by Jill Downie
“So,” said Moretti, hoping that he sounded reasonably interested but not interrogatory. “This would be when she was with them at the other house.”
Teresa Stecconi looked sharply at Moretti. “You know about that? That’s the past. Bury the past, I always say, with its dead.”
“But now there are dead in the present, Signora, and perhaps the reason for that lies in the past.”
Moretti watched the shutters come down. The old woman turned away from him.
“We are here now,” she said. “I have left the memories — the bad and the good — behind me. Patrizia should have done the same thing, always moaning about how much better it was — there. Buona sera, ispettore.”
She turned and, with a speed that took both Moretti and Liz Falla by surprise, she zipped off down a side corridor and out of sight.
“So, where does that leave us, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, peering after the spritely octogenarian.
“I’m tempted to say in limbo, but that’s not quite true. What she told me was interesting, because she more or less confirmed there was another house. And something more than that — something happened in that house that was so terrible everyone has been sworn to silence.”
“I must ask you, Detective Inspector — where have you been? The security guard says he saw you into the house about half an hour ago!”
Flushed with anger, gold chain rattling, the marchesa faced Moretti across the broad expanse of the main salon, which was still encircled with lights and cameras. Beside her sat Monty Lord, holding her hand. He looked haggard and worn.
“Marchesa — there has been another murder, as you know, and part of my responsibility is to check the security of you and your family.”
“There was no need to disturb my domestic staff — and we have private security for that.”
“Need I remind you they were unable to save the life of your son-in-law, Marchesa.”
Thank heavens Monty Lord is here, thought Moretti. He seems to have a calming influence on her. The producer sat staring at them across an elaborate malachite table, as though hoping for some kind of miracle.
“This is a disaster, Detective Inspector Moretti. A tragedy. I got in from the shoot only to hear that Gil was missing. Selfish as it may sound, I must tell you that I have been on the phone to our lawyers to check we are covered for such an eventuality, that we may go on filming Rastrellamento. It would help nobody and serve no useful purpose if the whole project went up in smoke.”
“And are you?”
“Covered? Yes. Death is covered — the nature of it is not significant. If you understand what I mean.”
“Of course. You say you were on the set — the shoot, you called it?”
“Yes. This morning we were filming some of the action scenes out at L’Ancresse. Mario was not with us, he needed a rest, he said. So much of the war stuff is logistical, and his associate director had plenty to be getting on with.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sedated.” It was the marchesa who answered. “He was very upset.”
Moretti decided to leave that for now. Instead he turned his attention to Monty Lord.
“I understand you went to see Gilbert Ensor yesterday morning.”
“Yes. I wish now I’d kept an eye on Mario, because I knew how angry Gil was. But I’d no idea he’d get up the energy to come here and that they would run into each other when Mario returned from checking the bunker.”
“Checking the bunker?”
“Yes. We had planned to start shooting there in the next few days. Now, of course, it’s yet another scene of the crime, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. When you took me down there, Mr. Lord, the door was locked. Was it always kept locked?”
“Supposedly.”
“Who had keys?”
“Myself, Mario, and I think there was a key in the house — wasn’t there, Donatella?”
“Yes. When this happened, I went to make sure it was still there and it was.”
“Where was ‘there,’ marchesa?”
“In a drawer in my bedroom. I had two copies made for Monty and Mario.”
“I see. Was anyone around when Gilbert Ensor and your director had their confrontation?”
“I was. It was unbelievable.” The marchesa was disturbed enough to get up from her seat by Monty Lord and start pacing. “I thought Gilbert was going to attack Mario physically — hit him, I mean, not just scream at him. We were all getting used to that.”
Spoken with the contempt of one who has conveniently forgotten her own assault on Ensor after the first murder, reflected Moretti. “Did he have to be restrained?” he asked.
“Yes. By me. He was out of breath from just the screaming. It wasn’t difficult.”
I believe it, thought Moretti. A very strong woman, this one. Like her niece.
“Then what happened?”
“Piero Bonini came in and ordered Gilbert off the premises. He told him he would get an injunction to keep him away from the shooting, if he did not do so voluntarily.”
“Where did all this take place?”
“Out on the terrace.”
“So any number of people saw what happened?”
“Yes. It was disgraceful. Mario tried to reason with him, explain the nature of the changes, talk about his personal philosophy of filmmaking, but he was shouted down.”
“Did you see Signor Bianchi leave, Marchesa?”
“Yes. It was I who took him away when he broke down, and I made sure he got something to eat and a rest before he went into town. He had an appointment.”
“With whom, do you know?”
There was an exchange of glances between the marchesa and Monty Lord, and it was Monty Lord who replied.
“Mario has regular appointments with a psychiatrist, and we were able to make a similar arrangement for him here. I imagine you know he has had problems with substance abuse in the past.”
“And those problems are, you are sure, part of the past?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Moretti stood up. “If Signor Bianchi has taken sedatives, there is little to be gained by questioning him now. We will come back.”
