Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (17 page)

“He was in the military?”

The butler nodded. “The king’s army. His family, although aristocrats, were active, almost rabid supporters of Risorgimento, had been for a very long while, and the son—educated in the north, Milan or Turin, I’m not certain—was home on holiday. Now that I think on it, I remember he was a friend of Naldo and had met Genoveffa through her brother some years before. Nice enough young man and dashing, I might add.”

“And we know where dashing young men get us,” Rosa said and beamed.

The butler looked at Rosa and smiled. “But as with all youth, he had some extreme views.”

“It was at the engagement party that the accident occurred?”

He nodded. “I can only tell you what I remember. Some of the details have fled.”

Serafina nodded. “Nonetheless, do tell us whatever you can recall.”

“Unfortunately, I noticed that Ernesto had arrived slightly out of sorts, tipsy, you might say, although I’m not sure that was it. When I took his cape, I noticed a slurring of words, but it was some time later that I heard Genoveffa surrounded by a group of friends, urging him up to the roof, saying she wanted to show him how she could see his hometown, or some such nonsense, and the request was taken up by the rest of the party, at least by the young people. I remember Naldo talking about the view of Mount Etna, and then there seemed to be a groundswell, at least I remember many of them laughing up the staircase and making their way to the roof, so I sent several servants to follow them with drinks and hors d’oeuvres and the like while I remained busy with the party in the ballroom—there were several hundred in attendance—when all of a sudden there was a hush, as if the house held its breath. This was followed by something like the roar an army makes in the middle of the night, when they rush in thick as stars through an otherwise stilled village. Breathless and beside herself, Genoveffa shot into the ballroom crying, ‘Help, me, someone, please, hurry!’”

Rosa sat, hand over her mouth, mesmerized.

The butler continued. “I started racing up the stairs to the roof when she pulled me back. ‘Fool, not that way! He’s fallen, oh God, he’s fallen!’ she cried, pointing down the stairs, so I pounded outside, following her direction, and I saw a twisted figure lying on the ground and the
gabelloto
bending over him. And as I reached him, I saw the shape of the poor fellow and sure as I knew my own name, I realized it was over.” The butler stopped, eyes closed, kneading his brow.

“Ernesto was dead?” Serafina asked.

He nodded. “His neck, you see, was broken.”

“Anyone else by the body?”

The butler shrugged. “There may have been, but it was so long ago, I don’t remember.”

Serafina was quiet for a few moments, letting the butler keep company with his memory.

“Now that I’m there again, in my mind, I mean, I’ve just remembered something—I wondered at the time, what an unlucky break, asking myself why he didn’t fall atop the high grass, less than a few meters from where he lay. It would have cushioned the fall.”

For a time, Serafina made no movement as she considered this. It was as if the wind had been sucked from her lungs, and the madam, she noticed, was frozen, too, the color drained from her cheeks.

“How awful for you!” Rosa said, a look of pity on her face.

Wincing, he said, “I don’t mind telling you, I’ll not soon forget the shape of him lying there.”

At the end of an exhausting morning with only an hour’s respite for the afternoon meal, Serafina and Rosa sat in the servants’ parlor combing through notes of all the interviews. Except for the information they’d gleaned from the butler about the accident and the importance of the baroness in the proper management of such a large house, they were disappointed with the little they’d learned from talking to the rest of the indoor staff. There were no revelations. As predicted, no one had seen anyone but the cook stow supplies in the pantry; no one had come across unusual substances anywhere on the premises; no one saw anyone take anything out of the pantry or put anything into the baroness’s food or drink. Their demeanor was correct and solemn. Serafina could tell that each servant had admired, if not loved, the baroness; that each had mourned her loss; that each thought less of the house and the often slipshod way it was run since her passing.

Serafina asked them if they’d remembered the accident on the roof several years ago involving Genoveffa’s fiancé. Most had not been there, but those who had, remembered the incident. Some said that he’d jumped; others were sure that he’d fallen. An older manservant said he saw a crowd of men gathered around Ernesto. At first he thought it was just a noisy conversation, but then it turned from words to an altercation, and the rowdies pushed and shoved while Ernesto, who’d come to the party having consumed too much wine, lost his balance and fell over the side. After the incident, a higher railing had been built.

