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 eyed 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 myfather. 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.”
