The Art of Killing Well

by Marco Malvaldi

  “I had with me this large bag of chamomile, given to me by my father, and I said, ‘This poor man is surely in a bad way. Let’s try, it won’t do any harm.’ No sooner said than done. I put a big pan on the fire and made him a chamomile broth, with as much sugar and lemon as I could dissolve in it. Just between ourselves, the thing had a smell so sweet and syrupy that if I had been him, I would rather have given up my soul to the creator than knock that back; but the coachman was so parched by the fever that he drank it all down without leaving a drop. Believe me, because I still have difficulty in believing it myself, the next day the coachman’s temperature had gone back to normal and there was not a single symptom left of the cholera. You should have seen him: every time he passed through Florence he insisted on coming and saying hello to me, and he bowed and scraped so much that I was almost embarrassed.”

  “What a story!” Cecilia sighed as she walked with Artusi holding tight to her arm (quite unnecessarily but, let us be honest about this, he was rather taking advantage). “I envy you, you know, I really envy you. There are few things more beautiful and more honourable than to cure a person and restore him to health, however humble and uncouth he is. I think it gives meaning to a whole life.”

  “You certainly are good with bandages,” said Artusi, and laughed. “Since you bound my ankle, I haven’t felt any pain at all.”

  “Go on, make fun of me. I’ve read a lot about medicine, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “When I was a little girl, I had the good Canon Mazzi bring me books of all kinds. One day, he brought me Robinson Crusoe, and I was fascinated by how a man alone on an island was able to cure himself of his own infirmities with tobacco. I decided to find out more. Every month after that, the canon would bring me a book that he chose from his library, because his predecessor had been very interested in medicine and had put together a fine collection. I could tell you the name of every bone and muscle in your body.”

  “A genuine passion, then. A very praiseworthy thing.”

  “For someone else, perhaps. My father found me reading the Anatomy of the Salerno School in bed and became furious. Away with all the books I had under my bed and, in order not to fall into temptation, away also with candles for three months. Before going to sleep, if I wanted to take my mind off things, I could say my rosary.”

  Again, Artusi said nothing.

  “I’d give anything to—” said Cecilia, her eyes lowered.

  To study medicine, she would probably have said if she had been able to complete the sentence. But that is something we can only imagine. Because just as she uttered the word “to”, a shot rang out across the clearing. Followed a moment later by another identical shot.

  The two shots filled the space for a moment, and when they faded it was as though something had broken.

  Artusi looked at Cecilia, who looked at him in her turn.

  By way of reply, a stentorian voice came from the orchard: “Barone! Barone!”

  Cecilia turned pale. She looked at Artusi, who looked at her. Then, lifting the hem of her dress, she set off at a run through the mud.

  Even though his ankle was fine, Artusi still had a cruise speed equal to two kilometres per hour over dry ground, and had not done any running since 1858. By the time he got to the orchard, a good fifteen minutes had passed since the shots, and the garden was full of people.

  Of all of them, the one who stood out was Ispettore Artistico, who was crouching and holding between his fingertips, as if it were a disgusting animal, a hunting rifle with an ornamented stock.

  Behind him on the ground, the seventh Barone di Roccapendente lay face down with his legs pulled under him, in a pose that was not at all noble – any more than were the invocations of the name of Our Lord that emerged in strangled cries from his throat – while Cecilia, bending over him, pressed on his bloodstained shoulder.

  As Artusi arrived, he was passed by a man on horseback so heavily bearded that it could only be Dottore Bertini. Once he had arrived, the doctor dismounted clumsily and approached the group, crying, “Do you need help? I was here in the hills. I heard shots and screams …”

  “Yes, we need help,” said the estate manager, opening his mouth for the first time that day. “The baron’s been shot.”

  Sunday, lunchtime

  The problem with being brought up in a dogmatic way lies in the fact that, if we should ever find ourselves in situations other than the well-known, well-defined ones with which we feel perfectly comfortable, we usually lose our heads.

  The rules of etiquette for the respectable nobleman, for example, did not explain at all how to behave when someone shoots our kin through a hedge. It was quite true that this code envisaged a large number of situations in which someone might have the right to shoot someone else, for example in a duel with pistols. If one considered one had been offended in some way, the rules told one everything about the formal aspects of challenging the scoundrel to a duel, and everything one had to do to fire at one’s peer according to the rules of good manners. If one behaved properly, following all the dictates point by point – the responsibilities of the seconds, the offer to wipe out the offence, and so on – one could happily riddle someone with bullets without public opinion finding anything to blame one for.

  Whereas shooting at someone from behind a hedge was the action of a peasant. It simply was not done. It was a sign of bad manners. The nobleman’s code of etiquette did not even deign to consider such an eventuality.

  That was why, when the shot had rung out and the baron had slumped to the ground and begun taking the name of the Lord in vain in such an unpleasant manner, the first moment of confusion had been followed by complete pandemonium.

  Signorino Lapo had turned pale, and when the second shot came, convinced that he was under fire from a sniper, had dived straight into the well.

  Signorina Barbarici had remained indoors, luckily for her, because otherwise Lapo would probably have landed on her.