“How many men were gathered round Ernesto?” Rosa asked.

“Can’t remember,” the manservant said.

“All male?”

He shrugged. “You must understand, the incident happened over ten years ago.”

“Were all the men dressed formally?” Rosa asked.

This question made the man think. “Yes, now that you mention it, I think there may have been one or two not in formal attire, as if they did not belong. Could have been one of the gardeners. There was a short one, didn’t pull his load, that was the word, but no, why would he be on the roof, unless he was tending to the plants?” He shook his head vehemently. “I’m sorry. I remember thinking at the time it was odd, very odd indeed—poor fellow plummeted to his death.”

“He was pushed or he fell?”

He raised his palms, then slumped into himself for a bit. “Extreme views the fellow had. Schooled in the north, you see, and they don’t much care for Sicilians or our ways, many of them, and some of that liberalism had rubbed off. No, I’m sure he was shoved at one point, but there was a lot of pushing back and forth, a few punches thrown. I can’t say for certain that he wasn’t pushed off the roof.”

Serafina just let him talk as the fellow dug deeper into himself.

“I know he was slammed toward the railing,” he began again. “Took some blows, you see. Then he pushed back, yes, I see it now, closer, closer to the edge he was driven, but …” He frowned. “No, there was a crowd round him, and I cannot say that I saw the actual plunge, so I cannot say for certain whether he was helped off the edge or simply fell. Sorry.”

S
he and Rosa were on their way up the back stairs from the kitchen, having finished interviewing all the servants and were on the second floor when they heard footsteps behind them and turned to see the butler making his way toward them.

“I found debris and have no doubt that it is what’s left of the journals, such a pity. I brought it with me.” He extended a small sack.

She smelled ash and felt a surge of pity for the dead baroness and for her life so senselessly cut short, and for a lifetime devoted to words lost to fire and smoke in minutes.

“There are drawing rooms off the ballroom where we can go.”

They followed his clicking heels over the parquet floor, Serafina remembering her dance yesterday afternoon with the ghost of her lover. Opening a door on the far side, he motioned them to a grouping of deep chairs around a small table and bade them sit, plunking the sack in front of them.

She picked it up and spread the contents—ashen detritus, obviously remnants of the journals.

Rosa and the butler smiled at each other. Serafina leaned forward. Picking up a torn and charred clump of paper, she looked at it for a moment. “The baroness’s writing. I’d know it anywhere.” She put it to her nose. “And even through the smoke, you can smell her perfume.”

Umbrello held up a piece of burnt leather. “Found next to pages of her diaries. I only brought a sampling, you understand. The thief wanted to destroy her words, not profit from the sale of the leather.”

The three were silent. After a few moments, the butler gathered up the debris and returned it to the sack, handed it to Serafina, and swiped the tabletop clean with a linen.

A
ttac
k

“W
ho do you think killed the baroness?” Rosa asked her as they sat in the gazebo and stared at the sea.

Serafina was silent.

“Sorry, I should have realized your mind’s taking a trip over treacherous waters. I, for one, haven’t a clue. But I’ll just sit here and pretend you’re keeping me company, listening to my every word, grateful for my counsel. The butler, nice fellow, no? But he couldn’t have been the one, too devoted to her.”

Serafina knew the madam was talking, but she needed a few more minutes to work something out and didn’t want interruptions. Earlier, she and Rosa had arranged to take tea with the baron that afternoon. Their meeting would be important, the last one before they left, because she would deliver her conclusions based on what she’d learned.

Rosa spoke again, and this time her voice was, if not soft, at least not so gravelly. “You know who killed her, don’t you?”

Serafina found the energy to nod, then shook her head. “I have a pretty good idea who poisoned her, but some pieces are missing. I must do some more thinking, searching, ask Genoveffa about the accident. Our lucky day, talking to the butler.”

“
Your
lucky day! He has the evening free, and he’s asked me to walk out with him so I shan’t be at dinner. You’ll make my excuses to the baron.”

