The Death of Faith (11 page)

‘Some of these swindlers deceive people into making contributions to what they present as worthy charities. We’ve had cases of people being persuaded to give money to children’s hospitals in Rumania or to what they were told was one of Mother Teresa’s hospices.’ Brunetti pumped his voice full of indignation as he added, ‘Terrible. Shocking.’

The Countess met his eye and expressed the same judgement with a nod. ‘There was nothing like that. My husband left his estate to his family, as a man should. There were no strange bequests. No one got anything who shouldn’t have.’

Because he was in the Countess’s line of vision, Vianello took the liberty of nodding in strong affirmation of the propriety of this.

Brunetti got to his feet. ‘You’ve relieved me greatly, Contessa. I was afraid that a man as generous as the Count was known to be might have become a victim of these people. But after speaking to you, I’m glad to learn that we can cancel his name from our investigation.’ He injected greater warmth into his voice and continued, ‘Speaking as a public official, I’m always glad when that happens, but I speak as a private citizen when I say that I am personally very pleased with this.’ He turned back toward Vianello and waved him to his feet.

When he turned around, the Contessa had come around her desk again and was heaving her mountainous girth toward him.

‘Can you tell me anymore about this, Dottore?’

‘No, Contessa, so long as I know your husband had nothing to do with these people, I can tell my colleague—’

‘Your colleague?’ she interrupted.

‘Yes, one of the other
commissari
is handling the investigation into this ring of swindlers. I’ll send him a memo that your husband had nothing to do with them, thank God, and then I’ll get back to my own cases.’

‘If this isn’t your case, why did you come here?’ she asked bluntly.

Brunetti smiled before he answered. ‘I hoped that it would be less troubling for you if the questions were put to you by a person who, that is to say, by a person who is sensitive to your position in the community. I didn’t want you to be burdened with worry, however momentary I knew it would be.’

Rather than thanking Brunetti for this courtesy, the Contessa nodded in acceptance of what was no more than her due.

Brunetti extended his hand and, when she put hers out to meet his, he bent over it again, resisting the impulse to click his heels.

He backed toward the door, where Vianello awaited him. There, both men gave small bows and let themselves back into the hall. Stefano, if that was the name of the man with the cross on his lapel, was waiting for them there, not leaning against the wall but standing in the middle of the corridor, Brunetti’s overcoat in his arms. When he saw them emerge, he opened Brunetti’s coat and held it while he put it on. Without speaking, he led them to the end of the corridor and held the door for them while they left the apartment.

* * * *

Chapter Five

Neither spoke as they went down the steps and out into the street, where the sudden spring night had fallen upon the city.

‘Well?’ Brunetti asked as he took the list from his pocket again. He checked the next address and set off toward it; Vianello fell into step beside him.

‘Is that what’s known as an important personage in the city?’ was Vianello’s attempt at an answer.

‘I think so.’

‘Poor Venice, then.’ So much for the magic effect of the patent of nobility upon Vianello. ‘She the one who paid Lucia’s ransom?’ the sergeant asked, referring to the famous case of kidnapping, more than a decade ago, when the bones of Santa Lucia were taken from her church and held for ransom. A never-disclosed sum was paid to the thieves, and the police were directed to some bones, presumably those of the blessed Lucia, lying in a field on the mainland. These bones were restored to the church with great solemnity and the case closed.

Brunetti nodded. ‘I heard a rumour that she did, but you never know, do you?’

‘Probably pig bones, anyway,’ Vianello offered, his tone suggesting that he hoped this had been the case.

Since Vianello seemed unwilling to answer an indirect question, Brunetti made it a direct one. ‘What’d you think of the Countess?’

‘She became interested when you suggested that something might have been given to an institution. Didn’t seem worried about people or relatives.’

‘Yes,’ Brunetti agreed, ‘those hospitals in Rumania.’

Vianello turned to Brunetti and gave him a long look. ‘Where’d all these people who are tricked into giving money to Mother Teresa come from?’

Brunetti smiled and shrugged away the question. ‘I had to tell her something. That sounded as good as anything.’

‘Doesn’t much matter, does it?’ Vianello asked.

‘What doesn’t much matter?’

‘Whether Mother Teresa gets the money or it goes to crooks.’

Surprised, Brunetti asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘No one ever finds out where that money goes, do they? She’s won all those prizes, and someone’s always collecting money for her, but there never seems to be anything to show for it, does there?’

This was a depth of cynicism even Brunetti had never managed to reach, and so he said, ‘Well, at least they have a decent death, those people she takes in.’

Vianello’s answer was immediate. ‘They’d probably rather have a decent meal, if you ask me.’ Then, looking pointedly down at his watch and making no attempt to disguise his mounting scepticism at how Brunetti was using their time, he added, ‘Or a drink.’

Brunetti took the hint. Neither of the two people they’d spoken to, however unpleasant they’d been, had the look or feel of guilt about them. ‘One more,’ he said, glad it came out sounding like a suggestion and not a request.

Vianello’s nod was tired, his shrug a comment on how boring and repetitive was much of the work they did. ‘And then
un’ ombra
,’ he said, neither suggestion nor request.

