The corners of Trevisan’s eyes tightened as though he was surprised I’d agreed. He’d been prepared to battle with me, and he no longer needed the arguments he’d been ready to grind out.
“You will tell me about anything you discover, and bring the culprit to me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” I answered with a coolness that matched his own. “I do not work for you, sir, nor am I a subject of this land. If I do find the killer, I will of course want him brought to justice. But you are not a magistrate, not here in the Papal States. You hail from Milan, which is in Lombardy, I believe.”
“I do, and it is. But that does not matter. Until Conte de Luca’s death is resolved not one thing must be removed from this house.” Trevisan glared at me as though he knew all about me taking away the Cupid statue. I decided not to enlighten him about that.
I wondered at Trevisan’s insistence—as I’d said, he was not a magistrate here, and he’d just told me he’d had no fondness for de Luca. Did he believe de Luca or his family had taken something that belonged to him?
“I will tell Gian,” I said. “He will not want the things removed either.”
Trevisan’s lips pinched. “This person called Gian should not be the only man to look after things here. You should do it.”
I was growing tired of Trevisan’s imperious ways. No matter what good Baldini and the Stanbridges had said of him, to me he’d only been irritating and demanding.
“I will do what I can,” I said. “That is all I can promise.”
At last, Trevisan seemed to realize he could only intimidate us so much. He gave us a truncated bow. “Inform me of your findings.” He turned and strode out, boot heels drumming on the stones of the floor.
Grenville blew out his breath once the gate had clanged behind him. “Did he ever meet Bonaparte, I wonder? And who was the victor in that exchange?”
I grunted a laugh. “He certainly expects obedience. I can scarcely believe he is the warm family man Baldini told us about.”
“Very odd.” Grenville glanced at the jumble of the downstairs. Gian was nowhere in sight, and Brewster had disappeared as well. “This will be a puzzle, Lacey. Anyone in Rome could have killed de Luca that night. The only people I’m certain are innocent are you, Brewster, and me. Baldini as well—he was waiting for us in Herculaneum, at Trevisan’s command.”
“But where was he the few days before?” I asked. “We traveled slowly. A man on horseback could ride all night and day after he killed de Luca, hiring fresh horses along the way, and be ready to show us about the following morning.”
Grenville took a moment to consider this. “That man would be tired and agitated. Baldini was robust and pleased to see us.”
“I agree, but until I know where he was, I cannot rule him out. Not that I can guess why he’d kill de Luca, or if he even knew of the man.”
“The Stanbridges.” Grenville fed the name to me, waiting to see what I’d conclude.
“Again, we met them several days after de Luca’s death, and by Mrs. Stanbridge’s statement, they’d recently been to Rome. But as with Baldini, I see no reason for them to commit murder.”
“Gian claims to have been out with friends all night. That is easily confirmed, I suppose.”
“Yes, we have only his word that he found de Luca and did not kill him upon his return. Though I hope it is not Gian. He seems to genuinely grieve.”
“Trevisan himself?” Grenville suggested. “He certainly disliked de Luca. Loathing in every word he spoke of him.”
“Possibly.” My answer held caution. “Is your idea that Trevisan is adamant about us finding the killer to make certain we put the blame on someone else?”
Grenville leaned against the heavily carved newel post at the bottom of the staircase, the very picture of a dandy in the throes of ennui. “Trevisan was in Napoli when we were, but again, he could have traveled more quickly than we did, another thing we will have to inquire about.”
“I wonder why he was in Napoli at all,” I said. “I still find it puzzling he sought us out to apologize. He said he had business there but was close-mouthed about it.”
“As I say, this will be difficult.” Grenville straightened up and regarded the piles of objects left on the ground floor. “Where do we begin?”
“With the household.” Servants always knew exactly what went on in a house. Donata’s did, sometimes embarrassingly so. “Brewster can be a help there, and we can recruit Matthias and Bartholomew as well.”
“They are itching for some excitement,” Grenville acknowledged. “Cleaning our suits and keeping my house are growing too tame for them.”
“I’ll not begrudge them. I suppose we should start right away.”
“I would say you were longing for excitement as well.” Grenville’s statement was too accurate, and I pretended not to hear it.
“I will tackle the kitchen,” I said. “Brewster is down there already, I believe. Perhaps you could speak to Gian?”
“Pry more information out of him that is?” Grenville nodded. “Yes, best I do it.”
“You’ll be more tactful, you mean?” I asked, not offended.
“Exactly.” Grenville grasped the newel post and launched himself up the stairs. “Tread lightly, Lacey. These are deeper waters than we know.”
With that admonishment, he disappeared into the shadows, and I turned to seek the kitchen.
I found the door to the back stairs at the rear of the house, behind which tiled and narrow steps ran down into darkness.
At the bottom a more cheerful passageway, painted white and tiled in blue and yellow, led under high windows to a long, hot room with a fireplace and wooden table. Here a man with very black hair slapped dough onto the table’s surface before rolling it out with what looked like a broom handle.
Brewster rose from a stool near the fire, a large tankard in his fist. “He speaks no English, guv.”
“Enough to find you an ale.”
“Aye, well. Some things are understandable.”