Serafina stared at Rosa. It was the first time she’d seen her blush over a man in a long time. She got up and kissed her cheek, happy for her friend but, all the same, feeling a slight twinge of she knew not what, wishing Loffredo were there, then counseled herself. After all, she’d be home tomorrow. Picturing it, the pandemonium surrounding her arrival, she felt an unexpected exhilaration. She’d been gone too long.

“Remind me to ask Doucette about the accident.”

“We’d better do it soon—she leaves tomorrow.”

Serafina shook her head. “But before we talk to her again, I want to take another trip to the roof. There’s something pulling at me, something I’ve missed.”

Th
e wind was brisk on the roof, and Serafina saw angry clouds massing in the distance. “Another ship making for the baron’s harbor,” she said. Men in blue raced around the pier with hand carts as tug boats guided the steamer in to the wharf. Wagons filled with crates, probably containing citrus from the baron’s groves, were standing by for loading. She started over to the front railing when she was stopped by a smart tug on her elbow.

“You’ll stay away from the rail or I leave,” Rosa said. “I’ve had enough of edges and talk of pushing and falling for a lifetime. Take my arm and walk around with me. That way, I know you’ll be safe even when we round the corner and gaze at Mount Etna.”

So they strode from front to rear and side to side, Serafina and Rosa, pointing to each outbuilding, making sure they’d included it in their list of locations for Arcangelo to search, and were about to leave when they heard a sudden bang and felt the tiles shake beneath their feet. Running to the main staircase, they found that the door had slammed shut. They faced each other, frozen in disbelief, until Serafina remembered the back stairwell and so hurried around the side, only to discover that the back entrance was locked as well.

Serafina’s heart began to pound so rapidly that she thought she would faint, so she clung to Rosa, telling herself to breathe slowly. “Let’s sit over in the roof garden,” she said. “Perhaps the palms will inspire us.”

Rosa agreed, and the two walked over and sat, Serafina feeling the first drop of rain on her cheek. Soon the sky opened up, and they ran for shelter. Before reaching the main staircase overhang, both women were drenched to the skin. The rain poured, the thunder ripped, and the lightning scorched the sky. Serafina regarded her friend, who looked like a drowned owl. They banged on the door and yelled at the top of their lungs, but no one came.

Attempting to keep her voice light and free from quavering, she said, “Wait here. I’m going to take a walk around to see if I can snag someone’s attention on the ground.”

“Whatever you do, don’t get too close to the railing.”

Unmindful of Rosa’s words, she clung to the rail, white-knuckled, as she walked around, straining against the wind and rain, trying to see any movement on the ground. Slowly making her way around toward the back of the house, tripping over a loose shoelace, she slogged over to one side, visoring her eyes and peering down, trying to spot familiar objects, but all she saw was the rising mist from the ground. It was impossible to see more than a few meters in any direction, and when she stood up, the water, as strong as pieces of iron, pelted her face. Beginning to tire, she found herself at what she thought was the front of the house, but could not see the road or the harbor and now was not sure where she was, regretting her folly and wondering whether she’d make it back to the stairwell or whether a gust of wind would swirl her over the side. Aware that her whole body was shaking, she told herself to stay calm even as she agonized for her children and their sorrow, picturing their solemn faces as they lowered her coffin into the ground.

Peering into the middle distance, she thought she saw someone running across the lawn toward the carriage house and shouted, but could not get his attention. Although she was now unable to see her hand in front of her face, she began walking toward what she believed was the overhang, with her trembling arms outstretched. The storm’s fury increased. Water streamed down her face, into her mouth, and down her neck, losing itself in the folds of her undergarments, making her stays pinch her skin. She held onto her jaw, willing herself to be still.

At that moment she felt something hard hit her dress, reached down, and felt the railing. Realizing she’d lost her sense of direction, she sat down on the tiles with a whoosh of her water-soaked skirt. Her undergarments clung to her skin. Why hadn’t she listened to Rosa, stayed underneath the overhang, and waited for the raging heavens to subside? Instead she sat while the minutes stretched, lost in the storm, no doubt only a few meters from safety, while the elements poured down on her, praying to the Madonna to save her from the torrent, and cursing her own rashness.

