Brewster shrugged. “Fewer to nick things, most like. He trusted Gian and this cove.” He gestured with his fingers to the cook, who glanced up.
I approached the cook, who quickly bent his head over his task. The noodles went onto a plate then he rolled out another round of dough.
“Have you worked here long?”
The man shook his head without looking up. “I have not the English.”
I took a chance and addressed him in Spanish, speaking carefully. The man gazed at me in puzzlement a moment, then answered, very slowly, in Italian.
Five years. No, no assistant. The conte ate very little and almost never had guests for supper. Gian sometimes helped get the food in. No one else. It was an easy place.
“Did you see anyone the night he died?”
The cook scowled. He brought his knife down, point first, into the wood of the table. “No. I go home. I sleep. I did not kill him. Why should I? He paid well.”
“Are you sure no one came before you departed?”
The man was finished with me. “No. You go now.” He snatched up the knife and waved it at me, not really threatening, but in frustration.
“’Ere, enough of that,” Brewster rumbled.
He spoke English, but the cook understood his gist. He saidperdonami,laid down his knife, and went back to rolling his dough. He formed the cylinder once more and lifted the knife again but only to quickly slice off the noodles.
It looked like the beginning of a tasty meal. I’d love to sit and sample his cuisine, but the man was angry, not liking foreigners questioning him in his kitchen.
“Where will you go now?” I asked in painstaking Spanish.
“Go?” He glared at me. “I stay here. Cook for Gian. He is master now.”
For how long? I wondered. De Luca might have left all his goods to Gian, but I imagined the conte’s cousin would want Gian out of the house and might even contest the will.
The cook obviously did not wish to discuss the matter further. He would have to contend with the conte’s cousin when he came calling, and I wished the best for him.
I thanked the man profusely. He finally nodded but turned his back and began rummaging in baskets for produce—bright carrots, white potatoes, and beautiful greens. De Luca had certainly had money to spend on provisions.
I drifted to the doorway, wondering if Brewster would join me, but he slurped his beer, seemingly content. If he could cajole more information from the cook, I would leave him to it.
I returned above stairs and climbed higher through the house. The police hadn’t reached the rooms above the ground floor—these chambers held the same quiet splendor that I’d seen when de Luca had first admitted us.
On impulse, I stepped into one of the salons. A long settee reposed under a window draped in silk. A tall writing stand on slender, gilded legs rested opposite it, with a gold ink pot and pen holder arrayed on its top. Next to this desk, against the painted wall, was a cabinet holding artfully shaped glass and objects I recognized as ancient—a bronze drinking vessel, a clay lamp, and a set of jewelry, delicate and intricate gold. Nothing worth a fortune in their material alone, but the historic and artistic value must be high.
This was a showpiece of a room. Another slim chair sat next to the cabinet, placed so that a sitter could observe and admire what was on display. The half dozen sconces on the walls would light this room well in the evening.
And yet, the cook had told me the conte had few visitors. Who were all these arrangements for?
I doubted that what Denis searched for—a list holding all his agents throughout the Continent—would be here, but I could not be certain. I began a search, opening the drawers of the writing stand then the doors of the cabinet to see if anything had been hidden among or under the shelves.
I found nothing there but more valuable objects.
A door in this room led to the next one. The ceiling soared high in this chamber, which must have originally been a large drawing room, or even a ballroom. Arches framed the ceiling, forming a semi dome. Painted clouds floated above me, along with a scene of angels chasing away a lone and very evil-looking demon.
I’d seen such depictions in houses in England, which often managed to be overdone or insipid—very pink angels with too many draperies—but this was softly toned with real faces and true expressions. I’d seen such art before, and I highly suspected it had been done by Caravaggio or someone he’d trained.
I had a look through this room as well, but I found nothing that resembled documents or notes.
The rest of the rooms on this floor were similarly grand and also yielded no more information. I wondered if an inventory existed for de Luca’s collection, and if Trevisan and Denis were correct that de Luca and his family had stolen most of these things, or at least obtained them illicitly.
De Luca had been so open about his treasures, declaring they’d been in the family for decades and that even Bonaparte had not been able to grab them. De Luca had been a canny man if he’d convinced the headstrong emperor to trust him.
