We stood up with astonishment and watched the ceiling swaying under the vigorous footsteps of Signora Minutti.
“We seem to have come at a bad time,” said Holmes.
Indeed. The widow of the murdered factory owner literally stormed upon us from the stairs. She was small and thin, dressed in a simple black dress and dark shoes. She wagged her finger in our noses and showered us with insults, which thankfully we did not understand. But she soon switched to English.
“How dare you bother me at this time? And with such a request? My husband would never allow the business to be sold and I shall respect his wishes! It will stay in the family. His death does not change anything!”
We did not have the faintest idea what she was talking about. Then something broke in her, her eyes turned glassy, and she fought back tears.
“I shall not discuss it further. Tell your boss too! Why are you standing here? Go!”
“But we...,” said the detective, trying in vain to stop her. She did not give him the opportunity to speak.
“Out! Do not come back!” she cried angrily, pointing a bony finger at the door of the palace.
There was nothing to do. There was no way to reason with such rage and despair. We could only hope to have the opportunity to visit her under more favourable circumstances.
“Signora Teresa, allow me to escort the gentlemen out,” said an elegantly dressed man, who had quietly entered the drawing room.
“Please, Luigi, get them out of my sight as quickly as possible,” said the widow, turning her back to us.
Her shoulders trembling, Signora Minutti poured herself a glass of water, while the man politely, but unsmilingly, led us out.
Like all Italians he was not particularly big, though his well-tailored coat concealed an athletic figure. His swarthy lightly shaven face shone with manly energy, his dark eyes seemed to notice every detail.
He led us out onto the steps to the canal, where the boatman was waiting. We wanted to board immediately, but the man stopped Holmes.
“Have you gone mad?” he barked at us.
The detective was taken aback and looked at the young man with confusion.
“Pardon me?” he asked coldly, but with renewed interested. “Who are you to talk thus?”
“I am the secretary of the Minutti family, Luigi Pascuale,” he said haughtily.
“And this gives you the right to treat us so?”
Pascuale frowned and followed us down the steps to the boat. He took care to ensure that the tips of his expensive well-shined shoes did not touch the water.
“Nobody can hear us here, there is no need to play games,” he said angrily. “I clearly told His Lordship to wait! I do not understand why he sent you straight here and just a few days after the funeral. He ought to be aware that it is to no purpose.”
Holmes kept a poker face, despite the fact that a moment ago he had no idea why he was being yelled at. But he let Pascuale continue. The people for whom he seemed to have mistaken us for could provide an interesting and illuminating clue.
“Haste will not help us, we need time,” said Pascuale. “Come see me tomorrow afternoon at the factory; I will be expecting you at three o’clock. Now go quickly and tell your boss that he does not have to check up on me. I will arrange everything as we agreed. There’s no way back anyway.”
“No indeed,” said Holmes. “We will be there; we wanted to see the factory anyway.”
“Of course,” Pascuale nodded in a conciliatory manner and even helped us into the boat. It swayed, and as the boatman pushed off the waves lapped hungrily at Pascuale’s luxurious shoes.
The secretary cursed and jumped back. He polished the shoe with a handkerchief and disappeared from our view, while we joined the other vessels and drifted away. There was a moment of silence, disturbed only by the sound of the oars hitting the waves.
“Holmes, what just happened?”
“Signora Minutti has apparently mistaken us for an emissary of a British enterprise that is interested in acquiring Minutti’s factory. This is important information. Judging by the manner in which she received us she clearly wants to prevent foreigners from taking control of her husband’s business. This corresponds with Mycroft’s fears.”
“What do you make of that awful secretary? What a fop!”
“Mr Pascuale plays a crucial role, Watson! Indeed, he has just admitted that he is working for both sides. He must persuade Mrs Minutti of the necessity of selling.”
“Do you think he had a hand in the murder?”
“I cannot say, but I hope we will learn more after our little excursion tomorrow night.”
The significance of these words hit me hard.
“We have to figure it out at all costs. If Minutti’s factory were to fall into the wrong hands, and should the same appear to be happening to Bollinger, it would be a catastrophe.”
“I am aware of that,” said Holmes, frowning. He fixed his gaze on the murky waters of the canal.
We drifted onwards between the carefree vessels with their smiling passengers, planning our next steps in the investigation and slowly heading to the one possible solution.
The Island of Death awaited us.
The island of San Michele received its grisly moniker at the start of the nineteenth century, when it became the city cemetery.
Although it is located on the Venetian shores, it is separated from the city lagoons by nearly a thousand feet of water. It was briefly used as a jail, but now the island again merely served as a final resting place for the dead.
Behind the high brick wall that surrounded the cemetery we could see the dark green tips of the poplars and the cupolas of the local monastery. The boat, navigated by our local agent Paolo, glided silently across the water to the shores of the island.
Poor Paolo had been dragged here instead of spending a quiet night with his wife and children. As this was hardly an official visit we had had to wait for a dark, moonless night. Personally, I considered it sacrilegious.
“The end justifies the means,” Holmes had said back in the hotel. “Or do you perhaps have a better idea?”
Of course I had none.
The detective had opted for a daring and highly illegal course of action. We had no other choice. We desperately needed another clue and the deadly bullet had to be located. Holmes wagered everything on the assumption that the projectile had remained in the victim’s body.
“The doctor who performed the autopsy on Minutti did not find the bullet,” he said, “but it did not leave the body and therefore must still be inside. It could not have simply vanished into thin air. In my opinion this is a case of bribery or simple negligence. In any event, a crucial clue is missing, and you will help me find it.”
“Upon entering the body a bullet sometimes behaves oddly and forgets the laws of physics,” I said. “Blood circulation, pressure, deadly cramping of the organs and many other factors could have hidden the bullet from the eyes of the doctor. But must we really break into the cemetery at night, exhume the poor wretch’s body and dissect it?”
“We would never obtain official permission here, someone is sabotaging the investigation,” he insisted.
He added that he could not embark on the nocturnal mission by himself. My medical knowledge was required in order to determine precisely where the bullet was lodged.
Thus I found myself in the middle of the night at the mooring dock of San Michele, scrambling over the gate of the cemetery in order to desecrate it. Paolo remained at the mooring dock, while Holmes and I silently crept into the cemetery.
The island is divided into several sections, separated from one another by white gravel paths lined with trees. On the far side in front of us loomed the monastery with its Renaissance chapel and urn grove. As Paolo explained to us, there was very little space on the island for graves; therefore the bodies are buried in the ground for only a few years, then are exhumed, cremated and placed in urns.