Free Property of Blood by Magdalen Nabb Page A

the draping of models. The atmosphere was that of a beehive in production, emphasized by the whirr of sewing machines. One by one these slowed and stopped as they saw the Marshal’s dark silhouette in the doorway. He didn’t know what their reaction to his presence was, only that it was unanimous. They stared as one person, breathed as one person, there was no mistaking that. A planner … someone who knew the family’s finances, their movements. The Marshal would have staked his life in that instant that this person wasn’t here. As to whether he should be in here himself, well, he’d had to ask directions, hadn’t he? It wasn’t his job to question these people. Somebody more important, of a higher rank—even the Prosecutor himself—would do that. The Marshal didn’t question them.
    ‘I’m Signora Verdi, Mariangela Verdi. I want to tell you right away that we don’t know what’s going on but whatever it is we’re here to help.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘You needn’t thank me. It’s Leonardo we’re here to help, not you.’
    ‘Is there a difference?’
    ‘We don’t know because we don’t know what’s going on, do we? Or are you going to tell us?’
    She broke off to take delivery of a parcel. ‘Excuse me …’
    ‘Please …’ He watched as she undid the small package. It contained what he assumed were dress labels. They were white with Contessa embroidered in gold italics and Florence in the bottom left-hand corner.
    The Marshal couldn’t help a mental comparison with the engraved letterhead and visiting cards of the crazy husband, the Conte Ugo Brunamonti, exporter of imaginary fine Italian wines.
    ‘May I…?’ He picked up one of the labels.
    ‘Help yourself. It just shows how behind we are when these arrive before we’re ready for them instead of our having to kick up a fuss to get them delivered. They used to be silver on black but some cheap imitator copied them and our designs so we’ve had to change. It ought to have been Contessa Brunamonti in my opinion, instead of just Contessa—they could hardly have copied that—but her ladyship wouldn’t have it and that was that.’
    ‘A little long, perhaps,’ murmured the Marshal. He was surprised that she seemed to expect him to have an opinion on the subject and even more surprised at the tone of that ‘her ladyship,’ which was little less than venomous. A disagreement over labels would hardly warrant such a tone. Had his instinct been completely mistaken about these people? He made a mental note to talk to the Captain about it once they’d been questioned. Something was seriously wrong here.
    How many of them were there in the room? So many pairs of eyes fixed on him, a smell of new cloth and sewing-machine oil, a smell of his childhood and his mother’s rattly old treadle machine.
    Let me pedal for a bit, please…
    You’ll break the needle.
    ‘I’d be glad if you could direct me …’
    ‘I see. You’re not going to tell us anything.’ She led him back out.
    ‘An officer will be coming to talk to you all. I’m not in charge … These stairs?’
    ‘Take the lift. Second floor.’ She pressed the call button for him and went away.
    On the second-floor landing where the floor was of glossy white marble, he was faced with double doors and a brass bell push. A Filipino maid in blue and white answered his brief ring. She was crying already, and when she saw his uniform she broke into howls of dismay and ran off without showing him in.
    The tall, fair daughter was immediately before him—what the devil was her name? He’d forgotten to check. She appeared to be trying to block his way, and her face was white with apprehension. The legs and feet of a young man, wrapped in a plaid blanket, were just visible sticking out over the edge of a white sofa some way behind her. The Marshal made a negative sign to the girl, hoping to convey the idea that he wouldn’t give her away but she didn’t move from his line of vision and it