by Rhys Bowen
Drat my mother, I thought. There was nothing I wanted to do less than burglarize Rudi’s room. I had just started to undress when there was a tap at my door. I realized I had failed to lock it and braced for the intruder, but it was Gerda who came in, carrying a cup and saucer.
“You should have rung for me, my lady. I did not realize you had turned in for the night until one of the maids said she had seen you going up the stairs. See, I have brought you an herbal tea. So good for clearing the head after a headache.”
“Thank you,” I said as she put it on the desk beside me. I sniffed it dubiously. I had never been a fan of herb teas and this one did not look inviting.
“You should drink while it is still hot,” she said, urging me to pick up the cup.
I took a few sips to please her. It tasted as disgusting as it looked.
“The contessa always asks me to make this when she has had one of her sick headaches,” Gerda said, standing sentry until I finished the cup. “Good. Now I will undress you.”
She did this with rapid efficiency and quickly had my nightdress over my head and me tucked in bed. Outside the storm rumbled and clattered. I thought of Darcy and wondered if he was all right in his funny little stable-house. I have to confess I felt a bit uneasy myself. I must have inherited my fear of storms from my mother, because we certainly had our share of them up on the bleak Scottish moors when I was growing up. But I curled into a tight little ball, wondering if I would be able to sleep at all and wishing the storm would go away.
The next thing I knew, someone was standing by my bed. I must have gasped and tried to sit up.
“It’s only me, my lady,” said a calm voice.
It took a moment for the figure to swim into focus and for me to realize that it was broad daylight.
“Your morning tea, my lady,” Gerda said. “The weather is still not favorable, I regret to say. I think you will need your tweed skirt and jumper again. If you wish to drive into Milan with the contessa and Mrs. Simpson I think you should get up soon.”
“Why, what time is it?” I asked.
“Almost nine o’clock,” she said. “I expect the storm kept you awake for much of the night. We have bad storms where I grew up in Austria, but this was quite as loud and fierce as any I have experienced.”
I sat up and took a sip of tea.
“Shall I run your bath, my lady?” she asked.
“Oh yes, please,” I said. Today I really did have a headache from sleeping so late. And from the unfamiliar amount of alcohol the night before. I decided I should get dressed then take a brisk walk outside to sweep away the cobwebs, and to find a way to deliver the message to Darcy.
When I was bathed and dressed I went downstairs and heard voices coming from the lake view room. So others were already at breakfast. I remembered then that Gerda had asked whether I wanted to go shopping in Milan with Mrs. Simpson. That was the last thing I wanted to do. There is nothing more depressing than to go shopping in expensive boutiques with someone who has an unlimited amount of money when one can afford nothing. But I hoped that most of the other guests would decide to go with her. That way I had less chance of being seen with Darcy. I decided I had better make my intentions clear before I went for my walk so I joined the party in the lake room. The prince and Mrs. Simpson were sitting in the window, the German military men on high-backed chairs, Paolo with his mother and uncle in one corner, Camilla standing by the table, spreading jam on a roll. Only my mother, Max and Rudi were absent. At least I wasn’t the last one down.
I muttered a good morning and went over to the table, helping myself to a croissant.
“We’re going into Milan in a little while, Georgiana,” Camilla said, turning as I approached her. “You’ll be able to amuse yourself, I hope. We would naturally invite you to join us, only there’s no more room in the car.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said.
“I could stay behind if young Georgie wants to go with you,” my cousin David said, giving me a friendly grin.
“Oh no, sir, that’s really fine,” I said. “I’m not a big shopper.”
“And I want you with me, David,” Mrs. Simpson said firmly. “I need your opinion on things that I buy. You know I like to look good for you and I value your opinion.”
“Wallis, I tell you something looks nice and immediately you say it’s terrible and you discard it,” he replied, still laughing. She gave him a warning stare. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, and worried too. If this relationship was to last it was clear who ruled the roost. And if he became king, would she expect to marry him and become queen? Impossible, I thought. The Church of England would never let him marry her. But she could still be his mistress, still be the power behind the throne. I just prayed that King George went on living for many, many years.
I had just finished my roll when my mother came in, looking stylish in a royal blue two-piece and jaunty matching hat. “I hope we won’t get blown away,” she said, making it clear that she was going shopping too. “And I hope the road between here and Milan is passable.”
“I don’t think there should be any problems unless there are downed trees,” Paolo said. “There are quite a few branches down on our land I noticed this morning. A lot of work for the gardeners.”
“About time you gave them something to do,” his mother said with her usual critical stare. “Why do you employ so many men when there is usually so little to do? They stand around leaning on rakes all day. Or smoking behind the bushes. A disgrace. In my day we expected people to work.”
“I think the grounds always look splendid so the gardeners must be doing a good job,” Camilla said. “And as for employing lots of people, times are hard here. At least we’re giving employment.”
“I may go out and walk in the grounds myself,” I said. “Have a lovely day in Milan.”
“I hate to leave you alone, but I’m sure you will find something productive to do.” My mother gave me a knowing stare. “And what should I buy for you in Milan, my darling?”