Brunetti nodded, glanced down again at the address, and turned into the
calle
on their right. They found themselves in a courtyard and paused, searching for some indication of a house number on the first door they came to.

‘What number are we looking for, sir?’

‘Three hundred and twelve,’ Brunetti answered, reading from the sheet of paper.

‘Must be that one over there,’ Vianello said, placing his hand on Brunetti’s arm and pointing across the courtyard.

As they crossed it, they noticed that narcissi and daffodils were popping up from the dark earth in the centre, the smaller flowers now closed against the approaching chill of the night.

On the other side, they found the number they sought, and Brunetti rang the bell.

After a moment, a voice came through the speakerphone, asking who it was.

‘I’ve come about Signor Lerini,’ Brunetti answered.

‘Signor Lerini is no longer of this world,’ the voice answered.

‘I know that, Signora. I’ve come to ask questions about his estate.’

‘His estate is in heaven,’ the voice answered. Brunetti and Vianello exchanged a glance.

‘I’ve come to discuss the one he left behind him here,’ Brunetti said, making no attempt to disguise his impatience.

‘Who are you?’ the voice demanded.

‘Police,’ he answered just as quickly.

The speakerphone clicked as the woman put it down sharply. Nothing happened for what seemed a long time, and then the door snapped open.

Again, they climbed stairs. Like the corridor in Contessa Crivoni’s home, these stairs too were lined with portraits, but they were all of the same person: Jesus, as he made his way through the increasingly bloody Stations of the Cross to his death on Calvary and the third-floor landing. Brunetti paused long enough to examine one of them, and saw that, instead of the cheap reproductions from a religious magazine that he had expected to find, these were carefully detailed drawings in coloured pencil, pencils which, though lingering lovingly upon the wounds, thorns, and nails, still managed to convey a saccharine sweetness to the face of the suffering Christ.

When Brunetti turned his attention from the crucified Christ, he saw that a woman stood at an open door, and for an instant he thought that he had somehow managed to stumble upon Suor’Immacolata again, and she had returned to her order and her habit. But a closer look showed him that it was an entirely different woman and the only resemblance came from her clothing: a long white skirt that fell to the floor and a shapeless black sweater buttoned over a high-necked white blouse. All the woman needed was a wimple and a long rosary hanging from her waist, and the habit would have been complete. The skin of her face was papery and too white, as though it seldom, if ever, saw the light of day. Her nose was long and pink at the tip, her chin too small for the rest of her face. The curious untouched quality of her face made it difficult for Brunetti to tell her age, but he guessed she was somewhere between fifty and sixty.

‘Signora Lerini?’ Brunetti asked, not bothering to waste a smile on her.

‘Signorina,’ she corrected him with an immediacy that suggested she had often made this same correction and perhaps looked forward to making it as well.

‘I’ve come to ask you some questions about your father’s estate,’ Brunetti said.

‘And may I ask who you are?’ she enquired in a tone that managed to mix meekness and aggression.

‘Commissario Brunetti,’ he answered and then turned to Vianello. ‘And this is my sergeant, Vianello.’

‘I suppose you have to come in,’ she said.

When Brunetti nodded, she stepped back and held the door for them. Muttering ‘
Permesso
,’ they went into the apartment. Brunetti was immediately struck by an odour which, for all its being familiar, he could not immediately recognize. A mahogany sideboard stood in the hallway, its surface covered with photographs in elaborate silver frames. Brunetti cast his eyes over them for a second, looked away, but then turned back to study them more closely. All of the subjects seemed to be in clerical garb: bishops, cardinals, four nuns standing in a stiff line, even the Pope. The woman turned to lead them to another room, and Brunetti bent down to take a closer look at the photos. All of them were autographed, and many of them bore dedications to ‘Signorina Lerini’, one Cardinal going so far as to address her as ‘Benedetta, beloved sister in Christ’. Brunetti had the odd sensation of being in a teenager’s room, its walls filled with giant posters of rock stars, they too dressed in the wild costumes of their profession.

Quickly, he caught up with Signorina Lerini and Vianello and followed them into a room that at first appeared to be a chapel but, upon closer examination, revealed itself to be a sitting room. In one corner stood a wooden Madonna, beside whom burned six tall candles, the source of the scent Brunetti had been unable to identify. In front of the statue stood a prie-dieu, no soft cushion upon the wooden kneeler.

Against another wall stood a different sort of shrine, this one apparently to her late father; at any rate, to the photo of a bull-necked man in a business suit posed heavily at his desk, hands clasped tightly together in front of him. Instead of candles, two soft spotlights were directed at it from some place high up in the ceiling beams; Brunetti had the distinct impression that they were left burning day and night.

Signorina Lerini lowered herself into a chair but sat at the front of it, her back upright and straight as a sword.

‘I’d like to begin,’ Brunetti said when they were all seated, ‘by extending my condolences on your loss. Your father was a well-known man, certainly an asset to the city, and I’m sure his absence must be very hard to bear.’

She brought her lips together and bowed her head at this. ‘The Lord’s will must be welcomed,’ she said.