The Rainaldi Quartet Read online

  ‘You found his body? That must have been awful.’

  ‘Less so than your own shock on hearing of his death, I’m sure,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know him. I met him only for the first time yesterday. You have my sincere condolences, signora.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I suppose it was a shock. Not so much his death – he must have been nearly eighty – as the manner of it. The police were very reticent on the phone. How exactly did he die?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure the police really know yet.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t find out. But it was murder?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  She grimaced. ‘They want me to identify the body. I’m not sure how I’ll cope with that.’ She looked around the room again. ‘I can’t believe this place. Is the rest of the house like this?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is somewhat rundown,’ I replied.

  ‘It must be – what? – fifteen years since I was last here. But it was nothing like this. What on earth happened?’

  It wasn’t a question I could answer. Nor did I have to make an attempt for at that moment Spadina came back into the room. He shook hands with Margherita.

  ‘Signora, they told me you were here. Thank you for coming, and so swiftly.’

  ‘It was the least I could do,’ Margherita replied.

  Spadina noticed her suitcase. ‘You came straight here? Where are you staying?’

  Margherita shrugged. ‘I haven’t booked anywhere. I didn’t think about hotels. I just threw some things in a bag and jumped on the first train I could get. I’ll find somewhere, I suppose.’

  ‘The pensione where I’m staying has rooms vacant, I believe,’ I said. ‘It’s not very luxurious, but it’s clean. Would you like me to take you there? It’s not far.’

  She smiled at me. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ She turned to Spadina, a look of anxiety on her face. ‘My uncle’s body, is it … still here?’

  Spadina shook his head. ‘It’s been taken to the morgue.’

  ‘When do you want me to identify it?’

  ‘There’s no immediate hurry. Go to your pensione and settle in. Someone will come and pick you up in – shall we say an hour?’

  I carried Margherita’s suitcase to the pensione for her. She tried to refuse my offer, but I had to insist; a gallant gesture for which I paid the price with a sore hand and aching shoulder. But I didn’t regret it for an instant. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that carrying luggage is a man’s work. The proprietor of the pensione found her a room on the floor above mine and I saw no more of her until half past seven when – showered and changed and waiting for Guastafeste to return – I answered a knock on my door. Margherita was outside, quite obviously in a state of some distress.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said.

  ‘Come in, please.’ I stepped back to let her enter. ‘It must have been an ordeal for you.’

  She gave me a momentary blank look, then shook her head, understanding my meaning.

  ‘No, it’s not that. Not the morgue. That was over very quickly. No, it’s something else.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ I said, directing her to the chair by the window.

  ‘No, I won’t stay. This is a terrible imposition. I’m sorry, I know this sounds very silly, but I don’t know what to do. A man’s been calling me. Three times since I got back. He’s downstairs in the foyer now. He says he wants to see me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About my uncle’s violin collection. He wants to – “discuss terms” was how he put it.’

  I was outraged. ‘Discuss terms? My God, who is he?’

  ‘He said he was a dealer.’

  ‘A dealer?’ I knew who it was before she said his name.

  ‘Serafin, I think he said. Something Serafin.’

  ‘I’ll take care of him,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know how he found out I was here. I mean, it’s absurd. I know nothing about my uncle’s collection. I’m his next of kin – his only kin, in fact – but that doesn’t mean I inherit his estate. What should I do? I daren’t go out in case he accosts me.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You go back to your room. I’ll handle him.’

  She looked at me doubtfully. ‘I don’t want you to get into any kind of trouble. He was quite aggressive on the phone.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask him to step outside or anything. I’m a little old – and far too sensible – for that.’

  I went downstairs to the foyer, reining in my anger. Serafin was sitting in a wicker armchair near the reception desk, plump and immaculate in a dark grey suit and pink silk tie. He started in surprise when he saw me.

  ‘Gianni! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same thing.’

  He waved a hand dismissively in the air. ‘Oh, you know. Business.’

