Murder in Venice

by L. B. Hathaway

  Why had Bella acted as she had? And why on earth had Lucy stayed on in such conditions?

  Posie sighed. It was easy enough to answer the first question about Bella’s bad behaviour; that old ogre, jealousy, had been at the root of all of this. Johnny, the adored elder brother, had probably been smitten with the beautiful Lucy, and had most likely ignored his younger sister as a consequence, although not on purpose. Bella had taken umbrage at Lucy. Flashes of Bella’s words, spoken last night before dinner, tumbled through Posie’s mind: ‘She has a habit of stealing hearts. Hearts which are not hers to take.’

  Posie frowned. Hearts? More than just Johnny Alladice’s?

  And in answer to the second question, why Lucy had stayed on in such humiliating circumstances, Posie simply had no answer.

  None of it made sense.

  It was a tangled web. Too many suspects, with too much history between them. The shadow of the war again, making tracks and imprints in people’s lives even now, five years after it had all ended; a hopeless lurching shadow which couldn’t be escaped from.

  And with a stab of regret Posie realised it was her duty to report these findings on to Commissario Salvarocca. For Bella had requested Posie to help her, and Posie had failed spectacularly. She could serve the Countess to the best of her abilities now and help the police get to the bottom of it all.

  On the evidence received from Sidney, things were looking pretty black for Lucy Christie. Lucy seemed to have eclipsed the others as the person who had lost out most, and very personally, through Bella’s direct actions. Had Bella’s treatment of Lucy finally made her snap? Led the girl to lace a flask with a poison guaranteed to cause death? But why now? Lucy had been the companion to the Countess for six years. It would be horrible to have to recount all of this: Posie liked the girl, after all, and now she felt sorry for her, too. But, as Max had said, the Commissario could take it forwards.

  For some reason Posie kept conjuring up Inspector Lovelace’s face, familiar, comforting, reliable. How she wished he was here. She heard his words, clear as a bell:

  ‘This is a mare’s nest, Posie.’

  A mare’s nest.

  It probably was. But she went upstairs to the dining-room anyway. Count Giancarlo was sitting outside the scene of crime, smoking as if his life depended on it, shivering almost, flanked by two policemen. Giancarlo looked absolutely dreadful, far worse than earlier, sea-sick almost, his usually groomed hair spiralling wildly into his eyes. Posie presumed that the news of Bella’s death together with the exertions of whatever was so important over at the insurance valuation had led to his current fragile state.

  Inside the dining-room, confronted with the hostile scene-of-crime officers who were bundling Bella Alladice’s body up into some sort of canvas bag, Posie sought out Salvarocca, who was in close conference with the newly-arrived Police Surgeon, a small ferrety-looking slip of a man.

  Posie marched over. Behind her the door opened again but she ignored it. Probably just another forensics assistant, no doubt. Salvarocca and the Surgeon didn’t look up: they were paying close attention to the black folio.

  Posie stared at it. ‘I say! Wasn’t that Bella’s?’

  ‘We assume so, Miss Parker.’

  ‘Where are the papers?’

  ‘Exactly. There were no papers here. That’s the odd thing.’

  Posie frowned. Last time she had seen Bella Alladice, at breakfast, the thing had been stuffed full with thick, fat-looking sheets, and the Countess had indicated it would take her a good while to get through the work.

  ‘Why not ask her secretary, Roger, what the folio contained? He put the papers together for Bella early this morning.’

  ‘I will do.’ Salvarocca indicated the Police Surgeon. ‘By the way, Doctor Alessandro here confirms the findings from earlier. Murder, by prussic acid. Both the Countess and her cat: the creature obviously ingested some of the poison splashed around the place. That, or he licked at the Countess’s mouth.’ Posie shuddered and felt sick.

  ‘Yes. It was careful, clever work, and not a fingerprint to be found anywhere so far, more’s the pity. But Doctor Alessandro thinks we might be able to get a print off this folio.’

  ‘You’ll get several, actually,’ explained Posie grimly. ‘The thing was almost covering Bella’s face when we found her, and many people have touched it since.’

  At their defeated faces, Posie hurried on: ‘By the way, there’s a good deal of hot stuff I’ve found out. It’s all dashed complicated.’

