She looked at her teacup, picked it up but did not drink. ‘I think that was all Antonio needed. A reason to hurt someone. Or worse.’ There was a faint clink as she set her cup back in the saucer.
‘Did he say anything to your husband?’
‘No, nothing. And I’m sure Maurizio must have thought that was the end of it.’
‘He didn’t tell you about the conversation?’ Brunetti asked, and at her confusion, explained, ‘Your husband, that is.’
Her astonishment was complete. ‘No, of course not. He doesn’t know I know anything about it.’ Then, in a much slower, softer voice, ‘That’s what this is all about.’
‘I see,’ was the only thing Brunetti could think of to say, though it seemed as if he was seeing less and less.
‘Then, some months later, the dentist was killed. Maurizio and I were in America when it happened, but we heard about it when we got home. The police from Dolo came to ask us about it, but when Maurizio told them we had been in America, they went away.’ He thought she was finished, but then she added, in a different voice, ‘And the wife.’
She closed her eyes and said nothing for a long time. Brunetti finished his tea and poured them both some more.
‘It was Antonio, of course,’ she said conversationally.
Of course, thought Brunetti. ‘Did he tell your husband what he’d done?’ he asked, wondering if this was going to become a tale of blackmail, and that was why she had come to the Questura to speak to him.
‘No. He told me. He called and asked to come and see me — I don’t even remember what the excuse was. He said he was one of my husband’s business associates’ — she said the words with malice. ‘I told him to come to the apartment. And he told me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘What had happened. That Maurizio, at least according to him — Antonio, that is — had made it clear what he wanted to be done, and Antonio had done it.’ She looked at him, and he had the feeling she had said everything she had to say and was waiting for him to comment. ‘But that’s impossible,’ she added, trying to sound convinced.
Brunetti let some time pass and then asked, ‘Did you believe him?’
‘That Antonio had killed him?’
‘Yes.’
Just as she was about to answer, the high-pitched noise of a child’s delight flew in from the campo, and her eyes turned towards it. Not looking at Brunetti, she said, ‘It’s strange: that was the first time I saw Antonio, but it never occurred to me to doubt him.’
‘Did you believe that your husband asked him to do it?’
If Brunetti had expected her to be shocked by his question, he was disappointed. If she sounded anything, it was tired. ‘No. Maurizio couldn’t have done that,’ she said in a voice that tried to stave off doubt or discussion.
She turned her eyes back to Brunetti. ‘The most he could have done was talk about it; there’s no other way they could have known, is there?’ Her voice was painful to hear as she asked, ‘How else would Antonio have known the dentist’s name?’ She waited for some time, then said, ‘But Maurizio, no matter how much he might want it to happen, would not ask him do something like that.’
Brunetti said only, ‘I see. Did he say anything else when he came to see you?’
‘He told me that he was certain Maurizio would not want me to know about it. He started by suggesting that Maurizio had asked them to do it directly, but when he saw — Antonio was not stupid, you have to understand — that I couldn’t believe that, he changed the story and said that it might have been no more than a suggestion but that Maurizio had given them the name. I remember: he asked me if I thought there was any other reason Maurizio would have given them the name.’ Brunetti thought she had finished, but then she added, ‘And the wife.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted me, Commissario,’ she said in a voice that had a savage edge to it. ‘I knew him for two years, and I know he was a man with. .’ She left the phrase hanging while she searched for the suitable words. ‘With unpleasant tastes.’ When Brunetti did not respond to the use of those words, she added, ‘Like Tarquin’s son, Commissario. Like Tarquin’s son.’
‘Did Terrasini threaten to call the police?’ Brunetti wondered, though that seemed unlikely, especially since he would be confessing to murder if he did.
‘Oh, no, nothing like that. He told me he was sure that my husband would not want me to know what he had done. No man, he said, would want his wife to know that.’ She turned her head to one side, and Brunetti noticed how tight the skin on her neck was. ‘He argued that Maurizio was responsible for what happened.’ She shook her head. ‘Antonio was not stupid, as I said.’ Then, soberly, ‘He went to Catholic schools. Jesuits.’
‘And so?’ Brunetti asked.
‘And so to keep Maurizio from learning that I knew what had happened, Antonio suggested that he and I come to an accommodation. That was his word: “accommodation”.’
‘Like Tarquin’s son with Lucrezia?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Exactly,’ she answered, sounding very tired. ‘If I agreed to the terms of this accommodation, then Maurizio would never learn that I knew he had told these people about the dentist or that he had given Antonio the idea to do — well — to do what he did. And the name.’ She put both hands on the sides of the teapot as if they had grown suddenly cold.
‘And so?’ Brunetti asked.
‘And so, to save my husband’s honour. .’ she began and when she saw his response, said, ‘Yes, Commissario, his honour, and to let him continue to believe that I respected and loved him — which I do, and did, and shall always do — well, I had one way to ensure that.’ She removed her hands from the warmth of the teapot and folded then neatly on the table in front of her.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said.
She drank more of her tea, thirstily, without bothering to add honey. ‘Do you find that strange?’
‘I’m not sure “strange” is the right word, Signora,’ Brunetti said evasively.
‘I would do anything to save my husband’s honour, Commissario, even if he had told them to do it,’ she said so fiercely that two women sitting at a table near the door turned to look at them.
‘In Australia, Maurizio was with me all the time. He was at the hospital all day, every day, then in my room when they would let him in. He left his businesses to run themselves and stayed with me. His son called and told him he had to come back, but he stayed with me. He held my hand and he cleaned me when I was sick.’ Her voice was low, passionate.
‘And then, when it was all over, after all the operations, he still loved me.’ Her eyes wandered away, off to the Antipodes. ‘The first time I saw myself, I had to go into the bathroom in the hospital to do it: there was no mirror in my room. Maurizio had had them all taken out, and at first, when the bandages came off, I didn’t give it a thought. But then I did begin to think about it and I asked him why there was no mirror.’
She laughed, low and musical; a beautiful sound. ‘And he told me he had never noticed, that maybe they didn’t have mirrors in hospital rooms in Australia. That night, after he was gone, I went down the corridor into the bathroom. And I saw this,’ she said, waving a hand under her chin.
She propped one elbow on the table and pressed three fingers against her mouth, staring off at that distant mirror. ‘It was horrible. To see that face and not be able to smile or frown or do anything with it, really.’ She took the fingers away. ‘And in the beginning it was a shock to see the way people looked at me. They couldn’t help it: they’d see this and a look of dull shock would appear on their faces, and then, a moment later, I’d see the puritanical disapproval, no matter how hard they tried to disguise or hide it. “La super liftata”,’ she said and he heard the rage in her voice. ‘I know what I’m called.’