The Contessa stood up. She was dead white. Urbino went over to her before she could say or do anything and guided her back to the sofa.
“Let her speak. Say nothing,” he whispered.
Mamma Zeno stared at the Contessa with an ugly smile.
“Your portrait! Your portrait of your new, rested face to hang in the gallery of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini, where Bambina’s should have! Never! And to think that Gemma was a party to it! Never!”
She raised the cane and made a slicing motion with it. Although Urbino doubted it, he almost thought that if he grabbed the cane and twisted the ferrule, a foot or two of sword-stick would appear.
“Never!” Mamma Zeno repeated. “I’m still strong enough for some things!”
“You did it, Mamma? Brava! Brava!”
Mamma Zeno looked at her daughter and shook her head slowly. She now spoke in Italian:
“You poor fool! It’s all over, don’t you see? You’ll die like me, never having had one single thing you wanted! You wanted Lydgate but he didn’t want you. You wanted Alvise and see what happened! When the time was right for you both—she came along!”
Bambina, who had been so enthusiastic a few moments before, now looked distressed.
Vasco started to get up. Mamma Zeno waved the cane at him and he retreated back to his seat.
“Sit down! I said I wanted to bring things to an end with dignity, not have il signore americano point his finger at me. You have been a fool, Bambina, but I’ve loved you. All these years you’ve had me to thank!”
“Oh, Mamma, you are wonderful! Calm yourself, please. Cool yourself with some perfume.”
Bambina sprang up from the ottoman and went over to her mother. She extracted her silver flask from the deep pocket of her dress and unscrewed the cap.
“Knock it out of her hand, Vasco!” Urbino shouted, hurrying across to where Bambina was about to pour the liquid against her mother’s neck.
Vasco flung out his hand and sent the flask flying through the air. It fell and spilled its contents on the Aubusson, far from any of the guests. The scent of Shalimar began to drift through the library.
Mamma Zeno looked up at her daughter with shock.
“Your sister and even me, your own mother?”
But Bambina didn’t hear. All her attention was now riveted on the door, which, unnoticed by the others because of this little drama, had opened in the last few moments. Standing framed in the doorway as if she were posing for one of her own portraits was Gemma. Her hair was wild, her face white, her eyes blazing.
Oriana screamed.
Gemma remained in the doorway for but a moment, trembling. Then, with an indistinguishable cry that seemed to come from her very soul, she rushed between Urbino and Vasco to Bambina and fell upon her, knocking her to the floor.
From down the hall a telephone suddenly shrilled its message that there was, after all, still a world outside and that they were once again connected to it.
EPILOGUE
Telling the Contessa
“I feel as old as Noah,” the Contessa lamented to Urbino. Considering what she had recently suffered through, the sentiment was understandable and certainly sincere.
But an observer less aware than her good friend of the events at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini might have accused her of exaggeration, if not disingenuousness. For the Contessa’s Ararat was at the moment her customary maroon banquette in the Chinese salon, and her face, though obviously that of a woman of a certain age, was far less obviously that of one of her particular years, especially since exposure to the rejuvenating winds off Mont Blanc. In fact, if you wanted to see any signs of the ravages of time and the elements, you would have to turn your eye away from the Contessa, and out through the windows of Florian’s into Piazza San Marco—where the Contessa’s and Urbino’s gazes were now directed.
Pools of water reflected the stones of the surrounding buildings, some of whose windows had been shattered by the storm. The mosque-like basilica glowed deceptively in the late afternoon light. Only the kind of close scrutiny architects had been giving it during the past few days would have revealed the damages to its recently restored facade and to the mosaics on the floor of the vestibule. Although late in the year for an orchestra in the Piazza, Florian’s had set one up beneath a canopy to celebrate the city’s survival of the second worst storm of the century.
The city was assessing its damages, licking its wounds, and preparing to face an uncertain future—activities not unlike what Urbino and the Contessa were doing at Florian’s this afternoon.
