Death in the Palazzo (21 page)

It was almost like a nest of Chinese boxes or Russian dolls. How many more were there to discover? Who else might be in mortal danger? Who else, that is, other than himself?

2

Urbino's reflections were interrupted by a knock on his door. It was Mauro. The elderly majordomo, who took his responsibilities seriously, looked tired.

“The Contessa said that I should give this to you,” he said. “It was on the tray in the downstairs hall.”

He handed Urbino a long white envelope. It was addressed in Molly's now familiar hand to her agent. Urbino looked at the back, where Molly's engraved London address was crossed out and the address of the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini written beneath it.

Before he could ask Mauro anything, the majordomo started to speak in a weary voice:

“I'd like to explain as I did to the Contessa, Signor Urbino. Last evening before dinner Signora Wybrow asked me where she could put letters to be mailed and where she could get stamps. I told her to put her letters on the tray in the hall and not to worry about the stamps. We would take her letters to the post office at the earliest opportunity. She thanked me.” He glanced down at the envelope in Urbino's hand. “I noticed that letter on the tray a short time later, but because of the—the confusion in the house, I forgot about it until a few minutes ago.”

“There's no problem, Mauro. I'll take care of it.”

As soon as Mauro left, Urbino slit open the envelope. He had no qualms at all, although he reminded himself, too late, that he should have been more careful about not destroying whatever fingerprints other than his, Mauro's, Molly's, and possibly the Contessa's, were on the envelope. He carefully withdrew what was inside by one corner.

On a sheet of Molly's engraved stationery was written:

Dear Harold,

Well, I'm on the inside just as I said I would be. And not just “inside” but in the cursed room itself! Never fear when Molly's here!

I know you're worried about me, but there's no need. So far it's been all fun and games with me as the ringleader! I've been promised the whole story at the end of this, and it will make a great chapter, and the chapter will make the book. You'll see!

This won't be the last of my missives from bloody Venice, dear. I intend to linger on after this weekend. I give you only this consolation for not being with me in these splendid digs: It's raining here too!

Cheers!

Molly

Urbino carefully put the letter back in the envelope. It confirmed his suspicions. Molly had had an accomplice. “I've been promised the whole story at the end of this,” she had written. By whom?

Most likely Gemma, who it seemed had already told her so many things about Urbino and the Contessa. Could Gemma have murdered Molly for some reason? If she had, what had led Gemma to this ultimate act of violence? In what way could it all be related to the events of the house party back in 1938?

Yet someone had tried to murder Gemma, too, it seemed.

Could Gemma have engaged Molly as an instrument of vengeance against whomever had murdered her mother? But why now? And could she have known or suspected all these long years who the murderer was? Perhaps even seen the actual murder? Urbino remembered how Sebastian had joked that Gemma might have been a “bad seed” and murdered her own mother.

Then something occurred to Urbino that scattered all these speculations. He might be going in the wrong direction completely because of his assumption, almost his conviction, that Renata had been murdered. He had no doubt that Molly had been, but if Renata had died a natural death then he had put something into the equation that was disastrously misleading. The theory of Renata's death by foul play meant that he was obliged to consider Vasco, Signora Zeno, Bambina—and very remotely Gemma—as major suspects since they had all been present at the original house party, and were now here at the Ca' da Capo, when Molly had been murdered.

But if Renata hadn't been murdered, someone could be very eager to take advantage of that suspicion to point the finger of blame in the wrong direction. Molly's death could have nothing at all to do with the distant past. He should be considering more proximate causes. He might be in danger of falling victim to his own ingenuity.

In fact, someone could be trying to exploit his lively imagination—his creative imagination, as he so often liked to think of it.

He cast his mind over those people in the palazzo who might have encouraged this tendency in him. The names he immediately came up with were Sebastian and Viola. Each in his or her own way—by banter in the one case and intimacy in the other—had planted ideas in his mind. And Sebastian and Viola had been an all-too-willing audience for the story of the Caravaggio Room.

Urbino realized that he had to be even more wary of the twins, who, either together or individually, could be taking malicious advantage of the past, which, any way he seemed to look at it, was almost a palpable presence in the Ca' da Capo.

3

A short time later, Urbino found Robert sitting alone at the dining room table, staring morosely at a plate of food.

“How is your mother?” Urbino asked as he seated himself across from him.

“The same.”

Robert offered no more.

“She'll have help before long,” Urbino said, although he didn't feel optimistic.

“What the hell happened to Borelli? I should have gone myself.”

“If Filippo is having problems, you or I would be having more. You're much better by your mother's side, as Barbara said.”

“Barbara seems very concerned with pacifying me! But she can save her efforts. Neither my mother nor I is the kind of person to sue for an accident.”

“Why do you assume it was an accident?”

Robert's short-cropped head snapped up from his contemplation of the still uneaten food. The contrast between his sharp blue eyes and dark olive skin had never seemed so manifest to Urbino. It reminded him of the contradictory sides of this man, with his English and Italian heritage and his respect and skepticism for medieval relics.

“Of course it was an accident! My mother hasn't been well for months. Overwork, she says, but I think she's quite ill. Painting Barbara's portrait and—and this house party have taken away her reserves of energy. She lost her footing. But what are you suggesting? That someone pushed her down the stairs? That's absurd!”

Urbino sensed that he didn't really think it was, however.

“Is that why you want to look through her things? What do you expect to find? A will? As far as I know, I'm the only beneficiary other than some art program in London. I hope you don't think I pushed my own mother down the stairs!”

“Would anyone here want to see her come to harm?”

“You must be mad! Of course you mean either my great-grandmother or great-aunt Bambina or Vasco. They all adore her! You can see that!”

