The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  “How could you know that?”

  “A simple mathematical calculation my dear, based on the time the cleaner started, the size of the house, and the fact that it was the pool guy, rather than the cleaner, that discovered the body. If we are then to factor in the length of the time the police took to resolve the crime scene details and other possible variables, I would calculate that the murder took place between 10.05 and 10.20, after which, the cleaner departed in great haste.”

  “That is pure conjecture. There is no way that you could know that.

  “On the contrary. You noticed the cleaners mop and bucket standing in the corner of the kitchen?”

  “I think I did, yes. But so what?”

  “Dirty water, the strong smell of bleach and the mop dipped inside the bucket? You did not find this unusual?”

  “Hey, when I had my own l place, I don’t think I ever had time to mop the floor, except when I made a really big mess in the kitchen…”

  “Because you had more important considerations my dear. Professional cleaners are far more fastidious however, particularly the cleaner, employed by señor Elzorra. You will have noticed from our walk around the house how pristine the place was—how every detail inside the home had been subjected to the most careful, indeed obsessive regime. I can tell you categorically that there is no way that a cleaner of that caliber would leave a mop standing in a bucket of dirty bleach water—such an act would be unthinkable for the person who cleaned that house.”

  Mira nodded, “Which means they left the place in a big hurry—as though they had seen something so unspeakable, and were so terrified, that they could think only of fleeing.”

  “Precisely, Mira my dear, now buckle up your seat belt, because we are going to Sherman Oaks.”

  “Are you going to tell me why?”

  “We are going to see the cleaner of course.”

  “You got her number from the bulletin board?

  “Heavens no Mira, her number was stuck to the side of the fridge, along with the details of all the other house staff, including the pool guy and the gardener.”

  “So that is why you were hanging around in the kitchen?”

  “Did you perhaps think I wanted to socialize with the charming police officers? I must say, I think that Detective Ramirez took quite a shine to you my dear.”

  “Very amusing.”

  Franklin shot her a happy look, “Now, before we set off, have you got any further questions?”

  “You were going to tell me what happened to Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “You are absolutely right,” said Franklin, “I was wasn’t I.”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 18

  Milan Italy 1630 Maundy Thursday. The house of Contessa Manzoni.

  “My dear Contessa after the many travails our fair city has endured, your return to our bosom is welcome indeed. I am only sorry, that your dear husband cannot be here, so that we might enjoy his company too.”

  Contessa Manzoni gave a wistful sigh, “Sadly Don Rodrigo the Good Lord, in his most infinite wisdom, decided against such an eventuality.”

  Don Rodrigo closed his eyes and nodded, adopting an expression that might be interpreted as mournful sorrow. After allowing this mask of grief to descend longer than the conventions of either etiquette, or good manners dictated, Don Rodrigo at last gave a deep, sorrowful intake of breath. Opening his eyes slowly, he looked at the painting of the lady Lucretzia and said, “The last gift he bought you Signora Contessa—so beautiful and angelic. Created if you will forgive me—in an image of perfection not dissimilar to your own fair countenance.”

  Contessa Manzoni gave a bright, almost girlish laugh, “Why Don Rodrigo, you are a rogue and a flatterer, were you not such an old and dear friend of the family, I would take you for a scoundrel.”

  Don Rodrigo gave the contessa a manful look. He held the bulbous signet ring bearing his family’s crest to his lips and kissed it. “That you would speak in jest, after the heartbreaking travails that have encroached upon your affairs Signora. It fills my humble soul with a righteous joy, and the fervent hope that finally, after these many long years of hardship, the people of the great city of Milan may once again, enjoy the prosperity of our forefathers.”

  “Indeed. Let us pray that it is true. I can think of no event that would have invoked such displeasure with God that our people would be punished so. It would seem that the scourges of War and Famine that we have suffered these long years, are as nothing when compared to the curse of this enduring plague. Truly, it is a sign of God’s disfavor.”