They had already, as was their way and their need, gone over some of the more salient points of the murder of Molly Wybrow and that of Renata Bellini, to which Molly’s was so closely, if also so distantly, related. Their knowledge wasn’t, however, complete. Some details had been passed on to the Contessa by a friend at the Questura. Others had been somewhat grudgingly revealed to Urbino by Commissario Gemelli, with whom Urbino had cooperated on some past murder investigations.
Bambina was in custody, about to undergo psychiatric evaluation. Originally arrested for the attempted murder of Gemma, she had within hours made the mistake of accusing, in succession, her mother, Dr. Vasco, and Gemma of the killings of both Molly and Renata with the kind of detail that only the murderer herself would be in possession of. Whatever shielding of her Mamma Zeno and Vasco had done over the years was at an end. Much was now known but much was also unclear and indeterminate.
The greatest light had been shed by Gemma, now hospitalized for her injuries and for her more serious condition, which had been exacerbated by her fall. She had given a statement to the Questura from her hospital bed and, in a rush of heartfelt confession, repeated it all for the Contessa’s and Urbino’s benefit the other day.
Her revelations had corroborated much of what Urbino had already pieced together and had made use of in the library. Over the years she had harbored a suspicion that her mother’s death hadn’t been natural. She based it more on the silence that surrounded Renata’s death than anything she had heard or seen that weekend back in the thirties: no startling flashbacks, no gradual piecing of things together, but a vague suspicion that grew as the years went by. Any possibility of resolving things through an exhumation was futile, since her mother’s body, buried near Naples, had been among those destroyed in the bombardment of the cemetery during the war. What she began to strongly suspect was that there was some kind of conspiracy at work, that her grandmother, her aunt, and the family physician knew something incriminating about her mother’s death and were protecting one another—or one of them was being protected by the others.
It was the crisis of her own serious illness that had set in motion the events that had had such tragic consequences for Molly at the Contessa’s house party. Gemma had met her at the Victoria and Albert, quickly seen the ases to which she could be put, made her the repository of some crucial details and suspicions, and pulled the unaware Sebastian into the plot. It was her intention to watch, to observe, to evaluate the effects of Molly’s observations. Beyond this she hadn’t thought clearly, something she now regretted, as she keenly regretted having been indirectly responsible for the murder of Molly, who had never been informed of what Gemma was fishing for.
Yes, Urbino thought, she should have told Molly more and Bambina less. If she had made the one privy to her suspicions and pretended more with the other, Molly might still be alive and Gemma herself might not have been pushed down the stairs on her way to enlist Urbino’s help.
Urbino, who had been reviewing all these details as he and the Contessa looked out the window, was surprised to discover that the Contessa had been thinking along parallel lines when she broke her silence. Surely Vasco would see it as a manifestation of the powers of the mind, which—from his point of view—had played such a role in the murders of Renata and Molly.
“Gemma, poor thing, acted irresponsibly, didn’t she? To think that all of this was roiling around in her head while I was sittin
g for her. It’s a wonder none of it came out in the portrait.”
From her intonation and the quick look she gave him it was clear that she wanted—needed—some verification of this. He fortunately could give it.
“None that I could see. And I’m sure that when it’s repaired you’ll be proud to hang it in the gallery.”
“Ah, but the memories behind it, caro! What of those?”
“You’re a brave woman, Barbara. And so is Gemma. Dwell on those memories—on those associations. It’s such a lovely portrait. Alvise wanted a portrait of you in the gallery. In its own crooked and sad, but, yes, perhaps even inevitable way, this is the fulfillment of that wish.”
