“I was at my home in Fiesole, Inspector. I have witnesses up to about midnight, which I imagine would cover even the use of a private plane.” Anna Albarosa suddenly leaned forward and said, “You may have noticed that I am not crying, or emotional, Detectives.” Behind her glasses, her eyes seemed mildly amused. “In fact, you should check out my alibi carefully, or put me at the head of your list of suspects.”
“Why is that?” asked Moretti, although he was sure he knew the answer.
“Because I know where Toni was probably going — or coming from — that night. The poor, stupid man!” There was now some emotion in her voice, but it sounded more like anger than grief.
“I see. Did someone tell you?”
“Oh, I watched him at the party that was held to greet the cast and crew in Florence, lining up Vittoria Salviati in his sights. It was how he usually operated: arrive, reconnoitre, stalk, and then in for the kill. Only this time, it was Toni who got killed.” Anna Albarosa’s laugh had none of the attractiveness of her smile. “I had become quite used to it. I did feel some pity for the girl, who bought Toni’s sweetness and light act. Just as my mother and I did, ten years ago.”
“Did you challenge him at any point, ask him if he was having an affair?”
“Not anymore. After a while, I didn’t care. I had got what I wanted out of the marriage — a name that equalled my own, two children I adore, and the pleasure of being made love to from time to time by Toni Albarosa. In many ways he really was a sweet man, you know, and a good and kind father. Only he just couldn’t keep his pants on.”
“You saved your mother from hearing all this. How much did she know?”
“Not as much as she thought she did,” was Anna Albarosa’s cryptic reply.
“Your father and mother live apart, I believe?”
“What has that to do with Toni’s death?” Moretti had a sense of guards going up, shutters closing.
“I don’t know that it has anything to do with your husband’s death, but at this stage of the investigation we try to build up a complete picture.” Abruptly, Moretti changed tack. “So what do you think, Signora Albarosa? You say you should head our list of suspects. You were not here, so — if not you — then who do you think killed your husband?”
Toni Albarosa’s widow frowned. “At first I assumed it was a jilted lover or a cuckolded husband — there are any number of those in Toni’s past — but it’s not as if he was in Italy when it happened. Then I was told about the attack on the writer and the business with the costumes. Now I simply don’t know.”
“Can you think of any reason why these daggers have been used?”
At this question, there was one of those flickers of expression across Anna Albarosa’s face that reminded Moretti of Sydney Tremaine’s reaction to Giulia Vannoni’s arrival at the murder scene.
“No,” she said. “None.”
“Thank you.” Moretti stood up and Liz Falla followed suit, pocketing her notebook. “I gather you are not directly involved with the making of Rastrellamento?”
“No. It was really my father’s suggestion they could film here.”
“Why? He doesn’t live here, does he? Do you know?”
At this, Anna Albarosa started to laugh. “To annoy my mother, perhaps? You’d have to ask him.”
“Perhaps I will. Will he be coming to Guernsey?”
“No, not unless he is required to do so. You’d have to go to him, Inspector.”
As they walked to the door of the dining room, Moretti thought of something Anna Albarosa had said earlier in the interview. “You said, Signora, that Albarosa was a name that equalled your own. What exactly did you mean?”
“That the two families are of equal standing in Italian society. Let me show you something.”
Instead of turning toward the front door, Anna Albarosa went toward the principal reception room and a short distance along a side corridor. It opened into another smaller reception room with a huge stone fireplace that dominated the space, and above it hung a coat of arms.
Beneath a gold coronet was a quartered shield, holding a device in each quarter: a stylized olive branch and a bunch of grapes across the top, a snake and arrowhead across the bottom. The quarters were enclosed in a wavy border made up of what looked like vines and initials.
“This,” said Anna Albarosa, “is the combined family crest of the Vannoni and Albarosa families. It was not combined for my marriage, I assure you, but many years ago, when Vannonis and Albarosas first united in matrimony. It is quite usual in Italy — I don’t know about other countries — particularly when a father has only a daughter to whom he can leave his fortune and property. If the woman brings that wealth and land into her husband’s family, part of the two original crests is combined, with the woman’s heraldic devices on the sinister side — the left side as you are wearing it, or carrying your shield, but the right as you are viewing it.”
“Interesting.”
Moretti watched Liz Falla’s mouth open. He looked at her. She closed it again.
“Just one last thing, Signora — it is clear from this that your mother has immense pride in her family traditions and still thinks of herself as Italian. Why on earth is she in Guernsey?”
Again there was the flicker in Anna Albarosa’s eyes. “The separation from my father was very painful. Family, you understand. So important in my country. Loss of face. I don’t know. And something to do with money, I think. My mother never talks about such things.”
She sounded stilted, her English no longer fluid, and Moretti sensed she was regretting the impulse that had taken her around a corner to give him a look at the crest. She moved ahead of them and led the way back to the main foyer, where the marchesa erupted from her study at the sound of their approach.
“I hope you have been considerate of my daughter’s feelings. This has been a great shock to her.”
“Mother, I’m fine. It is in all our interests that the detectives do their job.”
“Of course.” The marchesa looked irritated at the patronizing tone in her daughter’s voice, and Moretti decided to ask a provoking question while the woman’s lofty sang-froid was shaken.
“Marchesa — why do you think your husband suggested the filming of Rastrellamento at your home?”
He expected anger, or outrage at his lèse-majesté, and he got it all. Moretti felt lucky those long nails were not scoring his face, as they had Gilbert Ensor’s.
“What has this to do with the murder of my son-in-law? My feelings about the filming here are none of your business, Detective Inspector, and if you try to drag my family’s good name into this inquiry, I shall insist you are taken off the case. The lieutenant-governor is a good friend of mine.”
There was something else in the marchesa’s face, besides anger. She’s frightened, thought Moretti. Something about the question terrifies her. Unfazed, intrigued, he replied. “Your family’s good name is already dragged into this enquiry, Marchesa. It was dragged in when your son-in-law got killed on the grounds of your home at four o’clock in the morning. We can only hope that the mainland press don’t pick up on this too swiftly, but inevitably they will. The murder has already been reported in the Guernsey Press, on BBC Guernsey, and Island FM, but the death of a location manager is not quite as newsworthy as one of the stars would have been. We will do our best to help you avoid the mudslinging a murder like this attracts.”
Moretti could feel the heat from the marchesa’s eyes burning holes in his jacket as he and Liz Falla returned to the car.
“Want