  And then she blurted out a potted, amalgamated version of the information she had obtained on all of the Romagnoli house guests since she had seen the Commissario last. When it came to the engraved silver hip-flask of Bella’s, and the late-night medicine, and seeing both items the night before in Lucy’s hands, Posie didn’t hold back.

  Salvo Salvarocca stared at her. There was a curious mix of humour, dismay and disbelief written all over his face. ‘That was fast work, Miss Parker. You seem to have done my job for me.’

  There was a sharp laugh from the doorway. ‘I’ll say she has! I did warn you, Salvo, my old friend. What is this? Posie? It looks horribly like a dead body. Thank goodness it’s not on my watch! You’re supposed to be getting married. Talk about a busman’s holiday!’

  Posie gasped.

  For in the doorway was Chief Inspector Lovelace, in a smart navy pinstriped suit which she had never seen before, holding a slim attaché case in his hands and also, as if it couldn’t get any odder, holding the strange black carnival masks.

  Incongruous, unexpected, and totally out of place.

  But so very, very welcome.

  ‘Sir!’ yelped Posie, and ran to him with open arms.

  ****

  Fifteen

  Commissario Salvarocca bounded across the room and was now crushing Chief Inspector Lovelace in an altogether bearlike and very un-English embrace.

  ‘Richard! My good friend! I had no idea you were coming out here. But why? No, tell me later. No time now. I need to get next door where a room full of suspects awaits. It seems we may have a murderer among us.’

  As they entered the salon, everyone looked up expectantly. Posie registered that Alaric, Dickie, Aunt Minnie, Lucy and Roger had been joined by the Count, and Mrs Persimmon was there together with her workers; Jones the Butler, the middle-aged English cook and the nervy-looking maid. The household staff looked ill-at-ease and miserable.

  Everyone except Dickie Alladice had sat themselves down in a rough ring of chairs, and a table took up the middle of the room with what looked like the remains of sandwiches and coffee on it. Posie had forgotten that this room contained the well-stocked drinks trolley, and she saw that Dickie Alladice was stationed beside it, while most people in the room seemed to have a glass of brandy in their hands. Aunt Minnie in particular looked frightful, flushed and sweating.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Dickie asked abruptly. He checked his watch. ‘It’s twelve-thirty. We’ve been in here over an hour.’ He looked in confusion from Salvarocca to Posie and then on to Inspector Lovelace, who hung back with becoming humility.

  ‘I say! Who’s this fresh lad?’

  Inspector Lovelace stepped forwards. His former glibness had been replaced by the usual professional calm which Posie knew so well: his eyes taking in everyone and everything in the room, matching people with the snippets of Posie’s conversation he must have overheard; his boyish, gingery good-looks and gentle manner belying the core of steel and ambition which had propelled him right to the top echelons of the British Police Force. He did look a little odd, however. He was still holding the two masks.

  ‘Scotland Yard, Mr Alladice.’

  Dickie Alladice frowned. ‘Heaven help us! It must be serious.’

  ‘Please accept my commiserations on the death of your sister.’ He nodded at the Count, who was now sunk with his head in his hands in an armchair. ‘And I extend them to you, too, Your Grace.’

  Posie noticed how Alaric had sprung
up from his own chair, and was looking over at Inspector Lovelace, with not a smidgen of surprise on his face but with – what was it? – relief? A sense of expectancy?

  The Commissario took over. ‘I am afraid we are now dealing with a murder investigation,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  A collective gasp ran around the room, and people started whispering all at once, but the big man put his hand up, as if stopping the busy London traffic on the Kingsway. At his gesture an immediate silence fell.

  ‘I have it on the advice of medical experts that Countess Bella Romagnoli was poisoned sometime this morning between ten and ten-thirty. She was last seen alive by Mrs Persimmon and Mr Jones at nine-thirty, and then her body was discovered by them just over an hour later. To the best of their knowledge the Countess was alone during this time, writing or reading in the dining-room next door. Does anyone want to tell me anything different?’

  Everyone was still, open-mouthed.

  ‘No?’ The Commissario continued on briskly. ‘Well then, does anyone have anything to say about this?’ He waved Bella’s empty leather work folio in the air.

  Posie watched Roger Valentine swallow and then stand up. ‘It belonged to my employer, the late Countess.’

