Ah.” Grenville’s syllable held much sympathy. “Was Trevisan’s daughter ill?”
Every family had a brother, sister, aunt, cousin, who had died young of illness. My mother had been of a weak constitution, but I thanked God every day that my offspring and my wife were of the hearty sort.
“Not an illness.” Donata broke off, the creak and bump of the carriage loud in the night. “When Bonaparte came into Italy, soldiers and men filled the streets of Milan. No, they did not attack Trevisan’s daughter.” Donata shook her head at me as I began to register horror. “It was an accident. There were wagons and carriages everywhere, and one morning, as she and her mother went out to shop, they both were struck down, trampled. Trevisan’s wife survived. Their daughter did not.”
Trevisan must have been devastated. I could imagine his anguish, his fear that he’d lost his entire family, his grief when his daughter was taken from him. He’d had no sons, I recalled Proietti telling me, only a daughter. I hadn’t realized the daughter had been killed, and I inferred Proietti did not know this either.
“No wonder Trevisan became estranged from his wife,” I said. “Poor lady.”
“Tragedy can bring a family closer together, or it can break them apart,” Donata said softly.
The Austrians had regained Lombardy five years ago, combining it with the Veneto to create the Venetian-Lombard state. Trevisan did not seem to be a man who’d bow his head to the Hapsburgs. His daughter’s death and the constant change in political fortunes might be the entire reason he’d relocated to Rome.
“The contessa has taken in Gisela to replace her granddaughter,” I speculated. “No, replace is the wrong word. To console herself.”
“I agree,” Donata said. “She is a woman in pain. She must have loved her granddaughter very much. She will support her son’s plans in order to keep Gisela with her.”
When Trevisan and his mother had first seen Gisela, they must have been strongly reminded of the young woman they had lost, and both been drawn to her. They’d have realized that Gisela was not their daughter and granddaughter, but they must have glimpsed in her the girl that had been taken from them. A man could fall to pieces over a woman for many reasons.
“I do have sympathy,” Grenville said. “But Conte Trevisan has been heavy-handed about it. The gossips of Rome’s elite filled me in on the entire affair. They are scandalized that he has simply taken over the girl, but they enjoy the chance to gawp at him. Trevisan has given them much entertainment.”
“At the Proietti family’s expense,” I said. “And I have had no satisfactory explanation about why Trevisan is so insistent that I discover what happened to Conte de Luca. What is that connection?”
“That, I assume, we will discover as we continue to inventory the house.” Grenville said. “I am happy that both Signor Baldini and Signor Proietti will assist us. Perhaps we can get through the lot much faster.” He opened his hands, which was for Grenville a gesture of despair. “I am beginning to be baffled by this whole business. Surely Gian must have committed the crime. He stands to gain much if he is correct that de Luca willed his entire collection to him. De Luca trusted Gian, from what I observed. He’d have turned away without worry from his own son, fearing nothing.”
“Perhaps.” I’d had the ghost of an idea as I’d listened to the soprano tonight, though I needed time to think it through.
My greatest obstruction to learning the truth was deciding the reason why anyone who had access to the house would kill de Luca. Gian, of course, would inherit the priceless collection, but would he have murdered his father in so obvious and open a fashion? He’d be the first suspected, and indeed, he was even now in jail.
The cook had also had the opportunity. He was easily angered, and perhaps de Luca had said the wrong thing to him at the wrong time.
Why, then, had the cook turned up as usual the next morning? Why not flee rather than tamely wait to be arrested?
I hoped Bartholomew could find time to interview the maid and the neighbors. Someone must have seen something, or perhaps the maid had coshed de Luca when he’d made inappropriate advances.
Then there was the cousin, who’d not yet turned up—I would have to inquire about his whereabouts. Had the man been anywhere near Rome? Of course, he could have sent a confederate to do the deed, but how would that confederate have gained the house and made de Luca turn an unsuspecting back?
