From Rome, yes. Expert, no, she replied, deploying her sweetest and most disarming smile for the occasion. Whatever the accomplishments of my department, catching murderers is scarcely one of them.
So why are you here?
Solely to help if you decide you want it. We do know a lot about the art world, after all. General Bottando was very much of the opinion that my assistance wouldnt be needed. But as the minister insisted, here I am. You know how ministers are.
And I suppose youll go away in a few days and write a report about us, he stated with a suggestion of suspicious sarcasm in his voice. No doubt trying to save your own skin.
Aha. The carabinieri grapevine was working with its usual efficiency. Bovolo had evidently heard Bottandos back was against the wall, and it didnt sound as though he was going to do much to help. Shed been afraid of that, but had prepared as best she could.
I was hoping to ask you for a favour there, she said conspiratorially. As you will be the man on top of the job, knowing exactly what was going on, I wondered I know of course how busy you must be at the moment if perhaps you might prepare it for me. Then we could avoid unnecessary errors
She smiled cutely once more and could see hed taken the point. She was giving him the chance of virtually dictating what the report contained or did not contain. A handsome offer, to her way of thinking. If that didnt cut the hostility level, nothing would. And, of course, she could always add on appendices and footnotes in Rome.
Well, he said, Im not sure I approve of my department doing your job for you, but maybe it would be the best way of making sure all those interfering bureaucrats get an accurate account.
He nodded and brightened as he considered the choice words of praise for himself he could insert at strategic places.
Yes, he said, very much happier. Probably quite wise. But I dont want you hanging around here and getting in our way, you know. Were busy, understaffed and have got better things to worry about than the murder of a foreigner who didnt have enough sense to look after herself.
Evidently not a man who could accept a gift with grace.
Ive no doubt, said Flavia, slightly perturbed, but pleased nonetheless that she appeared to be making some progress. And Id be more than happy to help in any way you suggest.
Well, now, he said dubiously, clearly trying to think of something suitably unimportant, I gather youre the educated type. Languages. He had a tone which implied this was a somewhat indecent attainment.
It was becoming a bit of an effort to keep up the vacuous smile. She hoped his manner would improve before her limited reserves of tolerance ran out entirely.
Maybe you could talk to some of her colleagues? he went on, paying no attention to the increasingly strained appearance of her facial muscles. Theres no point, of course, as were after our man already. But it shows weve covered all angles. You could have a quick word with them, read over the documents, and go back to Rome tomorrow. You are going tomorrow, arent you? he added, half-suspecting a nasty complication.
Yes. Or the day after. And Id be happy to talk to them. But havent you done that already? she asked with some surprise.
Oh, yes, of course, he said hurriedly. Of course we have. Indeed. Detailed interviews. But it would do no harm to talk to them again, Im sure. Keep you busy and out of our way.
Well, in that case, she said briskly, dropping the smile on the grounds that it was doing little to advance her cause, perhaps you could tell me what its all about? The details down in Rome were very vague. Nobody there knows what happened or how. It would be a help to know. If, that is, you can spare the time.
Bovolo swivelled his fishy little eyes in her direction, not sure whether she was being polite or sarcastic. Hmph, he snorted, gracious as ever. Oh, well, why not? Might even help to hear the views of an outsider. He clearly thought nothing of the sort, but it was at least an attempt to be civil. Flavia tried to appear flattered.
The victims name, he began after a lengthy shuffle through the piles of papers on his desk, was Louise Mary Masterson. She was thirty-eight, single, American citizen. She lived in New York and was keeper of Western Art at a museum there. One metre fifty-one high, good health. She joined the Titian committee eighteen months ago. This was to be her second session. They meet every year in Venice, at the taxpayers expense. She arrived last Monday, and the meeting began on Thursday afternoon. She missed the first session but was there on Friday. Her death took place at, as far as the doctors can say, around 9.30 p.m. the same evening.
He spoke at a machine-gun pace, making it clear he had not the slightest interest in briefing her properly. Rather, he was making a valiant effort to spew out the maximum number of facts in the minimum time so he could get rid of the tiresome interloper as fast as possible. Flavia let him rattle away: so far, his recitation produced no details she felt like pursuing.
