by Lyn Hamilton
“Yes, but why now? He’s been like that for years. What would set her off now, particularly?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was going to leave her for a twenty-year-old. Not unheard of, you know,” he said, smiling at me. Obviously he and I were going to have to agree to disagree on the subject of Marilyn Galea.
“And Ellis Graham?”
“We think that was a robbery, actually. All his money was gone, along with his ID.”
I’d assiduously avoided thinking much about Graham’s demise. It was so grotesque, a dead man held up by the sword on an empty suit of armor. But the unwanted picture now came into my mind as we talked: the body embracing the Knight, the bullet hole in the head, the sword straight through him, the rumpled clothes and hair.
In that instant I knew what I’d failed to notice at the time.
“Did you find Graham’s hat, by any chance?” I asked Tabone
“Hat?” he said vaguely.
“His hat. Big brim, Australian outback style with one side turned up, tied under the chin. Leopard skin band too.”
Tabone didn’t say anything, but I could see the hat was news to him. I tried to get him to talk, but he clammed up and was being rather close mouthed about everything. Which was fair enough, since I’d had another thought that I couldn’t bring myself to share with him or anyone else. If I was so convinced that Graham’s and Galea’s deaths were linked in some way, who, other than myself, was related to both? The Farrugia family, Joseph, Marissa, and Anthony, that’s who. All of my Maltese friends had been in the marketplace when Graham was killed, but only the Farrugias had a relationship of any sort with Galea. It was a tenuous link, to be sure, and I was convinced of their innocence, but I was afraid that mentioning that I had seen them from the window of the museum while I was chasing Graham would not improve their chances with the police, and Tabone had said Joseph would be brought in again soon.
Tabone had brought a newspaper, the Times of Malta, and our conversation turned to the arrival of the foreign dignitaries in Malta to discuss the country’s entry into the European Union, among other things. The cover photo showed the British Foreign Minister being greeted at the airport by Galizia.
“Are you expecting any trouble?” I asked, gesturing toward the photo.
“Hope not. We have all kinds of security in place, of course. Almost as much as when President Bush and Gorbachev were meeting out in the Grand Harbour.”
“I was wondering about the school performance at Mnajdra.” I said. “Strange things happening at the site.”
“You mean that incident with the storage shed? Probably irate parents, you know.”
“But don’t you think it’s a bit strange that all these things are happening when world leaders are arriving here? I mean, two people murdered, nasty things going on at the site of a performance for these very important people?”
“Hard to see the connection. But we have someone in there.”
“In there? At Mnajdra? Do you mean undercover?”
He didn’t answer, so I assumed that was a yes. “Who is it?” I asked.
“If I told you that, and if we did have someone undercover there, which I’m not saying we do, then the person wouldn’t exactly be undercover, now would they?” It was clear he wasn’t going to say. We parted company, and I headed back to the house.
I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with the plan to crash the party at Palazzo Galizia, which was indeed for that same evening at an address on Villegaignon Street in Mdina. This would take more nerve, to say nothing of lack of social graces, than I would normally be capable of. It was Rob Luczka who decided it for me in a rather backhanded way. I told him about my visit to Galizia’s office and showed him the invitation. I was thinking that if I could persuade Rob to go with me, I might just risk it. But when I showed him the invitation, his response was, I suppose, predictable.
“How’d you manage that?” he asked.
“I was at his office and told him I was a friend of Martin Galea’s and ...” My voice trailed off. For some reason, although I’d lied my way through the hallowed halls of the External Relations Ministry, I couldn’t bring myself to lie to Rob. My face, as usual apparently, did me in.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” he exploded. “You nicked it, didn’t you?” I nodded.
“I’m a policeman. I don’t crash parties, and I don’t mix with people who steal things either!” He stomped off in a huff.
