“How were they going to save you?” Kendra tried again. “How were they going to clean your blood?”
“Sposa son disprezzata. . .Fida, son oltraggiata . . . Cieli che feci mai?”
“Where did they give you treatments?”
“Cieli che feci mai?. . ..E pur egl′è il mio cor . . . Il mio sposo.”
Kendra struggled to contain her frustration. “Who tried to save you, Isabella? Give me a name.”
“I told you.” Isabella’s eyes fluttered shut. “Vivaldi and the saints.”
Saints. “How many saints, Isabella?”
She smiled but didn’t open her eyes. “The heavens are filled with saints. Bianca, are you there?”
“Sì,cara.” Mrs. Chirone touched her sister’s hand.
“I’m so very tired,” Isabella whispered. “So very cold.”
“Go to sleep,cara. Rest now.”
Kendra watched tears gather in Mrs. Chirone’s eyes as she leaned over to smooth the quilt. Isabella was already slipping into slumber. After a moment, Mrs. Chirone straightened, lifting her watery gaze to Kendra.
“She cannot help you, Lady Sutcliffe,” she said quietly, moving to the door.
In the hallway, Mrs. Chirone fished a handkerchief out of her sleeve, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose.
“She didn’t mention anything to you about being treated for syphilis before . . . ?”Before disease rotted her brain and insanity took over?
“No. I wasn’t aware Isabella was sick until recently.” She sniffed and blew her nose again. “We grew apart when she joined the theater troupe. She always wanted to be an opera singer. She dreamed of performing at the Teatro alla Scala and dazzling Europe with her voice. I think . . . I think there was a time when she might have accomplished it too.”
They fell silent as they descended the staircase.
“Thank you, Mrs. Chirone,” Kendra said when they reached the bottom. “I know this has been difficult for you. I appreciate you letting me talk to her.”
“I’m only sorry you didn’t learn anything, Lady Sutcliffe.”
She was wrong, Kendra thought, stepping outside. Isabella had confirmed her suspicions when she’d spoken of the saints—plural.
The killer had at least two partners.
Chapter 36
The Duke contemplated Kendra across the dining room table where he’d joined her and Alec for a late lunch. “You think there’s been a conspiracy to commit murder? Because Isabella spoke to you about Vivaldi and the saints? My dear, the creature’s mind is hardly sound.”
Kendra speared a boiled potato. “It’s about seeing the world through Isabella’s eyes. She wanted to be an opera singer and seems to have idolized Vivaldi. It’s not too much of a stretch to have her look at the group’s leader as a composer like Vivaldi.”
“And the saints are his followers?” murmured the Duke. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“We’ve got a leader and at least two others. Maybe three. Four—if Thornton was part of the group or loosely connected.”
The Duke’s blue eyes took on a grayish cast that indicated he was disturbed. “Or more. Who knows how many are part of this conspiracy?”
“She’s going to quote her fellow countryman, Benjamin Franklin,” Alec warned, and smiled crookedly at Kendra.
“It holds. The group has to be limited to only a few trusted individuals to remain a secret. Otherwise, you open yourself up to that human failing that Lady St. James relies on—gossip.”
“Transfusions are a crime,” the Duke reminded her. “They’re hardly going to gossip about that.”