Then again, as Grenville had once stated, anyone in Rome could have murdered de Luca. The house was not well guarded, de Luca had been home alone, and a determined thief could have broken in. I made a note to ask Brewster how difficult it would be to gain entrance to the house, but I had the feeling it would not have been a monumental task.
The rest of the short ride was spent in silent contemplation, and I enjoyed Donata’s warmth beside me, her hand on my arm.
We reached home and said our goodnights. Grenville, used to being up all hours, retired to his study. I expected Donata to return to her letters, but she followed me into my bedchamber, waving off her maid Jacinthe.
Bartholomew, who’d have been alerted by the arriving carriage, was ready with my night things. I dismissed him, perfectly able to undress myself, and closed the door, shutting out the world.
I expected that Donata and I would further discuss the Trevisans. Instead, Donata came to me and unbuttoned my coat and waistcoat, then proceeded to valet me. I became her lady’s maid, and soon I had blown out the last candle, closing the curtains around our bed to shut us into a dark, private world that contained only the two of us.
In the morning, I left Donata sleeping, fetched Brewster and Grenville, and returned to de Luca’s to continue our inventory. On our way we passed the Basilica Sant’Andrea della Fratte, where Trevisan had listened to a concert the night of de Luca’s death. I studied its rather plain façade, which had given Trevisan an alibi for de Luca’s murder, but not, Proietti had been quick to point out, Proietti himself.
We arrived first, before our promised help, the police guards once more admitting us. Grenville and I continued with Brewster’s method of listing the goods as we went, and we retreated to our parts of the house to work.
I found another painting, a miniature this time, on which I again asked for Grenville’s opinion.
“Holbein,” he said. “The Younger. I’m certain of it.”
I touched the young woman with hair smoothed by a thick headband, her telltale Holbein features gazing serenely out at me.
“If it is genuine, where should it be?” I asked.
Grenville raised his quizzing glass to peer at it once more. “This one, I am not sure. But I am acquainted with a German prince who collects Holbein miniatures. He often badgers the Regent—excuse me, His Majesty—for pieces from his collection. Not successfully, I will add. Our new king likes to hold on to what he acquires.”
“Perhaps you can write to your German prince friend to ask him.”
The fact that Grenville could casually mention royal acquaintances with no intention at all of boasting both amused and amazed me. I often imagined that Grenville could stroll up to the emperor of China and say, Good afternoon, old thing, and the emperor would spring to his feet in joy to wring his hand.
“Of course,” Grenville said, oblivious of my thoughts. “Note it on your sheet, and I will write him tonight.”
As he turned to depart, the knocker struck the front door. Brewster charged to it and pulled it open to reveal Signor Baldini. The slim man bowed, his eyes betraying his eagerness.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Forgive my tardiness—I slept poorly as always after a late night. I then did not wake until my landlord’s boy shook me hard. I apologize.”
“Not at all,” I said, gesturing him inside. “It is splendid of you to help. I take it Conte Trevisan had no objection?”
Baldini frowned, as though the name of the conte displeased him. “None.” The syllable was short. Baldini shed his greatcoat and hung it on a peg near the door. “I believe Conte de Luca has some fascinating pieces?”
“As you will see,” Grenville said. “Some excellent ones and some that might be rubbish. He was an indiscriminate collector.” He said this last with amusement, and Baldini unbent enough to smile as though Grenville had made a good joke.
Grenville led Baldini toward the back of the house, and Brewster jerked a thumb toward where they’d gone.
“You trust ’im not to nick anything?”
“He has had plenty of opportunity to do so in Herculaneum and Pompeii but his views on those who do take things was clear,” I said. “His knowledge of art history, at least with the ancients, is invaluable.” I gazed about at the furniture and objects we’d tidied in the foyer. “De Luca must have traveled the world, picking up bits here and there from German princes, Austrian emperors …”
“Stealing ’em, you mean,” Brewster rumbled. “A thief’s a thief, whether he’s from the gutter of South London or the highest of the high.”
