by Jill Downie
Toni Albarosa’s widow had not inherited her mother’s good looks, nor her imposing height. In front of them stood a small, overweight woman, probably in her late thirties, wearing glasses and no makeup, whose short hair was already going grey, and whose clothing was so commonplace that Moretti had difficulty remembering afterwards if she had worn a dress, a skirt, or pants. What stuck in his mind, however, was that she wore pastels, and not black, like her mother. He introduced himself and Liz Falla, and expressed, in Italian, their sympathy at her loss.
“Thank you.” Anna Albarosa replied in English. If she were indeed distressed, as her brother claimed, then she was concealing it magnificently. “Your Italian is good, but I speak English. I spent some time there, at university.” She turned to the phalanx at the door, speaking this time in Italian. “I can manage, thank you.”
The marchesa looked taken aback. As she opened her mouth to speak, her daughter went forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Grazie, mamma.” As the trio turned and left, the marchesa turned and gave a last warning look at Moretti.
“She’s only trying to protect me, you know.” Anna Albarosa’s smile gave her plain face an individual warmth and charm, if not beauty. “So difficult being a mother — you never know what to do for the best. To hold on, or to let go. In my mother’s case, she has always opted for complete control, and never doubted she was right. As in the case of my marriage to Toni. Please sit down.”
Anna Albarosa indicated two chairs near the window, and sat down on a sofa opposite. She seemed quite calm, completely self-possessed.
“You are a mother also?” asked Moretti.
“Yes. I have a boy of ten and a girl of six. I am glad to say that my daughter has inherited her father’s looks.” Her smile contained no rancour, no bitterness that Moretti could see.
“I must ask you first of all, Mrs. Albarosa, to confirm that you were not on the island when your husband was killed.”
“I was at my home in Fiesole, Inspector. I have witnesses up to about midnight, which I imagine would cover even the use of a private plane.” Anna Albarosa suddenly leaned forward and said, “You may have noticed that I am not crying, or emotional, Detectives.” Behind her glasses, her eyes seemed mildly amused. “In fact, you should check out my alibi carefully, or put me at the head of your list of suspects.”
“Why is that?” asked Moretti, although he was sure he knew the answer.
“Because I know where Toni was probably going — or coming from — that night. The poor, stupid man!” There was now some emotion in her voice, but it sounded more like anger than grief.
“I see. Did someone tell you?”
“Oh, I watched him at the party that was held to greet the cast and crew in Florence, lining up Vittoria Salviati in his sights. It was how he usually operated: arrive, reconnoitre, stalk, and then in for the kill. Only this time, it was Toni who got killed.” Anna Albarosa’s laugh had none of the attractiveness of her smile. “I had become quite used to it. I did feel some pity for the girl, who bought Toni’s sweetness and light act. Just as my mother and I did, ten years ago.”
“Did you challenge him at any point, ask him if he was having an affair?”
“Not anymore. After a while, I didn’t care. I had got what I wanted out of the marriage — a name that equalled my own, two children I adore, and the pleasure of being made love to from time to time by Toni Albarosa. In many ways he really was a sweet man, you know, and a good and kind father. Only he just couldn’t keep his pants on.”
“You saved your mother from hearing all this. How much did she know?”
“Not as much as she thought she did,” was Anna Albarosa’s cryptic reply.
“Your father and mother live apart, I believe?”
“What has that to do with Toni’s death?” Moretti had a sense of guards going up, shutters closing.
“I don’t know that it has anything to do with your husband’s death, but at this stage of the investigation we try to build up a complete picture.” Abruptly, Moretti changed tack. “So what do you think, Signora Albarosa? You say you should head our list of suspects. You were not here, so — if not you — then who do you think killed your husband?”
Toni Albarosa’s widow frowned. “At first I assumed it was a jilted lover or a cuckolded husband — there are any number of those in Toni’s past — but it’s not as if he was in Italy when it happened. Then I was told about the attack on the writer and the business with the costumes. Now I simply don’t know.”