This was a new, solicitous mother.I was tempted to give her a long list, but I smiled and said, “Anything you think would look good on me would be very nice. You have such good taste. As you know, I have almost no fashionable clothes.”
“I thought you’ve looked pretty good both evenings so far,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Quite stylish. I was surprised.”
“That’s because the contessa’s maid is a genius,” I said quickly.
“You’ll need an umbrella if you go out walking,” Paolo commented, staring out of the window at the gray and angry lake. “It’s still raining and it looks as if there is plenty more to come.”
Oh dear, I thought. Did that mean that Darcy would not even be out on the grounds today?
“I’m used to the rain in Scotland,” I said.
“Oh God,” my mother echoed. “Don’t remind me. Those years at that bloody castle seemed to be endless rain and wind. How it howled down those dreary hallways. The happiest day of my life was when I fled southward.”
“Abandoning your only child.” The words came out before I could stop them.
Mummy looked up, her eyes flashing. “Darling, you had a nanny and you were too young to miss me. I’d have made a terrible mother if I’d been unhappy all the time. And look at us now—how well we get on together.” She flashed her brilliant smile at me, but I read it quite clearly. Drop the subject, her look said.
I went up to put on my raincoat. I had noticed umbrellas in the hall stand. I passed a maid carrying cleaning supplies, starting to clean the bedrooms now that we were all up and about. She stopped and dropped a curtsy as I passed. I took my raincoat out of the giant wardrobe, went downstairs and was about to select an umbrella when there was a distant growl of thunder. I hesitated. I didn’t mind walking in the rain, but the prospect of walking in a thunderstorm, holding an umbrella, among big
trees, certainly wasn’t one I relished. But the need to find Darcy overrode all difficulties. I’d retreat if the storm came closer, I decided as I picked a large umbrella and went through the front door. The wind from the lake met me full in the face and raindrops peppered me, threatening to snatch the umbrella from my grasp. I almost turned back. It occurred to me that the others would think I was quite batty to choose to be outdoors in such weather.
As I walked out onto the grounds the destruction of the night’s storm was very much in evidence. Branches were down, flower beds had been flattened and tulips were lying in sorry rows. Massive fronds had fallen from the palm trees beside the driveway. I heard the sound of voices and made for them. One gardener, an old sack draped over his clothing, was pulling a barrow while two others threw debris into it. And one of the two was Darcy.
They stopped as I approached them. I tried to think of a plausible way to get Darcy away from the others and decided to do my Queen Victoria imitation.
“You men,” I said. “There is a branch across the path where I wish to walk. So dangerous.” I paused then added imperiously, “A branch. Dangerous. Do any of you speak English?”
“I do, my lady,” Darcy replied. “I’m the gardener from the estate in England.”
“Good, then follow me,” I said. “It is not a big branch, but it is blocking the path.”
The other gardeners gave Darcy a look of commiseration as I stalked ahead of him, well away from the work that was going on. When there were several large hedges between us I turned and grinned. “Sorry about that,” I said. “It will be the last time I boss you around.”
“I doubt it.” He grinned back. “But I’ve a bone to pick with you. You came up to me yesterday with something exciting that you had found, so I thought it was important enough to risk climbing up to your balcony with that storm going on. I got soaked to the skin, almost struck by lightning, and then I found you’d locked the shutters and the windows. I tapped several times, but obviously you didn’t hear me over the noise of the storm.”
“Golly, Darcy, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I deliberately didn’t put out the signal as I didn’t want you to risk making that climb in a storm. I thought that even you wouldn’t be foolhardy enough to climb up an ironwork balcony with lightning around. And I must have been sleeping deeply not to hear your knock.”
“You must have fallen asleep immediately,” he said. “I saw the light go out in your room and came right away.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I survived.” He gave me a brilliant smile. “Only a little wet.”
“Anyway, we shouldn’t waste any more time. I’ve a lot to tell you.” I pulled Darcy under my umbrella, half sheltered by the wisteria that spilled from a wall. “I have found out what all these people are doing here. And you won’t believe what I overheard yesterday in that little marble pavilion.” I lowered my voice even more. “It’s really dangerous, Darcy. It seems there is a conspiracy . . .”
The end of this sentence was cut off by a loud scream, coming from the house. A woman was screaming and screaming. Not the sort of scream that would come from seeing a mouse, but the sound of absolute terror. I looked at Darcy. “I’ll tell you later,” I said. And I ran toward the house.
As I came in through the front door I heard sounds of running feet, raised voices, someone shouting, “Get a doctor,” and another voice saying, “Too late for that.”
The voices were coming from upstairs. I felt panic rising in my throat as I dropped the umbrella and ran up the staircase, fearing that the screams had been my mother’s. She had the most powerful voice of those present. So I was relieved when I bumped into her, emerging from her bedroom, already wearing her dark mink coat and matching hat.
“What on earth’s going on, Georgie?” she asked. “Has Rudi been at the maids, do you think? I wouldn’t put it past him, odious man.”