  ‘Full marks to you, Mr Valentine. When did you last see it? And did it look like this?’

  A flicker of a scowl twitched across the handsome dark face, to be replaced by puzzlement. ‘I saw it very early this morning. When the Countess asked for it. And in answer to your second question: no; it did not look like that. It was full of paperwork. About thirty or more pages, I’d say.’

  ‘Pages about what?’

  The Private Secretary gestured dismissively towards Mrs Persimmon and her staff. ‘Do you really expect me to reveal matters of a private nature in front of servants?’ His tone was contemptuous, and Posie found herself hating him for it.

  Roger drew himself up as much as his fairly short stature would allow. ‘Besides, I was the Countess’s Private Secretary. Even though she’s dead I owe my employer a duty of confidentiality. And I also owe her a duty right now to contact her personal solicitor in London regarding her Will. I would like to be excused to use the telephone.’

  ‘Her solicitor in London?’ said Dickie, looking puzzled. ‘Who’s that? Bella never mentioned it to me. I thought her affairs had been taken care of by our lawyer chappie here, Mr Ennario? That’s what she led me to understand.’

  Roger Valentine shook his head petulantly: ‘No, sir. Mr Proudfoot of Pring and Proudfoot in London drew up Bella’s Will and he will now need to make the necessary arrangements to come out here and read it. It’s to be a week from her death. That’s what my employer wanted.’

  ‘I heard she was about to be your ex-employer,’ muttered Posie, loud enough to be heard, and she was rewarded by Roger’s sullen scowl.

  The Commissario put the folder away, smiled pleasantly around the room, as if in a perfectly normal meeting, and got out his own notebook which had an important-looking gold foil badge on its front.

  ‘You can use the telephone in just a minute, Mr Valentine. First, I want all of you to give me a description of where you were from breakfast until ten-thirty today. Posie Parker has already given me an account, and His Grace Giancarlo Romagnoli has no need to explain anything: he was with me during the entire time period concerned. But everyone else here needs to account for themselves.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, old chap.’ Dickie Alladice was frowning. ‘You mean we are the suspects?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  But before Dickie could answer, Posie was surprised to see Aunt Minnie rising, anguish all over her face. And she spoke up, fairly boldly, Posie thought. ‘But you’re holding a fellow, aren’t you? You told us so yesterday! I can’t remember the exact name, some low-life. Corsessi? Corselli? So why bother to ask us for alibis?’

  Count Giancarlo broke into a reedy peal of laughter, the scorn barely concealed. It was the first noise he had made. He still looked terrible, the greenish sea-sick hue not having disappeared. Salvarocca ignored him and smiled at Aunt Minnie benignly.

  ‘You are quite correct, madam. I am holding a fellow for his part in the fire last night. Pietro Corsetti. But at present the two events seem completely unrelated. In fact, I intend to let Mr Corsetti go as soon as I get back to the Questura, my police station.’

  ‘But how’s that, sir?’ said Aunt Minnie insistently. ‘Surely my niece was the undisputed target of both dreadful events? How can you let this man go?’

  ‘Because your niece died while Mr Corsetti was safely locked up in a cell,’ Salvarocca replied icily. ‘So he’s not a suspect in today’s murder. But you all are. We will reconvene here for a progress report tonight at six o’clock. Between now and then you will all stay in your rooms and a police guard will stand at each of your doors. That is an order.’

  Alaric had sprung up, outraged. ‘House arrest? How long will this take? You can’t do that! I’m nothing to do with this whole rummy shin-dig! I barely know these people! I wish to goodness I had never come here!’

  Posie thought grimly of Alaric’s packed rucksack upstairs.

  The Chief of Police was continuing: ‘That’s as maybe, Mr Boynton-Dale. But I need to treat you all the same, don’t I? Maybe you’d care to start us off by telling us what you did this morning?’

  Alaric shrugged moodily and said he had been nowhere near the guesthouse that morning, nor had he seen the Countess. He had walked to Santa Lucia train station very early, and had a sloppy breakfast in one of the cafés in the station, the ‘Fiorenza’, he thought it had been called: the waiter there would probably remember him. He had then walked all the way back, stopping to collect a new off-the-peg suit in one of the fashionable men’s shops in the Campo Rialto Nuovo. He had a receipt to prove it. He had arrived back to find the police already on the doorstep of Mrs Persimmon’s, the body in the dining-room…

  Salvarocca nodded. He turned to Lucy, who gave her movements as being identical to Posie’s.

