“Not at all. She is in quite good health but low spirits. Mourning the daughter she lost, though I see that news is not a surprise.”
“Conte Trevisan’s mother told my wife the story,” I explained. “How Trevisan’s wife and daughter were run down in the street in Milan.”
“Yes, it was sad, and I quite sympathize. His wife has not recovered from this, nor do I believe she will. My friends say she is angry she has survived and that her body has healed.”
“A sad state,” I said with compassion.
“I also learned she knows full well what the conte is doing. He writes her every day, it seems. She declares he knows what he is about.”
I listened in surprise. A man writing his wife every day did not indicate he was tiring of her. By all accounts, Trevisan had done nothing untoward with Gisela—she was not his lover, at least not yet. Gisela herself had been shocked that anyone should imply so. It was all very strange.
“Do you know if Trevisan’s wife knew Conte de Luca?” I asked. “Trevisan is very interested in him.”
“My friends mentioned nothing of this,” Signora Proietti said. “They had heard of Conte de Luca’s death, as he was almost as well known in Venice as he is here. But I am afraid they said it was what happened in a violent city like Rome.” She smiled a little, a woman amused at her friends’ misperceptions.
The maid returned with coffee, which she set out with competence. Once the maid had departed, Signora Proietti poured coffee in demitasse cups for us all.
Our saucers also each bore a little cake, which Proietti dunked into his coffee before eating. I did the same, and found a spicy, delicate biscuit, complemented by the flavor of the coffee. Excellent.
Proietti turned to his wife. “I am hoping now that you are home, Lucia, we can persuade Gisela to return to us.”
Signora Proietti’s eyes dimmed. “I believe we might not prevail, Alessandro. The Trevisans are powerful, and Gisela, from what she writes to me, is happy. I will hope that Trevisan’s wife puts a stop to all this soon, and when she does, we will welcome Gisela home.”
“That we will.” Proietti’s voice grew sad, and he drew a breath. “But we must not trouble the captain and Mr. Grenville with our difficulties. They have been finding unusual things at de Luca’s house, have you not? No one is certain who killed him, either. An interesting problem.”
I took the cue to change the subject. Without betraying too much about our speculations on the collection, we told Signora Proietti about some of the odd things we’d found in the back room.
“Conte de Luca did travel widely,” Signora Proietti said. “Was famous for it. But how did he move such large pieces into the house without anyone knowing? Neighbors in Rome are inquisitive, Captain. We cannot mind our own business.”
She made a very good point. De Luca’s house was relatively isolated behind its gate, but at the same time, people would notice large wagons full of massive statues being unloaded into the courtyard. They’d stare and discuss it, even if it happened in the middle of the night. I had to wonder how de Luca had hidden them away with no one being the wiser.
We chatted a while longer, then Grenville and I departed. Proietti reminded us he’d promised to help, but I waved him off. His wife’s arrival took precedence, and he seemed happy to remain with her.
“The downstairs is pleased the mistress is home,” Brewster said as we walked back toward de Luca’s house. “They’re certain she’ll put everything right, and that the young miss will come back without fuss.”
“We shall see,” I said. “The Trevisans are certainly an eccentric family, though tragedy can mar one.”
“It can indeed,” Grenville agreed. “De Luca was yet another eccentric, if a more congenial one. I am itching to get at those papers. I take it you hesitate to trust Baldini with them, Lacey.”
“Yet, I don’t know why,” I said. “He is a scholar, with a scholar’s curiosity. His is also quite disapproving of treasure hunters, not to mention kings who take whatever they fancy.”
“Unless he fancies them for himself,” Brewster said.
“True, but does he strike you as a thief?” I asked him.
“Naw.” Brewster tugged his hat straight in the lightly falling rain. “He’s more the sort that would wag his finger at a robber and probably get knifed for his pains.”
I had to agree. “He did seem very interested in the ledgers, though.”
“I put ’em where he won’t find ’em,” Brewster assured us. “Trust me, guv.”
I did. Brewster knew how to hide things he wanted no one to find.
By the time we reached de Luca’s, the sun was fading, late winter darkness nearing. Baldini was still there, fervently writing up what he’d found in the back chamber. He was using a large book from a shelf as a desk.
“Ah.” He raised his gaze from where he hunched over. “There you are. I have found Michelangelo’s head.”
As alarming as that sounded, he reached down and lifted a lump of stone with the beginnings of a face in it.
