committing murder — no, Signor Shepherd, she would not know how to.”
Graziella shrugged her shoulders, as if admitting some minor defect in an otherwise admirable character — she herself, no doubt, would, if she thought it necessary, commit a very competent murder. “To stab a man — if one has seen the Signorina attempting to slice a peach—”
I agreed that Julia’s dexterity would be tested to its limit by such a task.
“I have tried,” said Graziella, “to explain this to the Vice-Quaestor. But he will take no notice, because he wants everyone to say how clever he is when there is a murder to catch the murderer ten minutes afterwards. So he has continued to question the little Signorina half the night, hoping she will say something foolish. Finally I have explained to him that we are not living in a police state, thank God, and that it is not permissible for him to do this. So at last he has agreed that I shall arrange for the Signorina to stay in Chioggia, but he will not let her go home to London.”
“Julia told me,” I said, “how kind you had been.”
“It is nothing,” said Graziella. “But you will understand, Signor Shepherd, that perhaps the Vice-Quaestor will not be so very pleased to see me again.”
The Vice-Quaestor, a man of sad and operatic appearance, did indeed give the impression, when we were shown into his office, of being a police officer who had his troubles and did not find them alleviated by the reappearance of Graziella. “My own English is poor,” he said — with, as it turned out, undue modesty—“but I have two officers both very competent to interpret. The Signora need not have troubled herself.”
“It is no trouble, Signor Vice-Quaestor,” said Graziella serenely. “I am most happy to assist Signor Shepherd in anything he can do to help the little Signorina Julia.” Looking round his office, she evidently found it wanting in neatness and elegance. Before accepting the chair offered to her, she carefully dusted it with a paper handkerchief. Then, seeing that I was about to sit down without any similar precaution, she jumped up again, saying “Excuse me, Signor Shepherd, just a moment—” and dusted my chair as well. The Vice-Quaestor began to look harassed.
But in spite of the psychological advantage of making the Vice-Quaestor feel that his office was a pigsty, it was in the course of this interview that I first began to feel seriously worried about Julia’s position. It became clear, you see, that he really does think she did the murder.
It seemed at first that what impressed him was simply the sequence of events: Julia had been with the young man in his room; she had left alone; two hours later he had been found dead there — if there were an innocent explanation, it was for her to offer it.
“With respect,” I said, “that is a little unreasonable. It is precisely on the assumption that she is innocent that she will not be able to offer an explanation.” Graziella translated this with approval; but the Vice-Quaestor looked as if he thought it a piece of sophistry. “If she had any motive,” I continued, “then the circumstances might appear suspicious. But what conceivable reason could she have for doing such a thing?”
“Ah, Signor Shepherd,” he answered in English, without waiting for a translation, “who knows what a woman will do for the sake of love?” The man not only looks operatic — he thinks operatically as well.
“We are not speaking,” I said, “of a grand passion, but of a very brief and casual liaison.”
“Ah, for him, perhaps,” said the police officer. “But for her — consider, Signor, she has loved this man, she has given herself to him. And afterwards, if he tells her that he does not love her, that she has been a mere amusement to him — who knows what she might do then?”
“Miss Larwood,” I said, “is not a schoolgirl, but an intelligent and sophisticated woman who has been for several years in practice at the Bar.” This statement is perfectly true — I cannot really see what there is about it to make it seem so peculiarly misleading.
The Vice-Quaestor found English inadequate to express his answer. There was a rather sharp exchange of Italian before Graziella translated it.
“The Vice-Quaestor is of the opinion,” she said, “that it is just such a woman, a woman who has known nothing of love but has lived the cold life of the intellect, such a woman, when she believes that at last she has found happiness, who would respond with particular violence when she found she had been deceived. You must understand, Signor Shepherd,” she added, looking coldly at the police officer, “that when the Vice-Quaestor refers to happiness he means marriage — that, in the opinion of the Vice-Quaestor, is the greatest happiness that any woman could hope for.”
“Yes, I see,” I said. “And was there something further?”
“The Vice-Quaestor has also invited me to tell you that if the little Signorina Julia were to admit quite frankly, as he says, that that was what happened the Court would no doubt be very sympathetic. I have explained, however, to the Vice-Quaestor that the little Signorina Julia is a very nice girl, a very kind-hearted girl, who likes to please people, but she is not so foolish as to admit to a crime she has not committed in order to play even a most sympathetic part in the drama which he has invented.”
I nodded. It did not seem prudent to offer a different account of Julia’s character from that at present entertained by the Vice-Quaestor. A man who sees life in operatic terms no doubt divides women into the virtuous, who will commit murder for the sake of their honour, and the wicked, who will do so for no reason at all. I suggested instead that if the crime were thought to be one of passion it was surely more probable that Kenneth Dunfermline, whose relationship with the victim seemed to have been more intimate than that of a mere travelling companion—
“No, Signor Shepherd,” said the police officer. And even Graziella shook her head.
It was at this stage that I learnt for the first time the exact circumstances in which the crime was discovered. Since Marylou has already given you a full account, there is no point in my repeating it — what she told you seems to be exactly the same as she told the police and it was confirmed, of course, by her husband and Kenneth Dunfermline. Well, it established, as you know, that Dunfermline is out of it.
It was rather a setback: I had been quite optimistic about persuading the police that he was the most likely person to have committed the crime. Still, though he and the Americans were excluded from suspicion, there were any number of other people who would have had the opportunity.
“No, Signor Shepherd,” said the Vice-Quaestor again.
It was at this point that things began to be difficult. What made them so was the evidence of the chambermaids. There are, apparently, four chambermaids. Their rooms are on the second floor of the annexe; but in the afternoons, instead of resting there, they prefer to sit in the entrance-way, talking and enjoying the sunshine. On Friday afternoon, they settled down as usual just after lunch — that is to say, about quarter past two — and remained there until dusk, when they dispersed to turn down the beds. From time to time one or another of them would have been briefly absent, making coffee and so forth; but there were always at least three of them there.
Questioned on Saturday morning by the Vice-Quaestor, they were all prepared to swear that the only people who had entered or left the annexe during that time were the following: Julia and Ned, going into the annexe together a few minutes after they themselves had settled down there; Julia, leaving again at about quarter past six; Mrs. Frostfield, who returned at about seven; and Major Linnaker, who arrived shortly afterwards. They had not actually seen the return of the other Art Lovers; but it was only a minute or two after they had dispersed that one of them was asked by Marylou to unlock the door to the room shared by Ned and Kenneth and so became a witness to the discovery of the crime.
I have no doubt that they are all charming girls; but I did rather wish there had not been so many of them. I pointed out, however, that they had been taking, by their own account, something in the nature of a siesta. In the heat of the afternoon, it would have been natural for them to become drowsy. There would surely have been several occasions when someone waiting for an opportunity to slip unnoticed into the annexe—
“No, Signor Shepherd,” said the Vice-Quaestor, becoming, I felt, repetitive. He had questioned them closely about this possibility and they had been sure that none of them had slept — they had been taking it in turns to read aloud from a book which they found most interesting.
“Ah well,” I said indulgently, “if they were deeply absorbed in some romantic novel—”
The book which had engaged their attention was not, as it turned out, a romantic novel: it was
“Two of them are graduates,” said the Vice-Quaestor, spreading his hands in a gesture of despondency. “What can one expect?” He went on to make one or two further comments, which I thought injudicious, on the higher education of women. They provoked a rather heated response, in Italian, from Graziella — for the next ten minutes I was quite unable to follow the conversation, which appeared to cover a wide range of political and
