Briefly, Moretti outlined the events of the past three days.
“Would it be fair to say that we have so far got nowhere?”
“Well, I —” Through a haze of sleeplessness, Moretti finally absorbed that what he had originally taken as Hanley’s usual lack of affect was something more abrasive. Like actual, seething, irritation.
“Since I arrived here this morning — which is only about half an hour ago — I have personally been bombarded — well, there have been three calls from a Mr. Gilbert Ensor, and I have to tell you, Moretti, you could have stripped paint with the man’s language. I gather he thinks his wife is missing and could be in danger, that he informed you of this yesterday, and that you have done nothing. Is this true?”
“It is true, sir, that he told me yesterday Mrs. Ensor was missing. But she is alive and well, and safer where she is for the moment than with her husband. She will be returning to the hotel today, so I am informed.”
Oh please God may she, Moretti prayed silently, and please may she have the sense to keep her silly mouth shut.
“Are you saying he is a suspect in this killing?”
“He has no alibi — but then, most of them don’t, sir, not for the small hours of the morning. Which is why progress is slow at this stage.”
“I see. My prime concern, of course, is with our residents who are caught up in all this — the Marchesa Vannoni, for instance. I trust I will not be receiving calls from her of a similar nature to the literary gentleman’s.”
“I hope not, sir. In fact, there’s no love lost between the marchesa and Gilbert Ensor.” Moretti described to Chief Officer Hanley the marchesa’s attack on “the literary gentleman.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed the chief officer. “The marchesa has always struck me as a very self-contained sort of person — quite unlike the usual idea of the hot Latin temperament.”
“I think she’s from Florence, sir. They tend to be very different from a Neapolitan or a Sicilian.”
“Oh, right — you’re half Italian, aren’t you?” said Hanley, as if something was suddenly explained to him. Possibly the piano playing, thought Moretti.
“Do you think piano playing in such an environment advisable, Moretti?” he had once asked, and Moretti had replied, “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t, sir.” And had taken his superior’s confusion and half-completed sentence — “Well then” — as a go-ahead.
“What are your immediate plans?”
“DC Falla and I are going back to the manor this morning, sir. Anna Albarosa, the marchesa’s daughter — the widow — is due to arrive today. I want to speak to her as soon as possible. Given Mr. Albarosa’s reputation, it is perhaps fortunate for Mrs. Albarosa that she was not on the island. But I will not be taking that for granted.”
“Good. So he was a lady’s man, the murder victim? Could this be a crime of passion, you think?”
“Oh, I think it’s a crime of passion, sir, but what passion precisely I am not sure.”
“I see,” Chief Officer Hanley responded, sounding as though he did not. “Keep me informed, won’t you?”
“So, Chief Officer Hanley got an earful from Mr. Ensor,” said Liz Falla, shifting gears with a subtle flick of the wrist. “I had a word with the Ensors’ driver, Tom Dorey — he lives near my parents — and he says he’s as nasty a piece of work as he’s driven in a while. Says he feels sorry for his wife, having to put up with him.”
“Did he express an opinion as to whether Ensor might become violent? To his wife, or to others?”
“I asked that. Said it was mostly running off at the mouth, as far as he could see.”
“That’s my feeling too. Here we are, and I think they’re waiting for us.”
As they pulled up in front of the main door to the manor, it was opened. The marchesa stood there, with her son on one side, and Monty Lord on the other. As Liz Falla put out a hand to open her door, Moretti stopped her.
“DC Falla — what I want you to do this morning is watch these women, particularly the widow. I don’t think I need explain what I mean, do I?”
Liz Falla looked at him gravely. “No, sir,” was all she said, but there was something in her eyes that suggested irritation.
“I don’t want to say feminine intuition, but I do mean impressions, that kind of thing, right?”
“Right.” Liz Falla looked toward the waiting group. “Well, I’ll tell you right now, Guv, that the waiting committee looks set to repel all boarders. Talk about a united front.”
The marchesa’s heavy handsome features were sombre, and she was dressed in black — not peasant black, but something chic that suited her well. She still wore the hefty necklace of the day before but, as if responding to the solemnity of the occasion, her black-grey mane of hair was pulled back in a heavy chignon low on her neck. Like his partner, Moretti had the impression of forces marshalled, loins girded, the putting on of public faces. The marchesa spoke first.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector. You are here to see my daughter. She is waiting for you.”
“My sister is distressed,” said Gianfranco Vannoni, in Italian. “You will remember that, Inspector.”
“Oh, he’ll remember that,” added Monty Lord in his impeccable Italian.
They stood side by side in the doorway and, for a moment, Moretti wondered if he and DC Falla would have to charge the trio and break through their line of defence. Then the marchesa moved back into the house and the others followed, with Moretti and his constable behind them. Somewhere in the house someone was playing a Chopin mazurka. It sounded inappropriately frothy in contrast with the joyless trio who had confronted them.
Anna Albarosa was seated at a grand piano in the dining room close to the main reception room in which Moretti had first interviewed Monty Lord and the Vannonis. She stopped playing as soon as they came in, and rose to face them.
Toni Albarosa’s widow had not inherited her mother’s good looks, nor her imposing height. In front of them stood a small, overweight woman, probably in her late thirties, wearing glasses and no makeup, whose short hair was already going grey, and whose clothing was so commonplace that Moretti had difficulty remembering afterwards if she had worn a dress, a skirt, or pants. What stuck in his mind, however, was that she wore pastels, and not black, like her mother. He introduced himself and Liz Falla, and expressed, in Italian, their sympathy at her loss.
“Thank you.” Anna Albarosa replied in English. If she were indeed distressed, as her brother claimed, then she was concealing it magnificently. “Your Italian is good, but I speak English. I spent some time there, at university.” She turned to the phalanx at the door, speaking this time in Italian. “I can manage, thank you.”
The marchesa looked taken aback. As she opened her mouth to speak, her daughter went forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Grazie, mamma.” As the trio turned and left, the marchesa turned and gave a last warning look at Moretti.
“She’s only trying to protect me, you know.” Anna Albarosa’s smile gave her plain face an individual warmth and charm, if not beauty. “So difficult being a mother — you never know what to do for the best. To hold on, or to let go. In my mother’s case, she has always opted for complete control, and never doubted she was right. As in the case of my marriage to Toni. Please sit down.”
Anna Albarosa indicated two chairs near the window, and sat down on a sofa opposite. She seemed quite calm, completely self-possessed.
“You are a mother also?” asked Moretti.
“Yes.