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September 19th

“She fooled you all right, PC Brouard — Mrs. Ensor doesn’t smoke. Fortunately she got safely back, and we know where she went because of how she got back. On a Ducati. We’ve also had her destination confirmed by the taxi driver.”

The morning sun filtered in through the windows of the crowded incident room at Hospital Lane. The place was full and there was electricity in the air, which had something to do with the sensational nature of the investigation and more to do with the anticipated arrival of Chief Officer Hanley at any moment, and the real possibility of a clash of personalities between Moretti and the head of the forensics crew, Jimmy Le Poidevin.

Jimmy Le Poidevin was a heavy-set man in his forties, short of both fuse and stature, given to bombast. His outbursts were usually because he objected to having his forensic conclusions and insights questioned by anyone, and because he tended to step out of his own field of expertise and interpret the medical evidence. Although Moretti knew this was tempting because there was no coroner on the island, he always attempted to rein in Le Poidevin’s flights of forensic fancy.

Most officers at Hospital Lane tended to back off and leave him alone because he was good at his job, but Moretti saw that as no reason not to push from time to time. And Le Poidevin, being an emotionally volatile extrovert himself, had assumed that Moretti’s customary reserve hid a docile and acquiescent nature. Discovering in one spectacular confrontation that he was wrong did not stop him repeating the behaviour.

Moretti transferred his attention from the mortified PC Brouard to Liz Falla, who was sitting beside him, her notepad open on the table in front of her. “DC Falla’s inquiries confirm that Gilbert Ensor took a taxi to the manor at about eleven-thirty, and the driver dropped him near the trailers used by the film crew.”

“Yes.” Liz Falla took over, and Moretti was again aware of the depth of her voice. “The driver says he was, I quote, ‘Full of himself and on and on about himself.’ He doesn’t seem to have said anything too specific about what he was up to, but the driver got the impression he was meeting a woman. When I asked him why he said, ‘You don’t get in the state he was in about a bloke.’”

There was a ripple of laughter in the room, quickly suppressed as Moretti held up his hand. “Because of the large number of people involved in this film project and the number of alibis and statements we have to check, I have Chief Officer Hanley’s permission to get some extra help. My main concern is that information we have withheld stays that way, which is why I have called this meeting. The second dagger, for instance. Go on, DC Falla.”

From under her notebook Liz Falla pulled a handful of papers. “These are printouts of various Internet websites selling daggers of all kinds. The one used in the Albarosa murder, and the hotel patio and costume incidents, is a copy of a seventeenth-century Italian dagger in the Wallace Collection in London — almost. It is described as ‘designed for the thrust and is often viewed as the favorite of assassins,’ and it looks as if the attacker had these specially made for him, or her. The dagger in the Ensor murder is the genuine article, carried by some members of the Hitler Youth in the war, and that gets trickier. Not everyone selling something like this is that keen on publicizing it. I’ve checked with the Underground Hospital, the Occupation Museum, and La Valette Museum, and there’s nothing missing from their display cases. Nor has anyone made inquiries about purchasing a similar dagger. I was reminded more than once that there may be others in private hands on the island.” Liz Falla turned to Moretti, who took over.

“Apart from the fact that DC Falla had to make inquiries about the Hitler Youth dagger, we have withheld that information and I want it to stay that way. As you know, the murder of Gilbert Ensor has attracted attention, and we have a few members of the mainland press on the island. Now, PC Brouard, a chance to redeem yourself — you’re a computer buff, I’m told, so I’m giving you the task of going through every site you can find, anything you can find, about daggers made to order. Possibly in Italy.”

Moretti picked up Liz Falla’s papers and held them out to a stunned PC Brouard, who took them without comment.

“PC Roberts, PC Le Mesurier, PC Clarkson — divide up all the statements between you and go through them with a fine-tooth comb. What are you looking for you’re going to ask me, right? The answer is — I don’t know. There are dozens of people without alibis because both murders took place at night. But watch out for inconsistencies, discrepancies, stories that seem too pat, or stories that seem too alike. Okay, Jimmy,” The tension in the room went up, “go over the basic nuts and bolts stuff from the murder scenes — similarities, differences, that sort of thing.”

Jimmy Le Poidevin raised an eyebrow. “You want me to tell you what you already know, Moretti? We’ve been over this, and you got my report, didn’t you?”