I, equally annoyed, developed a fallback position. When Marissa brought Sophia’s costume back, beautifully mended, washed, and wrapped in tissue, I asked her if she would do me an immense favor and allow her son to be my chauffeur for the evening. I told her I’d been invited to a party in Mdina but didn’t want to drive myself, and it would be too late for the bus. She agreed. We arranged for Anthony to meet me at the house and drive me to Mnajdra for the dress rehearsal—he’d planned to be there for the rehearsal anyway—and then to drive me on from there.
There was no indication on the invitation of how to dress. I expect that’s because old families, or those who aspire to look that way, know the code. I’d brought one good outfit, just in case Galea had wanted me to help him with his party, either to help host, or even just to pass the canapés. It consisted of long silk pants that flared out at the bottom—I believe they may be called palazzo pants, which seemed appropriate enough for a party at the Palazzo Galizia—and a black silk embroidered top I’d picked up in my travels. The invitation said nine p.m., but I did not plan to arrive before ten when with any luck the party would be in full swing. When one is crashing a party, it seemed to me, it would not be a good idea to be the first guest. That would also allow enough time to get through the dress rehearsal, and for Anthony to drive Sophia home before going on to Mdina.
Rob was nowhere to be seen when Anthony picked me up and we headed off for Mnajdra, which suited me just fine. My face, no doubt, would have given me away.
The rehearsal was a fiasco. The best one could say about it was that if the old adage about a poor rehearsal meaning a great performance was true, then the next night would be a stupendous success. The girls seemed nervous, perhaps because the phalanx of police and army had doubled since the previous evening, and it was all a bit overwhelming for them. They forgot their lines, I got the costumes jumbled up, the music didn’t sound quite right, some of the lights didn’t work, and Victor Deva clucked and fussed all evening in a rather irritating way. The girls were quite down by the end of it all.
Anna Stanhope called them all together just before they went home. She repeated the adage about poor rehearsals and good performances, which brought little smiles to the girls’ faces, and then she said, “You are all citizens of a very tiny republic with an immense and sweeping history, and you are heirs to this heritage. The story you will tell to these world leaders tomorrow night is one of which you can be very proud. It tells of people who, although they have been conquered many times, have never been truly defeated, and have never lost their distinctive character despite attempts by many nations to stamp that out.
“You and your ancestors have endured times as dark as any nation could, whether that was the Great Siege of Malta by the Turks, or the second Great Siege so recently, when your parents and grandparents held on against tremendous odds, bombed day and night, food supplies dwindling, while the world watched and despaired for you. Many thought you would not survive it, but survive it you did. Many thought you were too small for nationhood, but you have proven them wrong. These are the stories you will tell tomorrow, and you will make your parents and your country proud.”
A hush had fallen over the site. Even the police and soldiers were paying rapt attention. She put her hand up in what seemed to be a gesture of blessing. “May the power of the Great Goddess be with you tomorrow, the wisdom of Inanna of Sumer in whose temple writing was invented; the power of Isis, whose name means ‘the throne’ and who provided the foundation for kingship in Egypt; and the strength of Anath who wadin
g through blood, confronted and defeated Mot, the God of Death. But most of all we ask the blessing of the Great Goddess of Malta, who inspired your ancestors to build these temples right here where we stand, as a reflection of her strength and power.”
She lowered her hand and said simply, “See you tomorrow.” The girls left, standing taller perhaps, than they ever had before.
“You are a wonderful teacher,” I told her, wanting to voice my admiration but not being sure how.
“It is something I love to do,” she said simply. “Now let’s get to work,” she said, resuming her normal tone.
Sophia and Anthony helped me sort out the costumes, Victor and his cousin Francesco packed up what equipment they could and covered the rest, Alonso as usual did the heavy work, lifting the boxes and stacking them in the storage shed. Mario and Esther saw to it that a guard was posted on the shed all night. I changed into my party duds in the shed, and then we headed for Mdina.
Technically I knew that Anthony was supposed to drive Sophia home first, but said nothing. I expect they didn’t have much time alone together, what with Sophia’s father’s coolness toward Anthony. It was fine with me. I could be trusted to keep my mouth shut.
