‘To ask what she was doing in Wellauer’s dressing room after the first act.’ If she found this at all surprising, she gave no sign of it. ‘Do you have any idea?’
‘Why do you say she was there?’
‘Because at least two people saw her go in. After the first act.’
‘But not after the second?’
‘No, not after the second.’
‘She was up here, with me, after the second act.’
‘The last time we spoke, you said she was up here, with you, after the first act, as well. And she wasn’t. Is there any reason I should believe you’re telling me the truth now, when you lied then?’ He took a drink of the wine. ‘Barolo, and very good.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Why should I believe that?’
‘I suppose there’s no real reason.’ She sipped at her wine again, as though they had the entire evening before them for discussion. ‘But she was.’ She emptied her glass, poured a little more into it, and said, ‘She did go to see him after the first act. She told me about it. He’d been playing with her for days, threatening to write to her husband. So, finally, she went back to talk to him.’
‘It seems a strange time to do it, during a performance.’
‘Flavia’s like that. She doesn’t think much about what she does. She simply acts, does what she wants. It’s one of the reasons she’s a great singer.’
‘I would imagine it’s difficult to live with.’
She grinned ‘Yes, it is. But there are compensations.’
‘What did she tell you?’ When she didn’t understand, he added, ‘About seeing him.’
‘That they’d had an argument. He wouldn’t give a clear answer about whether or not he had written to her husband. She didn’t say much more than that, but she was still shaking with anger when she came back up here. I don’t know how she managed to sing.’
‘And did he write to her husband?’
‘I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything else about it. Not since that night.’ She saw his surprise. ‘As I said, she’s like that. When she’s singing, she doesn’t like to talk about anything that bothers her.’ She added ruefully, ‘She doesn’t much like to do it when she’s not singing, either, but she says it destroys her concentration if she has to think about anything except the music. And I suppose everyone has always let her get away with it. God knows, I do.’
‘Was he capable of doing it, writing to her husband?’
‘The man was capable of anything. Believe me. He saw himself as some sort of protector of human morals. He couldn’t stand it if someone lived in violation of his definition of right and wrong. It maddened him that anyone would dare. He felt some sort of divine right to bring them to justice, his justice.’
‘And what was she capable of doing?’
‘Flavia?’
‘Yes.’
The question didn’t surprise her. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think she could do it like that, not in cold blood. She’d do anything to keep the children, but I don’t think ... no, not like that. Besides, she’d hardly be walking around with poison, would she?’ She seemed relieved to have thought of this. ‘But it isn’t finished. If there’s a trial or some sort of hearing, then it’ll come out, won’t it, what they argued about?’ Brunetti nodded. ‘And that’s all her husband will need.’
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ Brunetti said.
‘Oh, come on,’ she snapped. ‘This is Italy, the land of the happy family, the sacred family. She’d be allowed to have as many lovers as she wanted, so long as they were men. That would put the father, or a sort of father, back into the house. But the instant this became public, she’d never have a chance against him.’
‘Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?’
‘Exaggerating what?’ she demanded. ‘My life’s never been a secret. I’ve always been too rich for it to matter what people thought of me or said about me. But that didn’t stop them from saying it. So even if nothing could be proved about us, just think what a clever lawyer could do: “The soprano with the millionairess secretary.” No, it would look like exactly what it is.’
‘She could lie,’ Brunetti said, suggesting perjury.
‘With an Italian judge, I don’t think that would make any difference. Besides, I don’t think she’d lie. I really don’t think she would. No, not about this. Flavia really does think she’s above the law.’ Instantly, she seemed to regret saying that. ‘But she’s all words, only talk, just like on the stage. She’ll shout and rage at people, but it’s all gestures. I’ve never known her to be violent, not to anyone. Just words.’
Brunetti was enough of an Italian to believe that words might easily change to something else when a woman’s children were involved, but he kept that opinion to himself. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some personal questions?’
She sighed wearily, anticipating what was coming, and shook her head.
‘Has anyone ever tried to blackmail either one of you?’
This was clearly not the sort of question she had feared. ‘No, never. Not me, and not Flavia, or at least she’s never told me.’
