“Perhaps you’ve just now noticed it. Let’s look in the pocket.”
Serafina went through the pockets of her skirts and her cape, dumped the contents of her reticule on the spread while Rosa looked on the floor in the closet, in the room, the bath, underneath the bed. No journal.
They were silent. Serafina’s head ached.
“And if you think that I’m going to that mass tomorrow morning—”
“Of course not. Too much to do. Besides, it will be a perfect opportunity for us to make a thorough search. The entire household will be in the chapel. We must be systematic. Renata can help us. The poor dear, I haven’t talked to her all day; I’ve left her alone in the company of an inferior cook.”
Trusting Arcangelo to explore most of the outbuildings, Serafina and Rosa made a list of those rooms in the villa that still needed their attention—the baron’s study, the spare office, all the parlors, the kitchen, the desk in the larder, and Serafina wanted to look again in the powder room of the ladies’ parlor.
“Whoever was in my bedroom knew where to look,” Serafina said.
“The housekeeper?” Rosa asked. “She helped you with your hair tonight, and she has a set of keys.”
“Everyone seems to have a set of keys. Perhaps some clever servant makes a profit by selling them.” With that remark, Serafina sank deep into herself, considering.
“If your mind is out walking …”
Serafina shook her head. “Just thinking … But Doucette didn’t know we found the journal in the back stairs.”
“What about Lina?”
They both shook their heads in unison, agreeing that the parlor maid could not be the thief.
“Could it have been Adriana?” Rosa asked.
Serafina discarded the idea. “She’s an innocent child, lonely, grieving for what she hasn’t a clue, loves costumes and garners attention by donning them, not by stealing objects. No, whoever poisoned the baroness is behind this.”
She and Rosa were too distraught to sleep, so when Serafina suggested a trip to the baroness’s room, the madam readily agreed.
Each taking a candle, they walked down the dark hallway, creeping around the landing and peering down to the entry, but they saw no one in the atrium, met no one on their journey.
Serafina twisted the knob to the baroness’s room, and the door creaked open. “This way,” she whispered, holding her candle high. They looked on the desk, the nightstand.
They were approaching the closet when they heard the creak of floorboards, felt the rush of air as the bedroom door opened and shut with such force that it extinguished their flames. “In here!” Serafina whispered, entering the closet, and with practiced stealth, Rosa closed the door behind them with a soft click.
The footsteps grew louder.
“Man or woman?” Rosa whispered.
They listened.
“Sounds like a woman’s tread, but I can’t be sure.” Rosa sniffed the air. “I smell perfume, expensive. Couldn’t be a servant. One of the guests?”
“Don’t think so,” Serafina said, keeping her hand on the inside handle in case the intruder should try to enter.
The footsteps stopped.
“Hold on with all your might!”
Rosa’s hands squeezed around the handle.
They felt it twist in their grasp, but the two held on. Having adjusted to the scant light, Serafina could see bright determination in Rosa’s face, and her friend’s resolve strengthened her own. She braced her foot against the jamb, and the two pulled as hard as they could.
The intruder let go of the handle, taking them by surprise.
Serafina looked at Rosa, both of them silent except for the blood pounding in Serafina’s ears.
How long they stood there, she couldn’t be sure, but soon they heard the interloper’s steps recede and felt a current of air as the door closed behind him.
Serafina let out her breath. She and Rosa waited a while before slowly opening the closet door and looking around.
In the main room, the light from the moon and stars shone through the windows, and Serafina had no trouble navigating. She stuffed her pockets with match sticks found in the nightstand and re-lit their candles.
Holding them high, they searched the closet, Rosa deep inside, scrunched between the rows of the baroness’s shoes and muttering to herself before wiping her hands and declaring she’d found nothing while Serafina continued to look inside all the boxes on the shelves.
Backing away, Rosa followed Serafina’s gaze. “And you’ve left the hatboxes in a mess!”
“Not I. I’ve left them the way I found them, but someone’s been in here and perhaps didn’t have time to put things back in order.”
“Not smart enough to cover his tracks, you mean.”
“Or her tracks.”
“You think it was Doucette?” Rosa asked.
“I’m not sure, but she has the means, keys to all the rooms in the house, free rein to come and go as she pleases. On the other hand, she loved the baroness, of that I’m almost sure, and she’s not the only one with a set of keys to all the rooms. Someone needs to change the locks and account for all the keys, but far be it from the baron to admit the need. Insufferable innocent.”
“Naive, I’d say, as long as he gets what he wants.” The madam was silent for a while. They sat on the baroness’s bed in the dark.
As an afterthought, Serafina said, “We know Doucette’s amassed a fortune here,” and paced to the window. All the house lights had been extinguished long ago, but the lawn was lit by the heavens and the sea beyond. Serafina looked at her watch pin: it was almost three in the morning, time, definitely, for sleep after a lurching, disappointing day. She opened the sash, felt the salt air on her face, heard the ebb and flow of the water on the shore.
For her part, Serafina felt the presence of the baroness. The room held the woman’s emotions, her beliefs, her intellect.
