Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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the island’s traumatic past — the bunker looming in the midst of the manor’s verdant parkland and, scattered throughout the island, the remaining traces of anti-tank walls, gun emplacements, artillery direction-finding towers, restored for the amusement and amazement of tourists.
And perhaps it was even earlier presences. For Sydney, the island was indeed full of strange noises: the ancient witches’ colony at L’Erée, the fairies emerging from caverns like Creux ès Faies to dance at Le Mont Saint or le Catioroc on the western coastline. At first she had been intrigued by the stories told by the tour guide who had taken members of the film company round the island, but all they did after a few days was feed her depression — which, she knew, had nothing to do with Guernsey, past or present. She felt a shiver of apprehension.
“I shall turn around this corner,” she thought, “and everything will change. The world I knew will be gone forever.”
She came around the corner into a blaze of light, so strong after the half-light of dawn that she was dazzled for a moment. As her vision cleared, she saw that the broad terrace that ran the length of the manor was floodlit by one of the arc lamps used on the movie, perched high on one of the huge Sky King cranes brought in from Rome. In the half-shadows around the periphery were gathered all the people she had expected to see in the courtyard: electricians, extras, grips. But there was hardly a sound.
“They must be shooting,” she thought.
Sydney looked around for the director, Mario Bianchi, and caught a glimpse of his dark ponytail and tall, slender figure under the lights, huddled with another tall man she didn’t immediately recognize. The man turned, and she saw it was the detective inspector with the interesting face who had come to the hotel the night before.
Of course, the business with the costumes. Betty Chesler, the costume designer, must have insisted. As Sydney approached the outskirts of the crowd, one of the men turned and saw her.
“Sydney! Where’s Gil?”
It was Betty’s assistant, Eddie Christy, minus his usual cheeky chappy expression. He looked haggard and nervous.
“Using the facilities. What scene are they shooting?”
“Oh my God, love — you don’t know?”
“Know what? Gil’s here for the meeting about the rewrite, if that’s what you mean.”
“Some rewrite, darling.”
Over his shoulder, Sydney caught sight of a figure on the ground, slumped in an unnatural position against the parapet of the terrace. A man wearing what looked like a white lab coat was taking photographs of him — stills presumably, for he certainly wasn’t carrying a movie camera.
“Who —?”
As she started her question, the crowd suddenly parted, and Sydney saw the impressive figure of the Marchesa Donatella Vannoni, clutching the arm of Monty Lord’s assistant producer, Piero Bonini. As she came closer, Sydney saw that the figure on the ground had the dark, curly hair and smooth bronze skin of the marchesa’s son-in-law, the location manager, Toni Albarosa. She also saw the handle of the dagger through his chest glistening under the arc light.
Vertigo hit her. She swayed, and Eddie Christy grabbed her and called out, “Someone, anyone, get a chair!”
A chair was provided and the crowd parted again.
“Ms. Tremaine — where’s your husband? Is he with you?”
Above her she saw the detective inspector’s face, his grey eyes urgent.
“He should be — oh God, you don’t think —?”
Was the policeman suggesting whoever this maniac was might still be around, and that Gil might be in danger? As Sydney turned around in her chair to see Piero Bonini and the marchesa walking toward the manor together, from the darkness beyond the floodlit terrace came the unmistakable roar of her husband throwing a tantrum.
Anxiety changed to relief. Gil had come around the corner and seen Monty Lord.
“That’s him,” she said. “Don’t worry — that’s not fear or pain. That’s the cry of the wounded artist, Detective Inspector. Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned.”
Sydney could hear what he was screaming at the producer, who stopped, staggering momentarily under the weight of his noble burden.
“You turd! Couldn’t you wait until I got here to make changes? Or is this your idea of a joke, scaring the fucking daylights out of me with fucking daggers — get Toni off the set and send that rubber fake back to props before I — I —”
Gilbert Ensor was halted in mid-sentence by the sudden arrival of the distraught marchesa against his ample belly, temporarily winding him. She was screaming in Italian, so he had no idea what he had said or done to upset her. Her long red nails scored his face before Piero Bonini managed to restrain her. Through the searing pain he grasped one word, said over and over again.
“Morto — morto — morto!”
Dead?
Ahead of him he saw his wife in a chair, the detective inspector alongside her. Beyond them, two ambulance attendants were covering Toni Albarosa’s body. His jaw dropped. Violent death had rendered Gilbert Ensor speechless.
There followed one of those uncanny moments of silence that sometimes comes on the heels of uproar. Then into the silence came the rumble of a powerful engine. From the half-light around the villa thundered a gleaming Ducati motorcycle, its streamlined scarlet and black body brilliant in the arc light. Sydney Tremaine saw long blond hair flying beneath a winged helmet, powerful leather-clad legs stretched against the sides of the monster as, with a dramatic flick of the wrists, the rider brought her mount to a shrieking halt and pulled off her helmet.
Ed Moretti, looking down at the face of Sydney Tremaine, was intrigued by what he saw.
“You know her?”
“No.”
Sydney got up from the chair and went toward her shell-shocked husband. The Valkyrie ran over to the marchesa, putting her arms around her. Together, they went into the manor, with Piero Bonini behind them.
Other members of the island police force had arrived to help with the dozens of statements that would have to be taken from everybody in the cast and crew. The Ensors and the Vannoni family were waiting in the manor to be interviewed by Moretti and Liz Falla. Finally, some semblance of order had been restored.
Moretti waited until the body was loaded into an ambulance and then turned to the Vannonis’ doctor, a local St. Andrew’s man called Le Pelley.
“So — what can you tell me?”
“Only what I told you before.” Le Pelley, clearly somewhat shaken himself, removed his glasses and put them in his coat pocket. “He was killed, almost instantly. Whether by luck or good management, the point of the blade got him right through the heart.”
“Time of death?”
“We’ll know more after the autopsy — but, what time is it now? Nine-thirty? I’d say about five hours ago.”
“Five hours!” Moretti was taken by surprise. “I thought you’d say midnight — something like that.”
“Definitely not midnight — he’d not been dead long when he was found around five o’clock.”
“Who found him?”
“One of the security guards, apparently. A couple stay around all night to keep an eye on the equipment.”
“Then he probably only just missed being another murder victim.”
Moretti said goodbye to Le Pelley and joined Liz Falla, who was waiting for him with a very worried-looking director, Mario Bianchi, and the reason for his expression soon became clear.
“I’ve already lost about two hours shooting time today,