I knew you were interested in one of his pieces, and you ought to know that he is dead,” Grenville read. “The police pronounced it murder. I am afraid access to his collection is now restricted.” Grenville dropped the paper to the table, his eyes filled with foreboding but also some disgust. “Roberts has always been a bit of a cold fish, no matter how he behaves outwardly. He’s informing you not because we befriended Conte de Luca and would be sorry for his death, but because you might not be able to purchase the statue.”
My heart was heavy as I accepted more wine that Matthias quickly poured. I had liked de Luca, with his friendly bonhomie, and I’d looked forward to introducing him to Donata.
“I will have to write to Denis,” I said bleakly.
“Your pardon if I sound callous, but I imagine Mr. Denis already knows,” Grenville said. “His agents are everywhere. He might even know who killed the man and has already taken steps to show his disapprobation.”
Denis’s disapprobation was dire indeed. “Was de Luca robbed?” I asked.
Lord Matthew’s letter had not indicated this—I was wondering out loud. A killer would find plenty to steal at his home. I also wondered if his murder had anything to do with the statue Denis wanted.
“Speculating will only distress me,” I said. “We must to Rome.”
“We are going there anyway,” Grenville reminded me. “Will you linger in Rome to find out what happened?”
I wanted to. I also thought of my wife, wandering the villa’s garden, counting on my return.
“No,” I said resolutely. “De Luca’s death likely has nothing to do with Denis or the statue. Rome is a dangerous place, and de Luca’s home had many valuable pieces of art in it.” I thought of the monstrance, a marvel in gold. “A robbery gone wrong it must be.”
“Very likely. Poor fellow.”
“Yes.”
I did not like to think on it. I had planned to approach de Luca about the statue again and enjoy his company. Now I would not have the chance, and I grew morose.
The rest of our evening was spent preparing for the journey. I wrote letters to my family, telling Donata of de Luca’s abrupt death. To Gabriella, I gave a lighthearted version of Grenville’s mishap and rescue by the Stanbridges, omitting any reference to his struggle with a would-be killer. To Peter, I sketched the outlines of what I’d seen in Pompeii and told him of Baldini’s speculations that the flat area surrounded by columns had been the gladiators’ training grounds.
In spite of how much I’d enjoyed this sojourn, we were a somber party that entered the carriage to return to Rome.
The journey was uneventful. No earthquakes, and no one attempting to waylay us. Our assailant was mercifully absent, but I wondered very much when he’d turn up again.
We reached Rome late in the evening of the third day and rumbled past the Circus Maximus on our way to the lane near the Piazza Navona. The house welcomed us, and Grenville took to bed right away, his motion sickness laying him low.
I wrote to Lord Matthew Roberts, thanking him for informing me of de Luca’s death and asking if he had more details of the incident. I also wrote to Denis, explaining what had happened and inquiring if he wanted me to try to purchase the statue from de Luca’s heirs.
Restless, I decided to walk to de Luca’s house and see if anyone was in residence there. Brewster followed me, uncannily knowing the instant I shrugged on my coat to walk outside.
“Stands to reason someone murdered the bloke for his gear,” Brewster said as we headed north toward the Villa Borghese. “He had plenty stashed in that house, didn’t he? Wonder who gets it all.”
“Someone in his family, I imagine. I hope they are grateful.”
“Huh. If any is left. Thieves would have picked over the best bits, wouldn’t they?”
“I have a feeling there is more to this than a simple robbery,” I told Brewster.
“Always is, inn’t there?”
We said nothing more as we moved down the lane to the gate that led into de Luca’s mansion. I rang the bell, not expecting to be admitted but thought perhaps the footman who answered could at least tell me about de Luca’s death.
I rang again, and after a few minutes with no answer, decided my errand was futile. Perhaps the house was empty, waiting for the magistrates or bailiffs to admit the heirs.
As I turned away, a door banged behind the gate, and a man hurried out. I recognized Gian, de Luca’s manservant. He waved at me and came forward.
In the dim light from the house, Gian looked haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy.
