The Last Enemy

by Grace Brophy

  Cenni said, “Some of our questions may be painful, and for that I apologize, but the answers are important. They could help us find your niece’s murderer. We’ve been told that she was an American, that she came to Assisi in June to bury her mother, but that’s all we know. It would be helpful if you could tell us more—why did she stay on in Assisi, what was she like. I would like to understand her better.” She surprised him by responding immediately, without further prompting and in some detail. Like day and night, he thought, remembering Sophie Orlic’s minimal responses.

  “She was the daughter of the count’s sister, Livia, who died in June. Livia was seven years older than Umberto. They were never close,” she added, stressing this point. “After the war Livia married an American soldier who had been stationed in Perugia. They went to live in the United States, in Brooklyn. When Livia died in June, Rita called to ask if she could bury her mother in the family vault. She said her mother’s last wish was to return to Assisi.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I don’t believe Livia ever adjusted to living in the United States or to her lack of social status there. Her husband’s grandparents were immigrants from Naples,” she added with a wry smile. A snob but a gracious one, Cenni thought, as Amelia continued.

  “The Casati family was of some importance in Umbria before the war and Livia was overindulged by her father until his death—at least that’s my husband’s perception,” she added, smiling shyly. “I only got to know Livia when she returned to Assisi with Rita and stayed with us for a year. Rita was five at the time.” She hesitated for a moment as though weighing what to say next, her eyes meeting his gaze with a surprising steadiness “In Italy it’s considered bad luck to speak ill of the dead; in England we’re less superstitious,” she said apologetically before continuing. “Livia was a bad mother. I can’t remember her ever hugging or kissing Rita or acknowledging the child in any way, beyond using her to run errands: ‘Rita, cara mia, run upstairs and get my cigarettes,’ was her usual request. I can imagine if she used a five-year-old that way, how she must have used Rita as she grew older and became less endearing. We all do grow less endearing,” she added somewhat sadly.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this about Livia, but I think it’s important if you’re to understand what Rita was like.” She paused for a brief moment, unwinding the lace-edged handkerchief that she had twisted into a ball so she could blow her nose, an action that Cenni found both surprising and appealing from a woman of such dignity.

  “My niece spent most of her life caring for her mother. From what Rita told me, she had no life beyond her mother after her father died. She was eighteen at the time. She taught English in a secondary school in Brooklyn, returning home in the evenings to get her mother’s dinner and to clean house. Livia didn’t trust anyone and refused to hire anyone to help in the house. To Livia, all outsiders were stranieri.

  “We each have different ways of reacting to rejection and abuse. Rita’s reaction was probably the healthiest for society, although perhaps not for herself. She tried harder to be loved, assuming, as most children do, that it was her fault that she was not. She was always offering help and advice—often to complete strangers—unfortunately, even when the help was clearly not needed . . . or wanted.” She stopped and looked at him directly.

  She hesitated a moment before going on. “I think, Dottore, that you should know this, since you’ll probably hear it from others. . . . The count didn’t like Rita. It was her officiousness that irritated him the most. He’s a very private man and he doesn’t understand people who infringe on the privacy of others. I’m not making excuses for him. At times he was very unkind to Rita, but I do understand why—she was something of a busybody—always, of course, with the best intentions!” Her last remark, ironic and resentful, surprised Cenni. Until then he would have said that Amelia Casati had both liked and felt sorry for her niece. Now he was not so sure.

  “You said she arrived in June to bury her mother but this is now March. Why was she still here?”

  “Well, when Rita called to ask if she could bring her mother to Assisi to be buried, Umberto agreed immediately. But he assumed—actually, we both assumed—that she would stay a few weeks, then return to Brooklyn and her job. In August, she told us that she had resigned her teaching position before she’d even left Brooklyn. She said she had retired, that she was planning to settle in Assisi!”

  “Retired?” Cenni interrupted. “She was young to be thinking of retirement. What was she planning to live on? Did she have money?”

  “Under normal circumstances I would never inquire about someone’s finances, but I did ask Rita. Needless to say, we were all very surprised by her announcement.”

  “And her response?” Cenni asked.

  “She said there was a pension which she was entitled to claim in a few years. She had also sold the house in Brooklyn for close to a quarter of a million dollars. When Umberto’s mother died a few years ago, Livia inherited half her estate. I assume, although I can’t say for sure, that Livia left that money to her daughter, a considerable sum. Since July, Rita’s been teaching at our school, though only two classes a week. We pay . . . paid her what we pay our other teachers—thirteen euros an hour—but I doubt that even a month’s salary would buy one of the outfits I’ve seen her wearing lately.”

  “This money—her money—do you have any idea who she’s left it to?”

  “That’s hardly something I could . . . or would ask. She had an Aunt Marie, her father’s sister, and a younger cousin. She mentioned them both once or twice but not with affection. I know she had an attorney in New York. She spoke of him when she discussed the sale of the house.” She hesitated with a derisive smile on her face. “You probably know more about that than I do, Dottore!—Lucia told me that your officers found some papers in my niece’s room and took them away.” And without my permission was left unspoken but clearly intended.

