Cristiana came round unaided. The return of consciousness was accompanied by a dull ache in her left side just above the hip. She must have fallen on that side with the carpet, however soft and deep, failing to cushion her fall. It seemed she was returning from far away… her brain was foggy, without a ray of light. Only when she tried raising herself up on an elbow to ease the pain did she notice that she was lying on the ground, and at first she was merely surprised. But when she saw the bed and the dead man on it, her memory returned like a flash.
She jumped to her feet. Everything that had happened came back to her, clearly and in minute detail. It was all so unexpected, so troubling, right up to the discovery of the body on her bed, something that had been truly terrifying for her. But through some strange twist of fate—as if by collapsing in a faint she’d reached rock bottom, both physically and mentally—she was regenerated, regaining her sangfroid and her customary energy.
She sensed danger and traps all around her, and the awareness reawakened her fighting instinct, the impulse to protect herself. The sight of Anna Sage in the showroom had initially frightened her, but then convinced her to flee the showroom and take refuge in her own room. It had been childish, that escape, since to all appearances Anna had come solely to see and be seen. But Cristiana had then discovered the body of Valerio—in her room, on her bed.
He meant nothing to her. Just a loyal servant she’d met in Naples on her return from America. She’d taken him with her to Milan when he was barely more than a boy, and the young man was now twenty. He’d always been, for her, a loyal drudge, the slave she used for everything she had to do in secret. Her secrets… Just as when she’d first seen the body and fainted, her lips twisted in disgust, and a bitter taste rose to her throat. Her secrets… One needed them in order to live, no? And they’d poisoned her very life when she was starting out.
She looked at the dead man. Loyal drudge? She pursed her mouth in a tragic, cruel smile. How and why had he been brought to her bed? She recalled the sight of Anna Sage’s face. Next to her there’d been another face, but behind an evanescent cloud of fog, its features confused and blurry. A man’s face, the face of a man she’d loved and whom to all intents and purposes she still loved, even though he’d poisoned the very roots of her life. Had he come back to get her, to keep her, never to leave her again until death parted them? She shivered. Death had already entered her house; it was there beside her. Why in her bed? She knew that the police would be asking the same question before long. The judge, the inquest… and she’d left America because she didn’t want to face the police! Yes, before long someone else would be asking: Why is the body in that bed? They’d question, rummage around, search. Above all, search. She’d have to be quick.
She walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. It was built in, and reasonably deep. She turned to glance at the door, which was still open. What if someone came in? Well, she’d have to risk it. No use wasting time closing the door. Besides, there was that body in her room. She couldn’t shut herself up with that corpse lying there.
She pushed the clothes aside and climbed into the wardrobe. Reaching up, she felt around for a red lacquer box, a precious box with a rounded cover that sat on a beam jutting out from the wall. It was generally a good hiding place, but she knew from experience that the police always look inside wardrobes. In Cleveland they’d done just that, but they hadn’t found anything, because Russell was too crafty to hide deeds or money in the house. She pushed her clothes back and closed the wardrobe door.
Cristiana held the box against her breast—the red lacquer was darker and shinier than her silk dress—and walked resolutely towards the other wall. She knelt by the hearth. A small electric stove stood between andirons surrounded by wood to give the impression of a real fire that had died out; there were radiators in that room as well in as the rest of the house. She pulled it towards her. There was a recess in the wall that stretched under floor level by about twenty centimetres: Cristiana put the box in the recess, covered it with a few pieces of wood and replaced the electric stove. She stood up. She had to act now, but how?
She had no time to think; the sound of the lift stopping at that floor made her jump. Someone was coming. She sat in a chair next to the door, far from the body, and collapsed. Quick steps echoed over the black and white tiles.
Prospero and Marta appeared at the door. Cristiana looked at them, her eyes blank, and let out a short sigh which sounded more like a sob. She held out her arm in the direction of the body.
“Valerio, Valerio… Someone’s killed him.”
Prospero, a black skittle with an ivory head, ran over to the bed, blinking rapidly. Marta hesitated momentarily. What did one do with someone who’s fainted? Cold water? Smelling salts? Someone had told her you have to bend the patient’s head down to make the blood run to it. She went to Cristiana and took her pulse; she certainly couldn’t turn her over and let her head hang down.
“How do you feel, Signora?”
Cristiana looked at her dreamily.
“Why did someone kill that young man?”
“Be brave, Signora! It may have been an accident.”
Prospero O’Lary’s voice sounded agitated.
“It was no accident! He’s really been strangled!” The little man bounced back from the bedside to the middle of the room.
“We must tell the police!”
Marta trembled. Cristiana closed her eyes.
“Do it now, Mr O’Lary,” she murmured, opening her eyes. Only then did she see, sharply and clearly, an orchid on the chest of drawers. She hadn’t noticed it before. And she certainly wasn’t the one who’d put it in the small crystal vase.