The policeman gave Posie a long, hard stare. Then he seemed to make up his mind and he shrugged. ‘I was told to go along with whatever you wanted, that to deny you anything was futile. Does that command include locking up the Landlady and her staff, Miss Parker?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your fiancé, Miss Parker?’
‘Yes. Him too.’
‘I see.’ Salvarocca checked his watch. ‘Well, fine. I’ll get everyone into a room with some lunchtime refreshments, but I myself need to get away in a few minutes, and I’m taking the Count with me. We were interrupted by news of this tragedy. We’ve left something unfinished over there at the Romagnoli Palace. Something urgent.’
Posie was thrown. ‘An insurance viewing? That can’t wait? How is that urgent? The Count’s wife has just died!’
‘It’s important, believe me. I trust you to stay with the body until the Police Surgeon gets here. He’ll be at least half an hour. He’s over at the Municipal Hospital, San Zanipolo, a good way away. He’ll be able to tell us if there has been foul play. Do you need anything else in the meantime?’
Posie paused, thinking quickly. Half an hour was a long time to wait in a case such as this, she knew that with certainty. Evidence was decaying by the minute.
An image came quickly but forcibly to Posie’s mind: a shadow of a highly-qualified man who had sold his soul in another life. A man who would know what to do right now.
‘Hold on, sir. There’s a man upstairs, sir. He’s staying in the laundry room. If you get him down here, he’ll be able to tell you if my suspicions about murder are correct within just a minute or so, rather than waiting for the Surgeon. And then you can get away, over to the Palace, knowing what you’re dealing with. Only, don’t let anyone see this man. Promise me? There’s a lot at stake here. I can’t really explain it all. You’ll just have to trust me.’
Nothing seemed to surprise Salvarocca anymore. Within seconds he was issuing bullying commands, getting his policemen to walk the various guests and the staff of the guesthouse to the mirrored salon next door with the promise of a lunch, leaving no room for protests. The salon door was then locked and several policemen stood sentry outside it.
Posie retreated into a corner of the dining-room. There were no windows here at all, only an old-fashioned line-up of maps of the different districts of Venice, and the vast lagoon. Left quite alone, Posie tried not to look at the body on the floor, and focused instead on a map of nearby St Mark’s, but really she was thinking about Bella Alladice and her short, poisonous life. And her painful, poisonous death. No-one deserved to die like that.
And then Posie was aware of someone standing behind her.
‘Oh! It’s you!’
It was Alaric with a very young police officer at his side. Alaric was throwing a disappointed look in her direction.
‘What’s this all about, Posie? No-one understands. Locking us all up like common little thieves on the pretence of having some lunch? As if we’re hungry at a time like this! You’re the only one missing and everyone is kicking up a ruckus! They asked me to come and find out what the devil is going on. A spokesperson, if you like. What is the meaning of it all?’
‘It’s only briefly, Alaric. It’s containment.’
‘Good grief! Do I need to be contained?’
‘It would look odd if you were treated differently, wouldn’t it?’
Alaric looked exhausted. ‘You haven’t spoken to me since I entered the room earlier, Posie.’
‘I was sitting next to a dead body. It hardly induces conversation, does it? Besides, you were the one who left me all alone today so you could look for something precious. We’re getting married tomorrow, for goodness’ sake! This is the first I’ve seen of you. Where have you been all morning?’
Alaric shrugged, his face flushed with anger. ‘I was just out and about.’
‘No. You were at Santa Lucia train station,’ she said, matter-of-factly.
‘How the blazes…? I say! Have you been following me about? That’s a cheap trick!’
But she didn’t answer, and Alaric left, marched off by the policeman. Posie whispered, but just to herself, ‘I know where you were because of the Mughal cigarettes. The train station is apparently the only place which sells them, from that single vending machine by the locker-room. And something or someone drew you to that machine. You who have never smoked Mughals in your life before…’
But Alaric and his cigarettes seemed to pale into insignificance and Posie found herself staring again and again down at the shattered wreck that had been Bella Alladice. This – this murder – was more important than anything else.
