The Art of Killing Well (17 page)

“So, the mushrooms are good in June, are they?”

“Excellent, Ispettore. The weather is dry, and the mushroom contains less water. Its nitrogenous properties and its essential oils are more concentrated and have a more intense flavour.”

Their eyes on the ground in search of mushrooms, the two men talked of this and that, avoiding as far as possible the subject of what was happening in the castle. But sooner or later …

“Ispettore …”

“Go on.”

“I should like to know, Ispettore, when I will be allowed to go back to Florence. You see, mushrooms should be eaten fresh, and I'd like to …”

Continuing to search in the undergrowth with sticks – the inspector had grown up in a place full of snakes – Artistico replied, “If it were up to me, Signor Artusi, I would let you go immediately, since you are no longer on the list of suspects. But in order not to wrong anyone I prefer all the guests to remain here for as long as possible.”

“I see. And why, pray, do you not consider me a suspect?”

The inspector looked at Artusi.

You have to trust someone.

“Last night, Dottore Bertini informed me that the poison was only present in the glass, not in the bottle. Now, I had already previously established with absolute certainty that the glasses like the one used by the baron are kept in a dresser in the same room where the drinks are served. During the period of time that concerns us, the housemaid never entered that room. And the idea that she could have poisoned the glass previously to that must be ruled out. The extract of belladonna would have stained it. Whoever poured the poison into the wine was present in the room at the time of the toast. And that, apart from removing the housemaid as a possible poisoner,
ipso facto
also rules you out.”

“I am pleased to hear it, Ispettore.”

“I am not quite so pleased. It means I now have to arrest two people, not one. I feel like that mythological character who was forced to roll a stone up a hill, and once he got to the top the stone would plummet back down and he would have to start again from scratch.”

“Sisyphus.”

“Precisely. And now I don't know what to do.”

“Eliminate the impossible. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

What on earth is he talking about?

“That's what the main character in the book I'm reading says,” explained Artusi by way of justification.

“Ah, I see. A bit general, though, don't you think?”

Artusi said nothing.

“To be honest, though, I have already heeded the first part of that advice. It can't have been Agatina. Or you.”

Still Artusi said nothing.

“Well, Signor Artusi, don't you feel reassured?”

“I am grateful to you, Ispettore, but I was already well aware that I had not murdered anyone. The few times I have taken the life of a living creature, I have usually cooked it in a sauce soon afterwards, and I do not possess casserole dishes large enough to get humans into them.”

The inspector laughed, and even Artusi allowed himself a bewhiskered smile.

“Among other things, there is no evidence that you had any misunderstanding with the baron.”

“Indeed not. The most regrettable misunderstanding I have had, I fear, was with Signorina Cosima.”

Remembering how he, too, had suffered in the course of his interview with the old maid, the inspector shook his head in sympathy. “Do such misadventures often befall you?” he asked.

“My dear Ispettore, what can I say? My magnetic personality will have to be put under lock and key.”

Silence.

“You know, in my youth I certainly did nothing to avoid amorous adventures. There are stories I could tell you! But marriage … My poor mother, seeing how inclined I was to court the fair sex, almost begged me to take a wife. For my part, I have always thought that marriage vows are mediaeval dogmas, unnatural obligations that no longer have any
raison d'être
in a rational, progressive
environment. In fact, I'd go further: it would be a good idea, in my opinion, for a law to be passed allowing divorce, as has been the case for some time now in the most civilised nations of the world.”

Silence.

“What do you think, Ispettore? Will we ever see, in this odd little nation of ours, a law that laughs at dogma and takes account of the man more than the priest?”

Silence.

Pellegrino Artusi turned. The inspector was nowhere to be seen.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Puffing with annoyance, the inspector was walking towards the castle.

This is the second time that Artusi fellow has shown me the way.

With each step he took, his thoughts became clearer, one piece at a time.

If you eliminate the impossible …

If you eliminate the impossible, what remains must be the truth.

If this time everything falls into place, I'll offer you more than lunch, my dear fellow.

Quickly now. As long as my target is in no position to get away.

My God, she's beautiful.

