by Jill Downie
“Well, that was one of the things Bonini went on about — about Ensor, I mean. Seems there’d been a spot of bother in Italy somewhere. He wouldn’t go any further, but he did say Ensor was lucky his wife was the forgiving kind, and if he’d heard that Ensor was the one with a dagger in the chest he wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Interesting. So what was Toni Albarosa doing in the wee small hours? Did Bonini shed any light on that?”
“I was just coming to that. When I was leaving his office — he’s got a trailer on the far side of the manor, quite close to the bunker — I could hear him through the open window. He was shouting at the interpreter they’ve got here — it must have been her, because she was the only other person there — and it was all in Italian, but I can understand quite a bit now, of course, and what I managed to pick up was her name, Bella, and then another two names — Vittoria, and Toni.”
“Ah,” said Moretti.
“That’s what I thought, Guv.” DC Falla turned and grinned at Moretti.
Betty Chesler was waiting for them at the top of the steps, only too eager to speak her mind.
“I see you’ve brought your superior officer with you this time,” she said to the young policewoman. She turned and glared at Moretti. “I’m so glad someone is now taking this seriously, and what a wicked shame it took poor Toni’s death to do it! I can’t tell you how upset I was with the cavalier attitude of just about everyone about the damage — mark my words, I said to Piero, this is like an omen. It’s a warning, and there’s more to come. But until Gilbert Ensor’s wife said about the attack on her husband, no one cared a tinker’s cuss about my costumes — here, let me show you the damage.” She led the way inside.
The damaged costumes were still where Liz Falla had seen them, lined up on the foldaway table: the three women’s tailored suits, one dress, a man’s suit, and a German uniform.
“To which characters in the film do these belong?” Moretti asked, bending over them and examining the gashes in the German uniform. The dagger must have been sharp to have torn the tough fabric as it had.
“The dress and two of the suits belong to the countess, the other woman’s suit is for a fairly minor character, the housekeeper, the man’s suit belongs to the village priest, and the German uniform is for Gunter’s character. Those are the dummies I was using over there.”
Liz Falla went over and poked her fingers through the holes. “Through the heart,” she said, “— or where it would be.”
“That’s exactly what I said to Piero,” said Betty Chesler. “Through the heart, I said.”
“I presume there’d been a break-in?”
“In a manner of speaking, though it wasn’t that difficult. I wish now I’d opted for a trailer, but this was so roomy and I like the higher ceiling. Besides, I wasn’t that worried with security guards patrolling the grounds. Whoever it was came in through the window.” Betty Chesler indicated the broken pane. “And now that we’ve lost the location manager” — this was said with heavy sarcasm — “the police have dusted for fingerprints. The young lady took the dagger away.”
“He — whoever — left the weapon.”
“Yes. Very fancy, like something out of an Errol Flynn movie, as I said to the police officer here, but I imagine you’re too young, aren’t you, to know who I mean.” Betty Chesler shuddered. “I just screamed when I got in here and saw what had happened. It looked like a massacre.”
“Was it generally known that these particular costumes would be on the dummies that night?”
“Well, anyone coming in and out of here over the past three or four days would have known, because that’s how long they’ve been up. Mr. Lord and Mr. Bianchi wanted some changes to the countess’s outfits — they’re building up her role, so I hear — and Mr. Sachs had put on quite a bit of weight since his original fittings, so we had to alter them.”
“And the housekeeper and the priest?”
“Casting changes. For the housekeeper they’d gone from a jolly roly-poly English actress to a gaunt Italian lady, more of a Mrs. Danvers type — you know, like in Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca? And they’d gone the other way for the priest — from cadaverous to cuddly, don’t ask me why.”
“I see. Thank you, Ms. Chesler. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, this is where you can reach me.” Moretti handed her his card. Then, on the spur of the moment, he asked, “Do you have any theories yourself? You talked about an omen. A warning.”
