‘So think about the ways they differed.’
‘What?’
‘Just do it!’
Nino closed his eyes to concentrate. ‘Seraphina was married, and pregnant—’
‘With a child that wasn’t her husband’s.’
‘Yeah. Sally Egan was single, childless and promiscuous. Harriet Forbes was single, childless and gay.’ He opened his eyes and turned to Gaspare, thinking aloud. ‘What if our killer’s judging them like Vespucci would have done?’
‘Go on.’
‘Then he’d see them as adulteress, whore, deviant.’
‘What’s missing?’
‘Happily married?’
Gaspare shook his head impatiently. ‘No, that wouldn’t be immoral! He’s copying the Italian, he thinks the victims are all whores, so what else would he consider immoral? Don’t think about it as we do now, think about it as it was in the past. What would have been judged immoral then?’
Sitting down, Nino thought back over everything he’d discovered, then nodded.
‘She’s a mistress. A woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband—’
‘Yes, that would make sense!’
‘Our next victim’s a kept woman, Gaspare. Bought and paid for.’ His excitement rose. ‘She’s young, she has a job, she’s white, and she’s someone’s mistress. And unless I find her, she’s only got seven days left to live.’
55
Norfolk, 25 December
It was uncharitably cold as Nino arrived in Norfolk and headed for Courtford Hall, parking the car outside the gates and walking up to the house. Ice crackled under his feet and the imposing front door was bleached with frost as he lifted the knocker and rapped loudly.
It was Christmas Day, but there was no sign of it – no festive wreath, no tree, no decorations or lights, and when a lamp went on inside it shone disconsolately through the glass bullseye in the door. Finally there was a shuffle of feet, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back, and suddenly Nino was face to face with Sir Harold Greyly.
‘What?’ he asked, his tone slurred, his usual composure giving way to the demeanour of a drunk. ‘What d’you want?’ He blinked, standing up straight and staring at Nino as he pointed to his head. ‘I know you. You’re the man with all that white hair. You came here before …’ He was holding a glass in his hand, tilting it so that some of the whisky dripped on to the flagstone floor.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure, sure,’ Greyly said, too drunk to remember their previous acrimony.
Nudging Nino’s back, he pushed him towards the sitting room, a fire banked high in the grate, fruitwood logs smelling of summer. But the walls were bare of cards or any other ornament and several dirty plates lay by the fire. Sir Harold Greyly had eaten, obviously, but not cleared up, the same fork pressed into service for every meal.
‘Happy Christmas. It is Christmas Day, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it’s Christmas Day.’
‘You got nowhere to go?’ he asked, his speech haphazard as he gestured to the drinks cupboard. ‘Fancy a tipple?’
Surprised, Nino shook his head. Was Harold Greyly really so drunk that he couldn’t remember what had happened when they last met?
‘Are you on your own?’
‘All on my own,’ Greyly snorted. ‘Christmas and all on my own. My wife and I – we had a fight you see …’
‘No staff here either?’
‘I gave them Christmas off,’ Greyly replied, smiling at his own largesse. ‘I didn’t need them anyway.’
He poured himself another drink and flopped into an armchair. At his feet, the springer spaniels shuffled about for room, finally curling up again closer to the fire. The wood crackled, sparks shooting up the chimney, the logs piled precariously high.
‘My wife left me. Said she hated me … Up and went. Kids all grown up, so now there’s no one left. ’Cept me,’ Greyly droned on, narrowing his eyes at Nino. ‘What did you come for?’
‘Now?’
‘Now, and back then. I know you’ve been here before, but I can’t remember why.’
Sighing, he slopped some of the booze on to his shirt and brushed it away. Despite the fire, the temperature in the room was chill, due to a draught coming from under the doorway which led into another room. A draught which suggested an open door beyond. Wary, Nino glanced around him, his gaze coming to rest on the drinks trolley. There were five bottles of whisky, three empty – and beside them was another glass which had been used recently.
‘You’ve had company?’
Greyly belched, patting his stomach, and pointed to a photograph of his wife and two sons. ‘They’ve gone—’
‘When?’
‘A week ago.’
‘Why did they go?’
‘Apparently I’m a pig. Come from a long line of pigs. Pig family. Only I’m a titled pig … A swine with a gong …’ Greyly replied insanely, slurring his words. But although he was drunk there was something else about him. Drugged? Nino wondered. Was he on drugs?
‘Are you ill?’
‘Pissed.’
‘Apart from that,’ Nino pressed him. ‘Have you been ill?’
Galvanised, Greyly leant forward in his chair, staring at Nino. ‘You came to the house with Hester – I remember now! She was a nosy old bat, but kind. She brought you here—’
‘That’s right.’
Greyly slumped back in his seat. ‘Hester’s dead now.’
‘I know – she fell.’
To Nino’s surprise, Greyly put his index finger to his lips, jerking his head towards the closed door.
Following has gaze, Nino glanced over. The draught still snaked from underneath. It was too cold, he realised – too cold for the temperature of a house. Someone had left the back door open. Someone who had left in a hurry. Someone who had watched him arrive and didn’t want to be seen.
‘Who’s been here?’
‘No one …’ Harold replied, picking at the corner of his left eye.
By his feet the dogs snuffled and shifted around in their sleep, the room morose and unwelcoming as Greyly carried on drinking. Nino could feel the cold slithering around him. Silently, he moved towards the door.
But as he reached it, Greyly shook his head.
‘No!’
Nino paused, turning back to him. ‘Who’s in there?’
‘No one.’
‘There are two used glasses, so you must have had company. You might still have company. Who is it?’
Teetering to his feet, Greyly grabbed Nino’s arm. His expression was fearful – even his drunkenness couldn’t disguise that.
‘There’s no one here. Sit down and have a drink with me.’ His grip increased on Nino’s arm. Even inebriated, he was very strong. ‘Sit with me! I’ve no one else. Fuck them all! I’ve no one left and it’s Christmas. I don’t like fucking Christmas anyway, all that posturing about. All that lord of the manor stuff.’ He burped acidly. ‘My wife’s wrecked everything, you know. All families have secrets – all families. But no, she couldn’t live with it. Cow …’ He dragged Nino away from the door, pushing him into the seat next to his. His condition was deteriorating rapidly, his attention wavering. It wasn’t just alcohol – there was something else. ‘You came to the house with Hester.’
‘Yes, I did,’ Nino agreed, leaning towards him. ‘And she wrote a letter to me, about Claudia. Claudia Moroni.’
Greyly’s eyes were half closed, the glass tilted, whisky dribbling on to the front of his trousers.
Taking the glass from him, Nino shook his shoulder. ‘Listen to me! I want to talk about Claudia Moroni.’
‘She’s dead too …’
‘I know,’ Nino replied, ‘but you remember her story, don’t you? Hester wrote and told me about her. About what happened to Claudia, why she had to leave England.’ He shook Greyly again, trying to regain his attention. ‘She was an ancestor of yours, and she was killed in Venice.’
His eyes widened, fixed on Nino, suddenly alert. ‘Venice?’