Empress Bianca

by Lady Colin Campbell

  At the gate, the killer sauntered out into the street with all the casual ease of a servant going home for the evening. He continued to amble down the street until an old pink Pontiac passed him, coming to a stop. To an onlooker, the driver appeared to be offering him a lift. He jumped in, and the two men drove off, again at a slow enough pace to avoid notice.

  Bianca looked at her watch. It was only a quarter past six. Her servants were off until seven. There was little prospect, therefore, of them returning before that time. She knew that on no account could she return home until after the servants had done so. How could she stretch out this visit for another hour? Whatever Gloria d’Olivera’s virtues, they did not include wit or sparkle, and the conversation had been so leaden that Bianca already felt as if she were an athlete pushing a two-ton cannonball up to the top of a mountain peak.

  Just then the d’Olivera butler came to inform his mistress and her guest that Duarte had arrived. ‘Give him a cool drink,’ Gloria d’Olivera responded, ‘and tell him the Señora will be with him when we’ve finished out chat.’

  In desperation Bianca decided she must do something to remove the possibility of any suspicion in the future that she had lingered on selfservingly.

  Pressing her right hand against her temple and covering her right eye and forehead with her fingers, she said: ‘You know? My head’s been bothering me slightly all day. I really should’ve gone to bed in a darkened room… That’s the only thing that works when you get a headache…but not for anything would I have missed the pleasure of seeing you here, in your own home…’

  ‘Can I get you some aspirin?’

  ‘That would be kind,’ Bianca said as her hostess pressed the buzzer on the wall three times.

  ‘It’s tension, of course,’ Bianca said. ‘I don’t think I’m being disloyal to my husband if I tell you something you most likely already know. He suffers from depression and he has these “turns”…’

  ‘I’d heard that his health fluctuates…’

  The butler appeared again in the doorway. ‘Please fetch some aspirin for Señora Piedraplata,’ Gloria d’Olivera ordered imperiously.

  The butler nodded assent.

  ‘Ferdie’s started another of his depressions,’ Bianca confided. ‘He can be very trying when the mood takes him…the tension is probably the reason that I’m having this headache.’

  ‘My poor friend, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Would it be too great a liberty to ask you if I could lie down in one of your guest rooms for an hour or so? If I could just rest for that amount of time, it would make all the difference.’

  ‘My dear, of course you can. Come with me.’

  Gloria led the way to a bedroom at the back of the house overlooking a courtyard. The minister’s wife proudly indicated an imperial-sized double bed. Bianca winced, not out of pain but because the lady’s taste was so execrable that even Bianca was revolted by it. The furniture staring her in the face was a caricature: an over-carved, overpainted, over-gilded, over-sized bedroom suite in a blend of the worst features of the Rococo period. ‘And I thought the drawing-room was tasteless,’ Bianca thought to herself, knowing that her hostess would be waiting for a compliment.

  ‘What an inviting bed,’ Bianca said in her most dulcet tones, as she congratulated herself for not actually having lied. ‘I’ll bet Señor Cassia made it.’

  Señor Cassia was Mexico City’s premier purveyor of carved furniture, most of which was crudely and hastily executed at extortionate prices for the nouveaux riches to procure as future antiques for their progeny.

  ‘He did,’ said Gloria d’Olivera proudly. ‘In fact, he carved all the furniture in the house.’

  ‘You mean, both the drawing-room furniture and this?’

  ‘Oh, no, my dear. I mean the furniture in each and every room of our home, except, of course, the servant’s quarters. That we got at Calorblanco,’ she said with a nervous little laugh.

  Bianca clutched her temple and winced again. ‘I mustn’t laugh,’ she said. ‘It makes the pain worse. But Calorblanco…that is funny.’

  ‘Laughing hurts me too when I have my headaches. Come, my dear, lie down here,’ Gloria said, making to turn down the bedspread.

  ‘No need to bother,’ Bianca said. ‘I’ll just lie on top of it. Will you wake me up in an hour?’