  The dowager Baronessa Speranza, also indoors, was sitting petrified in her wheelchair, looking about in search of her granddaughter Cecilia, the only intermediary between her and the world, seeing that Signorina Barbarici was still in her room.

  The sisters Cosima and Ugolina Bonaiuti Ferro, hands joined in prayer, were begging forgiveness of Our Lord for their dear cousin’s seriously blasphemous expressions, which even when one is lying on the ground with a rosary of bullets in one’s back are, as everyone knows, a deadly sin.

  Signorina Cecilia was outside: having come running, she had bent over her father and, while also invoking divine intervention to strike the two bigoted old maids with a thunderbolt, had torn off his jacket, put a leather glove between his teeth, and was now holding his hand tightly in hers.

  Gaddo, after a moment’s dismay, had set off at a run after the marksman and had followed his tracks for some thirty metres across the cornfield, after which, worn out from the effort, he had half collapsed and had lain down amid the ears of corn, his heart thumping in his throat.

  The dog Briciola had begun barking furiously and had also set off in pursuit of the marksman, probably not so much to make itself look good as because it was aware that with all this commotion there was an increased likelihood of being kicked.

  Signor Ciceri had been standing there when the shots rang out, with his magnesium lamp in one hand and his pump in the other, having just taken a photograph of the baron in hunting pose with his two sons, also armed with rifles, beside him, and had not immediately understood what had happened. Now, still standing motionless, he was protecting his precious but extremely fragile bellows camera from the hullaballoo around him and wondering if it was worth the money to put up with all this shambles.

  By the time Artusi got to the orchard, then, everything was in a complete mess, so he walked to one side with measured steps and stood observing the scene, puzzling over the fact that whatever untoward incident occurred in and around the castle always seemed to get in the way of lunch. In
the meantime, the doctor, having politely but firmly moved Cecilia aside, had bent over her father and given him an injection. Then, having placed a hand over his noble forehead, he had asked him calmly, “I have just given you morphine to help you bear the pain. Now we have to transport you into the house. Do you feel up to moving by yourself?”

  The baron did not reply, but his eyes regretted the rules of etiquette he had learned in his youth, which prevented him from telling another person to go to hell in public. After a moment, he shook his head.

  “I thought so. Your servants will prepare a stretcher. Until we get you to the house, you must absolutely avoid moving. I don’t want earth or other dirt to come in contact with the wounds.” The doctor turned to Cecilia. “Did you keep your father still, in a prone position, and put a glove in his mouth?”

  Cecilia nodded.

  “Well done, signorina. You did what you had to do and what you could do, no more and no less.”

  While the wounded man was loaded onto a plank of wood and carried home, the doctor approached the inspector and knelt next to the rifle.

  “What does this thing shoot? Could I see the cartridge?”

  Without saying a word, the inspector opened the breech and took out one half-scorched cylinder and another that was almost intact, which he opened with a small knife. “Large bullets, for shooting boar. Quite crude.”

  “Luckily for us.”

  The inspector gave the doctor a dirty look.

  “The greatest danger is infection. If they had been small pellets, fragments of shirt would have gone everywhere in the wound, and the cotton would have rotted and caused serious problems. With large bullets I will have bigger pieces to take out, which should be a lot easier.”

  “I could help, if you wish,” said Artusi calmly. “I’ve been following Professor Mantegazza’s anatomy and physiology lessons for years now, and I could be of some use, but only if you think so, of course.”

  The doctor looked him up and down for a moment. He was about to reply that he would prefer to operate alone when an echoing voice roared, “What’s all this about help? Arrest him! Arrest that scum from Romagna!”

  The three men turned, and did not see anyone.

  “It was he! He wasn’t with us when the shots were fired, nor did he come to Mass! He’s a scoundrel, a usurer and a rogue! Arrest him immediately, for heaven’s sake!”

  The inspector looked around, then understood. With a resolute step, he walked towards the well.

  “Signorino Lapo, is that you?”

  “Who the hell do you think it is, the old paralytic? Arrest that scoundrel and get me out of here. But first arrest him, damn it!”

  “Signorino Lapo,” said Artusi, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but at the time the shots were fired, I was with your sister Cecilia some considerable distance from here. I could not have shot your father unless I had used a cannon, which I am not in the habit of taking with me when I go for a walk.”

  “How dare you, you bastard? We give you our hospitality and you … Ispettore, don’t you understand? Arrest him!”

  “Excuse me, Signorino Lapo, I am not accustomed to taking orders from anyone below me,” the inspector yelled down into the well in a harsh but amused tone. “Anyway, the important thing is to make sure you are alright. We’re going to pull you out now. Are you injured?”

  “I hit my head,” said Lapo after a moment, in a shaky voice.

  “Don’t worry,” said the inspector. “The doctor will take care of your father now, and later, when you’ve been taken out, he’ll see to your cranium.” Under his breath he added, “Not that it can be any worse than it already was …”

  Signorino Lapo was pulled out of the well and also stretchered to the house on a plank of wood. The doctor, Cecilia and the servants had all gone now, and only the inspector, Artusi and Signor Ciceri remained in the orchard. After a few minutes, Gaddo reappeared, sweating profusely and red in the face. He approached the inspector, bent down with his hands on his knees, and began taking long deep breaths.

