The Art of Killing Well (10 page)

While the wounded man was loaded onto a plank of wood and carried home, the doctor approached the inspector and knelt next to the rifle.

“What does this thing shoot? Could I see the cartridge?”

Without saying a word, the inspector opened the breech and took out one half-scorched cylinder and another that was almost intact, which he opened with a small knife. “Large bullets, for shooting boar. Quite crude.”

“Luckily for us.”

The inspector gave the doctor a dirty look.

“The greatest danger is infection. If they had been small pellets, fragments of shirt would have gone everywhere in the wound, and the cotton would have rotted and caused serious problems. With large bullets I will have bigger pieces to take out, which should be a lot easier.”

“I could help, if you wish,” said Artusi calmly. “I've been following Professor Mantegazza's anatomy and physiology lessons for years now, and I could be of some use, but only if you think so, of course.”

The doctor looked him up and down for a moment. He was about to reply that he would prefer to operate alone when an echoing voice roared, “What's all this about help? Arrest him! Arrest that scum from Romagna!”

The three men turned, and did not see anyone.

“It was he! He wasn't with us when the shots were fired, nor did he come to Mass! He's a scoundrel, a usurer and a rogue! Arrest him immediately, for heaven's sake!”

The inspector looked around, then understood. With a resolute step, he walked towards the well.

“Signorino Lapo, is that you?”

“Who the hell do you think it is, the old paralytic? Arrest that scoundrel and get me out of here. But first arrest him, damn it!”

“Signorino Lapo,” said Artusi, “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but at the time the shots were fired, I was with your sister Cecilia some considerable distance from here. I could not have shot your father
unless I had used a cannon, which I am not in the habit of taking with me when I go for a walk.”

“How dare you, you bastard? We give you our hospitality and you … Ispettore, don't you understand? Arrest him!”

“Excuse me, Signorino Lapo, I am not accustomed to taking orders from anyone below me,” the inspector yelled down into the well in a harsh but amused tone. “Anyway, the important thing is to make sure you are alright. We're going to pull you out now. Are you injured?”

“I hit my head,” said Lapo after a moment, in a shaky voice.

“Don't worry,” said the inspector. “The doctor will take care of your father now, and later, when you've been taken out, he'll see to your cranium.” Under his breath he added, “Not that it can be any worse than it already was …”

Signorino Lapo was pulled out of the well and also stretchered to the house on a plank of wood. The doctor, Cecilia and the servants had all gone now, and only the inspector, Artusi and Signor Ciceri remained in the orchard. After a few minutes, Gaddo reappeared, sweating profusely and red in the face. He approached the inspector, bent down with his hands on his knees, and began taking long deep breaths.

“Did you see who it was?” asked the inspector.

“They ran faster than me,” said Gaddo, shaking his head. This was not of much help, given that the only person it ruled out was the dowager baroness. After a few more breaths, though, Gaddo resumed, “Of one thing I am sure. They had long hair, a
long dress and broad hips. It was a woman.”

“A woman?” said the inspector.

“I'm certain of it. I didn't see her face, and I'm not an expert like my brother, but I can tell the difference between a man and a woman, I assure you.”

“If you'll allow me,” said Signor Ciceri, “I, too, as I was taking the photograph, had the sense that something was moving behind the hedge. And I had the distinct impression it was a young woman.”

“What? Would you mind repeating that?”

“I'm sorry, Ispettore, I am sure of what I said. I—”

“No, forgive me. You were taking a photograph when the baron was shot?”

Signor Ciceri nodded, a little disconcerted at first, then raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“How long does it take to develop a photographic plate?”

“It's an albumin plate … I must take it to my darkroom, expose it to light and then fix it. A few hours at the most.”

“Good. May I ask you to begin immediately?”

“As you wish, Ispettore.”

The man's a nasty piece of work, but sometimes you need people like him.

Walking up and down the baron's study, Ispettore Artistico was thinking fast.

A woman.

A woman who could have slipped into the cellar on Friday
evening to poison the bottle – poison being a typically female weapon. A woman who was then unwittingly trapped in the room when Teodoro bolted the door and knocked back the poisoned drink intended for the baron. And who was not seen by anyone in the morning simply because she had hidden somewhere in order not to be seen by the butler. She had had to spend the whole night in the cellar without attempting to open the door. Not that it would have been easy to open the door in the dark. Teodoro might have been awakened by the noise. What she had not realised, of course, was that the poor butler was no longer in a position to wake up.

In the morning, when the body was discovered, since nobody thought there had been a murder nobody had bothered to search the cellar. In the confusion that followed, it had been easy for her to slip out and mingle with the others.