  ‘Thank you.’ Salvarocca looked at Aunt Minnie. Grasping at the butterfly-patterned chiffon of her blouse and biting at her lip, Minnie reported that she had breakfasted later than usual, alone in her room: just toast and tea. She had met Dickie in the entrance hall at nine o’clock when they took the public vaporetto to the Rialto Bridge, and then walked the short distance to the Calle del Galiazzo, in the legal district. They had had a business meeting with a notary there, a Mr Ennario. The notary had been very busy and had kept them waiting but they had left shortly after a quarter past ten. They had walked back, coming through St Mark’s Square, and had had the good fortune to meet up with the other ladies of the party.

  The Commissario seemed satisfied, and requested Dickie’s alibi. With much pulling of his hair and general breathlessness Dickie Alladice confirmed he had taken no breakfast, which was usual for him, relying only on a cup of coffee in his bedroom which Jones had brought him at about eight-thirty. He had dressed hurriedly and then met his aunt at nine, and the rest of his story matched hers. He couldn’t bring himself to explain the foretaste of disaster when he had seen Jones come running outside the Café Florian, or the dreadful return to the guesthouse and the gruesome discovery of his sister’s body. His voice tailed off, tears obviously not far away.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the big policeman said gently, and moved on to Roger. There was a long pause.

  ‘I can’t really give you an alibi,’ the Private Secretary said at last. Everyone stared.

  ‘Try.’

  Roger shrugged reproachfully. ‘I left here early. Around seven-thirty. I walked around town. I had nowhere to go and no-one to see. I just walked. Mainly around here, around the Dorsoduro.’

  ‘For more than three and a half hours? In the Dorsoduro? There’s not much to see here, is there? Once you’ve seen the Salute Church, I mean…’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but that’s what I did.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm this?’

  ‘
Not really. It was my morning off. Precious. I needed to clear my head and think a good bit.’

  ‘I see. I’ll let you think this over and come back to me with a clearer explanation by six o’clock this evening. Otherwise you’ll come down to the station with me. Understand, sir?’

  At the ensuing silence the Commissario checked and double-checked the movements of Mrs Persimmon, Jones and the household staff, none of whom had new or interesting information to add.

  ‘Has anyone anything they wish to say before you go back to your rooms?’

  After a brief pause, Mrs Persimmon stood up. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ She addressed this to Inspector Lovelace. ‘But why are you carrying those masks? If I’m not much mistaken they’re the property of my guesthouse: they belong in a sort of communal dressing-up box downstairs. My guests sometimes like to borrow them for a special dinner or whatnot. I just wondered, sir, why have you painted them that dreadful black? They were truly luvverly – all gold and silver and red and blue – something special. Now they look like something out of one of them horror movies you hear of at the Pictures!’

  Inspector Lovelace raised an eyebrow and strode across the room, giving the Scaramuccia and the Tartaglia masks back to their rightful owner.

  ‘Jolly sorry, madam.’ He smiled. ‘I simply came across them in the hallway. I have no idea why they’re painted black, but if you look you’ll see that it’s been done very hastily: almost with carbon, like a lump of coal dipped in water. I’d bet your clever maid here will be able to get that black muck off in a jiffy with a bit of elbow grease. No harm done, eh?’

  Mrs Persimmon looked less than convinced – as if Inspector Lovelace himself had been hard at work with his lump of coal – but she nodded uneasily. It obviously didn’t do to argue with Scotland Yard. Not yet, anyhow.

  Posie noted that the maid was casting nervous glances over at the Inspector, and looking miserable at the thought of the task she had been saddled with.

  Inspector Lovelace smiled around winningly. ‘I think my friend Commissario Salvarocca will be very busy this afternoon, and if for some reason anyone has forgotten something, or some little snippet of information suddenly occurs to you which you think might be helpful for the police, please do not hesitate to come and tell me. Or find Miss Parker here, she’s quite experienced at taking confidential statements, and she’s very sympathetic. We will both be here all afternoon, in our respective rooms. Just like everyone else.’