Moretti smiled. His smile made Liz Falla think of an old children’s fable in some book she’d had as a child. Something about a crocodile smiling. “Humour me, Jimmy. Perhaps it will suddenly transmogrify into new and important revelations.”

“Well, for a start, there’s little similarity between the two crime scenes, for all that both murder weapons are daggers.”

“Go on,” said Moretti.

“First of all, the Albarosa death looks like it was either accidental or opportunistic and — either by luck or good management — it was quick and clean. The Ensor murder, on the other hand, is clearly premeditated — I mean, it must be, mustn’t it, or else how did they both get down there in the first place? And whoever did it must have underestimated the victim, because he fought for his life the length of that corridor to where we found him. We’re still waiting for the final results, but the P.E.H. medics are of the opinion it was death by vagal inhibition.”

Here we go, thought Moretti.

“In layman’s terms, he died of fright — like suffocation, really.” Jimmy Le Poidevin turned and faced the assembled officers, as if he were in a lecture hall. “The vagus nerve sends a signal to the brain that makes the heart stop beating. Mind you, he’d have bled to death in the end, anyway — he had one hell of a slash in the belly. Time of death is estimated at between midnight and two a.m.”

“I thought they were getting a second opinion on that,” observed Moretti quietly. Jimmy Le Poidevin turned away from his audience.

“P.E.H. think they can take care of it themselves,” he said, his face reddening.

“Then I’ll talk to them myself. What I want from you are the forensic details from the two crime scenes —”

“Nuts and bolts, I know. I’m sure most of the officers here have no need of a frigging forensic kindergarten class” — a dramatic pause — “even if you do, Moretti.”

The crocodile smile again. “Don’t tell us, Jimmy. Show us. You say Ensor fought his way along the length of the passage. How do you know that? Coded messages written in the dirt? Second sight? A voice from beyond the grave? Give us a frigging forensic kindergarten class, Jimmy. That’s what you’re here for.”

“Jesus Christ!” The red in Le Poidevin’s face had deepened to an ugly purple. “Don’t tell me what I’m here for, you arrogant bastard!”

The door opened, and Chief Officer Hanley joined them. He surveyed Moretti, Jimmy Le Poidevin, and the assembled staff with a melancholy sweep of the eyes.

“Good morning.”

There was a muttered ripple of “good morning, sir”s around the room, and silence fell as everyone waited for him to speak.

“I trust I didn’t hear what I just heard,” he said, fixing his chief forensic officer and Moretti with the gloomy stare of one who knew only too well what he had just heard. “We have enough problems to be going on with without pitched battles between senior officers. But I’ll deal with this another time, not in public in the incident room. DI Moretti — you have, I trust, explained just how — stalled, this investigation is. We need results, and we need them fast, or we will have Scotland Yard here before you can say —” Here, Hanley himself stalled, and Moretti bit his tongue on filling in “— eagle-eyed, sir?”

“— Bob’s your uncle,” Hanley continued. “So, on the principle that six or seven heads are better than one —” this with a reproachful glance at Moretti, “— I have given DI Moretti some extra help. I realize it may be too much to ask, but it would be most welcome if some sort of advance could be made before my scheduled holidays. Now, are there any questions?”

“Sir,” PC Clarkson had his hand up first, “this second dagger — do you think this has anything to do with the Occupation?”

“It certainly opens up that particular can of worms,” Moretti replied.

“Then, shouldn’t we ask questions locally — I mean, wouldn’t it help?”

“We may have to do that eventually. But not right now.”

“Surely, Moretti, we must now accept the fact that there may well be a Guernsey connection?” asked the chief officer, his irritation barely concealed, to Jimmy Le Poidevin’s undisguised relish. “I’m reluctant to do so, but I feel we should be exploring local possibilities in the light of this last weapon. Old enmities, and all that.”

“Possibly, sir, but I’d rather hold on to that information a bit longer.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed suit. “I have arranged to speak to the film director this morning — if you’ll excuse me, sir.”

Outside in the corridor, Liz Falla exploded — a sotto voce explosion. “What a prat — just because the murderer was selfish enough to endanger Mrs. Hanley’s holiday in Torremolinos or whatever — sorry, Guv, but what a wally!”

“That’s enough, Falla. He’s not the only wally in this station, but he’s right about one thing,” said Moretti. “What he said about old enmities — he’s got that right.”

“So you think this might have a Guernsey connection then?”

