“Teresa Stecconi. I’ve been housekeeper here longer than I care to remember. Oh, what a business this is! That poor man, and the poor signora and her fatherless children!”
“Indeed. You know Anna Albarosa?”
“Of course. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I came here with them, to help them move, and I never went back. They are my family — I have no one else.”
“So you knew Patrizia.”
“Of course. Now, she knew the marchese and his father when he was a little lad — such a wild one, the marchese’s father, she said. Who would have thought he’d become such a pillar of society!”
“So he was wild, but aren’t all young ones wild? Like the marchese’s son, Gianfranco, for instance?”
The old woman snorted. “Ah, Gianfranco! He is signor perfetto compared to the marchese at his age. Mind you, that was just boyish wildness, not the crazy madness that Patrizia used to speak of. But that’s all gone now. Still waters run deep, she used to say. Who would have guessed?”
“Crazy madness? This would be when the family were still in Florence, or Fiesole?”
“No, no, before that. But I wasn’t with them then.”
“So,” said Moretti, hoping that he sounded reasonably interested but not interrogatory. “This would be when she was with them at the other house.”
Teresa Stecconi looked sharply at Moretti. “You know about that? That’s the past. Bury the past, I always say, with its dead.”
“But now there are dead in the present, Signora, and perhaps the reason for that lies in the past.”
Moretti watched the shutters come down. The old woman turned away from him.
“We are here now,” she said. “I have left the memories — the bad and the good — behind me. Patrizia should have done the same thing, always moaning about how much better it was — there. Buona sera, ispettore.”
She turned and, with a speed that took both Moretti and Liz Falla by surprise, she zipped off down a side corridor and out of sight.
“So, where does that leave us, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, peering after the spritely octogenarian.
“I’m tempted to say in limbo, but that’s not quite true. What she told me was interesting, because she more or less confirmed there was another house. And something more than that — something happened in that house that was so terrible everyone has been sworn to silence.”
“I must ask you, Detective Inspector — where have you been? The security guard says he saw you into the house about half an hour ago!”
Flushed with anger, gold chain rattling, the marchesa faced Moretti across the broad expanse of the main salon, which was still encircled with lights and cameras. Beside her sat Monty Lord, holding her hand. He looked haggard and worn.
“Marchesa — there has been another murder, as you know, and part of my responsibility is to check the security of you and your family.”
“There was no need to disturb my domestic staff — and we have private security for that.”
“Need I remind you they were unable to save the life of your son-in-law, Marchesa.”
Thank heavens Monty Lord is here, thought Moretti. He seems to have a calming influence on her. The producer sat staring at them across an elaborate malachite table, as though hoping for some kind of miracle.
“This is a disaster, Detective Inspector Moretti. A tragedy. I got in from the shoot only to hear that Gil was missing. Selfish as it may sound, I must tell you that I have been on the phone to our lawyers to check we are covered for such an eventuality, that we may go on filming Rastrellamento. It would help nobody and serve no useful purpose if the whole project went up in smoke.”
“And are you?”
“Covered? Yes. Death is covered — the nature of it is not significant. If you understand what I mean.”
“Of course. You say you were on the set — the shoot, you called it?”
“Yes. This morning we were filming some of the action scenes out at L’Ancresse. Mario was not with us, he needed a rest, he said. So much of the war stuff is logistical, and his associate director had plenty to be getting on with.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sedated.” It was the marchesa who answered. “He was very upset.”
Moretti decided to leave that for now. Instead he turned his attention to Monty Lord.
“I understand you went to see Gilbert Ensor yesterday morning.”
“Yes. I wish now I’d kept an eye on Mario, because I knew how angry Gil was. But I’d no idea he’d get up the energy to come here and that they would run into each other when Mario returned from checking the bunker.”
“Checking the bunker?”
“Yes. We had planned to start shooting there in the next few days. Now, of course, it’s yet another scene of the crime, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. When you took me down there, Mr. Lord, the door was locked. Was it always kept locked?”
“Supposedly.”
“Who had keys?”
“Myself, Mario, and I think there was a key in the house — wasn’t there, Donatella?”
“Yes. When this happened, I went to make sure it was still there and it was.”
“Where was ‘there,’ marchesa?”
“In a drawer in my bedroom. I had two copies made for Monty and Mario.”
“I see. Was anyone around when Gilbert Ensor and your director had their confrontation?”
“I was. It was unbelievable.” The marchesa was disturbed enough to get up from her seat by Monty Lord and start pacing. “I thought Gilbert was going to attack Mario physically — hit him, I mean, not just scream at him. We were all getting used to that.”
Spoken with the contempt of one who has conveniently forgotten her own assault on Ensor after the first murder, reflected Moretti. “Did he have to be restrained?” he asked.
“Yes. By me. He was out of breath from just the screaming. It wasn’t difficult.”
I believe it, thought Moretti. A very strong woman, this one. Like her niece.
“Then what happened?”
“Piero Bonini came in and ordered Gilbert off the premises. He told him he would get an injunction to keep him away from the shooting, if he did not do so voluntarily.”
“Where did all this take place?”
“Out on the terrace.”
“So any number of people saw what happened?”
“Yes. It was disgraceful. Mario tried to reason with him, explain the nature of the changes, talk about his personal philosophy of filmmaking, but he was shouted down.”
“Did you see Signor Bianchi leave, Marchesa?”
“Yes. It was I who took him away when he broke down, and I made sure he got something to eat and a rest before he went into town. He had an appointment.”
“With whom, do you know?”
There was an exchange of glances between the marchesa and Monty Lord, and it was Monty Lord who replied.
“Mario has regular appointments with a psychiatrist, and we were able to make a similar arrangement for him here. I imagine you know he has had problems with substance abuse in the past.”