“That’s quite alright. As I’ve told you, I often suffer from digestive problems. Because of my stomach ache, my heart was beating faster than usual last night. There were times when I feared I was on the verge of an apoplectic fit.”
“I understand. Barone, I see no reason to detain you any longer. I need now to speak to your two sons. I would ask you not to breathe a word to anyone of what we have said, at least until the day is over. My respects, Barone.”
“I am most grateful, Ispettore.”
One of the most common afflictions of powerful men is to have a stupid son. There is no shortage of historical examples, particularly in politics, from Cromwell onwards: it may be because when you are powerful you have no time to waste keeping an eye on your children, or because if you are influential your offspring are bound to grow up spoilt, but it is not a rare occurrence for a father in a position of authority to be succeeded by an idiot son. As you will all have gathered, Ispettore Artistico had given himself up to such reflections as soon as the baron’s younger son, Lapo, had sat down facing him.
Even his way of sitting was irritating: not facing straight ahead, but with the chair angled to the right and his legs crossed, as if instead of dealing with a police officer the young fool were at the café with his friends, and it was in this way, without looking at the inspector, that he had started answering the questions.
“Do you remember at approximately what time the toast finished?”
“I have no idea. I left the company at about eleven in the evening, and went to the village with some of my companions. I only got back this morning.”
“You can confirm, though, can you not, that there was a toast in the course of which you all drank champagne, and only your father was served port?”
“I can confirm that, yes. We hadn’t toasted with champagne for a long time. You see, old Cesaroni’s horse had won its race, and my father was quite excited.”
“I see. Is he great friends with Barone Cesaroni? Or are they partners in the stables?”
“No, not at all. Can you imagine? No, the fact is, my father had bet good money on that horse, which was supposed to be a worn-out old nag and actually won. My father, you know, has always been fond of betting on the horses, and has squandered a fair amount of money on it. A reprehensible vice.”
What about you? thought the inspector. The baron’s passion for horseflesh was as well known in the area as his son’s passion for female flesh (preferably enjoyed doggy-fashion), but the inspector had not expected that it would actually be a member of the same family who would broach the subject.
“I wouldn’t have thought, Signorino Lapo, that this was a problem for your father.”
“You may think that.”
“What do you mean?”
Lapo looked about him circumspectly and put his hands up like someone realising a moment too late that he has just said something he shouldn’t. “This is a somewhat delicate matter. I’m not sure that now is the time to—”
“I am a police officer, Signorino Lapo, not a porter. Delicate matters are my business.”
“Of course. The thing is, this is a family affair, and I doubt that it’s of any relevance to your investigation. We are entitled to be treated with a modicum of respect, I think.”
“Signorino Lapo, let me remind you that I show you respect every time I pretend not to see you commit one of your nocturnal feats. The next time we meet, you may well be directly beneath a street lamp, and it would be hard for me not to recognise you.”
Lapo looked down at the floor for a moment, then turned his chair to face the inspector. “Alright, then. A few days ago I was in Mademoiselle Marguerite’s house when I overheard something that made my hair stand on end. You know Mademoiselle’s house, I assume?”
“I frequently have to make arrests there when the customers start causing a disturbance.”
“Then you’ll know that the walls are of plasterboard and you can hear every noise from the adjoining rooms. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of noises people make in certain situations. Sometimes—”
“Signorino Lapo, I have no interest in these erotic shenanigans. Please get to the point.”
“Forgive me. I was merely trying to underline that, however inadvertently, what goes on in the other rooms is common knowledge. Anyway, without wandering off the subject again, no more than a week ago I heard a man talking about my father in the next room, maintaining that he did not pay his debts.”
“What?”
“Exactly what I’m telling you. ‘All that splendour, and nothing in his pocket,’ the man said. ‘To keep going he’s been forced to turn to moneylenders. Among the guests invited to the castle for the hunt, there’ll be one who’s there for a very specific purpose.’”
“I see. So you’re telling me …”
“Precisely, Ispettore. One of my father’s guests is a usurer who wants his dirty money back. And I know who it is.”