“You’re right. I can’t leave her closet in such disarray.” And, so saying, Serafina walked into the closet and straightened the top shelves in the dark. Poor creature, a prisoner in a world she’d grown to dislike, the forces of commerce gripping her husband and son with greater and greater force, pulling them away from her, while she endured the agonizing pain of a slow death by a despicable murderer and no one, not the daughter, certainly not the baron or his son, had the fortitude or acumen to stop it.
Her task accomplished, she went to the window once again and gazed at the ornamental pools, the cork tree, the gazebo, the harbor in the distance.
“Is your favorite still the gazebo?” she asked Rosa, resting against the wall.
She answered in the affirmative, then pointed to a bench near the high grass. “What’s that—mist?”
Serafina looked. “More substantial than that. I believe it’s someone sitting outside, but who could it be? Oh, for the baron’s telescope—remind me to buy one when I get home.”
As they stared, the figure rose, her dark hair piled on top of her head, the gown, slightly outmoded. The figure drifted toward the gazebo, swinging her hips in a slightly exaggerated way.
Rosa looked at Serafina, a hand held to her mouth.
“Oh, Madonna!” Serafina exclaimed. “Is that what Adriana saw? And she thinks the woman is her mother, her mother who would never leave her.” Something squeezed inside her.
They watched as the figure glided past the gazebo.
“A woman, definitely, clothed in a gown of teal blue. Could be a woman of the night with that sway and pitch, but not anyone I would have hired to work in my house.”
“A specter?” Serafina asked.
“Not one of the guests, I would have remembered her—she’s more remarkable than anyone we’ve seen tonight. Could be a neighbor or a servant dress
ed up in a ball gown. Or better yet, a friend of the son?”
Serafina shook her head. “Decidedly not. A cold fish, that one; surprised he has children, but seems to love his wife.”
“She must be a friend of the baron.”
“Then why does she walk the grounds so late?” Serafina asked.
“He’s asleep; she’s bored. Remember, he has only a small passion to sate. Once a year would do it for him.”
They watched, mesmerized, as the figure swayed toward the sea, her long scarf trailing behind as she disappeared beyond the gazebo.
Serafina Meets the Lady
“Time for sleep.” Rosa yawned.
Unfortunately, Serafina could not forget the image of the mysterious lady in blue. Despite the danger of wandering outside, she had to find out her identity, so after saying goodnight to Rosa, she opened her door with infinite care, crept down the stairs to the back door, and stepped outside.
The wind had lessened as she tiptoed toward the front of the house. When she concentrated, she could hear the lapping of waves on the shore. She stopped. Had she just heard something else—a twig breaking, someone following her? She looked around, saw nothing, and wished she’d remembered to take her cape and the envelope slicer she’d seen on the top of her desk. In future, she must be more deliberate, consider all possibilities. Should she retrace her steps? Deciding against retreat, she pricked her ears and waited in the ghostly silence. After a few minutes, during which she reassured herself that there was no other presence, she ignored the drumming of her heart, steeled her resolve, and continued.
Skirting the terrace, she picked her way through the shrubbery, crouching low, on the off chance that the baron was watching from his study window. She peered beyond the villa’s entrance and down the wide expanse of lawn fronting the road to the harbor, but saw no sign of life. Misted over now, the moon lent an eerie light to her surroundings, and she wondered what wild creature might be lurking in the tall grasses bordering the property only a few meters away. She stopped when she heard the hoot of an owl and, with an effort, moved on. Closer to the sea, she listened to the sound of the waves, their endless scrape on the shore almost hypnotic. Looking back at the house, she scrutinized it from top to bottom, making sure that no light shone through any of its front-facing windows before continuing. Her boots were sodden with early morning dew.
Cold and wet, she crossed the lawn past the carriage drive and with a start, halted, straining to understand what it was she saw before her—the outline of a figure in middle distance, the specter she and Rosa had seen from the window in the baroness’s bedroom. Cautiously she advanced a few more meters when the shape took on greater solidity, a tall, rather wide-shouldered woman gazing up at the heavens.
Serafina stared at her, feeling as if she were intruding on another’s private moments, but she banished the thought, telling herself she investigated a murder that happened almost two years ago, an exploration made more difficult by the baron’s denial of anything unpleasant or untoward ever having happened within his domain, and she had to know who this woman was and what she was doing here at such a late hour.
Presently the figure straightened, and Serafina watched in fascination as she began to glide across the lawn toward a spot familiar to Serafina, the bench beneath the cork tree. Holding her back and shoulders straight, her head as still as possible, she sat. With practiced grace, she smoothed her skirts, folding her hands and looking out to sea. As Serafina drew closer, she saw that the woman wore an evening gown of raw silk with an off-the-shoulder wrap of the same fabric, designed in a style popular several years ago. Her hair was expertly coiffed, parted in the middle, a fashion still acceptable in outlying areas, but not among the aristocratic women in Bagheria.
Serafina approached, aware of a strange fragrance, deep and rich and expensive. She’d smelled that scent earlier this evening, but where? When she was close enough to the woman, she spoke. “Please don’t be frightened, I was out walking and happened to see you sitting here. Were you at the baron’s dinner tonight? I don’t recall meeting you.”
