into the family? This is what happened here — this shield we’re looking at now is almost certainly the Vannoni coat of arms without the Albarosa addition. And remember what I said about how, like most things you see every day, I’d never really examined it. That, I think, is why Anna Albarosa made the mistake of drawing our attention to the family crest, and then why she got cold feet.”
“Right.” Liz Falla waved across at a well-fed white-coated lady slicing off thickly cut chunks from a succulent roast of pork for an equally well-endowed customer. “Where does this get us? I mean, we have to work out, don’t we, what all this has to do with the attempt on Mr. Ensor, a rack of damaged costumes, and a dead location manager? Sorry, Guv, perhaps you already have.”
“I wish! But we now know for sure that the dagger is not just idiosyncratic or purely decorative. It’s significant. And, second of all — I don’t know. I haven’t yet worked it out. Hello, Mike.”
Mike Le Page, the manager of Blondel’s, was approaching with the look of someone anxious to please, while at the same time hoping to keep any unpleasantness at bay, or at least away from public scrutiny. He was a middle-aged man with the dark hair and eyes that marked his Norman ancestry and, in the midst of constant temptation to overindulge, had managed to keep impressively slim.
“Can I help? Is there a problem? Hello, Liz.”
“None,” Moretti reassured him. “We needed to take a good look at one of the Vannoni olive oil bottles.”
“Terrible business.” Mike Le Page said, shaking his head. “The kitchen staff up there told my delivery man all about it. But why are you looking here?”
Moretti waved a vague hand in the air. “We look into all angles at this stage of the investigation. I imagine you sell the Vannoni brand as much because it’s good as because the marchesa is on the island?”
“Oh yes. We have no dealings with her, but we’ve had some with her niece. She came in and put on a tasting for us once — first time I’ve had as many males as females for a sampling, once word got around. She’s a fine-looking lady, that one. Only, if the stories I hear are true, they were wasting their time. The lads, I mean.”
Mike Le Page gave a knowing laugh.
As Moretti was paying for the bottle of olive oil Mike Le Page said, “Tell you what, Ed, there’s someone who knows more than I do about that lot up at Ste. Madeleine. Dan Mahy. His wife was employed by the family right after they bought the manor. He worked here for years — goes back to the days when we did deliveries by bicycle — but he’s been retired a while now. He lives out at Torteval. Hang on, I’ll get his address for you. We still ask him to our staff get-togethers, although he doesn’t come any longer. But they tell me he still puts in an appearance from time to time at the manor — course, it’s much closer to where he lives than we are. They give him a bite to eat and send him on his way”
Out in the street, Liz Falla said, “Dan Mahy might be a waste of time, Guv. Nutty as a fruitcake, my mother says. Never got over the death of his wife.”
“Talking of fruitcakes, DC Falla, I think we should get some lunch.”
On the other side of the street, a Labrador retriever with his leash fastened around a lamppost began to bark at an approaching collie.
“Dogs, dogs,” said Moretti. “Why didn’t the dog bark in the night?”
“Sorry, Guv, I’m not with you.”
“You know — Sherlock Holmes,” said Moretti, leading the way up the steps past the huge mural painted on the wall of the house adjoining the patisserie. They each ordered a prawn salad and coffee in the restaurant and made their way back outside on to the wide terrace that looked down on a cluster of financial buildings and their closed-circuit cameras.
“Sherlock Holmes, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, pulling in her chair under the shade of the green and white table umbrella advertising Grolsch beer. The cerulean background of the mural behind her nicely complimented the darker blue of her suit. Gamine, thought Moretti, looking at her short dark hair, cut in wisps around her face. Yes, I suppose she is.
“Sherlock Holmes, DC Falla. This afternoon, I want you to go back to the manor and check with the security people if there was any unusual behaviour from any of the guard dogs on the night of the murder. Also, get someone to check our records, and see if there has been any sort of complaint or report of trouble from the Vannoni family in the past few months, however trivial it may seem.”
The salads and coffee arrived, served by a cheerful red-aproned waitress with an Australian accent.
“What are you expecting to find, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, after the server had left.
“That’s just it. I don’t know, and I want you to stay open to anything, even the apparently inconsequential.” The coffee is excellent, almost as good as my own, thought Moretti. “Now, about those two women. Apart from your feeling the marchesa can’t stand her husband, was there anything else that struck you?”
His partner inspected a large prawn impaled on the tines of her fork as though it pleased her mightily.
“Yes, but it’s difficult to put into words — ones that make much sense, that is. There’s something going on, but I have the feeling that neither of those ladies are entirely sure themselves what it is — see,” said Liz Falla, examining the crustacean as though it had the answer to the mystery, “I got the weirdest feeling from them — that they both know something, but they’re neither of them sure if the something they know is the something that caused the murder and the other stuff, and they’re darned if they’re going to say anything in case they let slip something that may have nothing to do with the murder but they don’t want to be public knowledge.”
Moretti watched her silently for a moment as she demolished her plateful of prawns.
“Believe it or not, DC Falla, I understood every word you said.”
Her laughter startled a nearby sparrow, waiting hopefully on the back of an empty chair.
“Thanks, Guv. And thanks for asking my opinion. I never said, but I’m really grateful for the chance to work with you. I’ve felt at a bit of a loss up to now, but your asking me my impressions really helped.”
“Good.” I’m feeling less at a loss myself, thought Moretti — about the partnership at least, if not the case.
A drop of rain splattered on to the umbrella above the table.
“One other thing, Guv.” DC Falla speared a last piece of radicchio. “I get to call you ‘Guv,’ but you have this mouthful to say every time. DC Falla, or Detective Constable Falla —”
“I can’t say your first name,” said Moretti. Had a small joke and a moment of laughter led to distressing personal requests, unprofessional familiarity? She was giving him that look of hers again.
“And I wouldn’t dream of it, Guv. That’s all we need, gossip among the lads.”
“What then, DC Falla?”
“How about just ‘Falla,’ Guv.”
“Very well, if that’s what you’d like.”
“I would. And I’ll tell you something else