Ispettore Artistico walked up and down the room, lost in thought, as he waited to interview the rest of the family.
About what had happened, there seemed little doubt. Someone familiar with the baron’s habits had waited for the right moment to poison his drink with a substantial dose of belladonna. The baron, however, probably because he had eaten too much, had barely wet his lips with the port: the indisposition he had described struck the inspector as the typical effect of the ingestion of belladonna. Poor Teodoro, confronted with that almost full glass, had taken it with him to the cellar and drunk it all down, consuming the rest of his days along with the wine.
Lapo’s pitiful cock-and-bull story added some further suspicious elements. Obviously, the young layabout had concocted a piece of nonsense off the top of his head to remedy the fact that he had said rather too much, but there was usually no smoke without fire. For the moment, the inspector had decided to play the game: he would deal with Lapo later. There was something else that needed clarifying now.
Two or three timid knocks at the door transported the inspector back to the reality of the room.
“Come in.”
“With your permission,” Gaddo said in a steady voice. He was accustomed to it: this was his father’s study, and deferentially asking permission to enter was obligatory, not to say natural. Gaddo had never seen anyone enter this study simply by opening the door.
“Please sit down, Signorino Gaddo.”
Gaddo did so, taking his place on the chair as if afraid of breaking his bones, and immediately embarking on a series of little movements to adjust the crease in his trousers, his jacket, his watch chain and the chair. He would probably also have changed the position of the table if he had been strong enough. Unfortunately for him, Newton would not allow it: the table was of heavy olivewood, and Gaddo, to judge by his appearance, was the kind of person who would have got out of breath cutting his nails.
The inspector asked Gaddo, as he had asked his father and brother, to describe the events of the previous evening, and Gaddo confirmed what they had said.
“I shan’t bother you, Signorino Gaddo, by making you repeat things that I feel I have already verified,” the inspector said after two or three questions. “I should, however, like your opinion on the two guests your father invited to the castle for the hunt. Had you met either or both of them before?”
Gaddo lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to insinuate.”
They were clearly off to a bad start.
“As it happens,” continued Gaddo, “no, I had never met them, nor did I know them by reputation. I rarely leave the castle. I have everything I need right here. Peace and quiet are essential to my inspiration.”
“I understand. And can you tell me anything about the two guests now that you have met them? Do you know, for example, why they were invited?”
Gaddo sighed in a knowing manner. “Signor Fabrizio Ciceri is an expert on photography,” he said. “My father summoned him here to photograph our family and the surroundings of the castle.
I myself showed Signor Ciceri around the estate yesterday, pointing out some attractive spots and reciting some of my verses composed in those very places, to give him a better idea of the atmosphere.”
“I see,” said the inspector, who really was beginning to see. Poor Signor Ciceri. “And what of Dottore Artusi?”
“Signor Pellegrino Artusi,” Gaddo said, emphasising the title, “was summoned here by my father for reasons that are quite unknown to me. It appears my father met him while taking the waters and they struck up a kind of friendship, which I find totally incomprehensible. The man’s completely out of place here.”
Neither of them speaks well of his father. If they’d been born poor, these two blockheads would probably not even have got out of short trousers, but instead of thanking the Lord who, for reasons known only to Him, provided them with a rich and powerful father, these two happily slander him. Not enough of the strap and too many sweets, that’s the problem.
“And why do you consider Signor Artusi so out of place?”
“That should be obvious to you as soon as you meet him. A coarse, jumped-up fellow from Romagna, one of the most vulgar people I have ever seen. He reads books with illustrated covers. And he even writes. Cookery books, can you imagine? How he writes them I don’t know, but to judge from the way he pigs himself on his material he must know it like the back of his hand.”