“No, I don’t. But I want to keep quiet about the dagger that killed Ensor, because you never know. I’ve got to cover all bases, but I still believe it’s a red herring. That’s why Hanley and PC Clarkson and the others in there —” Moretti jabbed his thumb in the direction of the incident room door, “are on a wild Guernsey goose chase, looking busy and keeping the chief officer happy.”

The dying man lay on the dirt floor, life ebbing slowly from him. He was young, in his mid-twenties, slightly built, his nimbus of blond hair in stark contrast to the cloud of dark hair around the agonized face of the girl who cradled him in her arms. Suddenly, with what was left of his strength, he raised his face to hers and kissed her, then fell back.

“No!” The girl’s frantic cry echoed in the silence.

The camera crept in noiselessly to catch the agony in Clifford Wesley’s eyes, the blood caked on his clothing, as the boom of the mike was lowered to pick up his final words.

“Cosa fatta, capo ha.”

A thing once done has an end.

“Cut!”

Mario Bianchi turned and looked at Monty Lord, who stood beside him. There were tears in his eyes, slowly spilling over onto his cheeks.

“Magnifico.”

A brief spattering of applause from the assembled crew dissipated the tension, bringing everyone back into the present.

Clifford Wesley got up from the ground and gave Vittoria Salviati a hug.

“Terrific, Vicky. One take and we gave it to ’em.”

“What Mario wanted, si.”

Mario Bianchi’s well-known preference for the immediate reaction, his dislike of repeated takes for scenes of emotional intensity, put tremendous pressure on his actors, and Wesley, with his stage experience, was at an advantage over Salviati. There was no doubt, he mused, as he allowed the dresser to peel his blood-soaked shirt off him, that Gunter was right. The murder of Toni had opened some emotional floodgate in the beautiful body and limited mind of Vittoria.

Well, it’s an ill wind, he thought. She may have lost a lover, but found her centre. Who knows?

And who cares? he added to himself. With that scene in the can, I can get out of here. Take the money and run, before the arrival of this extra character dreamed up by Mario. Rumour had it that they were casting an Italian soap star, and Clifford Wesley smiled to himself as he imagined what Gilbert Ensor’s reaction would have been. He’d have gone ballistic, no question. Shame, really, that particular scene would not be played out. He used to enjoy Gil’s histrionics. They reminded him of his father inveighing drunkenly against the fates in his penniless Liverpool childhood, with a luxuriance of language and epithet intensified by hardship and deprivation.

Pulling on the dressing gown offered by the wardrobe assistant, Clifford Wesley retrieved his glasses and started to make his way across the tangle of cords and leads that brought life to the cameras and lights. Monty and Mario were deep in some sort of confabulation together and, from what he could hear, the discussion was not friendly.

Second time in two days, he thought. I’m well out of this.

Outside his trailer, he saw the lean figure of the detective inspector, waiting for him.

“Mr. Wesley?”

“That’s me. You want to talk to me? Come on in.”

He ushered Moretti over the threshold into an extremely untidy space, filled with discarded garments, glasses, newspapers, and books.

“Sorry about the mess, but I can’t stand having strangers mucking about with my belongings. I prefer to wallow in my own filth.” Wesley pushed a pile of magazines off a chair and motioned to Moretti to sit down.

“Now, how can I help you? I’ve nothing to add to my original statement. The body count continues to go up, eh?”

“Indeed. I understand this is your last day.”

“Too bloody right it is. Thank God.”

“Does your feeling have anything to do with the changes? Do they affect your own role, or its prominence in the film?”

“Prominence!” Clifford Wesley laughed with what sounded to Moretti like genuine amusement. “Look — Detective Inspector, isn’t it? — let me explain something to you. I’m twenty-eight years old and I stumbled into this business by accident while I was at university on scholarship, living hand to mouth. I spent four years in repertory theatre, making peanuts, absolutely no money, and then some agent sees me in a play in the middle of nowhere and next thing I know I’m in the West End, and the next thing I know I’m in Rastrellamento making more money than my dad made in his whole working life. It’s a hell of a role, and apart from cutting it out altogether, there’s little they can do to alter that. By the time I’ve finished with them there won’t be a dry eye or a dry seat in the house. Fuck the schoolteacher. Fuck prominence. I’ll take the money and run, thank you.”

“Schoolteacher?”

“That’s the newest addition.”

“I see. I’d like to find out more from your point of view about some of the circumstances surrounding the making of Rastrellamento.”