  ‘Seven-twenty it is then. I’ll have your aspirin sent in to you right now.

  ‘If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to let me know.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ Bianca said sweetly, beaming her a tiny smile of gratitude.

  As she reclined on the bed with her eyes closed, images of what was happening - or had happened - at her house flashed past her eyes. Was Ferdie being strangled? Shot? Was he being hacked to death with a machete? Try as she might, she could not put the images out of her mind.

  Finally, sick to her stomach, she rushed to the lavatory and threw up. As she was kneeling on the floor over the bowl, it occurred to Bianca that this unintended proof of illness was providential. Vomiting, after all, was evidence of a severe headache. So, fastidious though she normally was, and sickened though she would ordinarily have been by what she was about to do, she allowed some of the vomit to miss the lavatory. It trickled down the front of the bowl to the vibrant green pattern of the tiles on the floor. Bianca returned to the bed and lay down again, waiting for the wakeup call. At exactly seven-twenty five her hostess knocked softly on the door and opened it quietly, saying: ‘Time to get up, Bianca.’

  Bianca made a great display of slowly opening her eyes, as if she had been in a deep sleep. ‘Is it time already? I’m feeling much better now, though I have to warn you, I had a little accident in your toilet, and I’ve left a bit of a mess on the floor.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Gloria said graciously.

  ‘I don’t know how I would’ve managed without you,’ Bianca said, getting up and slipping on her red and navy Ferragamo shoes. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Would you like something before you go?’

  ‘It’s kind of you, but I think not,’ Bianca replied, advancing towards Gloria, who picked up the cue and started to escort her towards the front of the house. ‘My husband is waiting for us. His greatest joy is playing with Manolito. I’ve already eaten into an hour and a half of his time, so we mustn’t inconvenience you further.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, my dear. While you were sleeping, I checked at the back of the house where Manolito has been playing with the cook’s three-year-old son. They’ve been having the time of their lives.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re like me. I always let my children play with the servants’ kids. It’s good for them to grow up being able to relate to all categories of citizen, I believe,’ Bianca said.

  Just then Manolito came into the hall with the butler. ‘Mama,’ he said excitedly, obviously pleased to see his stepmother. She tousled his hair and drew him to her so that she could snuggle with him while standing up. ‘I hear you’ve been a very good boy and you’ve been having a very exciting afternoon,’ she said, ‘but the time has come to say goodbye to nice Señora d’Olivera. Now be a good boy and hold out your hand the way Mama has been teaching you and shake hands like a proper English gentleman.’

  Gloria smiled as Manolito extended his little hand. ‘What an adorable little boy he is,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Daddy and I love him madly. Don’t we, my darling son?’ Bianca said, stroking his hair while thanking her hostess for having had them for tea. She then took the child by the hand and walked towards the vehicle whose engine Duarte had running.

  Manolito, of course, was not Bianca’s son at all, but she had grown to love the little boy. Moreover, the way she had come to be his ‘mother’was not her fault at all, but Ferdie’s. Manolito had remained more attached to Amanda than to Bianca, so he had taken steps to ensure that his new wife would become Manolito’s primary mother by instructing his lawyers to inform his ex-wife that it would be in ever
yone’s best interests if she saw her son only twice a year. Furthermore Ferdie had stipulated in his will that, if he should die before Manolito achieved his majority, his custody of the child was to be transferred to Bianca.

  Now, as Bianca journeyed home with Manolito to face the outcome of Philippe’s plan, her thoughts turned to Amanda and her predecessor’s relationship with the little boy. If Ferdie were indeed dead, he would inherit half his late father’s assets, the other half going to his widow. Amanda, as his mother, would have control over all the child’s assets unless Bianca could obtain guardianship of the boy. She only hoped that Philippe had this complication under control, otherwise she could foresee Amanda becoming a problem for the remainder of their lives.

  By this time, Duarte was steering the car into the driveway of the Piedraplata family home. ‘The place is crawling with police,’ Bianca remarked, steeling herself against what she was about to discover. ‘I wonder what’s happened.’

