by Jill Downie
Gil had roared with laughter when he first saw the Manoir Ste. Madeleine.
“Dear God, it’s pure kitsch — if kitsch can be pure. Any moment now and Sneezy, Grumpy, and Doc will come waddling round that corner, singing their corny little hearts out.”
It was not how she saw it. Pure Castle of Otranto more like. More Transylvania than Ruritania. Any moment now and Nosferatu might come, swooping round the corner.
Perhaps it was the subject matter of Gil’s novel that made Sydney so aware of the island’s traumatic past — the bunker looming in the midst of the manor’s verdant parkland and, scattered throughout the island, the remaining traces of anti-tank walls, gun emplacements, artillery direction-finding towers, restored for the amusement and amazement of tourists.
And perhaps it was even earlier presences. For Sydney, the island was indeed full of strange noises: the ancient witches’ colony at L’Erée, the fairies emerging from caverns like Creux ès Faies to dance at Le Mont Saint or le Catioroc on the western coastline. At first she had been intrigued by the stories told by the tour guide who had taken members of the film company round the island, but all they did after a few days was feed her depression — which, she knew, had nothing to do with Guernsey, past or present. She felt a shiver of apprehension.
“I shall turn around this corner,” she thought, “and everything will change. The world I knew will be gone forever.”
She came around the corner into a blaze of light, so strong after the half-light of dawn that she was dazzled for a moment. As her vision cleared, she saw that the broad terrace that ran the length of the manor was floodlit by one of the arc lamps used on the movie, perched high on one of the huge Sky King cranes brought in from Rome. In the half-shadows around the periphery were gathered all the people she had expected to see in the courtyard: electricians, extras, grips. But there was hardly a sound.
“They must be shooting,” she thought.
Sydney looked around for the director, Mario Bianchi, and caught a glimpse of his dark ponytail and tall, slender figure under the lights, huddled with another tall man she didn’t immediately recognize. The man turned, and she saw it was the detective inspector with the interesting face who had come to the hotel the night before.
Of course, the business with the costumes. Betty Chesler, the costume designer, must have insisted. As Sydney approached the outskirts of the crowd, one of the men turned and saw her.
“Sydney! Where’s Gil?”
It was Betty’s assistant, Eddie Christy, minus his usual cheeky chappy expression. He looked haggard and nervous.
“Using the facilities. What scene are they shooting?”
“Oh my God, love — you don’t know?”
“Know what? Gil’s here for the meeting about the rewrite, if that’s what you mean.”
“Some rewrite, darling.”
Over his shoulder, Sydney caught sight of a figure on the ground, slumped in an unnatural position against the parapet of the terrace. A man wearing what looked like a white lab coat was taking photographs of him — stills presumably, for he certainly wasn’t carrying a movie camera.
“Who —?”
As she started her question, the crowd suddenly parted, and Sydney saw the impressive figure of the Marchesa Donatella Vannoni, clutching the arm of Monty Lord’s assistant producer, Piero Bonini. As she came closer, Sydney saw that the figure on the ground had the dark, curly hair and smooth bronze skin of the marchesa’s son-in-law, the location manager, Toni Albarosa. She also saw the handle of the dagger through his chest glistening under the arc light.
Vertigo hit her. She swayed, and Eddie Christy grabbed her and called out, “Someone, anyone, get a chair!”
A chair was provided and the crowd parted again.
“Ms. Tremaine — where’s your husband? Is he with you?”
Above her she saw the detective inspector’s face, his grey eyes urgent.
“He should be — oh God, you don’t think —?”
Was the policeman suggesting whoever this maniac was might still be around, and that Gil might be in danger? As Sydney turned around in her chair to see Piero Bonini and the marchesa walking toward the manor together, from the darkness beyond the floodlit terrace came the unmistakable roar of her husband throwing a tantrum.
Anxiety changed to relief. Gil had come around the corner and seen Monty Lord.