However, anyone spending a night locked in a room will have to have a pee sooner or later. It just isn't possible to hold it in all night. A man might, but certainly not a woman. And that explained the smell of asparagus.

The other result of spending the night in a damp cellar carved out of volcanic rock, heavy with saltpetre, at a temperature of seven or eight degrees, would be to catch a cold. Had there by any chance been someone the next day who had red eyes and a runny nose?

Of course there had. That beautiful blonde housemaid with the ice-cold eyes and the arse that could have been painted by Botticelli.

A knock at the door. Come in, Parisina. The great cook, the pride of the house. If I've understood correctly, the one person here who knows everything about everybody is you. So now it's my turn to cook you a little.

Short and fat but compact rather than obese, she must have been plump and pretty when she was young, with the kind of figure that is no longer in fashion today but can still strike sparks beneath the sheets. Now, in spite of arms as big as meat loaves, there remained something of the old grace: in the way she held her head, with her chin high and her eyes darting in all directions, which clashed somewhat with her big apron and flour-covered hands.

“Sit down, Parisina. I just have to ask you a few questions.”

“You already asked me a few questions last night.”

Why are people who cook well always as friendly as a fork in the eye?

“I know, Parisina, but now I have to ask you a few more, given that somebody shot the baron not long ago, as I'm sure you know.”

“All I know is that for two days running I've had to throw lunch away. I made boar with plums for the gentleman with the whiskers, who says he knows about food, and now I have to throw everything away, because that's a dish you either eat hot, as soon as it's made, or it starts to smell like a pigsty and becomes as heavy as an iron.”

“Boar with plums?”

Parisina looked at the inspector. There was no need to say anything more.

“So, how was it?”

“My God, Parisina,” said the inspector, polishing off the plateful of boar she had put in front of him ten minutes earlier, “it was divine. Good enough to lick your moustache. Now, let's get back to us. Did you hear that it was apparently a woman who shot the baron?”

“A woman? What am I supposed to say to that, Ispettore? There are plenty of women here among the servants. But the maids don't know how to shoot, believe me.”

“I didn't say it was someone who knows how to shoot, Parisina. As it happens, whoever it was missed the baron from a distance of four or five metres. Someone who knew how to shoot wouldn't have missed like that, believe me.”

“I don't know. That may be so.”

“Now what I wanted to ask you is if you remember who was there when you gave Signorina Barbarici first aid yesterday.”

“Of course I remember. Made a lot of fuss about nothing, that one.”

It is obvious that strong emotions help us to remember things precisely, as those who know about mnemonics maintain. It does not matter if these emotions are extremely painful or incredibly satisfying. Any man can remember where he was when he was dumped for the first time by a girlfriend, just as many of us could describe in detail the funeral of our own mother-in-law.

In the same way, Parisina began to rattle off a list of names to the inspector, most of which he did not know. Agatina was
not among them, even though he remembered her perfectly (see above).

“I see. So the only person who wasn't there was Agatina the housemaid.”

“No, Agatina wasn't …” She broke off. “Ispettore, don't even think about it.”

“Pardon me, but what exactly am I not supposed to think about?”

“Don't play the fool, Ispettore. First you tell me it was a woman who shot the baron. Now you're asking me if Agatina was there when we found poor Teo dead in the cellar. Why all this interest in Agatina?”

“I get the feeling you understand perfectly well. The person who shot the baron and then ran off through the cornfield was seen from behind. It was a woman. A woman with blonde hair.”

“Oh, I can just imagine Agatina running in her condition!”

“Forgive me, but what condition is that?”

“No, I mean … with that maid's dress all the way down to her feet, and those little shoes …”

The inspector lifted his gaze from the cook's mouth and looked her straight in the eyes. “As a cook, I am sure you are exceptional, Parisina. As a liar, you leave a lot to be desired.”

The cook said nothing, merely looked angrily at the inspector. Next time I serve you boar it'll be poisoned, said Parisina's expression.

“In what condition is Agatina?”

“What condition do you suppose she's in, the poor thing? She's pregnant.”

Bull's eye, thought the inspector.

“Do you have any idea who the father is?”

“Agatina was engaged to—”

“I didn't ask who she was planning to walk down the aisle with. I asked if you know who usually slept with Agatina.”

“How on earth should I know? Good Lord, I stay in the kitchen, cutting, skinning and gutting, and pretty much minding my own business. This is a castle, Ispettore, full of nobles and servants. And ever since the world began, the nobles stand up straight and the servants bend. Agatina, though, is a bit stiff and doesn't bend easily. Ask Signorino Lapo, he knows what I mean. Last year he tried to get her in a corner, and she gave him a blow with her knee below the belt that he still remembers. If his testicles were meatballs before, she turned them into pork chops. And you know what—”