They got at you, Bella, Posie thought to herself bitterly. Two months of wretchedness and they got you anyway.
But who had got her?
And why now?
****
Eleven
Salvarocca was back within only a couple of minutes. He threw the dining-room door wider, revealing Max right behind him. Max was carrying his large commercial traveller’s suitcase, his felt hat held respectfully against his chest. There was no surprise showing on his face, its features arranged blandly, as if he had, for all the world, come to sell medium-range Swiss watches to a serious purchaser. But the clear blue eyes took in all the carnage before him.
The Commissario looked from Posie to the blonde German. ‘I don’t feel comfortable having so many people held in custody on what may just be a whim, Miss Parker. And who is this mysterious man you wanted brought along?’
‘We can’t reveal much, but this is Max: he’s a fully trained doctor and he knows all about poisons. In fact, Chief Inspector Lovelace is acquainted with him, too. We worked on a case together, two years ago. It’s our good luck he happens to be staying here. It’s as simple as that. And this isn’t a whim. Max will confirm it.’
Relief flooded the Commissario’s face. ‘Please proceed then. You know what to do, Mr Max? I’ll stand and wait here for your conclusions. Quick as you can, please.’
‘I understand. I’ll do my very best for you.’
‘And go gently,’ muttered Salvarocca. ‘I don’t want you leaving your prints over everything.’
Max nodded, not affronted. ‘Believe me, it would be more than my life is worth to leave fingerprints.’
Max strode across the room, and was now down on the floor at Bella Alladice’s side. He had opened his case and pulled on rubber gloves, fishing out several small articles including a metal spoon and a few glass jars, and some strips of brown sugar paper. Posie stood beside the Commissario and they watched Max at work.
He sprang easily into action, shifting back through the gears into the role he had trained so hard for, all those years before. Max moved around the body without touching anything, examining the face and hands at close range. He focused on the patches of vomit and coffee. He scraped and prodded and stuck bits of paper into samples in glass jars, before setting his watch and timing his tests.
After what seemed like ages, but was probably no more than a couple of minutes, Max consulted his strips of paper and stood up.
‘This is my medical opinion,’ he stated calmly. ‘The Countess has been dead about an hour and a half; I’d say she died between ten o’clock and ten-thirty this morning. She has died from a seizure resulting in heart failure, caused by a massive overdose of prussic acid.’
‘Prussic acid?’ asked Posie impatiently. ‘That’s a poison, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly is. I thought as such when I first saw her, but my litmus tests confirm it. The stuff is dreadful. It’s used commercially, often as a rat poison. It smells strongly of almonds. It’s a cyanide, and you can see the blue effect in the face, becoming more and more apparent as time ticks on. Maybe your murderer didn’t realise that the eventual blue tinge to the skin and lips would give the game away?’
‘So this is murder?’ countered Salvarocca, his arms still crossed. Posie felt an odd combination of triumph and despair, laced through with the knowl
edge that this initial report changed everything.
Max shrugged. ‘Don’t let me tell you your job, sir. But I’d wager my life on it being murder. Ach! It’s certainly not suicide: no-one would choose to die like that. Death would have been staggeringly painful, lasting several minutes, and she would have been conscious until the very end, but unable to speak or cry out, poor woman.’
Posie had come to stand closer. ‘Where was it contained, Max? The poison?’
‘I thought at first it must have been in the coffee, and it did end up there. But I tested the open coffee-pot and the milk jug for traces of the prussic acid, and both were clear. I’d say it was in the liqueur in that silver hip-flask over there, only I can’t test it because the top is screwed on tight and I promised not to leave fingerprints. I imagine the Countess added the liqueur to her poured-out coffee as a pick-me-up. It’s that almond liqueur she liked, isn’t it? I saw her drinking it in the salon yesterday. The stuff would have masked the scent of the poison all right, the woman wouldn’t have had a clue!’