The body was discovered in the Giardinetti Reali. That, by the way, is between the Piazza San Marco and the Grand Canal. She worked late in the Marciana library nearby and evidently went for a walk. All public transport was on a lightning strike and she may have been waiting for a taxi to come free. She was found in a greenhouse, stabbed seven times with a knife about ten centimetres long. Penknife. Swiss Army, maybe. That sort. Once in the throat, four times in the chest, once in the shoulder and once in the arm. None was fatal if shed got help in time, but she was clearly dragged into the greenhouse to make sure she died.
So essentially she bled to death?
Thats about it. Nasty way to go, I must admit. Quiet part of the world. Anywhere else, someone would have come across her in time. But that, unfortunately, is about it. None of her colleagues knows why she was there, and weve found no one who saw her in the garden. There werent many people around because of that damnable strike. Murder, obviously. But by whom and why we dont know.
Suspicions?
Oh, well, now. Suspicions, of course we have. More than that. It was certainly a simple robbery that got out of hand. There was no sign of rape, and her briefcase was missing. Not a Venetian crime obviously. A Sicilian, or some other sort of foreigner, no doubt.
Flavia decided to pass over this outrageous statement in silence. She, at least, did not consider her southern compatriots as foreigners, nor did she necessarily assume that Venetians were incapable of murder. But there was no need to ruffle feathers unnecessarily.
No other hints or indications of what might have taken place? she asked.
Bovolo shrugged in the manner of someone who has said his piece and is beginning to think further discussion unnecessary. Still, they had an understanding she would not criticise, and he would humour her. He pushed some papers across the desk for her to examine while he continued talking.
Those include as much as we know of her movements before her death. There is nothing at all out of the ordinary. She didnt know anyone in Venice apart from her colleagues; when not in the library she spent nearly all her time on the Isola San Giorgio, either in her room, eating or having meetings with the other members of the committee. These, he continued, just as Flavia was about to say that the details seemed very thin, are photographs of the victim.
She looked intently, more out of a wish to seem professional than because she wanted to study them. Merely glancing at them seemed almost an invasion of the womans privacy.
Even dead, she could see that Masterson had been a fairly striking woman. A well-formed face, make-up smudged. The clothes, dishevelled and bloodstained, were evidently of high quality and, to her eyes, a little conservative and severe. A close-up photograph of her hand showed that it was curled round a bunch of flowers, obviously grabbed hold of as she died. There was something else Flavia couldnt make out.
Whats this?
A lily, Bovolo said.
Not the flower. This. She pointed to it.
Crucifix, Bovolo said. Gold. With a silver chain.
That must be fairly valuable, she said. I would have thought any robber would have taken it.
Bovolo shrugged noncommittally. Maybe, maybe not. She probably fought for it, that prompted him to kill her, he panicked and ran away. Or perhaps he really only wanted cash. Its safer, after all.
What was in her case?
Professional papers, wallet, passport, that sort of thing, as far as we can work out. He handed over another list and a few xeroxes.
Flavia thought for a few seconds. She was very keen on instant impressions, mercurial guesses which always made Bottando adopt his long-suffering expression. He liked routine, and had tried over the years to convince her of its merits. Fair enough; he was a policeman and such procedure part of his job. She wasnt, and preferred imagination which was as often right as Bottandos reliance on drudgery. Still, might as well show her devotion to method.
No footprints, nothing like that?
It is a public garden, he said sarcastically. Tourists tramp through all the time, treat the place like a dustbin. The shoreline was absolutely disgusting. Do you know how many empty cans and half eaten sandwiches my men had to collect?
The last thing she wanted was to hear a long lecture on the nasty habits of tourists. Apart from the fact that Bovolo would probably want to ban all foreigners from the city, she lived in Rome and knew about the problem already.
I just thought that if shed been dragged into a greenhouse there would have been some prints nearby.