The cook smoothed the dough into a wide circle. He set aside the stick and with his hands, rolled the thin dough into a long cylinder. Next, he took up a slender but frightening-looking knife and cut the cylinder into even slices. The pieces fell, unfolding into soft noodles.
“Are there other servants?” I asked. I saw no assistant to do the messy and tedious kitchen work, no footman, no maid.
“Not as such,” Brewster answered. “This man makes all the meals, and Gian does the rest. Save for the woman who comes in and has a dust about.”
So Gian had indicated. “I wonder why. The conte is—was—a wealthy man. Why only two people living with him? With one to do occasional cleaning?”
Brewster shrugged. “Fewer to nick things, most like. He trusted Gian and this cove.” He gestured with his fingers to the cook, who glanced up.
I approached the cook, who quickly bent his head over his task. The noodles went onto a plate then he rolled out another round of dough.
“Have you worked here long?”
The man shook his head without looking up. “I have not the English.”
I took a chance and addressed him in Spanish, speaking carefully. The man gazed at me in puzzlement a moment, then answered, very slowly, in Italian.
Five years. No, no assistant. The conte ate very little and almost never had guests for supper. Gian sometimes helped get the food in. No one else. It was an easy place.
“Did you see anyone the night he died?”
The cook scowled. He brought his knife down, point first, into the wood of the table. “No. I go home. I sleep. I did not kill him. Why should I? He paid well.”
“Are you sure no one came before you departed?”
The man was finished with me. “No. You go now.” He snatched up the knife and waved it at me, not really threatening, but in frustration.
“’Ere, enough of that,” Brewster rumbled.
He spoke English, but the cook understood his gist. He said perdonami, laid down his knife, and went back to rolling his dough. He formed the cylinder once more and lifted the knife again but only to quickly slice off the noodles.
It looked like the beginning of a tasty meal. I’d love to sit and sample his cuisine, but the man was angry, not liking foreigners questioning him in his kitchen.
“Where will you go now?” I asked in painstaking Spanish.
“Go?” He glared at me. “I stay here. Cook for Gian. He is master now.”
For how long? I wondered. De Luca might have left all his goods to Gian, but I imagined the conte’s cousin would want Gian out of the house and might even contest the will.
The cook obviously did not wish to discuss the matter further. He would have to contend with the conte’s cousin when he came calling, and I wished the best for him.
I thanked the man profusely. He finally nodded but turned his back and began rummaging in baskets for produce—bright carrots, white potatoes, and beautiful greens. De Luca had certainly had money to spend on provisions.
I drifted to the doorway, wondering if Brewster would join me, but he slurped his beer, seemingly content. If he could cajole more information from the cook, I would leave him to it.
I returned above stairs and climbed higher through the house. The police hadn’t reached the rooms above the ground floor—these chambers held the same quiet splendor that I’d seen when de Luca had first admitted us.
On impulse, I stepped into one of the salons. A long settee reposed under a window draped in silk. A tall writing stand on slender, gilded legs rested opposite it, with a gold ink pot and pen holder arrayed on its top. Next to this desk, against the painted wall, was a cabinet holding artfully shaped glass and objects I recognized as ancient—a bronze drinking vessel, a clay lamp, and a set of jewelry, delicate and intricate gold. Nothing worth a fortune in their material alone, but the historic and artistic value must be high.
This was a showpiece of a room. Another slim chair sat next to the cabinet, placed so that a sitter could observe and admire what was on display. The half dozen sconces on the walls would light this room well in the evening.
And yet, the cook had told me the conte had few visitors. Who were all these arrangements for?
I doubted that what Denis searched for—a list holding all his agents throughout the Continent—would be here, but I could not be certain. I began a search, opening the drawers of the writing stand then the doors of the cabinet to see if anything had been hidden among or under the shelves.
I found nothing there but more valuable objects.
A door in this room led to the next one. The ceiling soared high in this chamber, which must have originally been a large drawing room, or even a ballroom. Arches framed the ceiling, forming a semi dome. Painted clouds floated above me, along with a scene of angels chasing away a lone and very evil-looking demon.
I’d seen such depictions in houses in England, which often managed to be overdone or insipid—very pink angels with too many draperies—but this was softly toned with real faces and true expressions. I’d seen such art before, and I highly suspected it had been done by Caravaggio or someone he’d trained.
I had a look through this room as well, but I found nothing that resembled documents or notes.
The rest of the rooms on this floor were similarly grand and also yielded no more information. I wondered if an inventory existed for de Luca’s collection, and if Trevisan and Denis were correct that de Luca and his family had stolen most of these things, or at least obtained them illicitly.
De Luca had been so open about his treasures, declaring they’d been in the family for decades and that even Bonaparte had not been able to grab them. De Luca had been a canny man if he’d convinced the headstrong emperor to trust him.
I mounted the next flight of stairs and up the side staircase in search of Grenville and Gian. They proved to be in the collection room, Gian holding a bronze statuette, a primitive carving of an upright man.
“Etruscan,” he was saying to Grenville. “Very ancient. My father had several Etruscan pieces. Scholars came to study them,” he finished proudly.