‘Thank you.’ The Chief of Police sighed deeply, checking his large showy timepiece. ‘To be honest I’d hoped to hear that Miss Parker was wrong. I expect my Police Surgeon will merely confirm your findings when he arrives. Will you meet with him, Mr Max?’
The German shook his head regretfully. ‘As I said, sir, I’m not really here. I can’t afford to be a witness on any sort of paperwork.’
Salvarocca nodded and departed for the Romagnoli Palace, collecting the Count as he went, and Posie and Max were left alone with the body.
‘I tried to tell you last night,’ Max whispered eventually. His voice was low, a warning. ‘But this murder makes it clearer. This is a dangerous place. It was dangerous for Bella Alladice, and it’s dangerous for you. This death is just the tip of the iceberg. We’re dealing with lethal folk here. Folk who don’t think anything of slipping a little poison in someone’s morning tipple. I like you, Posie: I have since I met you. You didn’t survive working in the trenches to end up dead on a floor like this, did you? Take my advice and get out now. This is a police matter. Just go home.’
Posie was unnerved. She had no idea what the next couple of days held, but she hadn’t expected to flee Venice as a result of a warning. ‘You’re quite serious?’
‘I am. The things I’ve seen here lead me to believe that powerful criminals are at work. This isn’t just a game, you know.’
That piercing blue gaze. He continued, remorselessly: ‘Is it the promise of the wedding keeping you here? Only, I thought you might have changed your mind on that score.’
At her silence he pressed on. ‘Because I think you should know that your fiancé, although he is undoubtedly a man of exceptionally vivid personality and women seem to melt before him, is a liar. I’ll tell it how it is: there is no service booked at that church.’
How dare the man! But evidence mattered, and Max was, above all things, a man who was an expert in evidence.
‘How do you know?’ Posie hissed.
‘I checked, unlike you. And because right now, while he’s locked in that salon with everyone else, Alaric is anxiously checking his watch every two minutes. He’s frustrated that his plans for today have gone awry.’
‘Plans?’ The word was a small squeak.
A nod. ‘Alaric’s leaving here. He wants to leave now. I don’t know where he’s going, or why: that will have to remain a mystery only you can unpick. He came back to the guesthouse this morning to collect his bag and clear out. It’s still sitting upstairs. You can imagine, this death has thwarted his hopes of a speedy exit.’
‘How do you have this knowledge?’
‘I told you. I’m a ghost. No more, no less. It’s my job to know about everyone here. People’s rooms tell me a good deal.’
He extracted a slim piece of wire from a pocket. It was dull in colour, and about the size of a man’s thumb, looped back on itself in a couple of careful places.
A skeleton key.
‘Clever,’ Posie muttered sarcastically.
‘You don’t believe me?’ Max looked at his watch and grabbed Posie’s arm. ‘We have another fifteen minutes or so before that Police Surgeon arrives. Or Salvarocca returns. And everyone else is conveniently out of the way. There’s a junior uniformed policeman standing watch at the door, so Bella’s body is safe. You can’t help her any further now. Come on. I’ll show you.’
And Posie simply followed, putting up no resistance.
****
Twelve
Upstairs, on the wide corridor which was housing the more prestigious of the Romagnoli party, Max stopped outside a door halfway along.
‘Here we are.’ He fiddled with the lock.
It struck Posie as faintly ludicrous that she hadn’t as yet managed to enter her fiancé’s room at all, and now here she was, entering it with another man, surreptitiously, uninvited.
They stepped in.
The large, heavily-furnished room was very neat. Posie surveyed the space, and found it didn’t actually surprise her in the slightest that Alaric’s leather rucksack bearing a recent travel docket emblazoned with the word ‘CONSTANTINOPLE’ was packed and ready next to the bed. A British travel pass and an identity card sat atop it. But Posie didn’t even go over to check the details, nor did she race to the cupboards and desk to check for personal items. She knew there would be none.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
Back in the corridor she stood a little taller, held herself a little more firmly. They lingered at the top of the stairs in an uncomfortable silence. Posie gnawed at her lip. The man was thorough, she’d give him that. And Max had mentioned he was keeping everyone under surveillance. She might as well ask…
‘Just quickly, what else did you find out? About the others?’
