“No more than I believe in air-drawn daggers, sir,” Moretti replied.
“Ah, so besides looking like Dirk Bogarde you’ve got a brain. The ladies must love you.” Gilbett Ensor leered at his wife. “Eh, Syd, me darlin’?”
Sydney Tremaine was quite calm. Moretti thought, She’s used to this.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better if —”
“— We left, yes. There’s nothing more to be done now. The dagger is being checked for fingerprints, and we’ll have a word with the hotel staff and the occupants of any of the rooms that face this direction. Maybe someone saw something, but it seems unlikely. Sir, perhaps it would be best if you went inside?”
“I’ll go inside when I want to go inside, Mr. Plod, and right now I don’t want to go inside.” It was said with an oily, drunken calm, and more clearly articulated than anything Ensor had said during the policemen’s visit. Moretti wondered if the drunk act was precisely that — a performance.
So much for ingratiating oneself, thought Moretti. Without responding, he turned and left the patio, followed by Sydney Tremaine and Liz Falla, leaving Gilbert Ensor puffing at his cigarette.
“I apologize for my husband’s rudeness, Inspector. It’s — nothing personal. It’s the way he is,” said Sydney Tremaine when they reached the door of the suite.
“Sorry to hear that, Mrs. Ensor.” Sydney Tremaine’s green eyes widened, but she made no response. “About this business with the dummies and the costumes — can you think of anything that has happened on the set, during the making of the film, anything at all, that could help us establish a link between that incident and this — or anything at all for that matter?”
Sydney Tremaine threw back her head and laughed. It was a hearty laugh that made the red curls bounce about her lightly freckled shoulders.
“Any number of things happen on a film set, Inspector, that make any number of people want to throttle someone or other — or throw daggers at them. But no, nothing specific, nothing that seems to connect with the attack on Gil — if that’s what it was.”
“A coincidence then — is that what you’re saying?”
“No.” The laughter was gone now. “I think not. I don’t really believe in that kind of coincidence. I wish I did.” A shadow crossed her face, and Moretti had the feeling she had been about to say something else, but had changed her mind.
“Has anything like this happened before? Your husband has a volatile approach to life.”
“How kind of you to put it like that! Fights and fisticuffs, yes. But no, nothing to do with daggers. Not even knives.”
“Well, if you think of anything, let us know immediately.”
Outside in the car, Moretti and Liz Falla sat for a moment without speaking.
“Talk about Beauty and the Beast, eh, Guv? Felt me up when I came before — very slick. I’m sure his wife didn’t see a thing. What a bastard!”
“A talented, successful, and therefore indulged bastard,” said Moretti, deciding not to comment on Ensor’s liberty-taking with his colleague. She seemed more than capable of looking after herself, and he hoped this wasn’t yet another hazard of having a female as his partner. “If it weren’t for the incident at the Manor I’d say it was some idiot teenager messing about out on the cliff path. We could be dealing with a personal problem, whatever his wife says. I had a feeling she nearly told us something else, but changed her mind for some reason.”
“Could be any number of things with that creep.”
“Too true. Let’s go back to the station, Constable. I should put in an appearance to reassure Chief Officer Hanley.”
* * *
The green Triumph negotiated its way out of the police station, bypassing the winding streets of the town, making for St. Julian’s Avenue. Climbing the road past the eighteenth-century elegance of Regency architect John Wilson’s St. James Church — now used as a concert and assembly hall — and the same architect’s less felicitous drab Gothic pile, his own alma mater, Elizabeth College, Ed Moretti drove the familiar route, deep in thought.
His education had been like the curate’s egg — good in parts, and one of the good parts had been an extraordinary English teacher, the other a history teacher with a fondness for Aristotelian logic. A quotation from the Nichomachean ethics had been a favourite of the history teacher, and it had stayed with the pupil: Every art and every investigation, and likewise every practical pursuit and undertaking, seems to aim at some good: hence it has been well said that the Good is that at which all things aim.
Between the three of them — the English teacher, the history teacher, and the philosopher — he had become a policeman. Not what his parents had in mind for him when he won the scholarship, but still. And, in becoming a policeman, he found himself dealing with members of the human species whose behaviour threw Aristotle’s logic on the topic of Good out the window.
Shifting gears, Moretti headed up the Grange past Doyle Road, named for an earlier lieutenant-governor. Up here, he was in the Regency and early Victorian suburbs into which St. Peter Port had expanded from its narrow sea-edged site, with spacious homes built from the profits of smuggling and privateering, surrounded by gardens verdant and beflowered with subtropical plants and trees like camellia and palm that flourished in the island’s temperate climate.
Just after passing the Guernsey Academy for Girls, the distaff equivalent of Elizabeth College, the Triumph swung left into a narrow lane between two sizeable houses, finally coming to a halt outside a high stone wall. Moretti slowly negotiated his way between the stone pillars of what had once been a gateway and was now merely a gap in the wall.
Facing him was the cottage left to him by his father — a two-storey dwelling built of rough-hewn granite that had once been the stable and coachman’s quarters for the grand home through whose gateway he had just passed. A solid wooden doorway of faded grey, set in the traditional curved stone archway of the Guernsey cottage, a window on each side and three above, were all of them framed by a deep-pink climbing rose, long ago left to its own devices. On each side of the property, fuchsia, honeysuckle, and ivy covered the old walls with a tapestry of crimson, cream, and dark green that, in the island’s mild climate, lasted most of the year round. What had been the stables to one side of the structure served as his garage. But the manor house was long gone, and all that remained of the fine estate was Ed Moretti’s inheritance.
He loved the place. One of the disadvantages of leaving the island, as he had done earlier in his career, was that the property laws were so strict that inheritance was not always enough to hold on to such a possession. But Moretti had been lucky, because he had returned to the island to work and thus qualified for the house when his father died. It was the source of much ill feeling among expatriate islanders that the rich might buy their way in to avoid supertax, but a poor native might sometimes not be able to return to his, or her, roots.
He had made few changes to the decor and furnishings of the house, and it had taken a while to get over the feeling of waking in the morning and expecting to find his parents downstairs. The most significant addition was the sound system he had installed, to carry the music that was so important to his sense of well-being — a vintage quad system that drove a set of ESL speakers. The large speaker panel gave an incredibly smooth, sweet sound that had not, in Moretti’s opinion, been bettered in over forty years.
He had not had to add a piano. His own love of music came from his mother, and one of his earliest memories was of listening to her playing “Roses of Picardy,” singing the words in her soft, crooning voice. A very early memory. She had been gone a long time.
“Going back to the womb, you are.” That was one of Valerie’s cuts, just before