“Happy to help if I can. Gil was a bastard to his wife, but he was a hell of a writer.”

“In my opinion also. Why then do you think they were making all these changes?”

“This is my first film, Detective Inspector, but I know this kind of thing happens all the time, or so Gunter tells me. However, you have to hope in this case that Mario’s decisions are being dictated by his cinematic skills and not by little packets of white powder. You know about that, I imagine. Some of the changes don’t make sense.”

“Really? Then I wonder why Monty Lord would agree to them?”

“That’s another reason I’m glad to be leaving. All is not sweetness and light any more between those two, and they used to be thick as thieves.”

“Oh?” Moretti watched as Clifford Wesley got up from his chair and went across to a counter at one end of the trailer.

“No. Over the last day or so they’ve had words, hot and heavy ones. Want some?” He was holding up a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. When Moretti declined, he grinned. “Didn’t think you would. As Gunter says, I have depraved tastes. Can’t get used to the real stuff.”

The young actor plugged in the kettle and, when the water had heated, put a spoonful of brown powder into the mug and added water. A malodorous smell filled the trailer. Two heaping spoonsful of sugar and a similar amount of powdered creamer were added to the mix, and Wesley returned to his seat. After a couple of sips he said, “They had a loud argument the day before yesterday, in Monty’s trailer. I’d been over to Betty Chesler’s lodge for a fitting and was coming back to the manor when I heard raised voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and not being that interested I just kept on my merry way. Besides, they were speaking in Italian.”

“You’re sure it was Monty Lord and Mario Bianchi?”

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“Did you hear anything at all that might have given you any idea what it was about? Had anything happened in the last few days that might have caused an argument?”

“The only thing I could think of was the new character. The schoolteacher.”

“How did you find out, and were you told anything about the new character?”

“Piero Bonini told me. He said Monty was concerned I’d be worried about my impact in the film, so I asked him — should I be worried? He laughed it off, saying they’d be crazy to alter the tragedy of the two lovers in any way. My opinion exactly.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wesley.” Moretti stood up. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your coffee in peace. I shall look forward to seeing you in Rastrellamento. Don’t get up — I’ll see myself out.”

“Oh —” Clifford Wesley gestured toward Moretti with his coffee mug, “you asked me if I knew anything about the new character. All I know is they’ve apparently cast some big Italian soap star in the role. A bloke called Tibor Stanjo, or something.”

“Stanjo? That doesn’t sound Italian. Or British, or German, come to that.”

“Nope. Slovak originally, so Bella tells me. Probably cast him for his mass appeal, and for no more sinister reason.”

“Sinister? That’s an interesting choice of word, sir.”

Clifford Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “Isn’t it. Possibly all those fake feldgendarmen and repubblichini getting to me. That’s the trouble with this business, Detective Inspector, illusion becomes more real than reality itself. Probably also my imagination that Donatella and Monty are no longer as chummy as they once were — a certain coolness there now, in the last twenty-four hours. Breakfast this morning was a frosty affair.”

“Interesting. Did you get any impression of who was angry with whom?”

“Donatella was icy and giving a fawning Monty the cold shoulder. For what it’s worth, I’ve never believed there was ever really anything going on between those two — she enjoyed the admiration, and he was making sure his bread remained buttered.”

“A wise move, I would think. Thank you again.”

“Hey, don’t mention it. I tell you, they’re a colourful lot, these Vannonis. Even the murders on their property are exotic — do you know the writer, Jan Morris? Yes? She’s written some lovely stuff about Florence.” Clifford Wesley took off his glasses and put down his empty coffee mug. “If there is crime, it is gorgeous crime, all daggers and secret poisons.” His beautiful actor’s voice filled the trailer. “A romantic, foreigner’s view, wouldn’t you say? Twenty-first-century Florentines seem like a practical bunch to me.”

“An original viewpoint, sir. Safe journey home, Mr. Wesley.”

“Safer than staying around here appears to be. Good luck, Detective Inspector.”

I’ll need it, thought Moretti. A piece of sheer, utter luck. Clifford Wesley was right, there was something fake or stagey about the murder weapon. A dagger. Now why in the name of all that’s sacred, or profane, would a Vannoni attract attention by choosing part of their own coat of arms as an instrument of death?

“Guv!”

Liz Falla was walking even more briskly than usual toward him from the direction of the manor. Given the current stagnant state of the investigation, her eager-beaverness was more than welcome.