“That’s him,” she said. “Don’t worry — that’s not fear or pain. That’s the cry of the wounded artist, Detective Inspector. Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned.”
Sydney could hear what he was screaming at the producer, who stopped, staggering momentarily under the weight of his noble burden.
“You turd! Couldn’t you wait until I got here to make changes? Or is this your idea of a joke, scaring the fucking daylights out of me with fucking daggers — get Toni off the set and send that rubber fake back to props before I — I —”
Gilbert Ensor was halted in mid-sentence by the sudden arrival of the distraught marchesa against his ample belly, temporarily winding him. She was screaming in Italian, so he had no idea what he had said or done to upset her. Her long red nails scored his face before Piero Bonini managed to restrain her. Through the searing pain he grasped one word, said over and over again.
“Morto — morto — morto!”
Dead?
Ahead of him he saw his wife in a chair, the detective inspector alongside her. Beyond them, two ambulance attendants were covering Toni Albarosa’s body. His jaw dropped. Violent death had rendered Gilbert Ensor speechless.
There followed one of those uncanny moments of silence that sometimes comes on the heels of uproar. Then into the silence came the rumble of a powerful engine. From the half-light around the villa thundered a gleaming Ducati motorcycle, its streamlined scarlet and black body brilliant in the arc light. Sydney Tremaine saw long blond hair flying beneath a winged helmet, powerful leather-clad legs stretched against the sides of the monster as, with a dramatic flick of the wrists, the rider brought her mount to a shrieking halt and pulled off her helmet.
Ed Moretti, looking down at the face of Sydney Tremaine, was intrigued by what he saw.
“You know her?”
“No.”
Sydney got up from the chair and went toward her shell-shocked husband. The Valkyrie ran over to the marchesa, putting her arms around her. Together, they went into the manor, with Piero Bonini behind them.
Other members of the island police force had arrived to help with the dozens of statements that would have to be taken from everybody in the cast and crew. The Ensors and the Vannoni family were waiting in the manor to be interviewed by Moretti and Liz Falla. Finally, some semblance of order had been restored.
Moretti waited until the body was loaded into an ambulance and then turned to the Vannonis’ doctor, a local St. Andrew’s man called Le Pelley.
“So — what can you tell me?”
“Only what I told you before.” Le Pelley, clearly somewhat shaken himself, removed his glasses and put them in his coat pocket. “He was killed, almost instantly. Whether by luck or good management, the point of the blade got him right through the heart.”
“Time of death?”
“We’ll know more after the autopsy — but, what time is it now? Nine-thirty? I’d say about five hours ago.”
“Five hours!” Moretti was taken by surprise. “I thought you’d say midnight — something like that.”
“Definitely not midnight — he’d not been dead long when he was found around five o’clock.”
“Who found him?”
“One of the security guards, apparently. A couple stay around all night to keep an eye on the equipment.”
“Then he probably only just missed being another murder victim.”
Moretti said goodbye to Le Pelley and joined Liz Falla, who was waiting for him with a very worried-looking director, Mario Bianchi, and the reason for his expression soon became clear.
“I’ve already lo
st about two hours shooting time today, and the Constable tells me I can’t touch what has now become the crime scene for at least another hour. If then.”
Mario Bianchi was almost cadaverously thin. Heavy lines ran down each side of his mouth, which was largely concealed by an unfashionably heavy moustache, and Moretti wondered whether the ponytail and the facial hair were to compensate for the receding hairline above deep-set, anxious eyes. His nails were bitten to the quick, and his hands fiddled constantly with the collar of his open-necked shirt, or stroked his forehead. His command of English seemed good, and Moretti decided not to switch into Italian, if possible. Otherwise, he would have to translate for his partner, which would slow things down considerably, or exclude her completely from the interrogation.
“We’ll do what we can, Mr. Bianchi. Certainly we’re grateful for the light we were able to use. Could you not work on something else while we’re out here?”