As they left the room, Moretti looked over his shoulder. The marchesa had her head on Monty Lord’s shoulder and he was patting her hand. Beneath the shining dome of his shaved head, the expression in the American producer’s eyes was panic-stricken.
“Now, are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Betty Chesler thumped the pillows behind Sydney Tremaine’s head and tugged at the bedcovers with the grim determination of someone erecting ramparts around a threatened and vulnerable keep. The two women had met on the Pavlova movie and had kept in touch with the odd letter and card over the years.
“Thank you for coming with me, Betty. I’m so grateful. I’ll be fine now — I’ll take one of the sedatives you put by the bed and get some sleep.”
“You know, pet — it’s hardly the time to mention it, but you should think of getting back into the swing of things. You have so much to offer.”
“Oh, Betty, honey, I couldn’t dance professionally again!”
“I don’t see why not, but I was thinking of how well you worked with those children on the Pavlova set with their dancing. It’s been a while, but people still remember you. You should take advantage of that while you can.”
“Oh Betty, I don’t know —”
But the thought lingered after Betty Chesler had left. Sydney heard her speaking to the police guard outside the door, and then there was silence.
She leaned over the side of the bed, fingered the bottle of sleeping pills, and shuddered at the thought of sleep. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep, perchance to dream. She got out of bed, took a shower, and made herself a coffee.
For the first time in her relationship with Gil she was grateful he was an only child and both his parents were dead. In the past, she had thought that being a much-adored child had only made matters
worse when fame arrived on the scene, because it had prolonged his indulged childhood into a self-centred manhood. Gil expected to be worshipped. She couldn’t bear to think of where he was now, and what would happen before he could be laid to rest — a new state of being, or non-being for Gil. Laziness came naturally to him, but not restfulness.
Sydney forced her mind away from the thought of what had to be done over the next few days, and concentrated on what Betty Chesler had said. Once or twice she had suggested to Gil she might like to put her talents to some use, only to be discouraged. No, she thought, not just discouraged. Derided. Gradually, the fragile flower of hope and belief in herself had withered and, she had thought, died. It would be ironic if it took the death of her husband to bring it back to life again.
Sydney finished her coffee, went into the bedroom, and pulled out a leotard from a drawer. She changed into it, went through into the sitting room, and put some music on the stereo. Slowly, with a sense of strangely unbroken continuity rather than that of a return after an absence, she started to put her body through the sequences followed by every classical dancer anywhere in the world.
About an hour later, she stopped. She went back into the bedroom, put on a tracksuit over her leotard and a pair of running shoes, and made a phone call. Then she unlocked the door of the hotel suite.
Outside the door of the suite sat a very young policeman. Sydney smiled at him, prettily.
“Thank you for watching over me. I’m just going down to the lobby to buy cigarettes — I’m gasping.”
The constable jumped to his feet, eager to help. “I’ll get them, miss. What kind do you want?”
“Oh no!” Sydney looked at him in alarm. “I can’t — I just can’t stay here with no one outside. I just can’t.” She allowed a note of hysteria to enter her voice.
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“And leave this place unattended? After what happened out on the patio I could never relax again, even if you searched it. Please — just stay watching for me, will you? If I’m not back in five minutes, then, of course, I’d expect you to come after me — okay?”
“Five minutes.” The young constable looked worried and confused.
“Right — thanks!”
She ran down the corridor, waving as she went.
Five minutes. Please God, she prayed, may the taxi get here in five minutes.
The lobby was quiet, with only the desk clerk in attendance.
“Mrs. Ensor — should you —?”
“I’m going in to the police station — they’re sending a car. The constable is staying to watch over my suite.”
Beyond the revolving doors, a taxi was pulling up. Sydney whisked through the doors and into the car.
“The tower on Icart point.”
As they exited through the gates of the hotel, she saw the young police officer standing in the doorway with the desk clerk.
She had no problems unlocking the gate, and the key worked easily in the lock of the Martello tower door. There was no sign of Giulia’s Ducati on the terrazzo by the door, and the place was in darkness. Feeling for the switch, Sydney found it and put it on, feeling relief at the sudden brilliance that flooded the space. She didn’t need a cigarette, but she needed a drink, badly.
In Giulia’s small kitchen she found the Aperol and poured herself a glass. It did not produce instant cessation of pain, but it did give an illusion of pleasure.
About fifteen minutes later, she heard a key in the door. Giulia appeared, pushing the Ducati ahead of her. She started when she saw Sydney and her hand went to the pocket of her leather jacket.
“Don’t kill me. All I took was a little Aperol. A large Aperol.”
“What are you doing here? You should be under guard somewhere, not tempting fate. Idiota!”
“You called me that before, I remember. Okay, so you didn’t sleep with Gil, but you did keep your mouth shut about — whatever it is that’s behind all this. About that I am no idiot, Giulia.”
Giulia paused, sighed and took off her jacket. “Bene. I’ll tell you about the past, but don’t think I have the answer, because I don’t. I’ll have some of that also.”
They carried the drinks into the living area and sat together on a sofa covered in soft black leather.