  “I would scarce blame you to think that way madam, after all the misfortunes that have come our way. But I can assure you, that this nefarious sickness is finally at an end. Conquered by the twin lights of prayer and modern medicine.”

  “Can this really be true Don Rodrigo, after so many years of anguish?”

  “Indeed, Contessa. The public health measures initiated by Mayor Sicari have at last swept the infernal sickness from the city, that we might celebrate our liberation in a very timely fashion, this coming Carnival season.”

  “It is a blessing indeed Don Rodrigo. And therefore fitting that we celebrate my return to Milan in the grand manner our circle has enjoyed in the past: a magical banquet, dedicated to not only the pleasures of the season, but our release from the bondage of past misfortune.”

  “I will drink to that,” roared Don Rodrigo, tipping back his goblet to such an angle that wine streaked out across his cheeks. He gave a hearty laugh, and wiped his face clean on his sleeve. “So tell me Contessa, of the provinces, and your estates in Como. Hardly the place to spend winter, what with the icy chill of the mountains and vulgarity of the common peasantry. Such hardships must have driven you half mad. No wonder you look so pale and drawn.”

  The contessa smiled weakly, wishing she were still in Como. Such a fervent hope was impossible. Worse, it would not be possible to share the reasons for her departure—the truth was far too dangerous. The fact was that the pestilence was encroaching once again, overrunning the land, like a filthy protestant curse. With the diseased armies of Saxony and Prussia on the march, looting and pillaging wherever they went, the countryside was no longer safe.

  The encroachment of war and plague had left few options. With the forces of darkness closing in around them, her brave husband Lorenzo had scouted south, towards the kingdom of Florence, with a party of his most trusted men. But the roads south had been too perilous to navigate. Lorenzo’s scouting expedition became slowly mired—the desperation of war, famine and pestilence growing more acute with every passing mile. Dear, brave, Lorenzo. Such things he had seen on his travels: Plague pits running high with the stench of rotting carcasses. Roads clogged with the ragged, broken armies of every nation in Europe, struggling over rain-clogged battlefields, for a chance to prove God cared. What a wretched, broken existence for men of honor. The thought of such horror forced the contessa Manzoni to draw a sharp breath. Oh, that the world had come to this…

  “My dear Contessa, you look quite ill. But where are my manners, the shock of your poor husbands death has left you quite exhausted. Here, take a sip of wine and revive your spirits,” Don Rodrigo offered the contessa a freshly decanted goblet of wine, pressing it urgently into her hand, so that she might drink at once. “I confess the suddenness of your husbands demise had me taken aback when I first heard the news. A hunting accident of all things—a most unexpected calamity.”

  The contessa smiled weakly. Brave Lorenzo had not died in a hunting accident. He had died in the stables of their villa in Como, writhing and choking and sweating out the sickness from every pore in his tortured body. The servants kept her away. But she had heard his screams, ringing out to the far hills, like an unholy curse. There was no mercy in his release—but it came at last—after hard, delirious days and nights of agony.

  Soon after the death of brave Lorenzo, the sickness spread with merciless speed to other men in the scouting party. The contagion had no doubt
come upon them on the road south—the unwholesome vapors of the battlefield, mixed with the dank, cold air of the mountains.

  The lie of her return was transparent, the truth so open to discovery. The contessa fanned at her face and sipped her wine. At any moment her subterfuge might be discovered. Don Rodrigo had made a number of comments already—searching, inappropriate comments—the kind of words her dear, sweet, Lorenzo would have taken issue with immediately. But Lorenzo was no longer here to protect her. She knew that survival would depend solely on the artfulness of her sex. The contessa felt the cold thrill of complete fear grip her. She took another gulp of wine, it burned hotter than the blood of martyred saints, chilled her soul more completely than the long sleep of death itself.

  She forced a smile.

  A duplicitous normality was her only hope. Her only possible course of action: a reintegration with the society of Milan, in the hope that the cruelty of the past would go undiscovered.