  “Did you see who it was?” asked the inspector.

  “They ran faster than me,” said Gaddo, shaking his head. This was not of much help, given that the only person it ruled out was the dowager baroness. After a few more breaths, though, Gaddo resumed, “Of one thing I am sure. They had long hair, a long dress and broad hips. It was a woman.”

  “A woman?” said the inspector.

  “I’m certain of it. I didn’t see her face, and I’m not an expert like my brother, but I can tell the difference between a man and a woman, I assure you.”

  “If you’ll allow me,” said Signor Ciceri, “I, too, as I was taking the photograph, had the sense that something was moving behind the hedge. And I had the distinct impression it was a young woman.”

  “What? Would you mind repeating that?”

  “I’m sorry, Ispettore, I am sure of what I said. I—”

  “No, forgive me. You were taking a photograph when the baron was shot?”

  Signor Ciceri nodded, a little disconcerted at first, then raised his eyebrows knowingly.

  “How long does it take to develop a photographic plate?”

  “It’s an albumin plate … I must take it to my darkroom, expose it to light and then fix it. A few hours at the most.”

  “Good. May I ask you to begin immediately?”

  “As you wish, Ispettore.”

  The man’s a nasty piece of work, but sometimes you need people like him.

  Walking up and down the baron’s study, Ispettore Artistico was thinking fast.

  A woman.

  A woman who could have slipped into the cellar on Friday evening to poison the bottle – poison being a typically female weapon. A woman who was then unwittingly trapped in the room when Teodoro bolted the door and knocked back the poisoned drink intended for the baron. And who was not seen by anyone in the morning simply because she had hidden somewhere in order not to be seen by the butler. She had had to spend the whole night in the cellar without attempting to open the door. Not that it would have been easy to open the door in the dark. Teodoro might have been awakened by the noise. What she had not realised, of course, was that the poor butler was no longer in a position to wake up.

  In the morning, when the body was discovered, since nobody thought there had been a murder nobody had bothered to search the cellar. In the confusion that followed, it had been easy for her to slip out and mingle with the others.

  However, anyone spending a night locked in a room will have to have a pee sooner or later. It just isn’t possible to hold it in all night. A man might, but certainly not a woman. And that explained the smell of asparagus.

  The other result of spending the night in a damp cellar carved out of volcanic rock, heavy with saltpetre, at a temperature of seven or eight degrees, would be to catch a cold. Had there by any chance been someone the next day who had red eyes and a runny nose?

  Of course there had. That beautiful blonde housemaid with the ice-cold eyes and the arse that could have been painted by Botticelli.

  A knock at the door. Come in, Parisina. The great cook, the pride of the house. If I’ve understood correctly, the one person here who knows everything about everybody is you. So now it’s my turn to cook you a little.

  Short and fat but compact rather than obese, she must have been plump and pretty when she was young, with the kind of figure that is no longer in fashion today but can still strike sparks beneath the sheets. Now, in spite of arms as big as meat loaves, there remained something of the old grace: in the way she held her head, with her chin high and her eyes darting in all directions, which clashed somewhat with her big apron and flour-covered hands.

  “Sit down, Parisina. I just have to ask you a few questions.”

  “You already asked me a few questions last night.”

  Why are people who cook well always as friendly as a fork in the eye?

  “I know, Parisina, but now I have to ask you a few more, given that somebod
y shot the baron not long ago, as I’m sure you know.”

  “All I know is that for two days running I’ve had to throw lunch away. I made boar with plums for the gentleman with the whiskers, who says he knows about food, and now I have to throw everything away, because that’s a dish you either eat hot, as soon as it’s made, or it starts to smell like a pigsty and becomes as heavy as an iron.”

  “Boar with plums?”

  Parisina looked at the inspector. There was no need to say anything more.

  “So, how was it?”

  “My God, Parisina,” said the inspector, polishing off the plateful of boar she had put in front of him ten minutes earlier, “it was divine. Good enough to lick your moustache. Now, let’s get back to us. Did you hear that it was apparently a woman who shot the baron?”

  “A woman? What am I supposed to say to that, Ispettore? There are plenty of women here among the servants. But the maids don’t know how to shoot, believe me.”

  “I didn’t say it was someone who knows how to shoot, Parisina. As it happens, whoever it was missed the baron from a distance of four or five metres. Someone who knew how to shoot wouldn’t have missed like that, believe me.”

  “I don’t know. That may be so.”

  “Now what I wanted to ask you is if you remember who was there when you gave Signorina Barbarici first aid yesterday.”

  “Of course I remember. Made a lot of fuss about nothing, that one.”

  It is obvious that strong emotions help us to remember things precisely, as those who know about mnemonics maintain. It does not matter if these emotions are extremely painful or incredibly satisfying. Any man can remember where he was when he was dumped for the first time by a girlfriend, just as many of us could describe in detail the funeral of our own mother-in-law.

  In the same way, Parisina began to rattle off a list of names to the inspector, most of which he did not know. Agatina was not among them, even though he remembered her perfectly (see above).