“Please.” He opened the gate. “Come in, Captain. Signor Brewster.”
I’d never seen a man more sad or dejected. Gian was a servant and yet his grief was true. He must have been very fond of Conte de Luca.
“Can you tell us what happened?” I asked as we went through the garden to the main house.
“Please.” Gian gestured us inside. The lower hall was dark, the only light coming from moonlight through high windows. Gian guided us to the chamber on the top floor we’d been admitted to before, where a lone candle flickered, creating shadows on the many objects in disarray.
Gian disappeared behind one set of shelves and returned, carefully bearing a statuette about a foot high. “This is what you were wanting?”
I accepted the heavy thing Gian gave me. It was a sculpted Cupid sitting cross-legged on the statue’s base, which was carved to represent a bed of grass. One hand pressed against his cheek, while the other idly held his bow, as though the god contemplated who to shoot next. Instead of a chubby cherub, he had a more adult face, the god Eros rather than the child Cupid. His face was superbly sculpted, the expression of longing quite real. I felt certain he was thinking of his lover, Psyche.
One wing had been broken, and the alabaster that the crack revealed was milky pale.
“Beautiful.” It was no wonder Denis wished to purchase it.
Gian shrugged. “Not from the ancient world, as the conte told you. But I give it to you.”
I wasn’t certain he meant “give” as in he wished no money for it. I also noted that Gian’s English was quite good—he’d spoken only Italian on our previous visit, and I’d assumed he’d not understood English.
“I was instructed to pay whatever Conte de Luca asked,” I told him.
Gian waved this away. “I do not want your friend to bring suit for selling him a fake. Please, take it.”
“Are you certain? What about the conte’s heirs? Will they object to items going missing before the estate is settled?”
Gian stared at me as though he didn’t understand my words, then he drew himself up and pressed his hand to his chest. “I am the heir. He left all his things to me. No other.”
Brewster, who’d been viewing the goods with his hands carefully behind his back, broke in. “His family might have something to say about that. Even with a bloke that has tuppence to leave, the family fights over it.”
“He has no family. Only me. I am his son.”
I blinked at Gian, and Brewster regarded him skeptically. “Not a legitimate one, eh?” Brewster asked with his typical bluntness.
Gian did not seem offended. “I will not become a conte and inherit his lands or this house, no. His cousin will have all that. But his things, his collection, are not part of his title. They all come to me. I have seen the will.”
Giving him a powerful motivation to murder the man. But Gian’s grief, I thought, was true.
“He was good to you,” I said.
Gian’s eyes filled. “He was. He could not make me his true son by law, but he raised me and trained me, taught me about art and its history, and how to value things. You are welcome to the piece. He planned to give it to you when we found it.”
“Very kind of him.” I regarded the statue again, Eros perfectly formed. “I will write to my friend and inquire if he will accept it as a gift.”
Denis was very careful, I knew, making certain any artwork in his house could be verified as belonging to him if anyone came calling. He’d not be so clumsy as to be arrested over a stolen statue, even a forged one.
Gian opened his hands as though to say he was finished with the matter.
I set the statue down on a cluttered table. Brewster moved to examine it, but I faced Gian.
“How was he killed?” I asked.
An unashamed tear trickled down Gian’s cheek. “I had gone out, visiting friends. We had dinner, eating and drinking and laughing. They were good friends, and I spent the night rather than walk home in the dark. When I returned in the morning, I found the conte in one of the sitting rooms downstairs, dead as a stone. His head had been knocked in. The marble vase that did it lay beside him, covered in his blood.”
He broke off, his voice failing him. I went to him and dared lay a hand on his shoulder. “I beg your pardon. Most distressing for you.”
“Distressing.” Gian’s eyes flashed. “I was sick. What is the word in English … devastated. He was my father. My friend. My protector …”
I tightened my grip on the man’s shoulder, my sympathy flaring. “When did it happen?”
“Wednesday last.” Gian deflated as I released him. “A week and a half ago. So few days, and yet it seems a lifetime.”