My eyes went instinctively to Rudi’s door. It was open. I went toward it. Several people were standing in the doorway. Looking between them I saw Paolo with his arms around a thin, dark scrap of a maid. She was shaking all over and still sobbing. Then my gaze went across to the bed. Rudi lay there, or at least I presumed it was Rudi. It was hard to tell as part of his face had been blown away. The gun still lay in his dead right hand.
Chapter 19
TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1935
We all stood there, frozen like statues, staring in disbelief. The only sound was the gentle sobbing of the maid. Of course it had to be my mother who broke the silence. She gave a dramatic gasp. “I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “Not Rudi. He was so fun-loving, so full of life. He had so much to live for. Why would he do a thing like this?”
Paolo turned to her, his face deathly white and his eyes still wide with shock. “Sometimes people hide their inner pain with outward jollity,” he said. “Perhaps none of us really knew him. We only saw the debonair and carefree man he wanted us to see.” He made a gesture to sweep us from the room. “Come. I think we should leave. This is not a suitable sight for ladies. I must summon the doctor to write a death certificate.”
While he spoke I had been staring with horrified fascination at Rudi. I had seen dead bodies before, but I suppose one never gets used to the sight, and this one was particularly horrible. Blood had congealed on his terrible wound, indicating that the deed had been done several hours before. But I had heard nothing, I thought. Surely someone in the next room would have heard a shot? I was trying to come to terms with the Count Rudolf I had witnessed, taking his own life. It seemed incomprehensible. If anyone thought a lot of himself it was Rudi. Thoughts flashed through my head: Maybe he had just learned he had an incurable disease. Maybe he had learned that he had lost his fortune or even was about to be arrested, given his behavior. But then he had shown no signs of distress the night before. Could a telegram have arrived in the middle of the night with bad news for him? Not that it mattered now. He was dead.
One by one the others stirred themselves as if waking from a dream and shuffled out of the room. I continued to stare at the body. Something was not right. Apart from his clear love of life, I was seeing something that worried me. I tried to pinpoint what it was. Something I was observing. I took in the blood-soaked pillow, the blood spatters on the wallpaper behind the bed and on the carpet, then Rudi’s lifeless hand, still holding the pistol, slumped above it. And unbidden a picture came into my mind. Rudi sitting in the long gallery writing a letter—a letter I couldn’t read because it was in German script. And he had been holding the pen in his left hand! Yet the gun was now clutched in his right.
As the room cleared out Paolo went over to the bed and bent to take the gun. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted, surprised at the force of my own voice. “We should leave the room immediately. This is a crime scene.”
Paolo looked at me in surprise. “But this poor man took his own life. I know it is a crime in the eyes of the church, but I hope Father Francisco might still give him a blessing.”
The others froze in the doorway and stared at me. I felt my cheeks going red, but I said, in what I hoped was a calm voice, “I don’t think he killed himself, Paolo.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “His door was locked. The gun is still in his hand. How can you suspect that anyone else was involved in this?”
“I can see the gun in his hand,” I said. “But it’s his right hand. I saw him holding a pen yesterday, writing with his left hand.”
I heard a little gasp from one of those who had come back into the room. “That’s right,” Mummy said. “He was left-handed. I remember remarking on it once. We were talking about left-handed people being devious. And I remember how he chuckled.” She put her hand to her mouth and gave a little sob. “He chuckled,” she repeated.
Max put an arm around her shoulder. “Come away, Liebling. Do not distress yourself any further.”
“Oh, Max, I’ll never
get that sight from my mind. Never. Take me away.” Mummy allowed herself to be steered out of the room again. Paolo, Camilla, the German general and the Prince of Wales were still all staring at me.
“So what you’re suggesting is that this was murder, Georgie?” my cousin said in a shaky voice.
“I’m saying he would not have shot himself with his right hand. I think we should summon the police.”
“Oh, do you really think that’s a good idea?” Paolo said. “You do not know our local police here. We are legally not part of the town of Stresa, but if I call in the Carabinieri they are a useless bunch of bullying peasants from the south. They could not solve a crime if the murderer was standing in front of them, handed them the gun and confessed. Unfortunately the local Polizia Municipale will not be much better, I fear. Why can we not call it a suicide and have done with it? Nothing we can say or do can bring the poor fellow back to life.” He looked at Camilla. “You don’t want this, do you, cara mia? Your guests subject to interrogation? Your home torn apart by peasant boys?”
The Prince of Wales cleared his throat. “Look here, Paolo. If this man was not killed by his own hand, then it means that there is possibly a murderer amongst us. We can’t sweep this under the rug.”
“Which rug should we sweep this under?” General Spitz-Blitzen asked, looking confused. “The rug in this room? No, I agree with His Highness. This matter must be brought to the authorities. There must be truth and justice.”
Paolo sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I will call in the Municipale. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He pushed past us and walked from the room.
“We should close the door and make sure nobody goes inside,” General Spitz-Blitzen said. “Perhaps you could put one of your footmen to guard, Contessa?”
“What? Oh yes. Yes, of course. Good idea.” Camilla sounded quite distraught. “Let’s all go downstairs. I’ll have Umberto bring us some brandy. I’m sure we could all use some after this shock.”