The spy cocked his head to one side. ‘I told you to leave this well alone.’
At her raised eyebrow and crossed arms he relented. ‘Ach, nothing as telling as that, I’m afraid. Don’t forget, these people came with very little; just what they grabbed from the fire, or had with them when they were out. It may not be representative, but I can get a fair idea of what’s going on.’
‘So?’
The German pointed to another room further along, past Alaric’s. ‘Dickie Alladice is a private, careful man, for all that he drinks. He keeps things locked up.’ Max wiggled his skeleton key ruefully. ‘This isn’t much use at cracking his smart little safe, unfortunately.’
He indicated further down the landing. ‘The other corridor is more interesting. Lucy Christie, for example.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, she lives frugally, as you’d expect. But she’s obviously been used to better times. Nothing of note, except a charred hat-box stuffed full of old letters and sentimental keepsakes, and stubs from monthly money orders. She’s been sending her pittance of a salary back to England, to a nursing home in the north.’
‘Jolly nice girl. An aged relative, I suppose. Who else have you snooped on?’
‘That secretary, now, he’s an interesting chap. Has a top-range tiny photographic camera, a Leica. It must be his pride and joy, and must have cost him a pretty penny. It’s not just for taking holiday snaps, believe me. I think he takes pictures of subjects he finds interesting, or profitable. I find it suspicious. And he collects photographs, too: there were a couple of fairly non-descript old press photographs he’d stuffed into a green folder containing some telling personal stuff. Did you know he’s leaving his job here?’
‘That’s good timing.’
‘I thought that would interest you. There are several cut-out advertisements from British newspapers for vacant posts, all much the same as this; secretaries, personal assistants, help needed with company accounts. He’s been applying in earnest too, many letters on the go over the last couple of weeks. And his references are strange, too. All made up. That fellow is decidedly clever, but there’s no way any of his past positions or employers check out. It’s all
a load of make-believe. I’m surprised Bella Alladice swallowed it.’
‘Goodness! Are you sure?’
‘Ja, of course I’m sure. I make my living out of make-believe and lies and I can tell a fraud.’
‘He’s not one of yours, I suppose?’
Max shook his head. ‘No. The fellow’s a rotten apple. You can spot it a mile off. He’s not cautious enough, somehow.’
‘I see. Well, perhaps Bella found out? I wonder if he’s been asked to leave or if it’s his choice to go?’
‘I couldn’t say. Oh, and another thing, at the back of the same green folder are money orders, all for the same small amounts. All from Lucy Christie.’
Posie started. ‘What? That makes no sense at all.’
‘They date back to last year, to last June. There are payments once a month.’
Posie frowned. ‘June was when they all came out here, to Venice. But I thought Lucy and Roger might be close. Might be…’
‘I know. Très chère amies? Lovers?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. They’re small amounts but enough to cut into Lucy’s miniscule monthly salary. Maybe he buys silk stockings for her, or cigarettes? Maybe she pays him back in this way?’
Posie grimaced. Roger Valentine was getting more and more complicated by the second. ‘Let’s just admit it. It sounds as if he’s blackmailing her. Small amounts, the same every time?’
Max shrugged. ‘He hasn’t cashed them, though. He doesn’t need to. He has a nice little nest-egg of his own, from looking at his bank statement. Especially since he was paid a big lump-sum just a couple of weeks ago. The equivalent to about five years of his current salary, I’d say.’
‘A couple of weeks ago? The same time he’s been applying for other jobs? Who paid him?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. It came from within Venice, from a private account.’
‘That could have come from anyone, then. And quickly, what do you know of Aunt Minnie?’
Max exhaled, as if in sheer disbelief. ‘Is that her name? That sweet, dithery woman? “Butter wouldn’t melt” – you English say that, don’t you?’
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