  “Her teaching job at the Academia? How did that come about?” Cenni asked, ignoring the barely disguised rebuke.

  “As it happened, one of our teachers, a woman from Liverpool, decided to return home in July without giving notice. We had an intensive English class scheduled to start in mid-July with ten students already signed up. Rita volunteered to teach it, and I suggested to Umberto that we let her. That was before we knew that she had no intention of returning to the States. Rita had great staying power!” The last, uttered more to herself than to him, held an undertone of bitterness beyond the ordinary displeasure a host feels when a guest overstays her leave. Cenni decided to probe further.

  “Am I correct in understanding that the school is owned and run by your husband?”

  “After the war Umberto and his mother had a very difficult time; Anna had no money. Her husband had foolishly invested all their fluid assets in state bonds. And then, shortly afterward, in 1943, he was killed by a bomb. My husband’s father had been a prominent member of the Fascist party and a great friend of Il Duce, a matter of public record,” she added in explanation, when Inspector Tonni looked up in surprise from his note taking.

  “After the war Anna was ostracized by the very people who had asked the count for endless favors when the fascista were in power. She discovered, as we all do in the end, that loyalty is a virtue of selfinterest. Unfortunately, this was true of her daughter as well as her friends. As soon as Livia saw the hard times coming, she managed to get out by marrying an American. Anna was left with the house, a few antiques, a fifteen-year-old son to be educated, and the manuscripts: of great value now; back then, most people would have sold them to buy food or burned them for fuel. But Anna was an extraordinary woman. She sold the antiques—to Argentine bargain hunters—but figured out a way to hold on to the house and the manuscripts by starting the Academia. Most people think Umberto established it, but the credit really goes to Anna. There were very few women in postwar Italy who could have or would have done what she did. She saw immediately the importance tha
t English would assume in the postwar world. It was a language that she spoke quite well; her governess had been English. She started the school in 1948 and ran it with our help until 1992, when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Umberto has run it since.”

  She paused for a moment and Cenni could see tears welling in her eyes. He waited patiently for her to continue.

  “After Anna’s death, we found that she had left the school to Umberto and Livia jointly. Umberto offered to give Livia half the yearly profits, but she insisted that we pay her half its market value, the equivalent of 500,000 euros. We did, but we had to mortgage the house. Anna was not herself at the end,” she said, her voice beginning to quiver. “At one point, she made a will leaving everything to Camillo, my son, who had already been dead some fifteen years. She was always scribbling wills before she died. Most of them were barely legible and none of them were legal. Of course, in the case of the school, Livia was her daughter and the will was properly executed under Italian law . . . but she’d told me so often that I was her true daughter.” Her voice faded on her last words and Piero had to learn forward to hear.

  She sat silent for a full minute, looking at Cenni without seeing him. Then like a scratched record that’s moved beyond its imperfection, she continued as before, her voice measured and clear. “Perhaps now you can appreciate that Umberto’s dislike of his niece was not just willful and unkind. It was a natural progression of his feelings for a sister who had deserted him and his mother when she was needed most.” She stopped abruptly, and Cenni suspected that she had just now realized that she’d said more than he’d asked for—perhaps more than was prudent. He decided not to push her further on the question of Anna and the school.

  “And your daughter Artemisia . . . how did she get along with her cousin? We understand from your maid that she and Rita had an argument just yesterday concerning one of your husband’s manuscripts.”

  Her response was immediate and electric, “Sheer nonsense! Why should Artemisia and Rita have a discussion regarding one of Umberto’s manuscripts? Neither of them had anything to do with the library. I doubt that Rita ever entered the library since her arrival in June. It’s kept locked except when Umberto is working in there. He and I are the only ones with the combination. I find it somewhat naive, Dottore, that you would credit anything Lucia tells you about us. She’s an inveterate gossip, and a malicious one.” The latter comment, so out of character with her previous gentle ironies, elicited a surprised look from Cenni and a shrug and a wan smile from the countess in return. “Servants are so difficult to find these days.”

  “That would appear to be true, that she’s a gossip,” Cenni responded uncritically, sensing that he still had her confidence, not wanting to lose it. “To my original question then, your daughter and Rita, were they friends?”

  “No, not friends exactly. There’s an eight-year difference in age. I doubt Artemisia even remembered Rita, who visited us last when she was sixteen. Her mother sent her for the summer so she could improve her Italian. There’s certainly no doubt that Rita admired my daughter. She’d even started to dress like her. She’s been buying her clothes in Florence and Rome, from the same boutiques where Artemisia shops. She actually purchased the same cape and in the same color,” she added caustically.

  “And your granddaughter?”

  “Paola lives in Rome. She’s studying to be an art restorer. She was home briefly at Christmas and is staying at home now for a few weeks to rest. She had a very bad case of influenza this winter, and her doctor suggested that she take it easy for a bit. But there’s more than twenty years difference in age between Rita and Paola, hardly the basis for a friendship, Dottore! But since you plan to speak to my daughter and granddaughter yourself, perhaps you should address your questions to them, directly,” she responded, this time openly checking her wristwatch.