And now here he was at last, the final resident to be interviewed, Signor (or Dottore) Pellegrino Artusi from Forlimpopoli. His physical appearance, it must be said, somewhat disappointed the inspector, who had been expecting some kind of fiery-eyed gypsy, not an easy-going gentleman with impressive white whiskers who vaguely reminded him of his grandfather Modesto. Be that as it may, this fellow did not leave anyone indifferent. There had not been a single person among those questioned who had not had his say about Artusi. And there had not been two who agreed about why the man had been invited to the castle. Some considered him a usurer, some a sponger, some a kindly old gentleman who had become friends with the baron. The most comical and at the same time most tragic explanation was that provided by Signorina Cosima Bonaiuti Ferro.
The signorina, a classic example of a spinster absolutely without attraction, either to the eye or the ear, had told him in a flood of words devoid of both meaning and punctuation that Artusi had clearly been invited by her cousin the baron as her suitor. She had deduced this from the fact that
– she and Artusi had been born in the same year, 1820 to be precise, and when one chooses a companion at an advanced age it is well known that one chooses someone of exactly the same age because that way it is easier to share the infirmities which are such a feature of being old and blah-blah-blah
– Artusi had come from Florence specially and had presented himself in a frock coat, and when one dresses so well it means something because in the countryside people usually go dressed in a less formal manner and blah-blah-blah
– Artusi was neither married nor a widower and she would never have accepted a widower because that kind of thing upset her and men like that who have never married are so few and far between that her cousin the baron must have thought with good reason that Dottore Artusi was a really good catch and blahblah-blah.
To all this waffle the inspector had lent only half an ear, given that since the beginning of the interview he had found his right leg imprisoned between the paws of the signorina’s pet dog, which had begun to mime an unlikely act of sexual congress with his shoe. It is a well-known fact that a dog that tries to make love to your ankle can be quite annoying and a hindrance to concentration, which was why, after a few half-hearted attempts to shake it off gracefully, the inspector had resolved to crush the dumb but troublesome animal between the leg and the foot of the olivewood table with a few well-aimed kicks, while the signorina happily continued her ravings.
Anyway, here was Signor (or Dottore) Artusi. That was the first unresolved question, not a matter of major importance perhaps, but why keep it to oneself?
“Please sit down, Signor Artusi. Pardon, Dottore Artusi.”
“Oh, no, please allow me to explain. That’s a little misunderstanding that has pursued me for some time. I do indeed frequent the lecture halls of the University, but as a mere interested listener, a curious bystander. I am not entitled to be called Dottore.”
A reply given timidly and unemphatically, without any putting on of airs. After which Artusi looked at the inspector as if to make sure he had given the right answer.
Indeed he had. The inspector hated people who pretended to be what they were not, and he knew how much pleasure it gave the son of a shopkeeper to be called Dottore. It was a symbol of revenge, a medal of everyday valour to be displayed to everyone. It was something the inspector knew from personal experience.
Born at Aieta, in the Calabrian hinterland, he had become an Italian together with his region and a doctor of law by studying while still kneading dough. Having started out as the son of a baker, after his graduation and his transfer to Milan he had married the prettiest girl in Maratea, whose parents could not believe they were now related to a graduate and an officer. For him, the word Dottore had meant Open Sesame.
Seeing someone calmly and humbly abjure the title even though he could have usurped it with impunity impressed him. Artusi was an honest man, and the inspector only liked honest people.
The inspector looked at Artusi and decided to get straight to the point. “Signor Artusi, I have already heard the story of the discovery of poor Teodoro Banti’s body several times today. I’m sure you won’t mind if, instead of getting you to tell me the same story, I simply ask you to confirm or deny what I have been told thus far.”
“Oh, yes, yes, I mean, I am here to be of service. Go ahead and ask.”
“Alright, Signor Artusi, can you confirm that the door to the cellar was bolted and that it was necessary to break it down in order to enter?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you confirm that Banti was on the chair when you entered, and that in front of him was a bottle of port wine and a glass empty but for a dash of the same wine?”
“Indeed I can.”
“Can you confirm that, after having entered, you went to the night table situated next to Banti’s straw mattress, took out a full chamber pot, and sniffed the said chamber pot for a long time?”
Artusi turned red. “Yes, I did.”