“Can you think of any reason why these daggers have been used?”
At this question, there was one of those flickers of expression across Anna Albarosa’s face that reminded Moretti of Sydney Tremaine’s reaction to Giulia Vannoni’s arrival at the murder scene.
“No,” she said. “None.”
“Thank you.” Moretti stood up and Liz Falla followed suit, pocketing her notebook. “I gather you are not directly involved with the making of Rastrellamento?”
“No. It was really my father’s suggestion they could film here.”
“Why? He doesn’t live here, does he? Do you know?”
At this, Anna Albarosa started to laugh. “To annoy my mother, perhaps? You’d have to ask him.”
“Perhaps I will. Will he be coming to Guernsey?”
“No, not unless he is required to do so. You’d have to go to him, Inspector.”
As they walked to the door of the dining room, Moretti thought of something Anna Albarosa had said earlier in the interview. “You said, Signora, that Albarosa was a name that equalled your own. What exactly did you mean?”
“That the two families are of equal standing in Italian society. Let me show you something.”
Instead of turning toward the front door, Anna Albarosa went toward the principal reception room and a short distance along a side corridor. It opened into another smaller reception room with a huge stone fireplace that dominated the space, and above it hung a coat of arms.
Beneath a gold coronet was a quartered shield, holding a device in each quarter: a stylized olive branch and a bunch of grapes across the top, a snake and arrowhead across the bottom. The quarters were enclosed in a wavy border made up of what looked like vines and initials.
“This,” said Anna Albarosa, “is the combined family crest of the Vannoni and Albarosa families. It was not combined for my marriage, I assure you, but many years ago, when Vannonis and Albarosas first united in matrimony. It is quite usual in Italy — I don’t know about other countries — particularly when a father has only a daughter to whom he can leave his fortune and property. If the woman brings that wealth and land into her husband’s family, part of the two original crests is combined, with the woman’s heraldic devices on the sinister side — the left side as you are wearing it, or carrying your shield, but the right as you are viewing it.”
“Interesting.”
Moretti watched Liz Falla’s mouth open. He looked at her. She closed it again.
“Just one last thing, Signora — it is clear from this that your mother has immense pride in her family traditions and still thinks of herself as Italian. Why on earth is she in Guernsey?”
Again there was the flicker in Anna Albarosa’s eyes. “The separation from my father was very painful. Family, you understand. So important in my country. Loss of face. I don’t know. And something to do with money, I think. My mother never talks about such things.”
She sounded stilted, her English no longer fluid, and Moretti sensed she was regretting the impulse that had taken her around a corner to give him a look at the crest. She moved ahead of them and led the way back to the main foyer, where the marchesa erupted from her study at the sound of their approach.
“I hope you have been considerate of my daughter’s feelings. This has been a great shock to her.”
“Mother, I’m fine. It is in all our interests that the detectives do their job.”
“Of course.” The marchesa looked irritated at the patronizing tone i
n her daughter’s voice, and Moretti decided to ask a provoking question while the woman’s lofty sang-froid was shaken.
“Marchesa — why do you think your husband suggested the filming of Rastrellamento at your home?”
He expected anger, or outrage at his lèse-majesté, and he got it all. Moretti felt lucky those long nails were not scoring his face, as they had Gilbert Ensor’s.
“What has this to do with the murder of my son-in-law? My feelings about the filming here are none of your business, Detective Inspector, and if you try to drag my family’s good name into this inquiry, I shall insist you are taken off the case. The lieutenant-governor is a good friend of mine.”
There was something else in the marchesa’s face, besides anger. She’s frightened, thought Moretti. Something about the question terrifies her. Unfazed, intrigued, he replied. “Your family’s good name is already dragged into this enquiry, Marchesa. It was dragged in when your son-in-law got killed on the grounds of your home at four o’clock in the morning. We can only hope that the mainland press don’t pick up on this too swiftly, but inevitably they will. The murder has already been reported in the Guernsey Press, on BBC Guernsey, and Island FM, but the death of a location manager is not quite as newsworthy as one of the stars would have been. We will do our best to help you avoid the mudslinging a murder like this attracts.”