  I sat down in the chair next to him. ‘How did you know Forlani’s niece was here?’

  ‘His niece?’ Serafin said evasively.

  I knew him well enough to hazard a guess. ‘You’ve been to his house, haven’t you? Did the police tell you? How much did it cost you?’

  Serafin smirked, unable to resist telling me how clever he’d been. ‘I slipped the poliziotto on the door fifty euros. I really wanted to get inside to check out the collection, but he was wise to that, wouldn’t let me past. He mentioned the niece arriving though, gave me the name of this pensione.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to see you, Vincenzo.’

  ‘How do you…’ He stopped. ‘You’ve spoken to her? You know her?’ His eyes narrowed, staring at me suspiciously. ‘You’re not trying to steal a march on me, are you?’

  If I’d been younger, and more inclined to violence, I would have punched him on the nose. Instead, I said icily: ‘Don’t impute your own base motives to others.’

  He was taken aback. ‘That’s rather harsh. I’m doing her a favour. She could make a lot of money out of this.’

  ‘Have you no sensitivity?’ I said, though I knew it was a silly question. Serafin had had a sensitivity by-pass operation at birth. ‘She’s just lost her uncle. Couldn’t you have waited before coming touting for trade?’

  ‘What, and let someone else sneak in before me? Believe me, as soon as word of Forlani’s death gets around, every dealer in the world will be beating a path to her door. All I want to do is have a chat with her, get my offer in first.’

  Serafin stroked his beard, smoothing the hairs over his jawline as if they were the finest sable. He was particular about his beard, the only man I knew who called in at his barber’s on the way to work each morning to have his whiskers groomed – the edges clipped, any traces of grey touched up with dye. He looked away across the foyer, then back at me. I recognised the devious gleam of cunning in his eyes.

  ‘Gianni, my friend,’ he said slyly. ‘If you have this woman’s confidence, perhaps you could have a word with her on my behalf? Persuade her to see me.’

  I stared at him incredulously. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? I have no intention of doing your dirty work for you.’

  ‘Dirty work?’ Serafin’s expression hardened. Then the real Serafin broke through, the man behind the avuncular façade. ‘Don’t be so self-righteous, Gianni. Never forget what I know about you.’ He leaned closer. ‘Did you see Forlani’s collection?’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Did you recognise any of his violins?’ Serafin continued. ‘A certain Guarneri “del Gesù”, for example? We don’t want that falling into the wrong hands, now do we? That might be dangerous for you.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Vincenzo. You were the one who sold it to him.’

  ‘And I want it back. I want the others too, the rest of Forlani’s collection. Remember that, Gianni.’

  Serafin pulled himself to his feet and felt in his jacket pocket, producing one of his business cards.

  ‘Give her my card, there’s a good fellow,’ he said, reverti
ng to his benign persona. ‘I’m staying overnight at the Gritti Palace Hotel.’

  I held the business card distastefully between my fingers while Serafin left the hotel. When he’d gone, I tore the card to shreds and dropped it in the bin by the reception desk.

  * * *

  I had dinner with Margherita that evening, at a small, family-run trattoria round the corner from our pensione that had been recommended by the guesthouse proprietor’s wife. It was only a short distance off one of the busiest thoroughfares between St Mark’s and the Accademia Bridge, but in Venice you can pass from bustling streets to deserted squares in the space of just a few metres. The trattoria was refreshingly quiet, its five or six tables occupied by diners who looked, and sounded, more like locals than tourists.

  It was just the two of us. Guastafeste had phoned shortly before eight o’clock to say that he was going to sit in on the Forlani autopsy with Spadina and would not be back until late. Reluctant to dine alone, and suspecting that Margherita might have had similar sentiments, I’d called her room and invited her to join me.

  ‘It was very kind of you to accept, signora,’ I said when we were seated at our table in the restaurant. ‘I hate eating out by myself.’

  ‘Please, call me Margherita.’