The Contessa didn’t seem convinced, but he was fairly sure that, with time, she would see it this way. Her thoughts this afternoon could only temporarily remain on herself, as was evident when she said, after a short pause to take a sip of tea:
“I hope Gemma will stay with me when she’s released from hospital—despite the Ca’ da Capo’s bad associations. I went to see her today—and Filippo, too.” Filippo had suffered a severe concussion not long after leaving the Ca’ da Capo when he had been hit by a stone dislodged by the storm. “He’s bounced back, thank God. Oriana is by his side every minute, driving the hospital staff mad. His accident seems to have done wonders for their relationship. Gemma has regained some of her color and a lot of her energy. She’s refused to see Luigi, you know.”
“It comes as no surprise. You must have noticed yourself that she doesn’t feel comfortable around him.”
“But surely that was only because there was a doubt in her mind whether he might not have murdered Renata.”
“Perhaps only partly. She’s very sensitive and susceptible. Vasco has been hiding so much, feeling so much, torturing himself so much over the years that I wouldn’t be surprised if Gemma responded to it at some level. I mean aside from the fact that she suspected him along with Signora Zeno and Bambina. Vasco himself, from what I hear, still insists that he’s responsible for the deaths of Renata and Molly.”
“But it was Bambina!”
“Yes, she did kill them, but Vasco wanted both of them dead. The desire, the wish, and the will were all strong, and you know what stock he puts in those things. He was furious at Renata for preferring Lydgate to him. She had given him reason to hope. Then years and years later Molly comes along, apparently in the know about the events of thirty-eight. He was attracted to her but also wanted her out of the way as a threat. The wish is father of the deed. Bambina, he came to realize, had killed Renata. Had the thought been planted in her mind by his own dark thoughts? Was he responsible? He tortured himself in the same way over Molly. Viola said that Vasco reminded her of Dr. Caligeri, who had a minion to carry out his evil bidding. I guess Viola wasn’t far wrong, not from Vasco’s own opinion of himself and of the power of the mind.”
“But what about Marialuisa? In the library I thought that she had done everyone in with a rapier concealed in her walking stick!”
Urbino smiled to himself as he recalled his own fleeting suspicion about the special properties of the old woman’s cane.
“So how much did she know about what really happened to Renata?” the Contessa asked.
“She probably knew everything right away, but didn’t let Bambina know that she did. What would she have accomplished by turning in her own daughter? Scandal. The end of any hope of advancing the family through marriage. Remember: Bambina was not even eighteen back then. Lydgate was now free, and Alvise was a very attractive possibility. Then, as the years went by and she saw her plans turn to dust, she clung in her way more and more to Bambina. Dominating her, yes, but needing her. Rather classic, really. No, Marialuisa never would have turned in Bambina. Now she’s revealing the secrets of the past because she has no other choice. And I suspect she might be worn out by having had to conceal them for so many years.”
“And Bambina did try to kill her,” the Contessa reminded Urbino, “and then at the Questura she accused her of the two murders. Bambina was as desperate as a person can get—and still is, I’m sure.”
“Desperate and unbalanced. I don’t think there’s much doubt about what the psychiatric examination will turn up. I admit I was going on the assumption that we were dealing with a disturbed mind from almost the beginning. The slashing of your portrait seemed to be one more proof, but of course—”
“Of course you were wrong there because it wasn’t Bambina but Marialuisa.”
Not only that, Urbino said to himself, but he had even fleetingly thought Sebastian had done it. There had been that expectant smile on his face as he stared at the Contessa right before the portrait was unveiled. A now repentant Sebastian, who had remained in town after his sister’s departure, had confessed to Urbino that he had taken a peek at the portrait after it was slashed and had been waiting for the unveiling with amusement. Urbino had thought it best not to mention this to the Contessa. Nor had he yet told her about something else concerning her young cousin.
“And you know,” the Contessa broke in on Urbino’s thoughts, “Marialuisa might be as disturbed as Bambina. Telle mère, telle fille!”
“Not really” came Urbino’s somewhat deflating response. “I suspect that Marialuisa is most compos mentis. And she still has a will of iron.”
“I wonder what will become of her.”
“Oh, I’m sure that Vasco will look after her.”