“I wonder why he stole them. And why some are carefully displayed in well-organized rooms while others are in a jumble in the attic.”
Brewster shrugged. “No accounting for eccentrics.”
“There is another possibility, you know. De Luca and his family might have purchased all these things legitimately. De Luca might have receipts hidden with these elusive lists Denis wants me to look for.”
“If that’s true, why stash all them bits upstairs? Why not bung them into a gallery and invite friends to see them? Or charge tuppence for the unwashed masses to parade through and have a look?”
“Discretion?” I suggested. “Sometimes a prince, emperor, or a pope doesn’t wish to admit he needs funds, and sells a few family heirlooms to men like de Luca for the price they agree on.” Proietti had done the same thing, on a smaller scale. “The transaction isn’t public, and de Luca keeps the painting or sculpture tucked away until such time the prince or emperor can purchase it back.”
Brewster’s brows went up. “Like a pawnbroker to royalty?”
“Exactly. These princes of the dying Holy Roman Empire needed money to fight Bonaparte. He swept through the Continent like a devastating fire—a man like de Luca might have been a boon to them. They could raise extra funds and no one would be the wiser.”
“Hmm.” Brewster was not convinced, but I knew he’d think it through.
I peered out the front door once more, hoping to see Proietti also hurrying in, apologizing for his tardiness, but the courtyard remained empty. Outside the gate, the people of Rome went about their business as a light rain began to fall.
I wondered if Proietti had returned tamely home last evening or decided to force his point with Trevisan. Or perhaps Trevisan had at last held the promised meeting where they could discuss things. Thinking of the stubborn set to Trevisan’s mouth and Donata’s story that the contessa thought of Gisela as her lost grandchild, I had my doubts that Trevisan would loosen his hold.
Brewster shut the door and we continued to work, my list growing longer as the morning went on. I’d have to ask Baldini about most of the contents in one room, which was full of ancient Greek pottery. Real, forged, stolen?
A few hours ticked by, but Proietti did not appear. At the end of the third hour, Baldini gave an excited shout.
I hastened down the stairs to where we’d set him to work in some of the back rooms on the ground floor. These were not showpieces like the front rooms and contained boxes and trunks we’d hastily but not thoroughly gone through. We’d found no lists in them, in any case.
I reached the dim chamber first, Grenville and Brewster thumping down the stairs from above. I could not see Baldini when I peered inside, only dusty piles of old furniture and crates with their lids askew.
“Baldini?” I called.
“Here.”
The muffled answer came from behind a pile of wooden boxes. I started around them, Brewster so close that his rough coat brushed my back.
A glimmer of light showed me where Baldini had got to. He’d lit a candle in the gloom, and a slit of light outlined a thin doorway where none had been before.
The paneling itself had pulled from the bricks to show an opening to another room. I had hunted for such hiding places as I’d searched, but we’d not yet examined this chamber carefully. It was in the very rear of the house, which backed onto the newer houses behind it, so the disparity in depth hadn’t been noticeable.
The hidden space was about ten feet wide and many more long, as it ran the entire length of the back of the building. My mouth hung open as Baldini flashed his candle around, and I heard Grenville’s audible intake of breath.
“’Struth,” Brewster said in reverence. “Never saw so many statues outside a gent’s fancy garden.”
They filled the space, carved stone, bronze, marble. Warriors, maidens, busts of Roman emperors—I noted the distinctive features of Vespasian, Augustus, and Hadrian—Apollo clutching Daphne as she began to morph into a laurel tree, a muscular David pulling back his sling as he eyed an unseen Goliath, a regal marble lady reclining on an equally regal marble couch, an onyx chubby Cupid, asleep, and various other large statues to grace a Roman villa or an emperor’s palace.
“Good Lord,” Grenville said softly. “Canova, if I’m not mistaken.” He stepped reverently to the reclining marble woman, who was near to life-sized. “And Bernini.” He glanced at Apollo and Daphne. “What the devil are these doing here?”
