my arm, Falla. This light’s not too good.” He felt Liz Falla’s grip on his elbow.
The beam wasn’t as strong as Moretti remembered from his visit with Monty Lord. Every few feet he swept the light to one side and the other, examining the entrances and alcoves in the walls. They stopped briefly by the ventilation shaft for some air.
“Where did SOC say the blood started, Guv?”
“Just about here — they marked it — there we are. This is where the murderer either caught up with him, or chose to start stabbing.”
Circles were chalked on the floor, some of them surviving the moisture that ran down the gutters and over the surface. Some moved in the direction of an entrance, or a recess in the wall.
“Like following a trail of breadcrumbs, isn’t it?” Moretti could hear a note of hysteria in his partner’s giggle.
“Much the same. Ensor left us a route map of the end of his existence with his lifeblood. You can see where he looked for a way out — the tunnel to the manor. And it takes us, of course, to the escape shaft.”
Moretti swung the beam to the right and together they lurched over the corroded rail tracks. Ahead of them lay the chalked outline of Gilbert Ensor’s body, indistinct, but still visible.
“And here we have the answer to one of the problems, Falla. How the murderer got away without being seen by anyone. Getting away from the scene of the crime is one of the most difficult of a murderer’s tasks, and this way there’s no need to risk the door.”
Above them loomed the iron ladder, rung upon rung, disappearing into the distant darkness beyond the beam of their light.
“Not out the door? Someone went up there, Guv?” Incredulously, Liz Falla looked up into the void.
At this point the light went out.
“Shit,” said Liz Falla, and sneezed. Her grip tightened on Moretti’s elbow.
“Okay, Falla — give me a moment.” Fumbling in his pocket, Moretti extracted the disposable lighter he had not yet disposed of.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Guv.”
“I’m supposed to be giving up, but I’ve not quite succeeded.”
“Thank God, is all I can say.”
Together they made their cautious way back through the noisome, dripping darkness and into the light outside.
Neither of them spoke for a moment as they refilled their lungs with fresh, clean air. Liz Falla looked at her watch.
“Just about time for the interview, Guv.”
“So it is,” said Moretti. “But first I want to take a look at the outside of that escape shaft. Mr. Bianchi can wait a moment for us — heaven knows he’s made us wait for him.”
The bank that covered the bunker was overgrown with holly bushes, honeysuckle, pennywort, and stinging nettles. A couple of elderberry bushes had grown into flourishing trees. Clearly this was one area of the well-tended property allowed to stay wild, and Moretti noticed that he and his partner left clear evidence of their progress.
“There it is,” said Liz Falla, pointing to the apex of the mound.
The escape shaft was well concealed by the plants and grasses, and would have been as treacherous as Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole if it had not been covered by a solid piece of grating. Moretti bent down and pulled at it. It shifted in his hand.
“See — it’s been prised loose. And the plants around here have been trampled down by someone. Whoever it was came and went in that direction.”
They both stood up and looked toward the lake. Through the light mist that hovered over it they could see the naked torso of a green-blue woman, bathing in the water.
“A statue?”
“I hope so. She’s got no arms. We’ll go down that way, and take the path around the lake back to the house.”
They passed the woman dreaming in the lake, and the sight of her there, head bowed, motionless, flooded Moretti with a morbid awareness of his own impermanence.
Chapter Twelve
They were met in the marchesa’s sitting room by someone Moretti knew well, but had not expected to see: Reginald Hamelin.
Reginald Hamelin was the senior member of one of the oldest law firms on the island. Known as the silver fox because of his magnificent head of hair and his cunning in litigious matters both matrimonial and commercial, he was officially retired, but was brought out of mothballs from time to time for certain clients who believed that anyone under the age of sixty or so wouldn’t know a tort from a tart.
“Detective Inspector —”
“Advocate Hamelin. Where is Mr. Bianchi?”
“He will be with us shortly. I wanted to speak to you first, privately.”
Moretti thought about protesting, but decided to appear acquiescent — for the moment. When pushed into a corner, the silver fox tended to show some of the less attractive characteristics of his namesake. He sat down in one of the two chairs placed opposite the marchesa’s little desk, and Liz Falla followed suit, pulling out her notepad.
“Off the record?”
“I can’t promise that, Advocate Hamelin, as you well know, but DC Falla will take no notes at this stage. We have had enough problems trying to interview Mr. Bianchi, as it is.”
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