The Art of Killing Well (12 page)

When Artusi had mentioned Signor Ciceri, Cecilia had folded her arms and clenched her fists, simultaneously turning a few degrees towards Artusi – and, as he immediately verified, in such a way as to point her feet away from Signor Ciceri.

Anger, contempt and fear.

After which, she had lowered her eyes and begun carefully removing imaginary crumbs from her dress.

For reasons known only to me, I don't like what I've just heard, screamed Cecilia's behaviour.

“Signorina …”

“Go on.”

“May I ask you if you have a problem with Signor Ciceri?”

“A problem? No, not at all.”

Now it was the turn of imaginary hairs to be removed from her dress.

“Signorina, permit me to be frank, since it seems to me that frankness is something you appreciate. Your own honesty and lack of guile make it impossible for you to conceal feelings of approval or disapproval. I am somewhat older than you, signorina, and I owe my wealth and indeed my life to the fact that I am not easy to deceive. Having said that, I have no wish to force you to tell me anything, but only to let you know that if there is some way in which I can be of help to you, it would be an honour and a duty for me to do so.”

Cecilia straightened her back and smiled. “Forgive me, Signor Pellegrino. It was not my intention to deceive you. There is a specific reason why I trust and respect you. For the same reason I do not trust Signor Ciceri at all.”

“On this, signorina, we harbour similar feelings.”

“They are not merely feelings, Signor Pellegrino. I don't know if I should tell you this.”

“I cannot oblige you to do anything, signorina. You must judge for yourself.”

“Then let's do it this way,” said Cecilia looking at Artusi with a conspiratorial air. “I will tell you the reason if you explain to me what
tommasei
are.”

For a moment, Artusi was stunned. Then the clue, having gone through his brain, was transformed into an explanation and reached his eyes. Which opened wide.

Now he's going to kill me, thought Cecilia.

After half a second, Artusi broke into a smile that lifted his whiskers, and looked at Cecilia with surprised amusement.

Clever girl. What initiative.

“I had to see who I could trust,” continued Cecilia. “Of my family, of course, I was certain. Of the guests, one never knows. The world is full of wicked people. The surest way I could think of was to see if you kept a diary, and, having found it, to read it.”

“I see. And I imagine you found Signor Ciceri's diary, too.”

“Not exactly, Signor Pellegrino.”

“What, then?”

Cecilia told him.

By the time Ispettore Artistico reached the castle, the news had already arrived. That was why the moment he appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, even though somewhat muddy and unpresentable from his cross-country run, he was greeted by spontaneous applause.

Amid smiles, handshakes and pats on the back, the inspector received various offers of tea and tart, which he gratefully accepted. But those who yearned for a thrilling account of the chase across the fields were destined to be disappointed.

“I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as soon as he had swallowed his last enormous bite of fruit tart, “but at the moment my first wish is to make sure of the condition of the two casualties. Once I have done that, and carried out certain formalities, we will be able to speak.”

“We want at least to know that you will stay for dinner, my dear inspector,” said Baronessa Speranza with dignity. “I am stuck here in my wheelchair, so you won't deny me the right to a little adventure, even if only at second hand.”

“I shouldn't like to be too much trouble …”

“It's no trouble at all. Please be reasonable. My son owes you his life, and here you are talking about trouble. I shall have the cook informed immediately.”

“Baronessa, I am honoured. Now could I pay a visit to the two patients?”

It was not so much out of Christian charity or any hankering to be a Red Cross nurse that the inspector wanted to see the baron and his extremely spoilt son as to satisfy his curiosity on a number of points. Or rather, to gain a clearer understanding of what had happened.

Where he came from, it was not unusual for one of the members of a band of cutthroats to shoot the leader. Usually that happened because the brigand in question wanted to become the new leader, and the torch was not passed from one thief to another by holding a board meeting and passing a vote of no confidence in the managing director, as happens nowadays. Therefore, there was always a valid motive to shoot someone within one's own band.

But what possible motive could a housemaid have to shoot a baron? She could hardly proclaim herself baroness. There had to be a reason to attempt to murder someone: jealousy, self-interest,
revenge; you certainly didn't shoot your own master without a motive.
Ergo
, before bringing the guilty party to trial, the inspector needed to see things clearly.