Well, there werent. Not recent ones anyway. Very dry summer, hard ground. Hasnt rained for weeks. With a bit of luck it may any day now; we certainly need it. Of course, you can use up your time looking for yourself, if you think you can do a better job than our technical experts who have spent years examining this sort of thing
Flavia nodded in a way that hinted she might just do that. Not that she would, but it clearly irritated Bovolo, so was worth it.
There wasnt much to wrap her imagination around, it had to be said. But the photos of the woman interested her strangely. How much can you tell from photographs? Not much, admittedly, but Masterson looked as though she might have been a bit complicated. She dressed in a hard, no-nonsense style that Americans often prefer; there was none of the femininity that an Italian in her position might have manifested. Her face, also, had a determined edge to it. But there was an ambiguity there. Underneath was something softer, especially around the eyes, which contradicted the firm set of the mouth. Masterson gave the impression of someone trying to be more ruthless than was natural. She might have been quite pleasant had you managed to get through to her.
Flavia smiled, thinking how Bottando would have sniffed at this exposition, built as it was on nothing whatsoever. One glance at Bovolo was enough to convince her that he was a member of the same school of policework.
Youve worked out the whereabouts of all her colleagues, I imagine? she asked.
Bovolo again reacted as though he didnt know whether she was being sweet or sarcastic, but suspected the worst. Of course, he said primly, producing yet another sheaf of papers. He put his spectacles on the end of his nose and looked at the documents carefully, just in case theyd changed in the past five minutes.
All perfectly reasonable accounts of themselves. And before you ask, we have also checked the clothes in their rooms and not found a single stain, bloody dagger or diary containing a full confession. Professor Roberts and Dr Kollmar cancel each other out, as they were at the opera together. Dr Van Heteren was at dinner with friends near the railway station. Dr Lorenzo was at home, with servants and friends to testify to it. All of those four are staying on the main island, not at the foundation. That leaves Dr Miller.
Tell me about him, then. I take it he had no witnesses?
Bovolo nodded. Yes. For a moment we also had high hopes there. However, he was on the island with no way of getting off it, because of the strike. He went into the kitchen just after ten to ask for some mineral water to wash down a sleeping pill, drank it down while talking to some of the staff, and went straight off to bed.
But he is still the only one who has no one else to vouch for him at the time of the murder?
True. But the gate keeper is prepared to swear no one left or arrived after about six oclock. If he was on the island at ten, he was on it at nine. And in that case, he didnt kill this woman. Besides, all of them are most distinguished people with no possible motive. It was a very harmonious and scholarly operation, not a branch of the Mafia.
Flavia nodded thoughtfully. So, having eliminated all her colleagues, you decide on a lone marauder.
Bovolo nodded. And well stick with it, unless you have something else to suggest, he said with a dont-you-dare expression on his face.
And whats that? she asked, gesturing briefly at another envelope.
This? Just her mail. Delivered to her room this morning and we picked it up. We thought it might have been important, but it isnt. Take it if you like and check it out. All art stuff.
She read through them briefly. Circulars, notes from her museum, a letter from a photographic agency and a couple of bills. Uninspiring. She put them all down in the pile.
Still, said Flavia, not really feeling comfortable, it seems odd to go to all that trouble to tear a gold crucifix off her neck and then leave it behind. Was she a Catholic, by the way?
Bovolo shook his head. Dont think so, he replied. You know what these Americans are like. All religious fanatics, by the sound of them.
Another nation to cross off your list. Not a man with a broad appreciation of the varieties of human culture.
Take copies of these if you want, he said, gesturing at the police files on the case with a sudden spurt of co-operative generosity. Not the photographs, obviously, but anything else. As long as you give them back and dont show them to anyone. They are confidential, you know.
Why did she want all that miscellaneous debris? she wondered after shed shaken the inspector by his clammy little hand and was walking slowly back to the Danieli. Clearly Bovolo thought them useless, or he wouldnt have allowed her to have them. She felt a slight glimmering of interest in this murder, despite Bottandos orders that she was not to get involved in any way. It was, perhaps, the womans face. There was no fright on it. It was not the face of someone whod died in the middle of a robbery. If there was any expression at all, it was determination. And indignation. That did not fit in at all with Bovolos notion of a mugging somehow.