“The past, Giulia — how can this be about the past? Gil only spent time in Italy when he was researching Rastrellamento. Why kill him?”
“Rastrellamento is about the past. Do you know if he based the book on any actual events?”
“Not as far as I know, but Gil didn’t talk much about the process of writing — at least, not to me. Knowing Gil, I think he’d have preferred the world to feel Rastrellamento was entirely a product of his genius. His imagination.”
“Perhaps it was, but I think he stumbled on to something. And I know that clever policeman feels the same way — that’s where I’ve been, at the police station.”
“Clever policeman — Ed Moretti?”
“You are on first-name terms?” Giulia raised her eyebrows.
“Yes — well, I am, anyway, and I spent a night in his bed, and none of this is as it sounds.”
“Pity. You could do worse.”
“I did. I married Gil.” Sydney put down her empty glass. “So far I’ve answered most of the questions, Giulia. Tell me about the past. Your father, I guess, was a Vannoni.”
“My grandfather. My mother was not married, and she herself was the child of rape — no, don’t say anything, not yet.” Giulia got up, went into the kitchen, and brought the bottle back with her. “These things happen all the time, yes, since the beginning of time, and this was wartime. The man who was actually my grandfather was probably not a German, and possibly a partisan, but I don’t know. It was a small village, and one of the agreements between my grandmother and the man who married her and became father to her child was that she would never say, never talk about it. I imagine she was quite happy to go along with the deal, no?”
“I’m sure. So a Vannoni made an honest woman out of your grandmother? Forgive me, Giulia, but with what I know about your family, I find that hard to believe.”
Giulia threw back her head and laughed. “Cara, you know us well in so short a time! There were what the lawyers call mitigating circumstances: first, my grandfather was the younger son, and second — and much, much more significantly, he was almost certainly what was then called a degenerate. A homosexual. He had shown no desire to marry and had never been in the least interested in women. Given how things were then, it is unlikely he got much further than that. Oh, there was talk, and he was told by the family to silence the gossip. So he married my grandmother, who had been a close friend since schooldays, and was a sweet and kind husband to her and father to my mother. My mother was a wilful and wild woman, quite unlike her mother and stepfather — there is a lot of her in me. She became pregnant and refused to name the father — there is a chance she didn’t know who the father was — and so I was born, and kept the Vannoni name.”
“So, by blood, you’re not a Vannoni at all. Is your mother alive?”
“No. She died when I was eight, and I was raised by the marchesa. Donatella is a difficult, proud woman, but I will always have a place in my heart for her, because she was good to me, and treated me like family.”
Sydney reached out and poured herself another glass of Aperol. “I’m trying to work out how Gil’s death — and Toni’s — could have anything to do with your unknown father and your grandfather.”
“Maybe so, maybe not, but I think it has to do with another mystery in the Vannoni past. Not about my step-grandfather, but about his sister, Sylvia Vannoni, the eldest child. I didn’t even know there was a sister; I thought there were just two brothers. But about ten years ago, I decided to look into my past.” Giulia’s smile had more of pain than pleasure in it. “At that time I was facing up to the fact that I preferred girls to boys, cara, and that made me wonder if my grandfather Vannoni was indeed gay, and if he was, in fact
, my real grandfather. It turned out that he was probably gay, but that he was not my grandfather.”
“How did you find this out?”
“Not from records. It was much easier to conceal the truth during wartime, and records were often not kept, or were inaccurate. I talked to every old family retainer I could find — there were more of them around ten years ago. And the woman who told me about Sylvia once lived at the manor. Her name was Patrizia. So the chances are that someone else on the island knows about this — and that is how your clever policeman friend asks the questions he asks.”
“Giulia,” Sydney stood up, feeling her legs shaking beneath her with stress, anxiety and Aperol combined, “shouldn’t Ed Moretti be told anything that would help him catch Gil and Toni’s killer?”
“But what do I know, in fact? Will any of this help him catch the man, or woman?”
“Woman?”
“It could be. I think your policeman friend has even wondered if you and I are together in this.” Sydney sat down again, and Giulia gave her a wry glance. “And you come here, no, is that what you’re thinking? Family honour is just as important to a woman, and this is about honour, of that I’m sure. Patrizia told me that Sylvia died, and that she was forbidden to speak about her, or even to remember she had ever lived.”
“But that’s terrible! Wiping out the memory of a human being’s existence from the face of the earth! I still don’t understand why you won’t tell the police.”
“Because it’s a mystery no one in the family will talk about. Because when I tried to talk to Donatella about Sylvia, for the first and only time in my life I was afraid of her. She threatened to throw me out of the family and, more importantly, out of the family business. I love what I do, and I would be lost without my professional life. In a toss-up between Donatella and Eduardo Moretti, Donatella wins, hands down.”
“You say all this goes back to the war years — could it have anything to do with the war?”
“I think so. In Rastrellamento there is a love affair, isn’t there, between the daughter of the house and an escaped British prisoner, and I wonder if that is what happened to the unknown Sylvia. Did she have a child by the prisoner? Did she die in childbirth? Did the child survive?”
