Ten
September 17th
The two women stood at the top of the path, waiting. It had started to rain and seeing them through the light mist, Moretti thought of the Widow’s Walk at Saumarez Manor, the railing around the centre of the highest storey, as on some old houses in New England facing the sea. Sydney Tremaine would never again have to pace and wait and wonder where her husband was. This time he had set out on an adventure that had cost him his life. As he started to walk up the slope, she moved away from Giulia Vannoni and came toward him.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She looked like one of the women beloved of the Pre-Raphaelites — Ophelia drifting in her watery grave, her skin bloodless, waxen.
“Ms. Tremaine — Sydney.” He took her by the arm, and she did not resist as he led her to his car. He opened the passenger door, and she got in and sat there, obediently, like a child going on an outing. Moretti got in the other side and sat down. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she did not look at him.
“Yes. Your husband has been killed in the bunker, Sydney. A knife was used, but not the same type of knife. That doesn’t matter now. I shall want you to tell me again every word you can remember of what he said to you last night. If we go into the manor, can you manage that?”
“No.” She turned to look at him, and he could not read anything in her eyes. They seemed as blank as a painted surface. “Not the manor. I shall never go in there again.”
“Then we’ll go to the station, or back to the hotel, if you’d prefer. But for now I’d like someone to be with you. My partner, DC Falla, would —”
“Betty Chesler — I’d like Betty.”
She was weeping now, tears falling on her hands.
“I’ll get her.”
Strike while she’s vulnerable, he told himself. Forget about the lipstick stain on your pillow, the faint scent left on the sheets that was probably dreamt up by your overheated imagination. Remember, this woman is not frail.
“Who was on the cliff path, Sydney?”
“Giulia. Giulia running.” She turned to look at him and this time he could read the expression in her eyes. She seemed angry. “She knows something. They all know something. About the daggers, Ed. It’s all about the daggers.”
Then she wept again, and when he put his arms around her this time he did not care about the onlookers, and gave no thought at all to Chief Officer Hanley.
When the SOC crew had taken over, Betty Chesler had left with Sydney Tremaine, and reinforcements had arrived to take statements, Moretti and Liz Falla went into the manor.
Giulia Vannoni was waiting for them in her aunt’s sitting room. She was dressed in black: the black leather pants she had worn when Moretti had first seen her, a black shirt of some kind, and a black leather jacket that fastened over the firm disks of her breasts with one large leather button. The only note of colour was her scarlet lipstick that flamed against her tanned skin. Beneath the plucked arch of her eyebrows and the fringe of heavy black mascara her green eyes glittered with what looked like contempt.
“You wish me to accompany you to the police station, no? Trust the great minds of the police to go for the obvious.”
“We have some questions to ask you in connection with the death of —”
“Gilbert Ensor. Are you going to handcuff me?”
“You’re not under arrest, Signorina.”
Which was, of course, true. So why would a highly intelligent woman be carrying on as if they were about to accuse her of murder? Maybe she saw herself as some sort of a decoy, running ahead of us and dragging her wing so that we’d follow her instead of — whoever and whatever it is in her family we should be following. So let’s do that, he thought, and see what happens.
“Would you like to call a lawyer?”
“I will. Later. Let’s get this farce started, and see how far it goes.”
Giulia Vannoni walked between Moretti and Liz Falla, towering over the policewoman, her head about level with Moretti’s eyes. She must be nearly six feet, he thought, and her shoulders are about as wide as mine. She said nothing during the journey, but her physical presence in the back of his car was as potent as the perfume she had worn the first time he met her.
And she is capable of causing uproar, with her connections. We’ll have to tread damn carefully, or Hanley will have me on the carpet, thought Moretti. I’m sure he’s hoping our murderer is some benighted foreigner on the film crew who did this, and not a member of a prestigious local family.
Their arrival at Hospital Lane did not go unnoticed. Giulia Vannoni strode through the building as though she owned it, returning the stares of those passing by with a parting of her scarlet lips that was more a rictus than a smile. Once in Moretti’s office she sat down on a chair without waiting to be directed.
“Signorina —”
“How is Sydney?”
“Not good, as you can imagine. She asked for a member of the film crew, Betty Chesler, to be with her.”
“So she is safe with Betty? Of course, since you suspect me, you would think that, wouldn’t you?”
She gazed around Moretti’s office as though the decor offended her sensibilities, her eyes washing over him in contempt, and Moretti knew he must establish his control over the interview or she would run it, and him. Which was how they were all here together, instead of back at the scene of the crime, or interviewing Mario Bianchi — which was what he had originally intended. He slammed his hand down on the desk, and saw Liz Falla start, taken by surprise at her Guv’nor’s uncharacteristic outburst.
“Signorina, your arrogance is helping no one, least of all yourself. We are in my office, not in an interrogation room, and there is no tape recorder. You are a smart woman — Mr. Lord calls you the cleverest of the Vannonis — and yet you have deliberately drawn attention to yourself as a possible suspect. Why did you not tell me you were out running on the cliff path near the Héritage Hotel when the first attempt was made on Gilbert Ensor’s life?”
“So. Sydney told you.”
“Yes, but she waited until today. Did you ask her not to tell us?”
“Of course not. I suggested to her that maybe she wished whoever it was had not missed.”
“What was her reaction?”
“Confused. That was some love-hate relationship, that one. Most are, in my experience.” Giulia Vannoni leaned back in her chair, and Moretti sensed that her act of bravado — if that was indeed what it had been — was over.
“Do you have an alibi for last night?”
“No. I was alone in my castello. You accuse me of drawing attention to myself, but this is the fact. I am a suspect.”
“Yes. But there is something more, Signorina, than your lack of alibi, or your presence on