That Wednesday night, Grenville and I had been on the road to Napoli, had been resting in an inn along the way when de Luca met his end. We’d arrived at Napoli on Thursday evening.
“Had someone broken in?” I asked gently. “Did you find the door open?”
Gian shook his head. “All was as I’d left it. The gate closed, as was the front door. They were no longer locked, but they had not been forced. I never noticed if any windows or other doors had been opened. I secured all before I went.” He wiped his arm across his eyes.
“So, he might have had a visitor. Was he expecting anyone?”
“No. Not that he told me.”
“Who else works in the house?”
“The cook,” Gian answered readily. “He’d gone home—he does not live here.”
“No one else? Just you and the conte?”
“He didn’t like too many servants around his things. There is a woman who comes in once a week—Mirela. She sweeps and dusts. Complains that there is too much jumbled about.” Gian’s smile was shaky.
“Was there any sign that he’d had a visitor? Or do you know who else would have a key?”
Gian peered at me. “Why are you asking these things? I had to explain all to the magistrates, who are certain I have done this.”
They were not entirely sure, I surmised, or Gian would already be imprisoned. The friends he’d dined with must have vouched for him. “I am curious, is all.”
“Humor him,” Brewster said disparagingly. “He’ll ask behind your back if you don’t tell him. It’s his way.”
Gian sent Brewster a puzzled frown but answered me, “I do not know who has keys—he might have given some to friends, but I know nothing of that. I saw no one, admitted no one before I went. If someone did come after I was gone … I do not know who.”
“Was anything stolen?”
Gian studied the cluttered chamber before lifting his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “I do not know. I am going through all his things, but I have not missed anything so far.”
“And the police? You said the magistrate suspects you.”
“The police.” The word was a growl. “Do you know what they say about the patrollers who protect Rome from the bandits in the hills? That they are no different from the bandits themselves. They take money to look the other way.”
I recalled the men who’d surrounded me when the police commander had tried to detain me. They’d not looked civilized, it was true.
From what I’d heard of the justice system in the Papal States, the police could arrest and detain a man without trial for a long time. The idea was that the fear of being thrown into the cells for weeks would deter crime. Only the most heinous of cases came before a jury and judge. Trials were costly, Grenville had explained to me, and so avoided as much as possible.
“Would you mind if I looked over where he was found?” I asked. To Gian’s skepticism, I added, “I might be able to discover what happened. To ease your mind. Or at least make certain the police don’t arrest you.”
“How would knowing ease me, sir?” Gian asked, but more in sorrow than anger. “He gave me everything. Now he is gone.”
He exuded misery, and I ceased asking my questions.
Gian, shoulders slumped, motioned us to follow him. He took us down the stairs to the main part of the house, leading us to a sitting room on the ground floor.
The room was no less cluttered, though things had been arranged more for display instead of a jumble of objects. Shelves held gold and silver items, porcelain, ivory, and boxes encrusted with semiprecious stones. Tapestries hung on the walls, their fine work and sheen attesting to their age and value.
I appreciated Gian’s dilemma—unless he had a well-ordered catalog of all these things, how could he know if anything was missing?
“I found him there.” Gian pointed with a sweep of his arm to the space before two chairs that had been set next to each other. De Luca’s body was no longer there, but a small, dark patch stained the tile floor, where scrubbing had not removed all the blood.
“Was he facedown?”
Gian nodded, a scowl creasing his face. “Yes, the coward struck him from behind. The back of his neck was crushed.” He flinched as he said the words.
“I am sorry,” I said. “It was cruel. Perhaps I can help bring whoever it was to justice.”
“How can you?” Gian’s scowl deepened. “There will be no justice, even if you find the person. A man can be executed for stealing a bauble in Rome, but a murderer escapes more often than not.”
I had heard such things spoken of at Lord Matthew’s house, during the conversation before I’d met de Luca. The Stanbridges had said much the same thing. Crimes involving property seemed to be more important than the death of a person.
