole project’s become hell on fucking wheels is how I mean that — I was not speaking intellectually. Each day I spend in contact with the movie world I can feel my brain cells dying, my mental capacity shrinking like a weenie in cold water.”
Moretti ignored the outburst. “Your book and the movie have political content. If I remember rightly, you are harsh in your judgments of both the peasant population — the contadini — and the local aristocracy, when writing about their politics and their loyalties. Is it possible you have opened old wounds?”
“See, I wondered that.” Suddenly, Gilbert Ensor was quite serious. He leaned forward and offered Moretti a cigarette from a battered packet he pulled from his crumpled linen jacket.
“Thank you.” In the interests of establishing rapport — a peace offering, Moretti told his conscience, as he accepted.
“At first, when someone hurled that thing at me on the terrace, I thought it was some madman who had it in for celebrities. Then I calmed down and thought maybe it was an accident — some moronic kid playing about. Then, when I heard about the damage to the costumes, I thought it was a malicious attempt to scare us off the project.”
“But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”
“But why Toni? If you wanted to make a point, you’d try for me again, or go for Monty, or maybe one of the actors taking political roles, wouldn’t you? Toni was Mr. Sunshine — a kind of male Pollyanna. Most of the locations had already been scouted, you know, and Monty used him to appease the marchesa. He did damn all and nobody cared, because he was so bloody cheerful and good-tempered. Got up my nose, but I like my humans to be bastards or bitches — that’s why I married Syd, isn’t it, honeybunch?”
Sydney Tremaine slipped down off the windowsill. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, Inspector,” she said.
“I probably won’t need to keep you today. Just be available to give a written statement some time.” As she walked from the room, Moretti had the feeling she was removing herself before she lost control.
“I thought it was Mario Bianchi who hired Toni Albarosa, for his local contacts — at least, that’s what he told me.”
Gilbert Ensor gave a contemptuous laugh. “He would, poor sod. Trying to hang on to the illusion he has some sort of creative control over Rastrellotitanic, as I like to call it.”
“You think the project’s doomed?”
“Oh, it’ll get made. But it won’t be the movie we started with, and I am seriously thinking of removing my name from the project.”
“Have you said that to anyone?”
“Most likely. When I’m in a blind rage or in my cups — which is most of the time lately — I say all kinds of things I don’t remember.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Ensor. The office will be in touch with you some time tomorrow.”
Gilbert Ensor got up from the sofa and crossed to the door. For all his marital raging and sniping, he was a lost soul without his wife to guide him through the maze and morass of everyday life — such as where to find the limousine that would take him home.
“Syd?” His plaintive call reverberated through the echoing expanses of the manor house.
But Sydney Tremaine wasn’t there.
"Not one of them, Guv, can think of any reason why anyone would want to kill the marchesa’s son-in-law.”
Moretti and Liz Falla were exchanging information as they made their way across the park and up the flight of stone steps to the upper floor of the lodge where the first attack with a dagger had taken place. Liz Falla had acquired a complete list of everyone employed on Rastrellamento from the associate producer, Piero Bonini, and was compiling a record of who lived where. Not just eagle-eyed, thought Moretti, but organized. It wasn’t her fault Hanley had said “eagle-eyed” until everyone was fed up to the back teeth with hearing it.
Most of the cast and crew lived in hotels and guest houses in St. Martin’s and St. Peter Port, with the level of luxury matching their level of importance. There were a few exceptions. All the Vannonis and Toni Albarosa were at the manor, and three of the cast were staying there also. These were the two female leads: newcomer Vittoria Salviati, who played the young love interest, Maddelena, and an established star, Adriana Ferrini, whose role as the Contessa Alessandra di Cavalli was creating the latest problems on the movie. One of the leading men, Clifford Wesley, an up-and-coming British actor, recruited from the classical stage, who was starring as the escaped British prisoner, Tom Byers, was also at the manor. The internationally known German film actor, Gunter Sachs, who was playing the commandant of the prison camp in the imaginary Tuscan village of Santa Marina, had stayed briefly, but had now transferred to the Héritage Hotel, where Betty Chesler and Eddie Christie were also billeted.
“Did Piero Bonini have any interesting comments to make about his cast?”
“Mostly he went on about Gilbert Ensor, who seems to be at the top of everyone’s hit list. Hit-and-miss list, I suppose I should say. Do you think someone thought Toni Albarosa was Ensor in the dark?”
“Could be, but unlikely. What would Gilbert Ensor be doing skulking about outside the manor in the small hours?”
“Well, that was one of the things Bonini went on about — about Ensor, I mean. Seems there’d been a spot of bother in Italy somewhere. He wouldn’t go any further, but he did say Ensor was lucky his wife was the forgiving kind, and if he’d heard that Ensor was the one with a dagger in the chest he wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Interesting. So what was Toni Albarosa doing in the wee small hours? Did Bonini shed any light on that?”
“I was just coming to that. When I was leaving his office — he’s got a trailer on the far side of the manor, quite close to the bunker — I could hear him through the open window. He was shouting at the interpreter they’ve got here — it must have been her, because she was the only other person there — and it was all in Italian, but I can understand quite a bit now, of course, and what I managed to pick up was her name, Bella, and then another two names — Vittoria, and Toni.”
“Ah,” said Moretti.
“That’s what I thought, Guv.” DC Falla turned and grinned at Moretti.
Betty Chesler was waiting for them at the top of the steps, only too eager to speak her mind.
“I see you’ve brought your superior officer with you this time,” she said to the young policewoman. She turned and glared at Moretti. “I’m so glad someone is now taking this seriously, and what a wicked shame it took poor Toni’s death to do it! I can’t tell you how upset I was with the cavalier attitude of just about everyone about the damage — mark my words, I said to Piero, this is like an omen. It’s a warning, and there’s more to come. But until Gilbert Ensor’s wife said about the attack on her husband, no one cared a tinker’s cuss about my costumes — here, let me show you the damage.” She led the way inside.
The damaged costumes were still where Liz Falla had seen them, lined up on the foldaway table: the three women’s tailored suits, one dress, a man’s suit, and a German uniform.
“To