  ‘I don’t know, Señora,’ the old retainer replied. ‘Everything was fine when I dropped Señor Piedraplata off.’

  The driver pulled the car up under the porte-cochère, jumped out and made to open his employer’s door. Before he could do so, however, a policeman beat him to it.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Bianca asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ the policeman retorted.

  ‘I am Señora Piedraplata.’

  ‘I’ll take you to my captain.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Bianca demanded, determined to display what she judged to be the correct level of innocent ignorance. ‘I want to know.’

  The policeman suddenly softened. ‘The captain will tell you, Señora,’ he said with a mixture of kindness and embarrassment as he escorted her into her own drawing-room.’ Please wait here.’

  ‘Where’s the boy’s nanny?’ she asked.

  ‘The captain will explain everything.’

  Bianca took a seat in the wing armchair nearest the door, her right leg crossed over her left, swinging it nervously. Manolito sat beside her. Ominously, she noted that none of the servants were anywhere to be seen.

  Before three minutes had elapsed, the captain was standing in front of an increasingly unsettled Bianca. ‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ she asked, covering her nervousness with irritability.

  ‘Señora, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you that your husband has been found dead with a gun in his hand…’

  ‘What?’ she spluttered, genuinely shocked despite her knowledge of what would happen and blanching without any pretence.

  ‘I am sorry to have to bring you this news…’

  Manolito started to cry. Although he did not understand what was happening, he was picking up on the tension and reacting accordingly.

  ‘It’s OK, darling,’ Bianca said soothingly. ‘This nice man isn’t going to hurt you. He’s just here to make things better.’ Changing tone, she looked at the captain and continued: ‘We can’t speak about something like this in front of the baby. Where’s his nanny?’

  ‘She’ll be with you soon.’

  Bianca got up and, rocking Manolito, dedicated herself to soothing him, grateful for the distraction. Her heart was beating furiously, her hands shaking like an alcoholic’s. Meanwhile the policeman hovered nearby, eyeing her up and down.

  The nanny arrived. She handed Manolito over, kissed him goodnight.

  ‘You go to sleep now, darling,’ she said, ‘and remember that Mama loves you.’

  The captain watched the child putting his arms around Bianca and kissing her lovingly on the lips before he toddled off with the girl. Señora Piedraplata was clearly a family woman whose conduct fell outside the realms of suspicion.

  ‘Where did he shoot himself?’ Bianca asked as soon as the nurse and child were out of the room.

  ‘In your bedroom, Señora, but you mustn’t see him. It would be too upsetting for you.’

  ‘No. I meant where on his body did he shoot himself?’

  ‘Through the heart.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’

  ‘You can’t shoot yourself through the heart and survive, Señora. I’m sorry, but there’s no doubt that he’s dead.’

  ‘He really meant business, didn’t he? I suppose I always knew he might kill himself. He suffers from manic depression, you know,’ she said, careful to inject the present tense the way a grieving widow might who had been surprised by a husband’s tragic death. ‘Up for several months and then crashing suddenly…the deepest darkest depressions you can imagine. Oh, my poor Ferdie. When did it happen?’

  ‘The servants discovered the body when they came back on duty. They say Señor Piedraplata had given them the afternoon off.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Bianca said. ‘He’s the most considerate employer, as all Mexico knows… If he were going to do something like that, he would never have involved anyone else.’

  ‘So he knew you were going to be out?’ the captain said, his tone slightly too official for Bianca’s taste. She could see that he was used to viewing everyone connected with an incident as a potential suspect, and this did not make for a comforting experience.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, dabbing at eyes that stubbornly refused to disgorge the tears that normally flowed so easily. ‘He insisted I take Manolito. I went to visit Señora d’Olivera, you known, the wife of the minister of the interior.’

  ‘That would fit in with the scenario,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to call your doctor?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I never take drugs. Not even tranquillizers. But I would like a stiff drink. Where are the servants?’