Tousled hair, dark eyes, her expression no longer proud but like that of a wounded beast, which somehow made her all the more beautiful, voluptuous, wild. Pull yourself together, Saverio. You're on duty and she's practically a recent widow. It wouldn't be right.

“How are you feeling, Agatina?”

No reply. Not verbally, at any rate. I'm fine, and I'd be even better if I could get my hands on you. And not the way you hope, you pig.

“Listen to me, Agatina. I have to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to answering me?”

“No.”

It was the first time the inspector had heard Agatina's voice.

To describe it as sensual would have been an understatement.

Deep and husky, and at the same time feminine, suggestive.

Having said that one word, Agatina lay down on the plank bed in the cell and turned onto her side, away from the inspector, giving him a full, comfortable vision of her posterior.

The inspector could feel his rough regulation trousers clinging to his thighs. He, too, turned away in order to concentrate.

“I think I know why you shot the baron, Agatina.”

No reaction.

“And I also think I've understood that, before Saturday morning, you had no reason to wish for the baron's death.”

No reaction. Perhaps.

“But between Friday and Saturday something happened. And after it happened, you tried to kill your master. Not before. After. And I wonder why.”

Agatina's body had stiffened. This time he was sure.

“But the reason is something I can only imagine. And if you do not confirm it to me and give me some elements of proof, it won't be easy for me to help you.”

Agatina relaxed. It won't be easy for
me
to help
you
.

The inspector took a deep breath, sat down and tried to concentrate on the back of the housemaid's neck.

“I'll begin with a very simple question. As far as you know, was Teodoro in the habit of betting on the horses?”

Agatina turned.

I know everything, the inspector's face told her.

Agatina began to weep.

Once he had finished talking to Agatina, Ispettore Artistico quickly summoned Officer Bacci and sent him to Barone Cesaroni with a specific question. To be on the safe side he even wrote it down for him on a sheet of paper, to prevent him from getting hold of the wrong end of his cock (yes, it should be the wrong end of the stick: forgive me for relieving my feelings, this late
nineteenth-century language is getting a bit much and after a while you need a change of air). Then he returned to the castle and set off in search of Dottore Bertini.

Having found the doctor, he asked him a very specific question. To which the doctor replied in his usual exhaustive manner, “Yes, disorders of urination can appear. Generally dependent on all the smooth muscles. And certainly there is a trace of what you say in the urine. The identification of such a drug—”

The doctor had intended to continue, but the inspector cut him short.

“Would you be prepared to repeat in front of witnesses what you have told me?”

“That is a doctor's clear task when summoned to court …”

“No, Dottore. I am asking you to confirm what you have just said in the presence of the baron and his family, here, in a short while.”

This time it was the doctor's turn to turn red. He swallowed two or three times and looked about him, but he had painted himself into a corner. “Yes, of course,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice. “It's my duty.”

Then the inspector went to see Amidei. This was the hardest part.

“I don't remember a thing.”

“Are you sure, Amidei?”

“I told you. Not a thing.”

“Strange. Usually, things that provoke strong emotions are
hard to forget, I think.”

“Maybe so.”

The inspector sighed. “I understand. You're loyal to your master. Round here you call it honour, don't you? Where I come from, it's called
omertà
.”

“I don't know what that means. Never heard the word.”

“It means that someone knows perfectly well what he's being asked, but doesn't answer because he's scared.”

“I'm not scared of anything.”

And that might even be true. Primo Amidei was a man who, if anything, scared other people. Tall and bulky with two shovels instead of hands and a way of looking you straight in the eyes that was a constant threat. The estate manager.

The man who makes sure that everything keeps going.

Today the people we call managers usually do exactly the opposite.

“I'm very pleased for you. So you'll have no objection if I go and ask your mistress directly, will you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

There was no way to get another word from him. But for the inspector, who had been born and raised in a place where keeping silent was often the only means of communication, that silence was as good as an answer.

“Baronessa …”

“Good day to you, Ispettore. Have you concluded your investigation?”

“Actually I have, Baronessa. I'm waiting for one last reply, and then everything will be done.”

“Then we shall never see each other again. I am relieved.”