I showed them the invitation and they were clearly impressed. “Minister Galizia is a very important person,” Anthony said, quite unnecessarily. “And rich. I’ll take you to the Main Gate of Mdina,” he went on. “Only residents with permits are allowed to drive in the city. It’s not really designed for cars, as you’ll see. But you’ll have no trouble finding the house. Villegaignon Street is the main street. Lots of beautiful old houses. It’s where the oldest Maltese families live. It runs off the square inside the Main Gate, and it’s not too far to walk. Then I’ll drive Sophia home… slowly.” He grinned. “What time would you like me to pick you up?”
“What time would be good for you?” I smiled back. I was happy to see him cheerful again. He’d been a very subdued young man after Galea’s death, and was obviously very worried about his father, or the man he knew as his father, I should say. Being with his Sophia was obviously good for him. Sophia, I recalled, meant wisdom, and somehow she provided Anthony with the calm center he needed.
“I’ll be back here by eleven-thirty. I don’t think we’d get away with much more than that, do you, Soph? I’ll wait until you get here.”
“Eleven-thirty it is.” They pointed out Mdina in the distance. It was beautiful, high on a hilltop, the rooftops and domes lit up against the night. Soon we arrived at the Gate, a baroque archway, and Anthony dropped me off with very explicit instructions as to where he would be, and equally precise directions to the Palazzo Galizia.
I crossed through the Main Gate and found myself in the town. It was quite extraordinary really, a perfect little medieval city glowing in yellow stone. While the rooftops were lit, at street level, once you moved away from the plaza, the light was dim. The ground floors of the houses were quite austere, except for very elaborate doorways, complete with coats of arms, beautifully carved. Some of the buildings had no doorways or windows on the main street. I could only assume the doors were on a tiny side street. It was also surprisingly quiet.
I could see why cars were restricted. All of the streets were narrow, some very much so, I could stand in the middle of some of them and almost touch both sides with my outstretched arms. There were few sidewalks. The streets were also angled quite sharply: no straight grid pattern here. The houses seemed to hang, or perhaps hover, over the streets, sometimes literally. Several had windows on second and third floors, ornately carved, that overhung the narrow street below, like Romeo and Juliet balconies.
I was left with an impression of hidden secrets, a certain brooding quality, a watchfulness almost. But perhaps it was just the normal reticence of those with money and power who wish to protect it.
The Palazzo Galizia was impressive, although the house did not yield up its secrets easily. The entrance was not particularly imposing certainly, dark green double doors which in my opinion could have used a lick of paint, topped by a semicircular transom window. There were two bronze door knockers shaped like dolphins, one on each door, but before I could knock, the door was opened by a staff person in full regalia. I found myself in a rather austere foyer with what appeared to be a small chapel off to one side. The chapel, complete with burning votive candles, spoke to a piety that for some reason I’d assumed would be lacking in a politician, although this may say more about my opinion of politicians than of Galizia’s religious convictions.
I presented my invitation. The doorman looked mildly puzzled, for reasons that would soon be apparent to me, but he tried to hide it, well trained as he obviously was, and he excused himself to consult with another man stationed at the foot of a marble staircase directly opposite the door. I stood there attempting to look nonchalant as he did so, debating whether, should entry be refused, I would try righteous indignation or simply slink away quietly. I was leaning toward the latter when, apparently satisfied, he beckoned me toward the stairs.
It was not until I was on the landing of the staircase that I began to see the palazzo for the sumptuous abode that it was. The dominant feature of the staircase, which could be seen only if one were permitted to ascend, was an amazing threetiered chandelier, clear glass shot with pink, Murano I assumed. Through a window on the landing, I could see that the house was built in a square around a central courtyard. We turned right at the top of the stairs, then right again, down a long hallway dominated by a series of portraits: The first of these looked very old, maybe late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, I thought, although paintings are not my area of specialty. The oldest, darkened with age, portrayed elaborately dressed men in aristocratic poses. Two of these men were posed in front of landscapes that did not look Maltese, which meant, if I remembered my fine arts courses of many years ago, that these men owned lands in foreign countries. Portraits of women and children, all looking very prosperous as well, rounded out the collection.
