The Art of Killing Well (7 page)

Ispettore Artistico walked up and down the room, lost in thought, as he waited to interview the rest of the family.

About what had happened, there seemed little doubt. Someone familiar with the baron's habits had waited for the right moment to poison his drink with a substantial dose of belladonna. The baron, however, probably because he had eaten too much, had barely wet his lips with the port: the indisposition he had described struck the inspector as the typical effect of the ingestion of belladonna. Poor Teodoro, confronted with that almost full glass, had taken it with him to the cellar and drunk it all down, consuming the rest of his days along with the wine.

Lapo's pitiful cock-and-bull story added some further suspicious elements. Obviously, the young layabout had concocted a piece of nonsense off the top of his head to remedy the fact that he had said rather too much, but there was usually no smoke without fire. For the moment, the inspector had decided to play the game:
he would deal with Lapo later. There was something else that needed clarifying now.

Two or three timid knocks at the door transported the inspector back to the reality of the room.

“Come in.”

“With your permission,” Gaddo said in a steady voice. He was accustomed to it: this was his father's study, and deferentially asking permission to enter was obligatory, not to say natural. Gaddo had never seen anyone enter this study simply by opening the door.

“Please sit down, Signorino Gaddo.”

Gaddo did so, taking his place on the chair as if afraid of breaking his bones, and immediately embarking on a series of little movements to adjust the crease in his trousers, his jacket, his watch chain and the chair. He would probably also have changed the position of the table if he had been strong enough. Unfortunately for him, Newton would not allow it: the table was of heavy olivewood, and Gaddo, to judge by his appearance, was the kind of person who would have got out of breath cutting his nails.

The inspector asked Gaddo, as he had asked his father and brother, to describe the events of the previous evening, and Gaddo confirmed what they had said.

“I shan't bother you, Signorino Gaddo, by making you repeat things that I feel I have already verified,” the inspector said after two or three questions. “I should, however, like your opinion on the two guests your father invited to the castle for the hunt. Had you met either or both of them before?”

Gaddo lifted an eyebrow. “I don't understand what you're trying to insinuate.”

They were clearly off to a bad start.

“As it happens,” continued Gaddo, “no, I had never met them, nor did I know them by reputation. I rarely leave the castle. I have everything I need right here. Peace and quiet are essential to my inspiration.”

“I understand. And can you tell me anything about the two guests now that you have met them? Do you know, for example, why they were invited?”

Gaddo sighed in a knowing manner. “Signor Fabrizio Ciceri is an expert on photography,” he said. “My father summoned him here to photograph our family and the surroundings of the castle. I myself showed Signor Ciceri around the estate yesterday, pointing out some attractive spots and reciting some of my verses composed in those very places, to give him a better idea of the atmosphere.”

“I see,” said the inspector, who really was beginning to see. Poor Signor Ciceri. “And what of Dottore Artusi?”

“
Signor
Pellegrino Artusi,” Gaddo said, emphasising the title, “was summoned here by my father for reasons that are quite unknown to me. It appears my father met him while taking the waters and they struck up a kind of friendship, which I find totally incomprehensible. The man's completely out of place here.”

Neither of them speaks well of his father. If they'd been born poor, these two blockheads would probably not even have got out of short trousers, but instead of thanking the Lord who,
for reasons known only to Him, provided them with a rich and powerful father, these two happily slander him. Not enough of the strap and too many sweets, that's the problem.

“And why do you consider Signor Artusi so out of place?”

“That should be obvious to you as soon as you meet him. A coarse, jumped-up fellow from Romagna, one of the most vulgar people I have ever seen. He reads books with illustrated covers. And he even writes. Cookery books, can you imagine? How he writes them I don't know, but to judge from the way he pigs himself on his material he must know it like the back of his hand.”

And now here he was at last, the final resident to be interviewed, Signor (or Dottore) Pellegrino Artusi from Forlimpopoli. His physical appearance, it must be said, somewhat disappointed the inspector, who had been expecting some kind of fiery-eyed gypsy, not an easy-going gentleman with impressive white whiskers who vaguely reminded him of his grandfather Modesto. Be that as it may, this fellow did not leave anyone indifferent. There had not been a single person among those questioned who had not had his say about Artusi. And there had not been two who agreed about why the man had been invited to the castle. Some considered him a usurer, some a sponger, some a kindly old gentleman who had become friends with the baron. The most comical and at the same time most tragic explanation was that provided by Signorina Cosima Bonaiuti Ferro.

The signorina, a classic example of a spinster absolutely without attraction, either to the eye or the ear, had told him in a flood
of words devoid of both meaning and punctuation that Artusi had clearly been invited by her cousin the baron as her suitor. She had deduced this from the fact that

– she and Artusi had been born in the same year, 1820 to be precise, and when one chooses a companion at an advanced age it is well known that one chooses someone of exactly the same age because that way it is easier to share the infirmities which are such a feature of being old and blah-blah-blah

– Artusi had come from Florence specially and had presented himself in a frock coat, and when one dresses so well it means something because in the countryside people usually go dressed in a less formal manner and blah-blah-blah

– Artusi was neither married nor a widower and she would never have accepted a widower because that kind of thing upset her and men like that who have never married are so few and far between that her cousin the baron must have thought with good reason that Dottore Artusi was a really good catch and blahblah-blah.