“Careful what you say, Baronessa,” said the inspector in an amusingly grumpy manner. “I might still be hidden in that secret hiding place of your son's, the one you told me about this morning.”

“You wouldn't enjoy it. And as long as you are on duty, you would not be able to take advantage of it.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because that little devil …”

The baroness broke off and gave the inspector a look of surprise.

“Because the little devil was in the habit of shutting himself in the cellar, wasn't he?” said the inspector.

Silence is consent.

“And not just that. Correct me if I'm wrong, but he had also found a way to unbolt the door from the outside.”

The baroness continued to keep silent, and in her eyes there was increasingly less surprise and increasingly more hate.

“The bolt is of iron, well maintained, well lubricated, and not very heavy. With a good magnet, you can actually move it from outside the door, which isn't very thick anyway. You just have to do it slowly and determinedly, and the bolt slides across. I tried it myself just a few minutes ago. And I managed it without any effort.”

With much less effort at least than the effort it takes to stand
here talking. The baroness lowered her head. “Get out of here.”

“I'm sorry, Baronessa.”

“Not as much as I am. Get out.”

Returning to the main door, he found Bacci, who, for once, had done what had been asked of him: apart from the reply, he had also brought with him the object of the reply, Jacopo Paglianti, son of Gerlando, stablehand to Barone Cesaroni.

Within half an hour, having given his officers the necessary instructions, the inspector had summoned all the residents to the drawing room (apart from Lapo, who was still in pain, and the baroness, who was still in her wheelchair) and had given a short speech, hoping that his nervousness was not too obvious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have finally gathered together all the elements I needed to bring this case to a conclusion. I am here, mainly, to apologise for the invasion to which you have all been subjected. In addition, I should like to explain to you in the most direct and honest way possible what happened this weekend, and what will be happening shortly.”

Can words paralyse? Apparently yes.

“Allow me first of all to introduce Signor Jacopo Paglianti, assistant stableman to Barone Rodolfo Cesaroni di Canpetroso. Signor Paglianti, would you be so kind as to repeat what you told me and my assistant a little earlier?”

“Yes, of course, I'd be so kind. Last year, around Easter, this horse arrived, this Monte Santo. He was a fierce animal, all instinct, you couldn't hold him. It took me a long while to tame him.
But it was worth it. First—”

“Signor Paglianti, I'm sorry, could you go on to what happened last Monday?”

“Monday? On Monday I meet Teo, I mean poor Teodoro, and tell him, there's a horse running on Friday that's a real winner. Nobody knows him, I trained him very early in the morning. They're giving me fifteen to one. Think about it and let me know. And he goes, why should I think about it? If you tell me he's a sure thing, I'll put everything on him. I'll have enough to leave the castle and open my shop.”

“His shop?”

“Yes, Teodoro wanted to open a tobacconist's shop, one of those posh ones, in Livorno. Anyway, he also tells me his girl is expecting, because he'd knocked her up, and getting married wouldn't be a bad thing, and this horse had come along just at the right time.”

“Did you hear that, Baron?”

“Of course I heard it,” said the baron severely. “I hope you're finally convinced that the father of Agatina's child was clearly poor Teodoro.”

“Yes, I admit that. So, Signor Paglianti, you gave indications to Teodoro Banti about the horse Monte Santo, telling him the odds were high, and it was almost certain to win.”

Paglinati looked at the inspector suspiciously. “That's what they told me …”

“Don't worry, Signor Paglianti, I'm not interested in gambling. What I want to clarify is that Teodoro knew what he was doing
when he bet a considerable amount on that horse. You know something about that, don't you, Barone? You also bet on that horse.”

The baron smiled bitterly. “Yes, I did,” he said, avoiding looking at Signor Ciceri. “Teodoro told me about him, and I took advantage of the tip. But I didn't know that Teodoro had also bet money on him.”

“Please forgive me, Barone, but I don't believe you.”

“It's true, I assure you. I really had no idea. Teodoro often placed bets for me, but didn't usually tell me about his own.”

“That's not what I meant, Barone. I don't believe you when you say you also bet on that horse.”