As we walked along the hallway, the portraits became progressively more modern, culminating in an oil painting of Galizia and another of a woman with the kind of horsey look I’ve come to associate with some branches of the English aristocracy. I assumed this was Mrs. Galizia, the British wife. I had the impression that Galizia, subconsciously or otherwise, was trying to imply a distinguished family history very much at odds with the upbringing I’d glimpsed in my visit to Mellieha, and his little speech in the newspaper article about knowing what it was to grow up poor.
The deeper one penetrated into the palazzo, the more elaborate it became. At the far end of the hallway we turned right again and entered the library, a real library, I might add. None of that awful wallpaper that is supposed to fool you into thinking there are rows of books for our friend Giovanni Galizia. Walls of books, most of them leather bound, dominated the room. And lest anyone think that Galizia had bought his books by the yard, never to crack a spine, in one corner was a charming little scene, a worn and comfortable-looking leather chair with a reading lamp, still on, behind it, and a book open on a side table, reading glasses resting on the open page, as if the owner had reluctantly torn himself away from his reading to greet his guests. It was all so studied that I began to wonder if Galizia had hired himself an image consultant.
Two large archways led out of the library. Through the first I could see, as we passed by, the dining room, the table elaborately set for a late supper. Here any notion of decorative restraint had been tossed aside. The ceiling was painted a dark blue with silver stars, the walls mustard-yellow, stenciled with feathered patterns in gold with streaks of blue. There seemed to be more gilt almost than St John’s Co-Cathedral, and the wall opposite the archway featured a trompe l’oeil fresco that gave the impression of a view through a window to a garden that would have done Versailles proud.
There were high back chairs, the velvet fabric worn sufficiently to erase any traces of new money, lots of gleaming crystal and silver and decorative pi
eces, elaborate candlesticks and the like. I tried not to gawk; people invited to parties in a palazzo, after all, should be more sophisticated than that. But my acquisitive shopkeeper’s heart was aflutter at several things I saw. I caught myself eyeing these treasures wondering which, if any, had belonged to the Knights.
Martin Galea, the master of the clean line, an airiness of space, and the deceptively simple detail, would choke if he saw this decor, almost claustrophobic in its sumptuousness, I thought, and perhaps he had been there. I wondered if the master of Palazzo Galizia had seen Martin’s new house with its restrained Mediterranean elegance. Comparing their homes, it was hard to imagine the two of them as friends.
The second archway led to an antechamber off the dining room where my arrival was announced. It did not take me long to realize why the doorman had seemed perplexed. There wasn’t another woman in the room.
The air was filled with cigar smoke, and about twenty men were drinking either sherry, expensive no doubt, or champagne, a celebration of some kind. I got the impression, I have no idea why, that a deal of some kind had been concluded. I recognized Galizia and one other person, a member of the opposition party whose photo I had also seen in the newspaper. It was quite the group. Several of those talking to the minister were military types, high ranking, obviously, with so much braid and so many medals I was surprised they could stand. All turned to stare at me, and they did not appear glad to see me.
“Did I come on the wrong night?” I said brightly, with a bravado I did not feel. In fact, I think I would have made a run for it, had my feet not felt rooted to the floor and my exit not been blocked by the staff person who’d led me there.
Galizia came forward. He was not a large man, but he was built like a fighter, barrel-chested and light on his feet. He was not particularly good-looking, but he radiated assurance, a kind of oily smoothness that I could not help but feel masked other less attractive qualities, like cunning, and, if the Hedgehog’s story was true, ambition and opportunism. What I noticed most about him were his eyes, expressionless, almost opaque. If eyes are indeed the windows of the soul, then either Galizia didn’t have one, or he’d crafted for himself an extraordinarily effective mask. He did not extend his hand, nor did he offer me a drink.
