The Art of Killing Well (5 page)

In such matters, there was a precise hierarchy to be observed. In the first place, you called the estate manager, who in turn would call whichever of the servants seemed to him most fitted to the task and would supervise him as he worked, all under the watchful gaze of the family and guests, including the dowager baroness who had had herself brought down for that very purpose.

One hour later, supervised and scrutinised by a multitude of eyes, the worker selected (Amedeo Farini, son of the late Crescenzo, known as “the cat” because of his astounding ability to sleep anything from sixteen to twenty hours a day) gave the final hammer blow and the hinges of the reinforced door yielded, after which he stood up and leaned all his weight on the door in order to bend it sufficiently for it to open. Which it did, noisily. Cautiously, the baron entered. As if by tacit agreement, he was immediately followed by the men, one at a time. A glance was enough for everyone. There was no doubt about it: Teodoro was dead.

For those morbid readers who love detailed descriptions, let us say that the body was slumped on a wicker chair, with one hand dangling and remarkably pale, unlike his face which was a reddish purple. Teodoro's work jacket had been placed carefully on a coat-hanger. On a small table in front of the dead man was a tray with a bottle of port and a glass with a little red wine.

The room was pervaded by a strange smell.

After entering, the baron stood to one side and avoided looking at the body. He was already as white as a sheet because of his sleepless night, but now he was giving even the corpse a run for his money. Gaddo stood beside him with his hand on his shoulder. Lapo, having at last realised the gravity of the situation, was close to the wall, motionless, trying to cause as little disturbance as possible. Signor Ciceri had knelt by the body and was gravely scrutinising the face. In short, everyone was behaving normally.

Everyone except Artusi. After walking about the room for a while with a solemn frown befitting those who have found a
corpse, he had begun to sniff the air in a manner that was first curious, then methodical.

In the meantime, Signor Ciceri had got to his feet. “A heart attack, I fear. Barone, is there a doctor in the vicinity of the castle?”

The baron pulled himself together. “What? No, no. The nearest doctor is in the village, in Campiglia Marittima. I'll go and fetch him immediately.”

“Do you feel up to it? You seem quite shaken.”

“Really, father,” Gaddo said. “You look very tired. Perhaps I could—”

“Thank you, Gaddo, but no. I'll go.”

“At least let me go with you,” Signor Ciceri said with a slight smile. “With my trap we'll do it in a flash.”

The baron thought this over for a moment. He was clearly none too enthusiastic about the idea. Then he shook his head and sighed, “If you insist, I'm most grateful. Gaddo, call Amidei and have him get Signor Ciceri's trap ready.”

Gaddo did not reply: he was looking at Artusi, eyes wide with astonishment.

With good reason, in fact. Because Artusi, after sniffing the whole room, had gone over to the night table, taken out a full chamber pot, and now, with an intrigued air, was carefully sniffing the contents.

Fortunately, the baron had not noticed. Still looking elsewhere, he repeated, “Gaddo, please.”

Gaddo shook himself, and gave a forced smile. “I'm sorry, father. I'm going right now.”

Until lunchtime, the morning had been sad but peaceful.

After the grim awakening, the residents of the castle had drifted outside in small groups, making sure they stayed away until the doctor arrived with the undertakers to take away the mortal remains, and eagerly awaiting lunch, which was, of course, their favourite pastime.

The Bonaiuti Ferro sisters had gone to ground in the little chapel close to the woods and there, kneeling on the wooden benches, had begun to unwind kilometres of rosary beads in memory of the dead man and beg forgiveness for his soul – obviously ignoring the fact that Teodoro was a good person and that the one sin he had been in the habit of committing, that is, kicking the pathetic excuse for a dog that was currently crouched at their feet, was the only one the two old maids could never forgive him.

Signorina Barbarici was lying in the dark in her room, with a damp cloth on her forehead and her ankles raised, moaning from time to time.

Signor Ciceri had set off for the woods, whistling a happy tune,
with his camera over his shoulder, accompanied by the estate manager's youngest son, Cecco, who was pleased to have been granted the privilege of carrying the photographer's tripod and guiding him to the most picturesque spots.

Sitting next to her grandmother, young Cecilia was reading to her in a voice throbbing with emotion:

“‘In the days that followed, which loomed before us huge and laden with dangers, grim and solemn and mysterious and unknown, no battles were to be expected, according to the forecasts, but only retreats. Not even two days later …'”

The dowager baroness seemed bored.

“‘And so we were now prisoners of war, the whole of our platoon. With me—'”

“That's enough, Cecilia, please.”

Even when she spoke calmly (which did not happen often), the dowager baroness' words were orders. With ill-concealed chagrin, Cecilia closed the book. “Don't you like it?”