Moretti could feel the heat from the marchesa’s eyes burning holes in his jacket as he and Liz Falla returned to the car.
“Want my first impression, Guv? She really hates her husband.”
“I’ve no doubt she does, DC Falla, but that’s not what that was about.”
“I nearly said something when we were looking at that shield, but I saw your face. It’s got something to do with dagger handles and that shield thing, you think?”
“Well, I want to keep that to ourselves for a bit. There’s a family aspect to all this we’ve not got a handle on yet — sorry, bad pun. Signora Albarosa showed us that coat of arms of her own accord, and then, suddenly became — or, was it suddenly?”
“She changed her mind, didn’t she? Wished she hadn’t.”
“Yes. When I asked her what her mother was doing here when she’s so proud of her roots. Roots — hold on. I’ve just thought of something. We can drop the car off at Hospital Lane, and walk down to Blondel’s.”
“The grocer’s, Guv?”
“We’ll pick up a bottle of olive oil from the Vannoni estates. I know Blondel’s carry the Vannoni olive oil.”
Blondel’s Grocers were the top such establishment in town, catering to the carriage trade. They stocked most of the luxury products the island uppercrust might require, including a superb range of vintage wines and fine spirits and cigars in their off-licence. Over the years the business had expanded into a couple of supermarkets and more than one joint project with leading banks, such as Barings, but the family had retained the original store between a jewellers and a bookshop on a small street called the Pollett near La Plaiderie.
Moretti and Liz Falla walked down the hill past what had once been the townhome of the De Saumarez family, and was now Moore’s, one of St. Peter Port’s most central hotels. Moretti caught his partner’s wistful glance up the narrow steps that led to Moore’s patisserie.
“Hungry, DC Falla? Me too. We’ll take a break after this.”
“We’re in luck, Guv.” Liz Falla pointed at the window of Blondel’s which was just across the narrow street. “I think there’s a Vannoni bottle in the display.”
The window’s theme was labelled “Harvest Riches.” There were bunches of convincingly realistic plastic grapes, their fabric vine leaves entwined around bottles of wine and various exotic vinegars, and jars of black and green olives, some with the contents spilled out across the space. Among the olives were bottles of olive oil, some of them gigantic, their colour varying from yellow through lime to almost-green.
“There it is, the Vannoni bottle — we’re looking at the shield, right?” said Liz Falla, pointing at one of the more modestly sized bottles.
“Right. There’s one on every bottle — I use their brand. I’ve noticed that much but, like most things one sees everyday, I’ve never really taken a good look at it.”
“From here,” said Liz, her nose almost touching the glass, “it looks just like the one we saw at the manor.”
“From here. But I think not. Let’s take a closer look”
Inside the shop, the warm, complex smell of cheeses, fruit preserves, chocolate, and coffee, mixed with the hospitable fragrance of wines and spirits, reminded both of them they were hungry.
“There you are, Guv. There’s one on the counter.” Liz picked it up. “Looks the same to me. Crown on top, grapes and olives and — just a second, that’s not a snake, is it?”
“No. A dagger.”
“Brilliant, Guv,” said his partner. “Fancy you remembering that.”
“I didn’t, not really, but the quarters up at the manor seemed different to me. Sometimes these heraldic symbols are far from clear — take the balls on the Medici coat of arms, for instance. The French in the sixteenth century spread the rumour they represented poison pills, but nobody really knows what they are.”
Liz Falla nodded sagely. “How come the bottles are different from the shield up at the manor?”
“Remember what Anna Albarosa said about the addition of another coat of arms, when the woman brings her name and fortune into the family? This is what happened here — this shield we’re looking at now is almost certainly the Vannoni coat of arms without the Albarosa addition. And remember what I said about how, like most things you see every day, I’d never really examined it. That, I think, is why Anna Albarosa made the mistake of drawing our attention to the family crest, and then why she got cold feet.”