Liz Falla was standing by the table where the attacker had left the dagger. As he said this, Moretti saw her look across sharply at him, then away. She said nothing, so he continued. “About what? Or whom?”
Betty Chesler looked at Moretti. “I don’t know for sure,” she said slowly. “I work on a lot of historical films, and sometimes I get a strange feeling, standing in a room like this, surrounded by the past. It could be just that — but whatever this is about goes a long way back. That’s my opinion.”
“A long way back — in time, you mean?”
“Right. This isn’t about what Gilbert Ensor did or said to insult Monty Lord, or what the marchesa did or said to upset — well, just about everybody, that one. I mean, I can understand why knives — guns aren’t so easy to come by, unless you’re in America — but why bother with decorative daggers? If you can find that one out, Detective Inspector, you’ve probably got the answer.”
“So these are not like any knives or daggers used in the film?”
Betty Chesler shook her blond beehive vigorously. “I don’t do weapons, but I know that much. There’s guns of all sorts, and a few knives — World War Two army issue type things, I suppose. Plus the odd bomb or grenade. But no fancy handles.”
As they went back down the steps, Liz Falla asked, “Was she helpful, or were you just saying that, Guv?”
“A bit of both. I’d like to know why such a major change in a minor character — it could mean absolutely nothing, but it could also be part of that feeling she has that all this has something to do with the past.”
“Which past, that’s what I thought when she said that.”
“Exactly. But daggers, not just knives, have been used three times and that has to be significant. Murderers have quirks, but I can’t believe this guy has managed to get hold of a handful of fancy daggers cheap, and is using them for reasons of economy.”
Liz Falla reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out several sheets of paper. “I got what they call a shooting schedule from Mr. Bonini, as well as the list of cast and crew members. They usually make out a schedule for the whole project and it is updated each day. It gives names, times, and location. Who are we interested in next?”
“Vittoria Salviati, DC Falla — if your Italian steered you right.”
They were in luck. The young actress was scheduled for a shoot that afternoon. By now it was late morning and, according to the schedule, she would be in makeup. Moretti went back up the steps and asked Betty Chesler where they would find her.
As they made their way back up the drive, Moretti asked, “Has anyone mentioned anything that might be of interest from any of the statements taken so far?”
“Nothing, Guv. I did ask about the security guard’s statement, and apparently he saw and heard nothing unusual, until he came across the body — except that one of those big lights were on. There’s nerve for you, illuminating the scene of the crime!”
“Unless,” said Moretti, “it was Toni Albarosa who switched it on, because he saw something unusual — something he was not supposed to see. I think we’re about to find out why he was on the terrace at night, taking a murderer by surprise. But I don’t think he was the original target.”
Vittoria Salviati was as pretty as a picture, chocolate-box beautiful. As she turned around in the chair before the brightly lit mirrors, Moretti could not restrain a sharp intake of breath. She looked no more than eighteen years old and, even allowing for the miracle of movie makeup, her pouting red lips,
cloud of tousled dark hair, and huge dark eyes against her porcelain skin did indeed take the breath away. But the white around those huge dark eyes was bloodshot, and their expression was anguished. Moretti introduced himself and Liz Falla, and established that she was reasonably comfortable speaking English.
“Do I have to speak to you now? I have a difficult scene to do — could it wait until tomorrow?”
“We would like just a brief word now with you, Miss Salviati. It would be better, coming from you, rather than from anyone else — wouldn’t it?” said Moretti, gently.
The young actress turned and nodded at the makeup artist, a middle-aged man with purple hair and a nose ring. As he left the trailer, he turned and rolled his eyes knowingly at the two policemen. As soon as he had left, Vittoria Salviati burst into tears.
“You know, don’t you? Who told you?”
“Guessed would be a better word, Miss Salviati. Toni Albarosa was either coming to see you, or leaving.”
“Leaving — oh my poor, darling Toni! It was always such a chance we took, with the marchesa so close, but we could not keep away from each other — you know how it is.”