  ‘I’m Giovanni, but everyone calls me Gianni.’

  ‘I’m the one who should be thanking you,’ she said. ‘You saved me from a lonely, hungry evening in my room. There’s nothing worse for a woman than sitting alone in a restaurant. Everyone staring at you, wondering who’s stood you up.’

  ‘I’m sure no one would ever stand you up,’ I said.

  She gave me a dry look. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  She took out a pair of reading glasses from her shoulder-bag and studied the menu. She looked cooler, more composed than earlier. She’d changed into a pale blue blouse and dark trousers, no jewellery except a couple of gold stud earrings. Her hair was brushed, gleaming in the light from the candle on our table.

  ‘I’m very bad at this,’ she said, looking at me over her spectacles. ‘What shall we have?’

  ‘How hungry are you?’

  ‘Very. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, except for a couple of biscuits on the train. What do you think might be good?’

  ‘You want a starter?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The seafood is supposed to be good here. Or would you prefer pasta?’

  ‘I don’t mind. The ham looks tempting. Or maybe the artichokes. Or perhaps I should have a salad?’ She ran her hand through her hair, scraping it backwards with her fingers. ‘Oh, God, I hate having to make decisions.’ She glanced at me apologetically. ‘You know the joke about economists? You could lay every one in the world end to end and they still wouldn’t come to a conclusion.’

  I laughed. ‘You’re an economist?’

  ‘I teach economics. At the university in Milan. I’m a classroom economist. In theory I could run the Bank of Italy. In practice – like most of my students – I can’t even handle my own overdraft.’

  She tossed the menu down on to the table and folded away her glasses.

  ‘You decide, I’m too hungry to think.’

  I ordered for both of us – antipasto misto, seafood risotto and a bottle of chilled Soave. Margherita waited for the wine to arrive, then raised her glass to me.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ I said.

  ‘A whole list of things. For finding me a chair at my uncle’s house, for finding me somewhere to stay, for carrying my bag to the pensione, for inviting me out for dinner, for ordering the food … oh, yes, and for getting rid of that dreadful dealer for me.’

  ‘I fear your reprieve may only be temporary,’ I said. ‘Serafin is nothing if not persistent.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ I saw her expression change, a hint of mistrust creep into her eyes, and added hurriedly: ‘This isn’t some plot, I assure you. I’m not a dealer. This dinner isn’t a pretext for bludgeoning you with offers. I have absolutely no interest in your uncle’s violin collection. No financial interest anyway. You believe me, don’t you?’

  Her face relaxed. ‘Yes, I believe you.’

  ‘I know Serafin through my work, that’s all.’ I told her what I did for a living. Then I told her more fully what I was doing in Venice, about Rainaldi, about Guastafeste. She stared at me.

  ‘My God, someone else was murdered? Your friend. You must be reeling.’

  ‘I’ve had less turbulent times,’ I said phlegmatically.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gianni. I’m stunned. What can I say? You must be in shock. Was he a close friend?’

  ‘We grew up together. Played the violin together for more than fifty years. Yes, we were close. He was a very old, very dear friend.’

  I heard my voice start to crack a little and took a sip of my wine. Margherita reached across the table and touched the back of my hand lightly with her fingers. A brief, fleeting touch of sympathy, perhaps of empathy, for she too had lost someone.

  I looked away. The waiter – a young boy I assumed was the proprietor’s son – was approaching our table. I let him serve our starters and withdraw before I said: ‘Were you close to your uncle?’

  ‘Not really,’ Margherita replied. ‘I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in years. Or rather, he hadn’t seen or spoken to me. He fell out with my father – his younger brother – a long time ago. He cut us all off, refused to speak to my father. He had no quarrel with me, but you know how it is, I was my father’s daughter and therefore tainted.’

  ‘What was the quarrel about?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know for sure. It seems strange, doesn’t it? Something so serious and yet I don’t really know what it was.’