While Brewster studied the goods on the shelves and tables, I pictured the scene. De Luca had turned in surprise when whoever it was had broken into the room—or had he? Likewise, the chamber was neat, almost painfully tidy in spite of the many objects within it. A burglar would steal what he could lay hands on—there was plenty of choice—and flee. Even if he’d been startled by de Luca and struck him down, he’d have left with something, which Gian would have noticed gone.
Another explanation was that de Luca had admitted a visitor into the house, who’d had no intention of stealing anything, and invited him, or her, into this room. This would explain why the doors were unlocked but the locks not broken. The killer had calmly departed, closing the door and gate behind them, but not being able to lock them.
“Had de Luca fought?” I asked. “Were his hands bruised, or did he look as though he’d struggled? Anything knocked over, out of place?”
“No.” Gian’s anger mounted. “The terrible man must have waited until de Luca turned his back, then struck him down.” He spat a word I did not know.
If de Luca hadn’t fought, then he most certainly had known his attacker. He’d trusted whoever it was enough to lead them into a comfortable room and turn his back on them. He’d been a robust gentleman, and he’d have tried to deter the killer if he’d believed he was in danger.
That de Luca had been killed with an object from his beloved collection was an irony I did not like to contemplate.
“What did you do when you found him?” I asked Gian.
“I prayed for him.” Gian’s face was taut. “I prayed for his immortal soul, and then I vowed I’d eviscerate whoever did this.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to find out anything with this one, guv,” Brewster said half an hour later as we walked from de Luca’s house back toward ours.
The night had deepened, and with it came the bandits Gian had mentioned. I saw shadows flitter in the side lanes and was glad of Brewster near me. He scanned the streets as we walked, on the lookout for danger.
“I feel I owe it to de Luca,” I said.
I carried the alabaster Cupid under my arm, the piece wrapped in a leather sack. Gian had insisted I take it with me.
“He were a jovial bloke,” Brewster said. “Quick to make a friend of a cove. Probably was his downfall. He invited you and Mr. Grenville to his rooms readily enough. Who knows how many others he has? He liked to show off his loot, didn’t he?”
Brewster had a point. De Luca had modestly laughed about his overflowing collection, yet at the same time, he’d been eager to reveal it to us. He’d obviously had trusted the wrong person at the wrong time.
“I believe it was someone de Luca knew already and who was familiar with his house,” I said. “He waited until Gian’s day out, obviously wanting de Luca to be alone.”
“But how are you going to find out who this visitor was? Ye barely knew the conte. Ye don’t know his acquaintances, his closest mates, or the ladies he might have thrown over. Could have been anyone.”
“I have thought of that, Brewster,” I said in irritation. “I suppose I will begin as always, by asking questions. De Luca did tell us that he’d promised all he had to Bonaparte. Maybe someone came to hold him to that promise.”
“Frenchies, you mean?”
“Possibly, but not necessarily. Plenty of local men gave loyalty to the new emperor in exchange for power, or lands, or money—some sort of reward. Perhaps that person wants to give the collection to his new masters, hoping for a reward from them, or to persuade them to overlook his switch in allegiance to Bonaparte.”
“Now you’re grasping at straws,” Brewster said. “The Corsican is gone, and everyone is trying to give back the things he stole, not take more.”
“You are likely right.” I let out a breath as we tramped up the narrow street that led to Grenville’s house. “I truly don’t know much about de Luca or his background. Grenville and I will simply have to quiz everyone we can about him.”
“Just so you don’t take too long over it.” Brewster wiped his nose with the back of his hand and hunkered against the cold wind that sprang from the river behind us. “Or your lady wife will come and ask me why I didn’t drag you home to her. I’ll be buggered if I’ll know how to answer her.”
At breakfast the next morning, Grenville was unhappy that I’d gone out investigating the death of de Luca without him, but his remonstration was cut short when Gautier announced a visitor.
“Mr. Denis to see you, sir.” Gautier intoned the name with much disdain as he held out a silver tray with a single card on it. “I have put him in the reception room downstairs.”