“Work on something else,” Bianchi repeated. “You don’t understand, Inspector. We set up the day’s work in advance — the actors and technicians are called for certain times, and the lighting levels have to be decided upon with the cinematographer and the cameramen, depending on the needs of the scene and the weather conditions, and so on. These lights and cranes were in place for the scene we planned to shoot first — and which required the early light of day. That’s gone now. We’ve lost it.”
“What scene were you going to shoot out here?”
“Well, that’s the strange thing — as I was just telling the officer. It involved the violent death of a man suspected of betraying one of the principal characters in the film. And the murder weapon is a knife. It gives me the — creeps, you call it? Poor Toni!”
“Tell me something about Toni Albarosa — he was the marchesa’s son-in-law, I gather.”
“Yes, married to the eldest daughter, Anna. They live in Italy, not here. It isn’t the first marriage between Albarosas and Vannonis — at one point, the family coat of arms was actually combined, so he told me. He was a very nice lad — very hard-working.”
“Experienced? As a location manager, I mean.”
“No, but he had what we needed, Inspector — contacts. Not all of the movie is being shot here, on your island, and Toni could open doors for me. He was the first member of the family I met, when he was on holiday in Venice, and it was he who suggested his mother-in-law’s property on Guernsey, when he heard the theme of Rastrellamento. He was a charming man — I’m sure you’re going to ask me if I can think of anyone who might want to do this, and I can’t. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Then he was indeed a rare human being, sir. Few of us can say that.”
“True. But compared with other members of his family —”
Mario Bianchi broke off in mid-sentence, one hand pulling frenetically at his ponytail.
“So there were difficulties with some of the Albarosa and Vannoni clan?”
Bianchi laughed in what he clearly hoped was a light-hearted manner. “Families, Inspector, families! Nothing in particular, but you’ll see what I mean when you interview them.”
”Which I should go and do now. Thank you, Signor Bianchi. We’ll try to get out of your way as quickly as possible. Oh —” Mario Bianchi had started to walk away toward his waiting crew, when Moretti called him back, “— the woman who arrived on the Ducati. Is that Anna, his wife?”
Bianchi turned. He was laughing again, but this time he seemed genuinely amused. “No, Inspector. That was Giulia Vannoni, the marchesa’s niece. She just arrived, and is visiting the marchesa at the moment. Wife —” The director pointed to the Ducati, which still stood on the terrace, gleaming in the light. Painted on one flank was a pink lily, its petals tipped with gold.
“I’m sorry — I don’t —”
“That, Inspector, is the symbol of gay and lesbian Florence. That’s what that is.”
Moretti and Liz Falla watched the departing figure of Mario Bianchi.
“Before we go in to talk to them, DC Falla, is there anything you can tell me about the Vannonis?”
“Of course, you weren’t on the island when they arrived, were you, Guv? Well, not much, except they don’t mix — except with the high and mighty. A bloke I used to go out with says they’ve got a little message up on the front door that reads, ‘Only personal friends of the marchesa may use this door. All other visitors must go to the back entrance.’”
DC Falla’s love life was proving quite useful.
“Charming.”
In spite of being a small island — or perhaps because of it — there were some clear-cut divisions in Guernsey society. There were the hundreds of families who had lived on the island since the beginning of its recorded history and beyond, with the old island names — Bisson, Falla, Gallienne, Roussel, Le Poidevin, and many more. There were the great families — Brock, De Saumarez, Carey — the island aristocracy, some of whom had fallen on hard times, like their British counterparts. There was a transient population, who came from Europe to work in the hotels and restaurants, or to teach in one of the island schools — some of these came and went in a summer; some stayed for years. Then there were the wealthy escapees, who came to avoid the high taxes of the mainland, and who bought their way into the higher priced properties on the island — what were called “open market properties.”