  ‘Perhaps not so strange,’ I said. ‘People fall out over all manner of ridiculous things. Often very trivial.’

  ‘Uncle Enrico wasn’t the easiest man to get on with. He was stubborn, obsessive, suspicious. He never married, lived all alone in that vast house after my grandfather died. He nursed all kinds of grievances, some maybe real, most, I suspect, imagined. And he got worse as he got older.’ She spiked a piece of tomato on her fork and slipped it into her mouth.

  ‘He certainly seemed a little eccentric when I met him yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘I think it was the violins that did it in the end. Money, I suppose. Uncle Enrico – being the eldest – inherited the bulk of my grandfather’s estate. My father always resented that. It infuriated him that Enrico spent so much money on violins. Squandered so much money was how he saw it. My father thought it was wasteful and self-indulgent. Families are messy, aren’t they? Blood’s thicker than water, but it turns bad more easily.’

  ‘You had no contact with your uncle at all?’

  ‘I used to send him Christmas cards, but he never replied. Perhaps I should have made more of an effort. Come and seen him, even though I know he’d probably have closed the door in my face. When I saw his house this afternoon – the state of it, the dirt, the smell – I felt guilty. Guilty for neglecting him.’

  ‘The way he lived wasn’t your fault. It was his violins that made him happy. Everything else was an irrelevance.’

  ‘Perhaps so. If that dealer – Serafin, was it? – only knew our family history, he’d realise how unlikely it is that I’ll inherit my uncle’s collection. He’s probably left it to a museum somewhere.’

  I ate my antipasto, thinking about my visit to Forlani’s vault, that room full of glass cases. At the time it had felt like a mausoleum for dead violins. Now Forlani was gone it seemed even more like a tomb. I hoped that perhaps the instruments might be resurrected from their air-conditioned grave, given a new life in the outside world where their music might be heard again. Yet I couldn’t help having misgivings. The Spohr Guarneri ‘del Gesù’ would inevitably come out into the open. It would be examined by experts, by dealers, auctioneers, subjected to the kind of intense scrutiny it had so far avoided. Did I really want that?<
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  ‘But let’s not dwell on my uncle,’ Margherita said, forcing a weak smile. ‘Tell me about your violins. My grandson’s interested in learning the violin, you know.’

  ‘You have grandchildren?’

  ‘Three. Stefano is six. Is that too young to start?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘He’ll need a small instrument, of course. He’s not a very big boy. Are they hard to find?’

  ‘He’ll probably need a quarter size,’ I said. ‘No, they aren’t difficult to obtain. Is he in Milan too?’

  ‘Yes. All my grandchildren are nearby.’

  ‘You’re lucky. Mine are further away than I would like. And your husband? He couldn’t come with you?’

  ‘My ex-husband,’ Margherita said. ‘We divorced four years ago.’

  ‘Ah.’ I refrained from saying more. With divorce it’s always difficult to know whether to offer your congratulations or your condolences.

  ‘And your wife?’ she asked.

  ‘She died six years ago.’

  A shadow passed across her face.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  I picked up the bottle of Soave to cover the uncomfortable silence that followed.

  ‘Have some more wine. How is your antipasto?’ I said.

  I didn’t want to talk about Caterina. At that particular moment, having dinner with another woman, it didn’t seem right.

  * * *

  I’d been back in my room for only ten minutes when there was a knock on the door and I heard Guastafeste’s voice outside.

  ‘Gianni, are you awake?’

  I pulled open the door to let him in.

  ‘You weren’t in bed?’ he said.

  ‘No, I haven’t been back long. How was the autopsy?’

  Guastafeste sat down in the chair near the window, his legs splayed, his arms dangling down limply. He rubbed his eyes. He looked very tired.

  ‘Inconclusive,’ he said, yawning. ‘We’ve established the cause of death. It was what I thought. Forlani severed the artery in his left wrist when he crashed through the glass display case. He basically bled to death.’

  ‘That sounds pretty conclusive,’ I said.