‘No,’ she said immediately. ‘Only his natural children.’
It seemed normal enough to Brunetti that a man would want to leave his money to children of his own blood. ‘Have you any idea of the amount involved?’ Widows usually did and just as usually said they did not.
‘I think it is a great deal of money. But his agent or his lawyer would be able to tell you more about that than I can.’ Strangely enough, it sounded to him as if she really didn’t know. Stranger still, it sounded as if she didn’t care.
The signs of fatigue he had seen in her when he entered had grown more pronounced during their conversation. The line of her shoulders was less straight; twin lines ran down from her nose to the corners of her mouth. ‘I have only a few more questions,’ he said.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ It was clear that she was being no more than formally polite.
‘Thank you, but no. I’ll ask these questions and then leave you.’ She nodded tiredly, almost as if she knew that these were the questions he had come to ask.
‘Signora, I would like to know something about your relationship with your husband.’ He watched her grow visibly more distant and self-protective. He prodded. ‘The difference in age between you was considerable.’
‘Yes, it was.’
He remained silent, waiting. She finally said, stating, not admitting, and he liked her for that, ‘Helmut was thirty-seven years older than I.’ That would make her a few years older than he had judged her to be, just Paola’s age. Wellauer was just eight years younger than Brunetti’s grandfather. As strange as he found that thought, Brunetti tried to give no sign of it. What was it like for this woman, with a husband almost two generations older than she? He saw that she was shifting uncomfortably under the intensity of his gaze, and he glanced away for a moment, as if thinking about how to phrase his next question.
‘Did the difference to your ages create any difficulties in your marriage?’ How transparent was the cloud of euphemism that always surrounded such a union. Though polite, the question was still a voyeur’s leer, and he was embarrassed by it.
Her silence stretched out for so long that he didn’t know if it spoke of her disgust with his curiosity or her annoyance at the artificiality with which he expressed it. Suddenly sounding very tired, she said, ‘Because of the difference in our ages, in our generations, we saw the world differently, but I married him because I was in love with him.’ Brunetti’s instinct told him that he had just heard the truth, but the same instinct also told him that he had heard only the singular. His humanity prevented him from asking about the omission.
As a sign that he was finished, he closed the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Thank you, Signora. It was very kind of you to see me at this time.’ He trailed off, unwilling to lapse again into euphemism or platitude. ‘Have you made arrangements for the funeral?’
‘Tomorrow. At ten. At San Moise. Helmut loved the city and always hoped that he would have the privilege of being buried here.’
The little that Brunetti had heard and read about the conductor made him doubt that the dead man would have viewed privilege as anything other than what he could bestow, but perhaps Venice had sufficient grandeur to be an exception. ‘I hope you have no objection if I attend.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I have one more question, also a painful one. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your husband? Is there anyone with whom he recently argued, anyone he might have had reason to fear?’
Her smile was small, but it was a smile. ‘Does that mean,’ she asked, ‘can I think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘His career was very long, and I’m sure he offended many people during it. Some people disliked him, surely. But I can’t think of anyone who would do this.’ Absently, she ran her finger along the arm of her chair. ‘And no one who loved music could do this.’
He rose to his feet and extended his hand. ‘Thank you, Signora, for your time and your patience.’ She stood and took his hand. ‘Please don’t bother,’ he said, meaning that he would see himself out of the apartment. She dismissed his suggestion with a shake of her head and led him down the hall. At the door, they shook hands again, neither speaking. He left the apartment troubled by the interview, not quite sure if the reason was only the platitudes and excessive courtesies on his part or something he had been too dull to catch.
* * * *
CHAPTER TEN
While he was inside, it had grown dark, the suddenly descending early-winter obscurity that added to the desolation that brooded over the city until the release of spring. He decided not to go back to his office, not willing to risk his anger if there was still no report from the lab and not interested in reading the German report again. As he walked, he reflected on how very little he had learned about the dead man. No, he had a great deal of information, but it was all strangely out of focus, too formal and impersonal. A genius, a homophobe, adored by the world of music, a man whom a woman half his age would love, but still a man whose substance was elusive. Brunetti knew some of the facts, but he had no idea of the reality.
He walked on and considered the means by which he had acquired his information. He had the resources of Interpol at his command, he had the full cooperation of the German police, and he had sufficient rank to call upon the entire police system of Italy. Obviously, then, the most reliable way to get accurate information about the man was to address himself to the unfailing source of all information—gossip.
It would be an exaggeration to say that Brunetti disliked Paola’s parents, the Count and Countess Falier, but it would be an equal exaggeration to say that he liked them. They puzzled him in much the same way that a pair of whooping cranes would puzzle someone accustomed to tossing peanuts to the pigeons in the park. They belonged to a rare and elegant species, and Brunetti, after knowing them for almost two decades, had to admit that he had mixed feelings about the inevitability of their extinction.
Count Falier, who numbered two doges on his mother’s side, could, and did, trace his family back to the tenth century. There were crusaders perched on the limbs of his family tree, a cardinal or two, a composer of secondary importance, and the former Italian ambassador to the court of King Zog of Albania. Paola’s mother was Florentine by birth, though her family had transferred itself to the northern city shortly after that event. They claimed descent from the Medici, and in a kind of genealogical chess that had a strange fascination for people of their circle, she