The observation was, perhaps, a bit unrealistic since Vasco was himself in his eighties, but the Contessa didn’t disagree. She instead asked:
“Did you know from the start how Molly was killed?”
“Not for a moment did I think she had been killed because her head went through the glass—either because of an accident or because she was pushed through. Since there were no other visible wounds, I suspected poison. The lingering scent of perfume confused me at first. Why would Molly douse herself with it after she had taken a bath?”
“The obvious answer to that is that she could have been expecting a visitor. Didn’t it occur to you that Vasco might be dropping by?”
“That’s exactly what I did think at first: him or someone else. But when I didn’t find a bottle of that perfume among Molly’s things—the same kind that Bambina and Gemma wore, and which Mamma Zeno filched from time to time from Bambina’s bottle—the picture started to change. Then I saw the tin of rose spray in the cabinet in the conservatory. I remembered how you said that nothing had been changed in the conservatory since the days of the house party and how you insisted on getting the same nicotine-based rose spray from the old pharmacist in the Dorsoduro quarter. I know enough about nicotine—pure nicotine—to know how it works. Very fast, especially when administered directly to the skin, faster than when it’s ingested. I remembered how Alvise was disoriented by the scent of perfume surrounding Renata’s body. He called it the ‘odor of sanctity.’ Murderers seldom change their methods, even over such a long period of time. I had a hunch that both Renata and Molly had been killed in exactly the same way.”
“But how did you know it was Bambina?”
“In many ways she was the most likely suspect from the start. She was infatuated with Lydgate. Jealous of Renata. Jealous, even at her advanced age, of every female in the house. Then there was her cat, Dido, who died a painful death a few months before Renata. Jealous of little Gemma, whom Dido became so attached to. Bambina probably poisoned the cat, too. Kind of a dry run for Renata.”
The Contessa shuddered and shook her head.
“And of everyone Bambina seemed to be in the least touch with reality—”
“Ah, reality!” the Contessa interrupted. “As if any of us have been on such close terms with it! If I had had more sense, this weekend never would have taken place, and if you had been thinking clearly, you would have discouraged me!”
“No one is responsible for what happened this weekend, except Bambina herself. And Gemma, of course, for endangering Molly the way she did.”
&
nbsp; “Of course you’re right, but nonetheless I know I’m never going to be able to get rid of a feeling of responsibility in it all. And there are so many reminders! The portrait, as I’ve already said. The brooch. The Caravaggio. The room itself. What am I going to do about all of those?” she almost wailed.
She was to be forgiven as her thoughts strayed back to the personal. Urbino tried to reassure her, by first repeating what he had said earlier about the portrait and then by saying, with what experience had taught him was the right combination of banter and force to use with her:
“You’ll wear the brooch as often or as seldom as you did before. It was Alvise’s gift to you, and it’s surely in better hands with you than Marialuisa. Remember, she gave Bambina the task of stealing it this weekend. She was determined to have it in the family. She’d probably have it in her possession now, if Bambina hadn’t decided to plant it on Gemma. And don’t think of giving it to Gemma. I doubt if she’d want anything to do with it, and you can be sure Angelica would shrink from it if you made it a wedding gift. You see I know how your mind works! You’re probably thinking of Viola, too. But everyone will think you’re trying to pass on bad luck—nonsense, of course!—so you must keep it.”
“You must feel the same about the Caravaggio. I was considering giving it to you. There’s that corner of your library just waiting for it.”
“Thank you, Barbara, but I can’t accept it.” The look that came over the Contessa’s face was not so much disappointment or hurt as fear. “Not because of any preposterous superstition, but because I don’t want to feel that I’ve benefited in any way from what’s happened.”
A skeptical look passed over the Contessa’s attractive features, and Urbino himself wondered exactly how selfless his rejection of the Caravaggio was. Despite his belief in rationality and logic, deep inside him was lodged a small, dark corner of superstition that the recent events at the Ca’ da Capo had far from swept clean.
Death in the Palazzo Page 22