been the workhouse, although it had never been called that. It was a fine mid-eighteenth-century building, L-shaped around a spacious quadrangle, more reminiscent of an old public school than “La Maison de Charité,” as it had sometimes been known. Hospital Lane itself had once been called Rue des Frères, as the original track had led to the old friary, now Elizabeth College.
The police force had relocated there in the mid-nineties, and Moretti had only worked on the island after the move. As he turned the Triumph into the quadrangle that night, he looked up over the elegant old wrought-iron entrance gate, at the stone bas-relief of a pelican feeding its young with drops of blood from her own breast. The white-painted carving that had in the past given the building its popular nickname, the Pelican, gleamed dimly in his headlights as he went through. In this light, he could not see the drops of blood.
In Moretti's opinion, one of the few pleasures of working at the Hospital Lane headquarters at night — the only pleasure of working at Hospital Lane at night — was the amount of work you could get through. The place was quiet, he could play Peterson or Brubeck or Ellington without interruption on the small stereo he kept at the office, and there were very few distractions, apart from some of his colleagues on night duty who dropped in from time to time to hear what was going on in a murder inquiry that involved the kind of exotica rarely found on the island.
And, on the subject of exotica —
Moretti pushed back the pile of papers, got up from his desk, and stretched, feeling the lack of sleep in his back and his leg muscles as well as his tired eyes. Brubeck and his quartet were playing “Audrey,” the sound of saxophonist Paul Desmond’s composition pure and sweet in the stale air of the room. He was caught up now, his reports up to date, ready for Chief Officer Hanley the next day, and he remembered he wanted to take a closer look at the murder weapon. He flicked off the stereo, went down to the duty officer, picked up the key to the incident room, signed for it, and made his way back up the stairs.
Lying there on the tabletop, with its razor-sharp blade exposed, the bevelled centre glinting under the fluorescent light, the dagger looked more lethal than it had buried up to the hilt in the chest of Toni Albarosa. The overall length was marked on the label attached — twelve inches — of which the handle was probably about three inches, intricately carved. Gingerly, Moretti picked it up and took a closer look.
The central part of the hilt was embossed with vines, bearing what looked like grapes, and there was a crown on the pommel. Running across the hilt was either a thick cord, or a branch of some kind, cut in the metal.
“Interesting.”
His voice echoed in the silent room. Near the murder weapon were the two other weapons: the dagger used to slash the costumes, and the dagger thrown onto the hotel patio. They were identical.
Now, he thought, I have to decide — does this all mean something, or did the murderer purchase whatever he could get hold of? He had asked Liz Falla to see if she could track the design, but the possibilities were endless, ranging from the websites that sold similar weapons, to any number of shops and boutiques in Italy or, possibly, France.
“Sleep on it,” he said out loud to himself.
Which was easier said than done, since he would have to sleep in his office. Still, Chief Officer Hanley should be impressed, finding him here as soon as he arrived in the morning, with all his paperwork up to date. Or, at least, he should be impressed, as long as he didn’t find out what the chief investigating officer on the case had done with the drunken wife of Gilbert Ensor.
Left her in his bed, sleeping like a baby.
“Evening, Inspector — or should I say morning? What have you got there?”
Moretti had started off by taking Sydney Tremaine to one of the hotels closest to the Grand Saracen. It was a five-star establishment, comparable to the Héritage, which meant that it would be at Sydney Tremaine’s level of comfort, and that it would still be open, with someone on duty all night at the front desk. Not only would he be able to book her in for the night, but Moretti wanted to be sure that no one got near her — whether it was her husband, or whoever the dagger thrower was. Whoever had killed Toni Albarosa, Moretti believed, had probably been on their way to kill someone else. Oh, the arbitrary quality of life — you’re on your way to carry on your extramarital affair, and you get murdered! But you’re not the intended target.
Or are you? Was this indeed all about sex, as Liz Falla surmised? Were the daggers merely exotic red herrings, after all? The weapon that came to hand? Somehow, Moretti didn’t think so. Anyway, he had taken on the responsibility for Gilbert Ensor’s wife, and now his port of call in a storm was turning out to be anything but.
Les Le Cheminant, the night manager at the St. Andrew’s Hotel, had been there as far back as Moretti could remember, which was another reason he had chosen this particular resting place for his burden. If he could have counted on anyone to take Sydney Tremaine in her present state, no questions asked, it should have been Les Le Cheminant. But the position of night manager involved dealings with drunken arrivals in the small hours more times than Les cared to think about and, as he explained to Moretti, “I get the blame for them waking up the other guests and heaving up their guts all over the new carpets or doing unmentionables wherever takes their fancy — no, not even for you, Inspector. She’s not even a registered guest and she’s in a bad way — why don’t you just put her in one of your cells for the night? Isn’t that what you usually do?”
“Yes, but —”
“Not a local, is she?” The night manager gave Moretti a conspiratorial look and a knowing smile as he glanced across at Sydney, whom Moretti had deposited in one of the armchairs in the hotel lobby. With sinking heart, Moretti realized the impossibility of his task, and faced the inevitable.
“Come on, Ms. Tremaine.”
He pulled Gilbert Ensor’s wife up from the upholstered depths of the chair. She didn’t resist, but leaned against him, featherlight, half-asleep, as he half-carried her back to his car.
The streets were by now deserted, and he could be fairly sure that no one would see them together in his car. There would be no all-night staff at his cottage, but she should be safe enough there on her own. He could not guess how Sydney Tremaine would react on discovering where she had spent the night, and Moretti decided he would be well advised to cover himself by signing in at Hospital Lane and staying until daylight.
Particularly if Gilbert Ensor found out.
He pulled the Triumph up in the small cobbled courtyard outside his home, thanking the gods he had no neighbours close by, extracted his by now sleeping companion and, grateful that she was a lightweight, got her up the stairs to his room. As he opened the door, Sydney Tremaine’s shirt slipped away from one shoulder, and he saw a key on the twisted gold chain she wore around her neck.
To what? he wondered. It didn’t look like any hotel key he’d ever seen, and it looked too solid for a key to a suitcase, or a safety deposit box. But these were not the clothes she had worn that morning, so presumably she had borrowed them from Giulia Vannoni — hadn’t someone said she had a place of her own? On the interview sheets, she had given the hotel as her address.
He carried Sydney Tremaine over to the bed, where he laid her down, her backless gold mules falling off her feet. She is the most exotic creature this room has ever seen, he thought, looking at her spectacular hair spread across the blues and yellows of the bedspread quilted by his mother. Beneath the black spandex tights he could see the long, strong muscles of her calves and thighs, reminding him that her appearance of physical fragility was deceptive. In her own way, she was as fit