Urbino, remembering Robert's own caustic words to Vasco when Gemma had been injured, didn't respond.

“Or is it Angelica you're thinking of?” Robert went on more heatedly. “Lurking around a dark corridor on the off chance she can shove her fiance's mother down the stairs so that he'll inherit a fortune?”

“Is it a fortune?”

Robert looked embarrassed.

“My father was very well-off. Inherited money and good investments. But how much of it's left after ten years, I have no idea.”

Urbino doubted this since Robert was an only child with an apparently good relationship with his mother. Surely she would have kept him informed about her financial situation.

“Perhaps you'll reconsider and let me look through your mother's things?” Urbino risked asking. “I assure you that I don't ask to satisfy my own curiosity—”

“I'm glad to hear that, but the answer is absolutely not!”

He pushed his plate away and got up.

“Did your mother talk much about the past?”

Robert gave a slight start.

“Why do I feel you don't mean the cheerful anecdotes a mother shares with her child, but something sordid and painful? I assume you're talking about the death of my grandmother?”

“That—and other things,” Urbino added vaguely and, he feared, a bit lamely.

“Strange as it may seem to you—and disappointing as I suspect it will be—my mother told me very little about that weekend. She was only a child at the time.”

“An adult can usually remember a great deal from that age. Eight, I believe she was?”

“You forget it was traumatic. She probably blocked the whole weekend out. I would appreciate it if you kept your nose out of it.”

“Are you afraid of something, Robert?”

Robert's mouth took on an unpleasant twist.

“If it's not already apparent to you, Macintyre, let me spell it out: I'm concerned about anything that will disturb my mother. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. I saw how angry you became with Molly because some of her comments disturbed Gemma.”

“What are you implying?”

“I'm just stating a fact. Molly was describing a beautiful young woman lying at the foot of the bed in the Caravaggio Room. Obviously your mother assumed she was referring to her mother, Renata.”

“It was a stupid thing for Molly to say.”

“But surely she had no idea of how it might affect your mother—or anyone else. And your mother became upset later in the evening when Molly was going on about Boccaccio and cats and some other things.”

“I only barely restrained myself from going over and shaking the silly woman.”

“Do you have any idea why your mother reacted so violently at that point?”

Urbino thought he knew exactly why she had, and why she had shouted that Molly was saying too much.

“Unless you care to make something out of the fact that Mother has always hated Boccaccio and loved cats. She was fed up with Molly. I'm sorry the woman had such an accident, but I confess that I'm happy not to have her adding to the din of this bloody storm!”

Urbino stared at Robert for a few moments. If Robert suspected—or knew—that Molly had been murdered, this outburst might be much more calculated and less naive than it seemed.

“At any time during the night did you hear anything unusual coming from Molly's room?”

The Caravaggio Room was next to Robert's.

“Did you? Your room is on my other side!”

“Why didn't you or your mother object to your being put so close to the room where your grandmother died?”

“Because neither of us is a sentimental fool—or a superstitious one! Yes, I'm interested in relics. I've given part of my life to them, but if you think that I give any credence to nonsense like curses and superstitions, you're completely wrong!”

4

Angelica had transformed her already comfortable and well-appointed sitting room into something resembling a Victorian boudoir. Urbino took in the calculated placement of embroidered cushions and flowered scarves, period novels, a box of Belgian chocolates, and a jar of potpourri. Incense drifted in the air, originating from a ceramic censer whose painted design of cats peering from behind fronds in no way reflected the Contessa's taste.

Urbino seated himself in an armchair across from Angelica, who had tucked herself in on the sofa beneath a Victorian quilt.

Angelica cultivated an air of frailty. It was there in her pale makeup, her unemphatic clothes, her hair pulled back and parted in the middle with tendrils curling on the sides. Urbino wondered what the attraction was between her and Robert—on both sides. Could it be found somehow in the relationship between his grandmother and her great-uncle, which death had ended so abruptly? How had the two of them met? These were questions whose answers might help him unravel the mysteries so thick in the air of the Ca' da Capo.

Angelica, in her turn, was scrutinizing his face in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. It reminded him of her reaction when she had met him yesterday. Perhaps too abruptly, considering the kind of woman Angelica appeared to be, he said, “How do you think it came about that Robert's mother fell down the stairs?”

Her bemused and even slightly affectionate stare faded. In its place was now an ironic smile.

“Until you asked I assumed that she tripped and fell. But I see that you think otherwise or else you wouldn't ask. You think she was pushed?”

“I think it's a possibility.”

“You could say that of almost anything,” she came back with. Given the woman's cultivation of the high Victorian, he wouldn't have been surprised if she now quoted something appropriate from Tennyson or Browning. Instead she said, “But you seem to be the kind of person interested in probability, especially in the present situation.”

“Which is?”

She sighed with affected weariness.

“I might have my nose in a book much of the time, Mr. Macintyre, and I'm not a brave sort of person even in my thinking”—she offered a small, shy smile—“but you think that there have been too many accidents in the palazzo recently, don't you? And that there's some connection, shall we call it, between them?”

Urbino was amused by her unexpected way of turning the tables. Perhaps Robert had more of a match than at first seemed to be the case.

“It had occurred to me. Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary since retiring last night?”

“Not really. I tried to read but the noise of the wind was most distracting. I had to read sentences over and over again. Eventually I drifted off to sleep and was awakened by what sounded like breaking glass. I know this room isn't very close to the Caravaggio Room but I have very sensitive hearing. It must have been when—when the door blew into the room and hit her.”

“You were able to distinguish that sound with all the noise from the storm?”

She nodded her head.

Angelica's room was at the far end of the hall from the Caravaggio Room. Urbino had not heard the sound of breaking glass, even though his room was closer to the Caravaggio Room.