When she heard the noise of feet slapping the puddles, she thought someone had come to save her, until a hand grabbed her, pulled her up, and with a force mightier than the storm, began shoving and dragging her.

“Over the side with you!”

Resisting with all her might, she fought her assailant, vowing she’d cling to the railing for as long as it took, hoping it would not break, picturing her body falling down, down, disappearing into the torrent. She cried for help, but the booming thunder and the crack of lightning swallowed the sound.

“Let go of me!” she shouted. But the man was too strong and plucked her off the ground as if she were a feather. Suddenly her boots hit something hard—the base of the railing—and she reached out and grabbed hold of it, hugging the crossbar, both arms wrapped around it while he pummeled her sides with his strong fists. The fury of the storm lessened somewhat, and now she could see him, a soaked bandana clinging to his hair, a golden orb swinging from one ear, a man she’d seen before, but where?

“Stop!” she roared with all her strength into his ear, stunning him for an instant. Reaching out, she yanked on the ring dangling from his lobe, panting and tearing it off and throwing it onto the tiles. For a moment the man doubled over in pain, giving her time to move away from the edge. Like a giant, he bellowed and lunged at her while the thunder roared and the rain beat down, pouring into her eyes and blinding her once again, sluicing into her ears, blurring the world and the man while he, grunting like a wild creature, wrapped himself around her again, pushing her, wrestling her, squeezing his hands around her throat, pushing her back against the railing. As the air lightened, her nails dug into his flesh, and cursing her, he let go, doubled over, then lunged forward to butt her over the side, but she lifted her leg and, with one thrust of her boot, slammed him in the groin. Yowling, he rolled a short distance and disappeared into the downpour while she stood there taking in great, ragged breaths, slowly sinking to the tiles, her skirt bubbling up with water, her muscles aching.

The storm lessened, and the sky lifted, but she sat on, cold and wet and hugging herself, terror clutching her heart, knowing that any moment her assailant might return, yet still she was unable to move. From the edge of vision, she thought she saw movement in the near distance, a shadowy object hurtling toward her so she curled into a ball, about to give in to the implacable force of the villain. She tensed, clung to the tiles with soaked fingers and the last vestige of energy, her chest heaving, waiting as the storm diminished, for who or what, she did not know.

Shaking and soaked, hair plastered to her head, she rose, surveyed the damage to her dress and person, thinking that at any minute her assailant would reappear. The rain had almost stopped as she limped around to Rosa, standing underneath the overhang.

As she approached, Rosa whispered, “What happened to you?”

Just then, the door flew open, and Serafina held onto her friend, blocking her from whoever approached, thinking that her attacker had returned.

Della Trabia stared at them as if they were ghosts. For a brief moment he frowned at something beyond them but recovering, said, “Get in, hurry,” and pulled them both inside. “Lucky I heard your pounding. You would have been out here the better part of the night before we thought to look up here for you.”

Serafina yanked herself free from his grip, desperate to stop her shivering.

“Why are you here?” Serafina managed to ask, sensing something strange about his demeanor, wondering what business he, or any
gabelloto
for that matter, might have on the upper floors of the house.

Straightening his shoulders, he said, “The baron’s been trying to find you both for an hour. He’s got everyone searching.”

“I don’t believe you,” Serafina said.

Della Trabia did a poor job of hiding his anger, and Serafina thought for a moment that he would drag them both downstairs—he was strong enough—but she continued. “He knew we were meeting him for tea later this afternoon. Why would he be concerned at this hour?”

“He has an unexpected visitor and would like you to meet him.”

“Rosa and I aren’t ready to meet with the baron, so he’ll have to wait until the appointed hour.”

Rosa’s eyes widened.

Extending her arm in the
gabelloto’s
direction, Serafina squeezed the sleeve of her sopping-wet dress and a stream of water erupted, squirting della Trabia’s vest and chaps, spilling onto his fine leather boots. Biting back a smirk, she said, “Tell him we’ll be in his office at five o’clock as planned.”