“Any luck?”

“Oh yes. Guess who’s the head gardener!”

“An ex-boyfriend.”

“Right!” Apparently unaware of any satirical subtext, Liz Falla continued. “Brad Duquemin. We used to go out together when we were still at school, so I haven’t seen him in years. He’s been here now just over a year, and he’s got the housekeeper in his pocket, so he says — well, he’s a good-looking bloke. Got a way with words, among other things. They have a little tipple in the evening before he goes home, and she’s told him quite a lot about the family.”

“Such as?”

“No, the marchesa is not having an affair with Mr. Lord. Yes, most people knew about Miss Salviati and Mr. Albarosa. And — get this, Guv — Giulia Vannoni isn’t a Vannoni!”

“Isn’t?”

“Not by blood. In the housekeeper’s opinion, that’s why she’s what she calls ‘different.’ Interesting, eh?”

“Very. Did she explain who she is if she’s not a Vannoni?”

“No, or not that he could understand — there’s a problem with the language. Oh, and she told Brad there was a fight between Mr. Albarosa and the marchesa on the night of his murder. He asked her if it was about Vittoria Salviati and she laughed and said something like ‘too many, too many,’ which Brad took to mean that kind of thing happened all the time. But she said something that sounded like ‘tradition’ — tradimento, he thinks. She said it more than once.”

“Tradimento,” said Moretti slowly. “Not tradition, Falla. Betrayal.”

“And she also kept on about honour — he understood that. So he asked her if it wasn’t to do with a woman, what was it? And she said —” Liz Falla paused for effect, “‘With an esterno for the film.’”

“Did she mean ‘location’?”

“That’s what Brad thinks. Because when he said he didn’t understand, she said ‘house.’ And that’s when she dried up. Tapped the side of her nose, said ‘basta,’ got up and left.”

“Good work, Falla. This is all useful stuff. There’s just one problem — well, there’s a whole slew of them but the one that keeps hitting me is that the Vannonis may think a deep, dark family secret is at the back of these murders and be terrified of exposure. And that the damn thing, whatever it is, has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Liz Falla looked at him. “One thing they — well, some of the fellers at the station — told me when I was to be your partner, Guv. They said, ‘He’s got the best instincts of any of the DIs. Never puts a foot wrong when he trusts them.’ I don’t know about you, but I personally am going to trust them if that’s all right with you.”

Before Moretti could respond to her revelation about the fellers at Hospital Lane, Liz Falla pulled out her notebook. “About the bunker key in the marchesa’s bedroom — her door isn’t always locked, even with some of the film people staying. One of the cleaning ladies was around, and she says they can usually get in without asking the housekeeper. And I had a word with the head of security, as you asked. Mr. Ensor’s arrival by taxi was noted by one of the security staff, who saw him near the entrance to the bunker. He offered to escort him to the manor and was told to bugger off — Ensor’s words. The guard watched him walk as far as that path that leads to the entrance and, as he thought, turn toward the terrace. Since he knew there was a regular patrol in that area, he decided to do exactly what Ensor had suggested.”

“And he saw no one else?”

“No. Of that he’s sure.”

Moretti looked at his watch. “We’re still too early for Bianchi. Come on, Falla, let’s take another look at the scene of the crime.”

The SOC tapes were still across the entrance to the bunker, but the police guard and the incident van had been removed from the immediate vicinity and placed at the main gate to the manor. Moretti took the key obtained from the marchesa out of his pocket and turned it in the lock. The damp and moisture seeped out immediately, and he felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Behind him he heard Liz Falla shiver.

“First, the film set.”

“Lights, Guv?”

“They leave one by the door — here — it’s been fingerprinted.”

“There wasn’t a key on him, was there?”

Their hushed voices echoed around them.

“No. He must have been let in, or the key was removed by the murderer.”

For Moretti, there was less a sense of a terrible past in that ersatz, reconstructed room than in the dank, collapsed tunnels, the brick-filled alcoves, the deserted, echoing corridors. The phone had been left on the floor, but the single shoe had been removed to the SOC lab.

“Perhaps he thought it was connected,” said Liz Falla, resisting the temptation to rub her eyes.