Moretti was aware of a quizzical glance in his direction from his partner.
“Did you meet on Rastrellamento, or had you known each other before?”
“We met on the first day and it was what the French call ‘coup de foudre,’ Inspector.”
“Forgive me, Miss Salviati,” said Moretti, “but — you are a very beautiful woman. You must have had men making passes at you, falling in love with you, at every step. What was different about Toni Albarosa, that you would risk an affair with a man married to the daughter of the marchesa, who was on the premises, and who clearly has a position of importance on this project?”
Vittoria Salviati swung around from the mirror on her swivel chair, giving both officers a glimpse of slim brown legs beneath her cotton wrap as she did so.
“That’s just it — he didn’t make a pass at me. He just looked at me so sweetly with his big eyes, and told me — oh, the most beautiful things you can imagine! For a whole week before he slept with me! Oh, I’m sure this is all my fault. I’m sure this has something to with that bitch of a wife of his, or that bitch of a mother-in-law of his, or both of them!”
“I don’t think you need blame yourself for his death in that way, Miss Salviati. I think that Mr. Albarosa was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did he ever say anything to you about anything he might have seen or heard during those nightly visits? Outside in the grounds, I mean?”
“No. Mostly we didn’t talk once he got to my room.”
Moretti could think of no adequate response to this.
“Does everyone have to know?” Vittoria Salviati leaned forward anxiously in her chair, affording Moretti a generous glimpse of her much-photographed and beautiful bosom.
“Not immediately, but when we find who is responsible, the reason for Mr. Albarosa’s presence on the terrace at that hour may come out in court.”
There was a knock on the door and the makeup artist put his head into the room. “Miss Salviati’s due on the set in half an hour and — oh my God!”
With a wail and a shriek he ran across and held the actress’s face between his hands.
“Vittoria sweetie, what have they done to you, what have they said to you!” He turned and looked accusingly at Moretti and Liz Falla, the brutal sulliers of his handiwork. “Look at this mess — she’s got mascara and lipstick on her chin, for God’s sakes. I’m going to have to start all over again.”
At the foot of the trailer steps Liz Falla stopped and looked at Moretti.
“That Albarosa had a great act going, eh, Guv? Believe you me, that one works much better than that sleaze Ensor’s slimy gropings.”
“I believe you,” said Moretti. “I want to talk to Monty Lord next, but first we’ll head back into St. Peter Port, and I’ll drop you off at the station. If Chief Officer Hanley asks where I am, you can tell him I’m making further enquiries.”
“Right, Guv.”
“Okay, DC Falla, give me your first impressions,” Moretti said, as the police car pulled in to the side of a narrow lane to allow one of the town buses through. Through the open window Liz Falla called out cheerily to the driver as he passed.
“Well, first of all, I agree with the costume lady — find out why daggers and we’re on our way. But I’m not sure I agree about the past. The French say ‘coup de foudre,’ like Vittoria Salviati said, but they also say ‘cherchez la femme,’ don’t they? I think it’s all about sex myself.”
“You may be right.” Moretti smiled. His partner’s straightforward and unvarnished approach was a salutary reminder of his own tendency to intellectualize and embroider. “And Ms. Chesler may be over-exaggerating the importance of the daggers. When the purple-haired gentleman took a fit at some smudged makeup I reminded myself that we’re dealing with people who act and think theatrically. The use of decorated daggers could be merely picturesque, for effect. And nothing more.”
“The artistic temperament. Or histrionics, like my uncle Vern. So we go back to motive and opportunity?”
“For the time being. But we’ll certainly take a look at the daggers back at the crime lab. If possible, I’d like us to interview Monty Lord and the other actors whose costumes were damaged when we get back to the manor in the afternoon. By the way, I thought you were about to say something when I asked Betty Chesler about her use of the word ‘omen.’ Were you?”