Not that British escapees were any longer the dominant section of that community, since Prime Minister Tony Blair had altered the tax base in Britain. Now, the wealthy were more likely to be the managers and CEOs of the myriad banks and financial institutions that operated on the island. Many lived in the comparatively new development around Fort George; some purchased Guernsey’s equivalent of a stately home — the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, for instance. All around the island, the old farmhouses and cottages were being tastefully renovated, painted in pastel shades of dove grey, apricot, ivory, and restored to greater than former glory.
But Moretti had rarely heard of such overt class distinction.
“So, let’s beard the lioness in her den and start off with the family. Then we’ll talk to Monty Lord and the Ensors again. Insiders and outsiders — only, which is which? Somewhere between the two groups we’ll start to get some sense of this.” Moretti recalled the expression on Sydney Tremaine’s face.
“Mrs. Ensor seemed startled by Giulia Vannoni’s appearance.”
“So was I, Guv. It was quite an entrance. Those bikes cost a fortune, don’t they? Mrs. Ensor’s unlikely to be a — well, one of them —”
“— a lesbian,” supplied Moretti. Interesting that Liz Falla had problems with saying the word, but it could be she was concerned about his own delicate feelings.
“Right. Is she? Mind you, that creep she’s married to could put any woman off men, in my opinion.”
“Quite,” said Moretti, his thoughts elsewhere.
What point was the murderer making by using daggers? What was he — or she — saying? Was this all about love? It was much more likely to be about hate.
But nobody hated Toni Albarosa apparently. Still, it was amazing how often that was said about murder victims. In the Manoir Ste. Madeleine they might take the first steps toward the truth.
“Oh, by the way, Guv — I spoke to Giorgio Benedetti last night. He says if there’s anything he can do —”
“Thank you, DC Falla.”
DC Falla gave him a look he was beginning to recognize now, but for the life of him he couldn’t make out what it signified. His mother would have called it “an old-fashioned look,” but that seemed particularly inappropriate for this young woman.
If the outside of the manor house was Walt Disney or Bram Stoker, depending on your aesthetic point of view, the inside was as close to Renaissance palazzo as the designer could get, given the architectural constraints. Moretti and his colleague walked under a succession of high, embossed ceilings, past long stretches of walls hung with what looked like family portraits, heraldic devices, the heads of animals slaugh
tered long ago and in other countries. Overflowing baskets and jugs of flowers filled the empty summer grates of stone fireplaces built into the thick walls.
“Impressive,” said Moretti, stopping briefly to admire a luscious still life of flowers and fruit. “I wonder how much of this was changed by the film company — or does it always look like a Medici palazzo?”
“All I know is that one of the staff who’s my father’s cousin said working here was like being in Tuscany, where she’d done a wine tour one year.”
Ahead of them now was the principal reception room. And in the centre of the stateroom, amid golden brocade-covered walls, were gathered the marchesa, the woman Mario Bianchi had identified as Giulia Vannoni, and another man whom Moretti didn’t recognize. He was young, in his early twenties, handsome, but with a softness in his features that suggested a character flaw rather than gentleness or any more positive quality. The incongruous presence of two movie cameras against the golden walls added to the impression that the group was waiting for someone to shout “action!”
The three sat side by side on a gilded sofa, unsmiling, staring unblinkingly at the two policeman. Giulia Vannoni stood by the fireplace, drinking from a bottle of mineral water. She had unzipped her tight-fitting red leather jacket, displaying a minute black lycra bandeau and a tanned length of torso. Her black leather pants looked as if they had been spray-painted onto her spectacular haunches. The quintessential mesomorph, thought Moretti. He introduced himself and DC Falla.
“I’m sorry we kept you waiting. If I could first make sure we have your names correctly. You are —?” Moretti directed his first question to the young man.
“Gianfranco Vannoni.” He spread his hands and gave a shrug. “I do not speak much English.”
“My son.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “He lives in Italy, looking after our business affairs. But for the moment he is helping Mario on Rastrellamento — as assistant director. I can speak or translate for him, if necessary.”