“How are you feeling, Signorino Lapo?”

“Not at all well, believe me. My head has been aching all day, and if I try to get up I am overcome with dizziness. Have you arrested him?”

“Yes, Signorino Lapo, we have arrested the culprit. And it's not a him, it's a her. Your housemaid, Agatina.”

“What? Agatina?”

“Haven't they told you anything?”

“No, I dozed off after they brought me here. The doctor must have given me something to make me sleep … But how can you be sure it was Agatina?”

“She was seen, Signorino Lapo. And photographed by Signor Ciceri, in the act of firing. A real stroke of luck.”

“Agatina … Incredible. Although the girl does have a certain inclination to violence, I think.”

“Really? Do you know that from experience?”

“No, of course not. It's just an impression. And so you say the usurer had nothing to do with it?”

“Signorino Lapo, whatever gave you the idea that Signor Artusi is a usurer?”

“Good Lord, Ispettore. I told you the other day—”

“The other day you told me a heap of nonsense. I did not pick you up on it only because I had promised myself to return to the
subject later. So, do you want to tell me why you have reason to believe that your father borrowed money from a usurer?”

“What are you talking about? My head really hurts. Would you mind—”

“Signorino Lapo, I have no intention of moving from here until you have told me how you found out about these things.”

Lapo sighed, then, pulling himself up onto his two elbows, he pointed the inspector in the direction of a writing desk. “Open that drawer.”

The inspector did as he was told.

“Inside, under the smoking things, there is a letter on un-headed paper. I found it among my father's things two days ago. Take it, read it, and then go to hell.”

“Good evening to you too, Signorino Lapo.”

“May I come in?”

Entering the room, the inspector saw the baron lying in bed, his back raised on several pillows. The room smelt of alcohol and sickness. As he closed the door behind him, Artistico had the impression that the baron was more or less asleep. Probably the effect of morphine, and the sudden reduction of excitement following all these events – after all, it doesn't happen every day that people shoot at you, unless you are at the front. Better this way, the inspector thought. If he's a little dazed, he won't show so much resistance. Of course, clothes and demeanour count for a lot. Lying in bed with a cloth on his forehead, breathing in a laboured fashion, he did not seem so much like a baron. Obviously,
a noble title did not protect one from the consequences of bullets.

“Oh, Ispettore.” The baron opened his eyes, squinting to see better. “Come in, come in. It's a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you, Barone.”

Let's see if you still think that way in half an hour.

“I heard a big commotion and even some applause coming from the drawing room,” said the baron, trying with some difficulty to sit up. “Did what I think happened actually happen?”

“Indeed it did, Barone. We have captured and arrested the person who shot you.”

At this point, it seemed to the inspector, the baron should have asked who could possibly have dared take him as a target, or some such magniloquent expression. Not a bit of it. The baron panted briefly, then said weakly, “My congratulations. You have done well. Better than well, superbly.”

“Aren't you curious to know who it was?”

The baron looked at the inspector as if only now becoming aware of his presence, and after clearing his throat a few times said, “I am somewhat afraid to ask.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid, fearful, terrified, call it what the devil you like,” said the baron, gradually regaining his command of speech as well as his nobility of appearance. “This morning I was shot in the back, and now you are about to tell me that a guest of mine, or one of my servants, had no qualms about trying to kill me, and more than once. Yesterday, when you spoke to me, I confess I could hardly
believe you. I was convinced that you and the doctor were mistaken, or perhaps I was confusing my hopes with my beliefs. Now …”

“I'm sorry, Barone.”

I did warn you, my friend. You could have been a little careful before handing out all those rifles.

“Go on, then, Ispettore. Who was it?”

“Agatina.”

“Who?”

“Agatina, Barone. Your housemaid.”

“Agatina?” The baron seemed dumbfounded. “But she doesn't even know how to shoot …”

“Luckily for you, Barone. Being a woman, and untrained in the use of firearms, she could not know what happens when one shoots. The recoil probably deflected the trajectory of the bullets.”

“Agatina. I can't believe it.”

“Nor can I, Barone. Or rather, I do believe it, because I saw her with my own eyes. The trouble is, I can't explain it. That's why I'm here.”

“I don't think I quite follow.”