“It's better than the rubbish the Barbarici woman insists on reading to me. But it still makes me sad. I don't need to read stories about a decaying aristocratic family. I just have to look around me.”

“Don't say that, Nonna.”

“Why on earth not? Did you see the spectacle Lapo made of himself this morning? As drunk as a coachman, and even more vulgar. The only thing the boy's good for is unbuttoning his trousers.”

“At least this time we were together as a family. Do you remember when he put out the fire on New Year's Eve?”

The dowager baroness glared at Cecilia.

The previous year, Lapo had been invited together with all the family to dinner at the house of Marquis Odescalchi, the father of Lapo's betrothed, Berenice. The Bonaiuti family had arrived at seven o'clock on the dot, apart from Lapo, who had reached the castle three hours late, in gaiters and crush-hat, and with an alcohol level that had gone through the roof. Having been silently admitted to the dimly lit smoking room by the butler, he had mistaken the function of the sandstone arch towards which he had groped his way (and which was actually a fireplace) and had cheerfully emptied his bladder on the embers beyond the fire screen. The sizzling cloud of steam that rose in consequence of this had scared poor Lapo to death – the rum obviously playing its part, too – and he had run out of the room and across the whole of the dining room at a gallop, with his trousers still unbuttoned, screaming “The devil! The devil!” and blowing on his penis, in full sight of the two families lined up around the table. The engagement had been called off the following day.

Cecilia sustained her grandmother's gaze, and an involuntary smile creased the dowager baroness' lips. Two seconds later, they were both laughing.

“The explanation is simple. He's an invert.”

“What?”

Lapo and Gaddo were walking slowly around the pond, Lapo
holding a cup of strong coffee and Gaddo with his hands behind his back.

“An invert. A pederast. If you really want me to be frank, a queer. I suspected as much anyway.”

“Lapo, I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“A man interested in cooking, can you imagine? It was obvious from the start that he's a depraved character. I suspected as much, as I said. Last night, as we were waiting for dinner, we had a game of billiards. I told him they had a new batch of girls at Mademoiselle Marguerite's house and asked him if he'd go there with me after dinner as my guest. Do you know what he replied? He told he preferred going to bed with a book. Tell me that's not a queer talking.”

“Lapo, sometimes you seem even more stupid than you are. Apart from the fact that, at a rough guess, the man's over seventy …”

“A book, though!”

“He's over seventy, and perhaps …”

“And have you seen how he goes dressed? In a top hat and frock coat. I mean to say – a frock coat!”

“… perhaps some things no longer excite him. That would be understandable. And anyway …”

“Things that are thirty years out of date. Only a queer would dress that way, come on.”

“… and anyway I was talking about something else. This fellow entered a room where a dead man was and started sniffing the chamber pot. He was almost dipping those disgusting
whiskers of his in it. I could hardly believe it.”

“Well, what can you expect of a man who likes sticking it up another man's backside? Anyway, it makes no difference. I don't like this bewhiskered fellow any more than you do, I don't like him one little bit.”

Unaware that the two noble scions disliked him, Pellegrino Artusi had found himself a quiet corner of the garden, behind a cheese-wood hedge, hidden from prying eyes but within earshot in order not to miss the lunch call – lunch would probably be sad but at least it might be substantial.

Artusi had confronted the grim reaper too many times to be disturbed by him. He had been in the war, he had seen his own house looted and his own sisters raped by brigands, he had survived a cholera outbreak that had claimed lives under his own roof. All this he had withstood thanks to his brain, his heart and above all his excellent digestion. So after closing the book, his wandering mind immediately came to rest on the thought of lunch: there might be cholera, typhus, floods and acts of divine wrath, but provided one could have lunch at midday and dinner at seven, the world, as far as Artusi was concerned, was a place where no problems were bad enough to keep you awake at night.

As his thoughts wandered off again, a noise between the leaves attracted his attention. One of the few noises that could shake Artusi and distract him from the thought of lunch: the muffled sound of a girl crying.

At midday, as expected, the bell rang out across the lawn, informing the whole of the garden that its occupants were expected in the dining room. The residents walked calmly back to the castle. They might not be exactly cheerful, but they were certainly consoled in spirit. Basically, they all needed a touch of normality after the morning's upheaval. Teodoro might be dead, but life goes on and one has to eat, doesn't one?

Being the last to arrive in the dining room, the baron went slowly to his own seat, followed by an austere-looking man with a beard and glasses. Once he had reached the head of the table, he did not sit down, but remained standing in a posture that did not seem his: hands resting on the table, eyes down, the noble arteries on his neck and temples visibly throbbing with vulgar and ill-concealed anger.