  As she considered the dark subterfuge which lay before her, Stephano, her butler, a servant of long and faithful service, introduced the second guest of the evening, an arrival that drew a good deal of surprise, and no small measure of satisfaction, for the guest was none other than Don Abondio the priest, a man known for the devout tenacity of his ministrations, a figure of great social standing, who’s reverent prudery would surely provide the ideal counter to the worldly irreverence of Don Rodrigo.

  “You honor us Priest, that you should spare time out from your duties anointing the brows of sinners for a Scudi a piece!” growled Don Rodrigo, raising his goblet in toast.

  “The queue for the Kingdom of God is a long one Don Rodrigo. You would be well advised to get in line, as your hopes of salvation get slimmer by the day.”

  “Unlike your waistline. Eh, priest? But I bow to the sacred wisdom that has kept you free of the plagues grip, these long years—that you might administer benediction to the tormented souls of the moneyed classes.”

  “Man does not live on bread alone Don Rodrigo as well you know it.”

  “The time of the Eucharist is upon us once again, priest,” laughed Don Rodrigo. “Perhaps you can take pause from your sacred duties, and tell us your opinions of this great painting that has been bestowed on the contessa by her late husband.”

  The priest looked uncomfortable, “I am no critic, nor am I the judge of man’s worldly pleasures…”

  “Come, come,” roared Don Rodrigo. Look into the painting, and tell us what you see.”

  The priest gave Don Rodrigo a thin look. He smiled hesitantly at the contessa, then bent forward and examined the painting closely. As he bent forwards, the world grew silent, save for the far distant barking of a dog, protesting the loneliness of the night.

  “It is a work of great proficiency certainly, a product of the Florentine school if I am not mistaken. However, I would hesitate to put a name to the hand that executed it.”

  “Impressive. Tell us, what more do you see Don Abondio?” encouraged the contessa.

  “For all it’s skill of execution, I care not for the subject matter, the poor creature has the wanton look of damnation,” said the priest, with all the certainty of his long experience in such matters.

  Don Rodrigo roared with laughter.

  The contessa colored, her head turning involuntarily with embarrassment.

  “The priest thinks the lady be damned,” chuckled Don Rodrigo, “What say you Contessa?”

  “I am no authority on such subjects Don Rodrigo. I do however know great beauty when I see it. Perhaps, if you can contain your passion, I will share with the assembled company the story of this paintings provenance.”

  “You are as perceptive as you are discerning Signora, I look forward with great hunger to this most fascinating of tales.” Don Rodrigo gave his hostess a barely concealed look of lechery.

  The look and comment went unnoticed by Don Abondio. The priest stared instead at the painting—the sumptuous blonde curls, the plunging gown and the most voluptuous womanhood presented for all to see—such frippery was indecent—the kind of display that could excite the lower passions, in men of weak moral character. As Don Abondio assured himself of this truism, the contessa’s servant entered the room, with a familiar figure waddling in his wake. The new arrival was none other than Lodvico Setalla, the surgeon. There was something about Signor Setalla that repelled Don Abondio. Perhaps it was his toad-like appearance, an attribute exacerbated by great age and a pair of wet, liverish lips, that bubbled and quivered most abominably, before the slightest word issued from them. Perhaps it was Signor Setalla’s corpulent demeanor, or his over-fed insistence that his diagnoses of the world’s ills were infallible and absolute. More than this, there was something about Signor Setalla that made the priest uneasy. Perhaps it was the old man’s steady eye, or his very particular habit of reaching out, and grasping whom ever he was talking to by the hand, until his point had been fully made? Whatever it was, the priest shrank back, offering only the curtest of nods by way of greeting, as the old man entered the room.

  As ever, Lodvico Setalla had a long and convoluted anecdote to impart. Tonight, the story involved the meeting of a Jewish elder outside the walls of the old city, a story that seemed strangely familiar to the priest. Apparently the elder, had cautioned the aging Setalla against the progress of the Angel of Death, warning him that a sacrificial mark would be the only protection against Death’s call, on an evening such as this.