“No, Guv.” There was a pause, and then Liz Falla said, “I just thought she was being fanciful.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up from Hospital Lane when I’ve seen to some personal business.”
“Right you are, Guv.” Liz Falla cast a quick glance at Moretti. “That actress, then — do you think those were real tears?”
Moretti smiled and shrugged his shoulders “I do, but I don’t think that was just grief we saw. She’s genuinely scared that the marchesa will find out, and we’ll have to talk to the widow before we can decide if Toni Albarosa was as sweet and genuine as everyone says. But my feeling is that your instincts are right. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
The restaurant Moretti’s father had once owned was above the cellar that housed the jazz group, the Fénions. It was called Emidio’s — Moretti senior’s first name. It was now run by Rick Le Marchant, the younger brother of Emidio Moretti’s former business partner — a solution that had kept the peace in the extended family, if not the immediate family. As was not uncommon on the island, it so happened that this branch of the Le Marchant family was distantly related to Moretti’s mother, Vera Domaille.
Whenever Moretti walked in through the front door with its red awning, he was stepping into the past — which was why he so rarely ate at Emidio’s, although it boasted some of the best and most authentic Italian cooking on the island. The restaurant smelled particularly enticing today. From the direction of the kitchen wafted the yeasty, fruity fragrance of freshly baked panettone, and through the side of the glass-covered counter shimmered the dark chocolate gleam of dolce torinese, the chilled chocolate loaf his mother had loved so much.
But while he ate his veal scallopine al Marsala or scampi alla griglia, Moretti preferred his digestive system not to be awash with memories of his mother laughing at his father over the low counter that divided the kitchen from the restaurant. That bright memory was gone too soon with her early death, and from then on it was the shadow of Emidio Moretti that wandered between the red tablecloths and took the orders of local and tourist until he sold the business.
Coup de foudre. Like a thunderbolt, his father once told him. Como un fulmine, Eduardo. Not just from the pain in the empty stomach, the ache in the bones from the physical labour, and the ribs cracked from the butt of the guard’s gun. Like a thunderbolt when I saw her face — her great blue eyes and the pity in them. I smiled, and the next day there she was again — only this time she darted out and put a piece of bread
in my hand. The day after that it was a piece of cheese — sometimes it was bacon or sausage, if they had any, and they had so little — we were all starving. We were lucky — we were never caught, but she took a terrible risk. Como un fulmine, Eduardo.
“Ed! What brings you here? Thought you stuck to the lower level of this establishment.”
Rick Le Marchant was a small man — small in height but of expansive circumference, with a voice and a laugh as rich and mellifluous as his stracotto or zabaione. He was about fifteen years older than Moretti, so had never been a close, personal friend, but he had been at every family get together and had been around as far back as Moretti could remember. He had originally been the business manager of Emidio’s, moving into the more creative, culinary role when his older brother retired. He had not substantially altered the decor of the restaurant, but a greater profusion of plants and vines now climbed in and around the stuccoed walls, thanks to his wife’s green thumb.
When Emidio Moretti came back to the island and courted Vera Domaille, it had been the Le Marchants who had found him his first job with Don Bertrand at the Héritage Hotel, and for the penniless Italian immigrant, they became his island family. Moretti knew his father was not the voluble, emotional Italian of popular perception, who wore his heart on his sleeve and poured out his innermost thoughts to anyone who cared to listen, but if anyone knew anything about Emidio Moretti and his family back in Italy, it would be a Le Marchant.
“Hi there, Rick. I’ll have some of your great bruschetta and, if I may, a little of your time.”
“Done. Annette can take care of three tables.” Rick Le Marchant called out to the pretty dark-haired waitress behind the counter, “Two orders of bruschetta and two espressos, Annette.”
The coffee arrived, Annette returned to the kitchen for the bruschetta, and Rick Le Marchant looked speculatively at Moretti.
“Is this business? Any problems downstairs I should know about?”
“God, no. At least, not as far as I know, and I’m sure Deb would tell you.”