“Right.” Liz Falla waved across at a well-fed white-coated lady slicing off thickly cut chunks from a succulent roast of pork for an equally well-endowed customer. “Where does this get us? I mean, we have to work out, don’t we, what all this has to do with the attempt on Mr. Ensor, a rack of damaged costumes, and a dead location manager? Sorry, Guv, perhaps you already have.”
“I wish! But we now know for sure that the dagger is not just idiosyncratic or purely decorative. It’s significant. And, second of all — I don’t know. I haven’t yet worked it out. Hello, Mike.”
Mike Le Page, the manager of Blondel’s, was approaching with the look of someone anxious to please, while at the same time hoping to keep any unpleasantness at bay, or at least away from public scrutiny. He was a middle-aged man with the dark hair and eyes that marked his Norman ancestry and, in the midst of constant temptation to overindulge, had managed to keep impressively slim.
“Can I help? Is there a problem? Hello, Liz.”
“None,” Moretti reassured him. “We needed to take a good look at one of the Vannoni olive oil bottles.”
“Terrible business.” Mike Le Page said, shaking his head. “The kitchen staff up there told my delivery man all about it. But why are you looking here?”
Moretti waved a vague hand in the air. “We look into all angles at this stage of the investigation. I imagine you sell the Vannoni brand as much because it’s good as because the marchesa is on the island?”
“Oh yes. We have no dealings with her, but we’ve had some with her niece. She came in and put on a tasting for us once — first time I’ve had as many males as females for a sampling, once word got around. She’s a fine-looking lady, that one. Only, if the stories I hear are true, they were wasting their time. The lads, I mean.”
Mike Le Page gave a knowing laugh.
As Moretti was paying for the bottle of olive oil Mike Le Page said, “Tell you what, Ed, there’s someone who knows more than I do about that lot up at Ste. Madeleine. Dan Mahy. His wife was employed by the family right after they bought the manor. He worked here for years — goes back to the days when we did deliveries by bicycle — but he’s been retired a while now. He lives out at Tortev
al. Hang on, I’ll get his address for you. We still ask him to our staff get-togethers, although he doesn’t come any longer. But they tell me he still puts in an appearance from time to time at the manor — course, it’s much closer to where he lives than we are. They give him a bite to eat and send him on his way”
Out in the street, Liz Falla said, “Dan Mahy might be a waste of time, Guv. Nutty as a fruitcake, my mother says. Never got over the death of his wife.”
“Talking of fruitcakes, DC Falla, I think we should get some lunch.”
On the other side of the street, a Labrador retriever with his leash fastened around a lamppost began to bark at an approaching collie.
“Dogs, dogs,” said Moretti. “Why didn’t the dog bark in the night?”
“Sorry, Guv, I’m not with you.”
“You know — Sherlock Holmes,” said Moretti, leading the way up the steps past the huge mural painted on the wall of the house adjoining the patisserie. They each ordered a prawn salad and coffee in the restaurant and made their way back outside on to the wide terrace that looked down on a cluster of financial buildings and their closed-circuit cameras.
“Sherlock Holmes, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, pulling in her chair under the shade of the green and white table umbrella advertising Grolsch beer. The cerulean background of the mural behind her nicely complimented the darker blue of her suit. Gamine, thought Moretti, looking at her short dark hair, cut in wisps around her face. Yes, I suppose she is.
“Sherlock Holmes, DC Falla. This afternoon, I want you to go back to the manor and check with the security people if there was any unusual behaviour from any of the guard dogs on the night of the murder. Also, get someone to check our records, and see if there has been any sort of complaint or report of trouble from the Vannoni family in the past few months, however trivial it may seem.”
The salads and coffee arrived, served by a cheerful red-aproned waitress with an Australian accent.
“What are you expecting to find, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, after the server had left.