  ‘They’re being questioned separately. We need to satisfy ourselves as to what happened, and, unless they’re questioned one by one, we can’t rely upon their accounts of what happened.’

  ‘Have you notified my husband’s partners yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you ought to. Not only are they great personal friends but my husband’s death also has the potential to affect the economy of our country unless his partners can stabilize things. I’d say that ought to be a priority on both the personal and national levels.’

  ‘Where would they be now?’

  ‘I’ll give you their numbers,’ Bianca said then proceeded to do so, giving Raymond Mahfud’s before Philippe’s.

  The captain of police telephoned Raymond. ‘We’ll come over right now,’ he said as soon as he heard what had happened. ‘My brother is with me as I speak. Tell Señora Piedraplata. She must be in a state. She was so in love with her husband.’

  Making a mental note to include that comment of Raymond Mahfud’s in his report, the policeman rang off. ‘Is there anyone else you’d like me to contact?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s OK, thank you, Captain. You have a lot to do. I’ll contact the family myself.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go back to the bedroom.’

  Bianca brought her handkerchief up to the corner of her right eye and dabbed at it, as if tears were forming there. Without waiting for the captain to leave the room, she walked over to the telephone on the Louis XV writing table, picked up the receiver and dialled. ‘Operator? I’d like a number in Switzerland: Geneva 3642. Person to person to the Marchesa d’Offolo. My name is Bianca Piedraplata.’

  The policeman left the room while Bianca was waiting for the connection, preparing herself for the exchange with the sister who was not only her adversary but who also adored Ferdie.

  Clara came on the line. ‘This is an unexpected surprise,’ she said before her sister-in-law could say anything.

  ‘Bitch,’ Bianca thought, knowing very well that Clara had a low opinion of her.

  ‘I have some bad news for you,’ she said in a concerned tone of voice, taken aback at how pleased she was to be in the position to inflict pain upon someone whose good opinion she had formerly desired. ‘Ferdie committed suicide an hour or two ago.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Clara said quietly.

>   ‘It’s true. The police are here. They say he shot himself through the heart. I haven’t actually seen him…they won’t let me…but I don’t think they’d say something that wasn’t so.’

  ‘Did you hear the gunshot?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t here. I was visiting Raoul d’Olivera’s wife Gloria.’

  ‘Put me onto the police. I need to know what happened.’

  ‘They’re very busy at the moment. They just told me to phone the family and let you all know what’s happened.’

  ‘Has Mama been told yet?’

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve called.’

  ‘Don’t tell her. Her heart wouldn’t stand the shock. I’m going to try to get a flight out as soon as I hang up. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’ll meet her ship at the dock next Saturday. Please arrange for her doctor to be at the house when I get her back there. We can break the news to her after he’s sedated her.’

  ‘That old bat doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself with the details of the funeral,’ Clara continued, doubting that a woman who was about to be divorced would wish to be bothered with organizing one for the man who about to dump her. ‘I’ll arrange it all when I get there.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you.’

  ‘I’ll call and let you know when I’m coming,’ Clara replied, putting aside her dislike of Bianca at this most poignant of moments. ‘Till then, take care. And don’t, whatever you do, speak to the press. They’ll only twist anything you say, and it could have devastating consequences for Calorblanco and the banks.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Clara. It’s so good to feel that I can rely upon you to protect me,’ Bianca said, not without a measure of irony.

  ‘As I said, you needn’t worry yourself about the funeral arrangements. I’ll attend to them when I arrive. Bye, Bianca.’

  ‘Bye, Clara,’ she said, hanging up, her feeling of triumph mixed with a sickened sensation. What had she got herself involved in?

  Mindful of how injudicious it would be to turn for support to Philippe, Bianca’s next telephone call was to her ex-husband. Bernardo had moved to Panama earlier that year and was due to be married soon, but she knew that he would come running to her at a time like this. She needed only to ask. ‘Bernardo, I need you and the children to come and be here with me by Sunday at the latest. Ferdie has killed himself, and I cannot cope without your support. Can I rely upon you to make the arrangements?’