  “I confess this mans demeanor was quite unsettling,” bubbled Signor Setalla, his eyes bulging with fright. He grasped the contessa by the hand and said, “I humored him of course, often such action is the only way to consol a madman.”

  Don Abondio could contain himself no more, “Why the poor man was simply relating the biblical story of Passover, in which the first born children of the Israelites were protected by their devotion from the curse of God’s wrath.”

  “I am familiar with the story Signor,” blustered Lodvico Setalla, rubbing his fat little hands together by way of comfort, “But this mans demeanor was quite unhinged, as though he was party to some kind of foresight.”

  “Pah! These religious types are all the same,” scoffed Don Rodrigo, “And for all their pious foreboding, the sun and the stars still spin across the sky, just as surely as night follows day.”

  “Perhaps, at this holy time of year, you could take break of your heresy Don Rodrigo, and find within your tortured soul some small space for repentance?” Don Abondio said quietly.

  “Science forgives everything but madness,” said Lodvico Setalla wetly, his chubby hands folding around each other, in a ceaseless motion that gave the impression he was washing them in preparation for dinner.

  “The profanity of science will never match the sacred forgiveness of the Lord’s word,” replied Don Abondio tartly.

  The contessa, sensing a spiritual impasse, of an acrimonious and quite insoluble nature, signaled her servant Perpetua to charge the gentlemen’s glasses once again, in the hope that the richness of the wine might serve to distract them from their squabbles. As she did so, she heard the shrill arrival of Donna Prassede and her husband Don Ferrante. The contessa had much time for Don Ferrante. He was a man of a most agreeable nature, handsome, cultured and knowledgeable on so many subjects. He was in so many ways the perfect dinner party guest. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his wife. Donna Prassede had the well-deserved reputation as a judgmental busybody. She was quick to offer her high-minded opinions, without consideration for the laws of etiquette or social nicety. Whilst dealing with such a poisonous social enemy, there was only one course of action available: hold her close and coddle her with indulgence and flattery of every kind, in the hope that her ugly gossip would be directed elsewhere.

  Donna Prassede floated into the room squawking louder than a French hen, her arms held high in anticipation of an embrace. The contessa hurried to greet her, holding her cheek ready, for a cold little kiss.

  “At last you retur
n, after these long months of absence, with no thoughts for the plight of your oldest friend,” squawked Donna Prassede.

  “I fear the countryside would not meet your fancy Signorina.”

  “And you would be quite right. Our cities great hinterland is so full of the stench of ugly poor people. I really cannot see the attraction my dear.” Donna Prassede offered a dainty hand to the gentlemen present that it might be kissed. All obliged, save for Don Abondio the priest, who clasped the proffered hand and bowed graciously, a tight look of discomfort straining at his face.

  Donna Prassede gave him a pert, suggestive look, and snatched her hand away. She turned to the contessa and said, “ So tell us of your poor husbands fate my dear Isabella, it is my understanding that he took a plunge from his horse whilst hunting—how can this be—Lorenzo was always such an accomplished horseman.”

  “The weather can be unpredictable in the mountains, especially in the early spring,” said the contessa, looking into her guests searching gaze.”

  Donna Prassede held the contessa’s gaze, with a cruel, glacial stare. It was some moments before she responded, but when she did, she said, “You were there at his side when they carried him down from that cold mountain?”

  “To the last.”

  “How very—comforting for that must have been for him, knowing, mortally wounded though he was, that his dear, loving wife would be at his side to the very end.” Donna Prassede half turned her head towards her husband, whilst still engaging the contessa with a side-long gaze. “You see Ferrante, the eternal bonds of romance live still, despite these perilous times.”

  Don Ferrante gave an earnest nod. “It is as I have long said dear wife. When passion is determined by the fortuitous alignment of astrological bodies, then true loves course is certain.”

  Donna Prassede squeezed out a sour look. “My husband is a terminal romantic,” she explained. “I, on the other hand, think pragmatism should be the ruling force in matters of the heart, don’t you agree my dear?”