Trevisan must have been devastated. I could imagine his anguish, his fear that he’d lost his entire family, his grief when his daughter was taken from him. He’d had no sons, I recalled Proietti telling me, only a daughter. I hadn’t realized the daughter had been killed, and I inferred Proietti did not know this either.
“No wonder Trevisan became estranged from his wife,” I said. “Poor lady.”
“Tragedy can bring a family closer together, or it can break them apart,” Donata said softly.
The Austrians had regained Lombardy five years ago, combining it with the Veneto to create the Venetian-Lombard state. Trevisan did not seem to be a man who’d bow his head to the Hapsburgs. His daughter’s death and the constant change in political fortunes might be the entire reason he’d relocated to Rome.
“The contessa has taken in Gisela to replace her granddaughter,” I speculated. “No,replaceis the wrong word. To console herself.”
“I agree,” Donata said. “She is a woman in pain. She must have loved her granddaughter very much. She will support her son’s plans in order to keep Gisela with her.”
When Trevisan and his mother had first seen Gisela, they must have been strongly reminded of the young woman they had lost, and both been drawn to her. They’d have realized that Gisela wasnottheir daughter and granddaughter, but they must have glimpsed in her the girl that had been taken from them. A man could fall to pieces over a woman for many reasons.
“I do have sympathy,” Grenville said. “But Conte Trevisan has been heavy-handed about it. The gossips of Rome’s elite filled me in on the entire affair. They are scandalized that he has simply taken over the girl, but they enjoy the chance to gawp at him. Trevisan has given them much entertainment.”
“At the Proietti family’s expense,” I said. “And I have had no satisfactory explanation about why Trevisan is so insistent that I discover what happened to Conte de Luca. What is that connection?”
“That, I assume, we will discover as we continue to inventory the house.” Grenville said. “I am happy that both Signor Baldini and Signor Proietti will assist us. Perhaps we can get through the lot much faster.” He opened his hands, which was for Grenville a gesture of despair. “I am beginning to be baffled by this whole business. Surely Gian must have committed the crime. He stands to gain much if he is correct that de Luca willed his entire collection to him. De Luca trusted Gian, from what I observed. He’d have turned away without worry from his own son, fearing nothing.”
“Perhaps.” I’d had the ghost of an idea as I’d listened to the soprano tonight, though I needed time to think it through.
My greatest obstruction to learning the truth was deciding the reason why anyone who had access to the house would kill de Luca. Gian, of course, would inherit the priceless collection, but would he have murdered his father in so obvious and open a fashion? He’d be the first suspected, and indeed, he was even now in jail.
The cook had also had the opportunity. He was easily angered, and perhaps de Luca had said the wrong thing to him at the wrong time.
Why, then, had the cook turned up as usual the next morning? Why not flee rather than tamely wait to be arrested?
I hoped Bartholomew could find time to interview the maid and the neighbors. Someone must have seensomething, or perhaps the maid had coshed de Luca when he’d made inappropriate advances.
Then there was the cousin, who’d not yet turned up—I would have to inquire about his whereabouts. Had the man been anywhere near Rome? Of course, he could have sent a confederate to do the deed, but how would that confederate have gained the house and made de Luca turn an unsuspecting back?
Then again, as Grenville had once stated, anyone in Rome could have murdered de Luca. The house was not well guarded, de Luca had been home alone, and a determined thief could have broken in. I made a note to ask Brewster how difficult it would be to gain entrance to the house, but I had the feeling it would not have been a monumental task.
The rest of the short ride was spent in silent contemplation, and I enjoyed Donata’s warmth beside me, her hand on my arm.
We reached home and said our goodnights. Grenville, used to being up all hours, retired to his study. I expected Donata to return to her letters, but she followed me into my bedchamber, waving off her maid Jacinthe.
Bartholomew, who’d have been alerted by the arriving carriage, was ready with my night things. I dismissed him, perfectly able to undress myself, and closed the door, shutting out the world.
I expected that Donata and I would further discuss the Trevisans. Instead, Donata came to me and unbuttoned my coat and waistcoat, then proceeded to valet me. I became her lady’s maid, and soon I had blown out the last candle, closing the curtains around our bed to shut us into a dark, private world that contained only the two of us.
In the morning,I left Donata sleeping, fetched Brewster and Grenville, and returned to de Luca’s to continue our inventory. On our way we passed the Basilica Sant’Andrea della Fratte, where Trevisan had listened to a concert the night of de Luca’s death. I studied its rather plain façade, which had given Trevisan an alibi for de Luca’s murder, but not, Proietti had been quick to point out, Proietti himself.
We arrived first, before our promised help, the police guards once more admitting us. Grenville and I continued with Brewster’s method of listing the goods as we went, and we retreated to our parts of the house to work.
I found another painting, a miniature this time, on which I again asked for Grenville’s opinion.
“Holbein,” he said. “The Younger. I’m certain of it.”
I touched the young woman with hair smoothed by a thick headband, her telltale Holbein features gazing serenely out at me.
“If it is genuine, where should it be?” I asked.
Grenville raised his quizzing glass to peer at it once more. “This one, I am not sure. But I am acquainted with a German prince who collects Holbein miniatures. He often badgers the Regent—excuse me, His Majesty—for pieces from his collection. Not successfully, I will add. Our new king likes to hold on to what he acquires.”
“Perhaps you can write to your German prince friend to ask him.”
The fact that Grenville could casually mention royal acquaintances with no intention at all of boasting both amused and amazed me. I often imagined that Grenville could stroll up to the emperor of China and say,Good afternoon, old thing,and the emperor would spring to his feet in joy to wring his hand.