“Copies?” I asked, though I didn’t truly believe this explanation.
“Could be,” Grenville conceded.
“No,” Brewster said at once. “The real thing has a feel, don’t it?” He touched Apollo’s marble shoulder. “Smooth as anything. Only time does that.”
I took the expert’s word for it.
“Could this be important?” Baldini bent over a trunk he’d opened, one filled with enough ledgers and papers to make both Denis and Trevisan happy.
I lifted a long ledger and opened it. Inside, in a barely legible scrawl, were notes and numbers, words crossed out and others added in margins. It would take a long while to go through it, but I had a feeling that we’d find gold among this dross.
“It could be,” I said cautiously. “It could also be the conte’s expense reports for his kitchen for the last fifty years. Grenville and I will lug these home and pore over them.”
“I’ll have a go, if you like,” Baldini offered.
He spoke politely, but there was a light in his eyes that was too cajoling, too eager. He might be trying to be helpful, but I was suddenly certain of nothing.
“No need,” I replied. “Grenville, Brewster, and I are old hands at going over art inventories. We will get through this lot in a trice.”
Grenville said nothing about my optimistic boast, his face a careful blank.
“Right.” Brewster shouldered his way forward. “I know who’ll be the one doing the hauling. Mind your feet, Signor Baldini.”
He all but shoved Baldini out of the way, his hobnailed soles in true danger of squashing Baldini’s trim boots. Brewster put his arms around the trunk and lifted it as though it weighed nothing.
“Just pop that on the top, guv.”
I relinquished the ledger and let Brewster carry the entire box out of the room. Baldini watched after him with some trepidation. “Are you certain …?”
“Brewster is quite loyal to me,” I assured him. “I would trust him with my life. Have, on several occasions.”
Baldini gazed longingly at the items in the room, especially those that were ancient rather than from the Baroque or more modern eras. The Roman emperors eyed him back, chipped marble attesting to centuries of wear.
“Best we shut this up,” I said. “Until we know to whom these belong.” I herded Baldini out of the room after Grenville and then shut the paneling. “How did you find this?”
“Entirely by accident.” Baldini bounced on his toes. “I had backed up to study this exquisite vase.” He indicated a red pot with black athletic figures charging around its circumference. “And bumped into the wall. I was astonished to feel it give way, and the paneling popped out.”
He demonstrated how a hidden knob on the wood separated it from the wall.
“Well, thank you for that,” I said. “This has been of immeasurable help.”
Baldini flushed. “I am happy to be of service.”
“Right.” I clapped my palms together. “Shall we continue, gentlemen?”
Grenville and I trudged out of the chamber, leaving the Greek vases to Baldini.
Another hour passed without any more revelations. I tediously wrote down what I found in my rooms—even if the ledgers did tell us what everything in this house was, it would be best to compare the two lists.
I had to wonder who we could trust to return the objects or discreetly inquire whether these princes wanted them back. I imagined the cardinals who ran the Papal States, if they learned about this lot, rubbing their hands and lugging everything back to the Vatican. Or the Austrian emperor sending someone like Metternich to retrieve not only the emperor’s belongings but the rest of the treasure as well.
If Denis learned of the cache we’d just unearthed, he might decide to keep it for himself. And Trevisan? Was he principled enough to help return the things or did he too have an ulterior motive?
As I wrote an entry on my list for an elegant bronze athlete, the knocker thudded once more. I left the athlete poised to begin his race and tapped my way to the door. Brewster hurtled down from the top floor, but I reached the front door before he did.
I opened it to find, as I’d hoped, Proietti. He was breathless, as though he’d run all the way from his home. He was also smiling.
I hadn’t seen the man smile except for an ironic grin here and there, but now he was positively beaming.
“Captain,” he said, giving me a truncated bow. “My apologies for my late arrival. My wife, she returned home today. She very much would like to meet you and Mr. Grenville. Can you come with me now?”