“Would you be so kind as to tell me why?”
“Well …” muttered Artusi, the flush gradually fading from his cheeks. “The fact is, Ispettore, that when we entered the room I immediately became aware of a characteristic smell, which I did not recognise at first. As we were in the antechamber of a cellar, I thought it was mildew. But … you see, in that smell there was a touch of something I knew only too well. I am sure you know, Ispettore, that when a person eats asparagus then subsequently relieves his bladder the urine gives off a somewhat unpleasant odour.”
“Of course.”
“There you are, Ispettore. The chamber pot inside the night table had exactly that disgusting smell.”
“I understand.”
“With all due respect, Ispettore, you still lack one necessary piece of information to understand. You see, in the course of the dinner asparagus was served, which is why before going to bed I poured a few drops of turpentine into my own chamber pot to obviate the unpleasantness of which I have just spoken. However, in the course of the afternoon, young Banti had mentioned to me in advance some of the dishes to be served that evening.”
“I see. And what of it?”
“Well, Banti told me he could not stand asparagus or courgettes, and would not have eaten them even if forced to do so.”
The inspector looked at Artusi with a bovine air.
“You see now what struck me, don’t you? We entered a room locked from the inside, in which a particular person often spent time. The said person hates asparagus, and yet his chamber pot had been used lately by someone who had eaten it. I find that a t
rifle puzzling, if you see what I mean.”
Yes, I do. A keen sense of smell, this Signor Artusi. And a quick brain.
“Have you made a study of criminology, Signor Artusi?”
“Oh, no, please. It’s just that—”
“Then don’t jump to conclusions, Signor Artusi. There may be a thousand explanations. And please do not breathe a word to anyone of what you have told me. Personally, I doubt it is of any importance, but it is best not to speak about it.”
“I understand, Ispettore.”
“Well, Signor Artusi, for the moment I have nothing else to ask you. Given the late hour, I think it is best to conclude.”
“As you wish, Ispettore. I hope I have been of some help.”
You have no idea, my dear fellow.
From the diary of Pellegrino Artusi
Saturday, 17 June, 1895
To think that only yesterday, arriving at this manor, I imagined peace and quiet, would be to admit I was an idiot. Today’s events have been so numerous, and so absurd, that it seems to me madness to write them all down.
This morning we awoke to a scream and a corpse, which was already a long way from what I consider peace and quiet; as if that were not enough, the dead man did not have the good sense to pass into the other life on his own account, but was reduced to a cadaver by someone else. A police officer (who at least struck me as a decent person) was summoned, and he interviewed all of us and is now, as far as I know, proceeding to question the servants.
But none of this needs to be written about: one writes a diary to jog one’s memory, and I shall remember this murder as long as I live, even if I lose the use of my mind. What I prefer to express on these pages are those feelings which my sense of decorum and my advanced age do not allow me to express in the flesh.
Today, having retired to a corner of the garden in search of a little of that peace and quiet I had imagined on arriving here, I was distracted by the noise of a young girl weeping bitterly through the branches; and, looking behind the hedge, I was more than a little surprised to see that it was none other than the proud and beautiful housemaid who showed me to my room yesterday. It is pointless here, with no-one but myself as a witness, to pretend feelings other than those that every man has in seeing a beautiful girl in tears: the desire to take her in his arms and console her, in the various ways that nature suggests, for her sorrows, whatever they may be. Having handed her a cambric handkerchief, I asked her if she had known poor Teodoro well, given that I had noticed she was holding a photographic portrait of the deceased in her hand. After a little more weeping, she told me that she had been betrothed to him, and that they were due to have been married very shortly. Stunned by this, I gazed at the photograph and could find nothing better to say than that he really had been a very handsome young man, thus causing a further outpouring of tears. She told me that the young man had recently found the money they needed to marry, after selling his few possessions to invest in a business together with an acquaintance of his, and he had confided in her that they would be leaving for the city in the following month, and that he intended handing in his notice very soon.
The Art of Killing Well Page 5