The woman stopped for an instant, turned this way and that, clutching her breast, half hiding her face with her shoulder. Thinking that the figure might be a specter who would vanish whether or not she drew closer, Serafina took a few tentative steps, now near enough to see that she was indeed flesh and blood. She stood abruptly, and Serafina walked swiftly toward her, but the woman, perhaps realizing that she’d been cornered, lifted her wrap as if it were a veil, hid her face, and sat down again.
“Do you mind?” Serafina asked gently. Where did she come from? Was she one of the baron’s mistresses having fulfilled her contract for the evening and now out for a walk as Rosa had surmised? Without waiting for a reply, Serafina sat on the bench beside her reluctant companion, but as far from her as possible, sensing her painful shyness. Serafina felt pity for the poor creature, but also curiosity. What was so horrible about her identity that she must hide it?
“Are you staying at Villa Caterina?”
Her face still hidden by the wrap, the woman turned to Serafina, only slightly, nodded, and faced away again.
“Don’t worry. I don’t mean to frighten you.”
“Well, you have,” she said, in a peculiar tone. Her voice had a gentleness to it and yet a distinct burr that gave it a unique timbre—feminine, but not overly sweet.
“A friend of the baron or his son?”
“Neither … Both.”
Serafina held her breath. The woman sagged slightly, turning from Serafina as if she had recently sustained a great loss, and bowed her head but made no other movement. Perhaps she was an actress; they are often overfond of emotion, especially after a performance. Yes, that must be it. “You’re an actress, I believe,” Serafina said aloud.
“You’ve caught me out,” the woman said and rose. She began walking away, her back to Serafina.
“Don’t go. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”
She stopped, shoulders slightly hunched. “You’ve no right,” the woman said, her back to Serafina, her voice harsh now, the sound huskier, vaguely familiar.
Serafina was beginning to remember where she’d smelled that scent—in the villa, somewhere on the third floor. The answer came to her in a rush—on the intruder in the baroness’s bedroom, that’s where she’d smelled the perfume. Could it be that the baroness was not dead? Ridiculous!
“You’ve caught me out for no good reason!” The figure faced Serafina, slumping like a petulant child, her wrap, a veil masking all but her eyes.
Eyes
Eyes in agony.
Serafina was silent, waiting.
“Just a matter of time,” Naldo said, hanging his head, not daring to look at her.
“When I met you this afternoon, I knew you had been deeply hurt.”
He laughed, a jarring, bitter sound. “You would never understand.”
She hung her head. He spoke the truth. She was silent for some time. “She knew, didn’t she, your mother?”
He nodded.
Serafina considered what she should say to him. Feeling a revulsion washing over her, she asked herself why a man, and a married one at that, would want to dress as a woman. Was it as simple as a yearning to see the world with different eyes, a wish to feel a feminine softness? She was out of her depth, had no experience with his desire, shuddered to think any of her children ever felt this need, whatever it was, and she had not seen their pain. What could she say? She felt trapped, wished she’d gone directly to her bed instead of finding him out, wished she’d been physically hurt rather than encounter this horror in someone she knew, and felt an overwhelming sorrow for the man. Years ago, Giorgio told her of a few men who clothed themselves as women, some, but not all, preferring men as partners. After telling her it was an accepted practice in some cultures, he said, “I do
n’t pretend to fathom it.”
There was a long silence.
“No one can understand. It is …”
“Don’t try to explain, not to help me: I’ll never understand. Yet I feel something … you love your wife, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Must you tell her?”
She cut in, shook her head back and forth with furious movement. “I would never say anything. It’s not my business, not why I’m here … unless you poisoned your mother.”
Naldo was silent. “I poisoned her love for me.”
There was no talking for a time.
“I have a secret, too, my own private hell, not so intriguing as yours, and one that I am lucky enough to have kept hidden. For my sake and for my children’s, I hope it is never revealed. Not so crushing as committing murder; not so beguiling as an affair with the king, but my secret nonetheless, and I’ll not tell you or anyone, not in exchange for feigned complicity or to ease your discomfort. I’m not that generous.” She paused. “You may not believe this, but my secret is far worse than yours. I feel it now, a churning in my stomach.”
While he looked at her first in amazement and then twisting his mouth into an ugly disregard, she weighed whether to ask him about the contraband they’d secreted in one of the holds of the Caterina Bella, and for which they bribed the harbor police. She wanted desperately to know; it may very well have something to do with the baroness’s death. Should she ask? Would the cost be to her skin or to his pride? And if she did ask, wouldn’t she be guilty of a blackmail of sorts? She had not considered herself capable of something so demeaning, but for the sake of her client and her reputation as a sleuth, to say nothing of the image she held of herself, she needed to know. “What have you smuggled aboard the Caterina Bella?”
He looked at her, his eyes like black rocks. “I have no—”
“Don’t lie to me. You haul more than citrus. Your father chooses not to know. Your mother discovered it and tried to stop it until her meddling was silenced.”
Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 16