  “Only one or two more questions and we’re finished. I understand from your cook that your niece stopped eating with the family a while ago. Was there an argument between your niece and any member of the family?”

  “No, certainly not! She stopped eating with us right after the New Year at about the same time she asked for the key to her room. Apparently, she’d discovered that Lucia was reading her diary. I told her to write in English instead of Italian, and not make such a fuss, but she was adamant, insisting that she’d clean her own room. As for taking her meals separately, I had no objection. In truth, I welcomed it. I knew Umberto would prefer it. She had started seeing a man who lives in Assisi, an American, I believe. His name is John Williams. Lucia told me—and anyone else who would listen—that Rita had dinner with him almost every night in Il Duomo. One of Lucia’s friends is a waitress there. I met him only once, so there’s really nothing further I can tell you. Are we getting to the last question?” she asked anxiously, clearly intent on finishing the interview.

  “The last few! I’m intrigued by certain information given to me by the Assisi police concerning the woman who provides flowers for the family vault, a Signora Orlic. I was told that she’s had some differences with your niece, that Signora Orlic was blackmailing a woman who’d worked for her and that your niece found this out and reported it to the police. Yet, I was also told that Signora Orlic still works for you. That’s rather curious don’t you think!”

  “No, I don’t! Really, Dottore, you should stop accepting gossip as gospel! My husband and I were extraordinarily displeased by what Rita did to Sophie. It’s just one more example of her propensity to meddle and cause trouble. Sophie Orlic took care of my mother during the last year of her life. She had been a physician’s assistant in Croatia but didn’t have a license to work here. We needed full-time care for Anna, and Sophie seemed to be the right person. We sponsored her for a soggiorno, gave her a place to live, paid her a salary. In return, she took exceptional care of my mother-in-law and helped around the house. She still comes in twice a month to help with the rough cleaning. When Anna died, Umberto and I were both concerned about Sophie. Sophie told me of an idea that she had to start a flower business. I gave her a small loan, which she repaid, on time and with interest!

  “Of course, we knew about Rita’s interference and our sympathies were entirely with Sophie. I don’t believe it’s blackmail to pay someone’s travel expenses to Italy, house and feed the person, and then expect a return on one’s money. We have complete confidence in Sophie. A good many of her clients were recommended by me. I sincerely hope you’re not going to bother her with this business,” she added, breathless and flushed. She rose from her chair, saying, “If you’re finished with me, I really have a great deal to do. I need to arrange for my niece’s funeral, including a mass and a priest to say it.” She started to move toward the door without waiting for his acknowledgment that the interview was over.

  “Just one clarification and Inspector Tonni will escort you back to the sitting room.”

  She turned and looked at him impatiently.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I understand from your husband that you have not been informed. It seems that your niece was raped before . . .”

  Her reaction was painful to watch.

  “Raped! But . . . it’s not possi . . .” She gasped tremulously, the blood rapidly draining from her face as she slid silently to the floor.

  It took five minutes to revive Amelia Casati and another ten minutes to calm her husband. Cenni resisted the urge to apologize, which he knew was born of an innate courtesy that had nothing to do with any regrets he might have had over his decision to tell Amelia Casati about the possibility of her niece’s rape. He had wanted to see her reaction. He had, and was satisfied that if someone had faked the rape of Rita Minelli, it had not been Amelia Casati.

  He had also learned something of the family dynamic. Piero had gone to the sitting room to enlist the aid of Umberto Casati in reviving his wife. The count, who had returned with his granddaughter and Lucia trailing close behind, had spent the next ten minutes railing at Cenni a
nd Piero over their gross mistreatment of his wife. Paola had spent that same ten minutes chafing her grandmother’s wrists and making soothing sounds of comfort while Lucia had looked on, interested, but providing no help whatsoever. Artemisia Casati had remained in the sitting room.

  16

  ARTEMISIA CASATI HAD achieved a certain stature within the Italian art world. The commissario, who had been in charge of a number of investigations into art theft, was only too aware of the eternal intrigues that consume those who dare venture into the science of art in Italy: Historians, museum directors, gallery owners, art critics are all fed into the grinding machine. A year ago Artemisia Casati had published her first book, A Woman’s Art, on Artemisia Gentileschi, the seventeenth-century Baroque artist, for whom Artemisia had been named and who had also achieved a certain stature—and a certain notoriety—in her own age. The monograph was a feminist-inspired work of stunning scholarship and audacious attributions, overturning quite a number of art historical assumptions. She had asserted, unapologetically, what other feminists before her had only dared to hint, that many of the works of other more famous Baroque artists were actually the work of the young Gentileschi—indeed, that quite a few of the paintings previously attributed to Orazio Gentileschi, her father and teacher, were clearly painted by the daughter. Artemisia Casati had done more than just tweak some cognoscenti noses. She had done the unthinkable: She had written in English and published in America. By all reckoning, she should have been banished to the back pages of some second-rate art magazine, but the book had been a great success in New York and that, as always, was sufficient for the Italians who loved anything branded USA.