“Thepolice.” The word was a growl. “Do you know what they say about the patrollers who protect Rome from the bandits in the hills? That they are no different from the bandits themselves. They take money to look the other way.”
I recalled the men who’d surrounded me when the police commander had tried to detain me. They’d not looked civilized, it was true.
From what I’d heard of the justice system in the Papal States, the police could arrest and detain a man without trial for a long time. The idea was that the fear of being thrown into the cells for weeks would deter crime. Only the most heinous of cases came before a jury and judge. Trials were costly, Grenville had explained to me, and so avoided as much as possible.
“Would you mind if I looked over where he was found?” I asked. To Gian’s skepticism, I added, “I might be able to discover what happened. To ease your mind. Or at least make certain the police don’t arrest you.”
“How would knowing ease me, sir?” Gian asked, but more in sorrow than anger. “He gave me everything. Now he is gone.”
He exuded misery, and I ceased asking my questions.
Gian, shoulders slumped, motioned us to follow him. He took us down the stairs to the main part of the house, leading us to a sitting room on the ground floor.
The room was no less cluttered, though things had been arranged more for display instead of a jumble of objects. Shelves held gold and silver items, porcelain, ivory, and boxes encrusted with semiprecious stones. Tapestries hung on the walls, their fine work and sheen attesting to their age and value.
I appreciated Gian’s dilemma—unless he had a well-ordered catalog of all these things, how could he know if anything was missing?
“I found him there.” Gian pointed with a sweep of his arm to the space before two chairs that had been set next to each other. De Luca’s body was no longer there, but a small, dark patch stained the tile floor, where scrubbing had not removed all the blood.
“Was he facedown?”
Gian nodded, a scowl creasing his face. “Yes, the coward struck him from behind. The back of his neck was crushed.” He flinched as he said the words.
“I am sorry,” I said. “It was cruel. Perhaps I can help bring whoever it was to justice.”
“How can you?” Gian’s scowl deepened. “There will be no justice, even if you find the person. A man can be executed for stealing a bauble in Rome, but a murderer escapes more often than not.”
I had heard such things spoken of at Lord Matthew’s house, during the conversation before I’d met de Luca. The Stanbridges had said much the same thing. Crimes involving property seemed to be more important than the death of a person.
While Brewster studied the goods on the shelves and tables, I pictured the scene. De Luca had turned in surprise when whoever it was had broken into the room—or had he? Likewise, the chamber was neat, almost painfully tidy in spite of the many objects within it. A burglar would steal what he could lay hands on—there was plenty of choice—and flee. Even if he’d been startled by de Luca and struck him down, he’d have left with something, which Gian would have noticed gone.
Another explanation was that de Luca had admitted a visitor into the house, who’d had no intention of stealing anything, and invited him, or her, into this room. This would explain why the doors were unlocked but the locks not broken. The killer had calmly departed, closing the door and gate behind them, but not being able to lock them.
“Had de Luca fought?” I asked. “Were his hands bruised, or did he look as though he’d struggled? Anything knocked over, out of place?”
“No.” Gian’s anger mounted. “The terrible man must have waited until de Luca turned his back, then struck him down.” He spat a word I did not know.
If de Luca hadn’t fought, then he most certainly had known his attacker. He’d trusted whoever it was enough to lead them into a comfortable room and turn his back on them. He’d been a robust gentleman, and he’d have tried to deter the killer if he’d believed he was in danger.
That de Luca had been killed with an object from his beloved collection was an irony I did not like to contemplate.
“What did you do when you found him?” I asked Gian.
“I prayed for him.” Gian’s face was taut. “I prayed for his immortal soul, and then I vowed I’d eviscerate whoever did this.”
“I don’t knowhow you’re going to find out anything with this one, guv,” Brewster said half an hour later as we walked from de Luca’s house back toward ours.
The night had deepened, and with it came the bandits Gian had mentioned. I saw shadows flitter in the side lanes and was glad of Brewster near me. He scanned the streets as we walked, on the lookout for danger.
“I feel I owe it to de Luca,” I said.
I carried the alabaster Cupid under my arm, the piece wrapped in a leather sack. Gian had insisted I take it with me.
“He were a jovial bloke,” Brewster said. “Quick to make a friend of a cove. Probably was his downfall. He invited you and Mr. Grenville to his rooms readily enough. Who knows how many others he has? He liked to show off his loot, didn’t he?”
Brewster had a point. De Luca had modestly laughed about his overflowing collection, yet at the same time, he’d been eager to reveal it to us. He’d obviously had trusted the wrong person at the wrong time.
“I believe it was someone de Luca knew already and who was familiar with his house,” I said. “He waited until Gian’s day out, obviously wanting de Luca to be alone.”