To all this waffle the inspector had lent only half an ear, given that since the beginning of the interview he had found his right leg imprisoned between the paws of the signorina's pet dog, which had begun to mime an unlikely act of sexual congress with his shoe. It is a well-known fact that a dog that tries to make love to your ankle can be quite annoying and a hindrance to concentration, which was why, after a few half-hearted attempts to shake it off gracefully, the inspector had resolved to crush the dumb but troublesome animal between the leg and the foot of the olivewood
table with a few well-aimed kicks, while the signorina happily continued her ravings.

Anyway, here was Signor (or Dottore) Artusi. That was the first unresolved question, not a matter of major importance perhaps, but why keep it to oneself?

“Please sit down, Signor Artusi. Pardon, Dottore Artusi.”

“Oh, no, please allow me to explain. That's a little misunderstanding that has pursued me for some time. I do indeed frequent the lecture halls of the University, but as a mere interested listener, a curious bystander. I am not entitled to be called Dottore.”

A reply given timidly and unemphatically, without any putting on of airs. After which Artusi looked at the inspector as if to make sure he had given the right answer.

Indeed he had. The inspector hated people who pretended to be what they were not, and he knew how much pleasure it gave the son of a shopkeeper to be called Dottore. It was a symbol of revenge, a medal of everyday valour to be displayed to everyone. It was something the inspector knew from personal experience.

Born at Aieta, in the Calabrian hinterland, he had become an Italian together with his region and a doctor of law by studying while still kneading dough. Having started out as the son of a baker, after his graduation and his transfer to Milan he had married the prettiest girl in Maratea, whose parents could not believe they were now related to a graduate and an officer. For him, the word Dottore had meant Open Sesame.

Seeing someone calmly and humbly abjure the title even though he could have usurped it with impunity impressed him.
Artusi was an honest man, and the inspector only liked honest people.

The inspector looked at Artusi and decided to get straight to the point. “Signor Artusi, I have already heard the story of the discovery of poor Teodoro Banti's body several times today. I'm sure you won't mind if, instead of getting you to tell me the same story, I simply ask you to confirm or deny what I have been told thus far.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I mean, I am here to be of service. Go ahead and ask.”

“Alright, Signor Artusi, can you confirm that the door to the cellar was bolted and that it was necessary to break it down in order to enter?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Can you confirm that Banti was on the chair when you entered, and that in front of him was a bottle of port wine and a glass empty but for a dash of the same wine?”

“Indeed I can.”

“Can you confirm that, after having entered, you went to the night table situated next to Banti's straw mattress, took out a full chamber pot, and sniffed the said chamber pot for a long time?”

Artusi turned red. “Yes, I did.”

“Would you be so kind as to tell me why?”

“Well …” muttered Artusi, the flush gradually fading from his cheeks. “The fact is, Ispettore, that when we entered the room I immediately became aware of a characteristic smell, which I did not recognise at first. As we were in the antechamber of a cellar, I
thought it was mildew. But … you see, in that smell there was a touch of something I knew only too well. I am sure you know, Ispettore, that when a person eats asparagus then subsequently relieves his bladder the urine gives off a somewhat unpleasant odour.”

“Of course.”

“There you are, Ispettore. The chamber pot inside the night table had exactly that disgusting smell.”

“I understand.”

“With all due respect, Ispettore, you still lack one necessary piece of information to understand. You see, in the course of the dinner asparagus was served, which is why before going to bed I poured a few drops of turpentine into my own chamber pot to obviate the unpleasantness of which I have just spoken. However, in the course of the afternoon, young Banti had mentioned to me in advance some of the dishes to be served that evening.”

“I see. And what of it?”

“Well, Banti told me he could not stand asparagus or courgettes, and would not have eaten them even if forced to do so.”

The inspector looked at Artusi with a bovine air.

“You see now what struck me, don't you? We entered a room locked from the inside, in which a particular person often spent time. The said person hates asparagus, and yet his chamber pot had been used lately by someone who had eaten it. I find that a trifle puzzling, if you see what I mean.”

Yes, I do. A keen sense of smell, this Signor Artusi. And a quick brain.

“Have you made a study of criminology, Signor Artusi?”

“Oh, no, please. It's just that—”

“Then don't jump to conclusions, Signor Artusi. There may be a thousand explanations. And please do not breathe a word to anyone of what you have told me. Personally, I doubt it is of any importance, but it is best not to speak about it.”

“I understand, Ispettore.”

“Well, Signor Artusi, for the moment I have nothing else to ask you. Given the late hour, I think it is best to conclude.”

“As you wish, Ispettore. I hope I have been of some help.”

You have no idea, my dear fellow.