“Desperately hoped it was, I’m sure,” said Moretti, bending over to look at it. “He would have been sitting at the desk when he reached for it. I imagine this was where he hoped to have his rendezvous with whoever.” He looked at the bunk bed. Its grey blanket cover was smooth, unrumpled. “He didn’t get any farther than here, I think. As soon as he saw who it was coming in through the door, he knew he was in trouble.”

“How did he get past the murderer and out of the room?” asked Liz Falla. “The doorway’s quite narrow.” She reached up and touched the top of the opening.

“I’ve been thinking about that. There must have been some sort of discussion before the murderer tried to kill Ensor. He probably tried to reason with him or her — after all, words were his stock-in-trade — and the murderer was probably equally anxious to say why he was going to kill him. He or she may have come around the side of the desk to get at Ensor, who then took off around the other side, and out into the corridor. SOC found no signs of a struggle near the door, where Ensor would have been cornered, so he must have headed down the corridor.”

“Why? Surely he knew there was no way out?”

“Desperation? Or did he know about the tunnel that’s supposed to come out in the manor? Come on.”

The single shaft of light from the lamp peeled back a narrow central strip in the darkness along the corridor, and Liz Falla stumbled as she followed Moretti.

“Take my arm, Falla. This light’s not too good.” He felt Liz Falla’s grip on his elbow.

The beam wasn’t as strong as Moretti remembered from his visit with Monty Lord. Every few feet he swept the light to one side and the other, examining the entrances and alcoves in the walls. They stopped briefly by the ventilation shaft for some air.

“Where did SOC say the blood started, Guv?”

“Just about here — they marked it — there we are. This is where the murderer either caught up with him, or chose to start stabbing.”

Circles were chalked on the floor, some of them surviving the moisture that ran down the gutters and over the surface. Some moved in the direction of an entrance, or a recess in the wall.

“Like following a trail of breadcrumbs, isn’t it?” Moretti could hear a note of hysteria in his partner’s giggle.

“Much the same. Ensor left us a route map of the end of his existence with his lifeblood. You can see where he looked for a way out — the tunnel to the manor. And it takes us, of course, to the escape shaft.”

Moretti swung the beam to the right and together they lurched over the corroded rail tracks. Ahead of them lay the chalked outline of Gilbert Ensor’s body, indistinct, but still visible.

“And here we have the answer to one of the problems, Falla. How the murderer got away without being seen by anyone. Getting away from the scene of the crime is one of the most difficult of a murderer’s tasks, and this way there’s no need to risk the door.”

Above them loomed the iron ladder, rung upon rung, disappearing into the distant darkness beyond the beam of their light.

“Not out the door? Someone went up there, Guv?” Incredulously, Liz Falla looked up into the void.

At this point the light went out.

“Shit,” said Liz Falla, and sneezed. Her grip tightened on Moretti’s elbow.

“Okay, Falla — give me a moment.” Fumbling in his pocket, Moretti extracted the disposable lighter he had not yet disposed of.

“I didn’t know you smoked, Guv.”

“I’m supposed to be giving up, but I’ve not quite succeeded.”

“Thank God, is all I can say.”

Together they made their cautious way back through the noisome, dripping darkness and into the light outside.

Neither of them spoke for a moment as they refilled their lungs with fresh, clean air. Liz Falla looked at her watch.

“Just about time for the interview, Guv.”

“So it is,” said Moretti. “But first I want to take a look at the outside of that escape shaft. Mr. Bianchi can wait a moment for us — heaven knows he’s made us wait for him.”

The bank that covered the bunker was overgrown with holly bushes, honeysuckle, pennywort, and stinging nettles. A couple of elderberry bushes had grown into flourishing trees. Clearly this was one area of the well-tended property allowed to stay wild, and Moretti noticed that he and his partner left clear evidence of their progress.

“There it is,” said Liz Falla, pointing to the apex of the mound.

The escape shaft was well concealed by the plants and grasses, and would have been as treacherous as Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole if it had not been covered by a solid piece of grating. Moretti bent down and pulled at it. It shifted in his hand.

“See — it’s been prised loose. And the plants around here have been trampled down by someone. Whoever it was came and went in that direction.”

They both stood up and looked toward the lake. Through the light mist that hovered over it they could see the naked torso of a green-blue woman, bathing in the water.

“A statue?”

“I hope so. She’s got no arms. We’ll go down that way, and take the path around the lake back to the house.”

They passed the woman dreaming in the lake, and the sight of her there, head bowed, motionless, flooded Moretti with a morbid awareness of his own impermanence.