“Do many scholars visit here?” I asked in curiosity.
Gian swung to me, startled, as though he hadn’t heard me approach. “Not often. But they travel from England and France from time to time. The conte had antiquities and books as well.”
“Can you tell me about the conte’s family?” I asked. “Besides yourself, I mean.”
Gian’s teeth flashed in a smile, and I saw a younger version of de Luca in him. “I do not mind that I am not his lawful son. The conte raised me from a boy, as soon as he discovered my existence. My mother had died, and my grandmother had the care of me, but she wanted nothing to do with me. The conte paid her handsomely and took me away, and my grandmother did not regret seeing me go. She’s dead now too. I grew up here, taking care of the conte while he took care of me. It was just the two of us.”
Very kindhearted of de Luca, I thought, but perhaps he’d been delighted to find he’d had a son. Love did not need legal ties to be real. “He never married?”
“No, no. He loved the ladies but did not wish to marry. As far as I know, I was his only offspring. He had no brothers or sisters. Only the cousin, Gregorio, who will be the conte now. They did not get on.” Gian’s shoulders slumped. “He will come to take possession of the house soon, I imagine.”
“Perhaps he’ll keep you on,” I said. “I’m certain no one knows this house as you do.”
“I will not work for Gregorio.” Gian’s answer held anger. “I assisted my father because he was my family. I know the cousin is my family too, by blood, but I do not think he will regard me so.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I wish I could help.”
Gian gave me a bow. “You are kind. But nothing can help.” His eyes filled again, and he swiped his hand across them.
“We’ll leave you alone now, my dear fellow.” Grenville gently lifted the bronze from Gian’s fingers and replaced it on a nearby shelf. “You have my condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you.” Gian sniffled.
“Of course,” Grenville said quietly. He signaled to me that we should go, and I began to follow him out.
At the door, I turned back. “One more thing, Gian, and then I will disturb you no more. Did you or the conte keep an inventory of his collection? Or lists of people he purchased things from or purchased things for?”
Gian went rigid, and his tears dried. “Why do you wish to know that?”
I shrugged, as though I did not care one way or another. “Thought it might help you sort things out.”
Gian wiped his eyes again. “I do not know. I will hunt.”
I noticed that when Gian wanted to be evasive, his grasp of English waned. He’d spoken quite eloquently about the conte’s fondness for him, but as soon as he grew worried, his sentences became short and blunt.
I gave Gian a nod. “Good day to you, sir. If you have need of assistance, send word to us at Grenville’s lodgings.”
“Thank you.”
Again, the words were stilted. Grenville and I at last took our leave, saying nothing as we descended the stairs through the silent house and exited via the jumbled foyer and the now empty courtyard, and emerged onto the street.
Brewster appeared through a side door as though he’d been watching for us, and fell into step as we turned south through the lanes.
“Do you think Gian killed him, then?” Brewster asked me.
“He could have,” I admitted. “He could have returned home much sooner than he claims. De Luca wouldn’t have had reason to fear him. I am certain he’d readily turn away from Gian without worry. Did the cook tell you anything more?”
“Naw. Just repeated that he went home and saw no one.”
“The woman who cleans might know something as well,” I said.
“If you ask her, be careful,” Brewster said. “These people don’t like the police. The only reason the cook opened up as much as he did is because I’m not police, and I don’t like them either.”
“I don’t blame them,” I said. If the police were wont to lock someone in a jail without hope of trial, I’d avoid them myself. “It would be helpful to have an interpreter if I need to question them further.”
“Luckily, you did make an Italian friend,” Grenville said.
I’d been thinking of Proietti before Grenville’s answer. I did not know whether he would assist me if Trevisan was involved, but I could ask.
We fell silent the rest of the way home. The day had turned blustery, with wind drawing in clouds. I smelled rain in the air.
When we entered Grenville’s hired house, we found it buzzing with activity. Bartholomew and Matthias hurried up the stairs, their arms full of linens, while Gautier tried to make himself understood—loudly—to the Italian servants who did the everyday cleaning.
Gautier abruptly became his cool self as soon as he spied Grenville. “Her ladyship has sent word she will be arriving, sir. We expect her upon the hour.”
I tried without success to hide my gladness. Though I had been thoroughly enjoying my sightseeing, I missed Donata and looked forward to her arrival with the eagerness of a young swain.
Gautier made no mention of Gabriella or Marianne, so assumed they’d stay behind. Grenville did not ask him, also pretending nonchalance, though I knew he longed to see his wife as well.
Grenville and I retreated to his upstairs chamber, Grenville pouring brandy, while we went over the events of the day.
I was restless, however, and when I heard a carriage halt at our door, I was out of the room so quickly I forgot to set down my glass. Grenville’s laughter followed me down the stairs.
Donata, the former Lady Breckenridge, glided into the house, servants swarming around her like drones to a queen.
A wife generally curtsied to her husband, but I had dispensed with that formality on the first day of our married life. I slammed my glass to the nearest table, went straight to her, took her hands, and kissed her lips.
“Gabriel,” Donata said calmly, but her eyes sparkled with pleasure at my greeting. “I hear you have inserted yourself into other people’s troubles yet again.”