Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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we did!” slurred her husband. “It’s the cute little gamine from the cop shop — hello again, darling.”
Beside him, Moretti felt his partner stiffen.
“I’m Detective Inspector Moretti, Mrs. Ensor.”
“Come in.”
Sydney Tremaine’s voice was pretty, with a musical resonance and depth, unlike that of many dancers. Apart from her looks, Moretti could understand why she had been plucked from the world of ballet to be in film.
“Perhaps we could go through and take a look first of all at the patio.”
“Of course.”
Ahead of them staggered the rotund figure of Gilbert Ensor, glass in hand, his corpulence comically exaggerated by the thick stripes of his attire.
They emerged on to a flagged area, softly lit, the actual lighting concealed among the various plants that grew in raised beds and containers. The sound of Mozart’s clarinet concerto sang sweetly from a speaker concealed somewhere in the vicinity of a potted palm tree.
“Show me where the dagger landed,” said Moretti to Sydney Tremaine. There seemed little point in sending too many questions in the direction of the tottering Gilbert Ensor.
“Here. I was inside, and I heard Gil scream —”
“I was fucking startled,” Ensor interrupted her. “I yelled. Anyone would’ve.”
“Here, Inspector.” Sydney Tremaine knelt down, indicating a spot close to a chaise longue. “Your partner took the dagger. Have you seen it?”
“Not yet.” Moretti turned to Gilbert Ensor, who sank, groaning with the effort, on to the chaise lounge. “How did you first realize it was there? Did you see it thrown? Or was it the noise as it landed?”
“The noise, I think. Clatter-clatter.” Ensor waved his hand as though it weighed about ten pounds.
“So you don’t know for sure if it came through the gate.”
“Mus’ have done. There wasn’t any assassin hidin’ behind the friggin’ ferns.”
Moretti went over to the gate and looked out. Whoever threw the dagger must have been, even briefly, in full view.
“It wasn’t dark, was it? Did you see anything, anybody?”
“I wasn’t looking, mate. I bloody ducked.” Ensor drank the last of the liquid in the glass he held in an unsteady hand.
“I did,” said his wife. “But it was after the knife landed and after Gil — called out. I opened the gate and took a look outside.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Only a woman jogger on the lower cliff path.”
“Show me.”
Sydney Tremaine walked ahead of him and opened the gate. Moretti noticed the lock was both efficient and sturdy.
“Over there. I called out after her, but she was too far away. There’s always a wind out here.” She shivered in the light wrap she was wearing, pulling it closer around her.
“Let’s go back. We’ll get a description from you later, and we’ll have to have a written statement.” She walked back ahead of him and Moretti saw that her slender build gave her the illusion of being shorter than she was. For a dancer, she was fairly tall.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm you?” he asked the figure slumped amid the cushions of the chaise.
“Look, mate, there’s lots of people out there who find talent and genius a threat, and don’t I know it. That’s besides all the loonies and the crazies. Anyway, this island’s covered with pagan remains, isn’t it? For all I know, it’s some Guernseyman following some ancient ritual. For all I know, youse guys throw daggers at the drop of a neolithic hat.” Gilbert Ensor fumbled for a packet of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his pajamas. He managed to extract one, and bent forward precariously to light it from an ornate lighter on a small wrought-iron table near the chaise, cursing as the breeze extinguished the flame.
“Not normally,” said Moretti, stifling both his growing irritation, and the urge to comment on the crude anachronism, which was deliberate, he knew. This man was too intelligent to have made the comment for any other reason than to annoy. “Here —” He pulled out the lighter he still carried, although he was supposed to have given up smoking, cupped the flame, and held it close to the writer’s wavering cigarette. Best to ingratiate himself, perhaps, if that were at all possible.
“Ah, a fellow sinner.” Gilbert Ensor squinted up at Moretti through a cloud of smoke and intoned, “‘There’s daggers in men’s smiles’ — I tend to believe that, Inspector. Don’t you?”
“No more than I believe in air-drawn daggers, sir,” Moretti replied.
“Ah, so besides looking like Dirk Bogarde you’ve got a brain. The ladies must love you.” Gilbett Ensor leered at his wife. “Eh, Syd, me darlin’?”
Sydney Tremaine was quite calm. Moretti thought, She’s used to this.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better if —”
“— We left, yes. There’s nothing more to be done now. The dagger is being checked for fingerprints, and we’ll have a word with the hotel staff and the occupants of any of the rooms that face this direction. Maybe someone saw something, but it seems unlikely. Sir, perhaps it would be best if you went inside?”
“I’ll go inside when I want to go inside, Mr. Plod, and right now I don’t want to go inside.” It was said with an oily, drunken calm, and more clearly articulated than anything Ensor had said during the policemen’s visit. Moretti wondered if the drunk act was precisely that — a performance.
So much for ingratiating oneself, thought Moretti. Without responding, he turned and left the patio, followed by Sydney Tremaine and Liz Falla, leaving Gilbert Ensor puffing at his cigarette.
“I apologize for my husband’s rudeness, Inspector. It’s — nothing personal. It’s the way he is,” said Sydney Tremaine when they reached the door of the suite.
“Sorry to hear that, Mrs. Ensor.” Sydney Tremaine’s green eyes widened, but she made no response. “About this business with the dummies and the costumes — can you think of anything that has happened on the set, during the making of the film, anything at all, that could help us establish a link between that incident and this — or anything at all for that matter?”
Sydney Tremaine threw back her head and laughed. It was a hearty laugh that made the red curls bounce about her lightly freckled shoulders.
“Any number of things happen on a film set, Inspector, that make any number of people want to throttle someone or other — or throw daggers at them. But no, nothing specific, nothing that seems to connect with the attack on Gil — if that’s what it was.”
“A coincidence then — is that what you’re saying?”
“No.” The laughter was gone now. “I think not. I don’t really believe in that kind of coincidence. I wish I did.” A shadow crossed her face, and Moretti had the feeling she had been about to say something else, but had changed her mind.
“Has anything like this happened before? Your husband has a volatile approach to life.”
“How kind of you to put it like that! Fights and fisticuffs, yes. But no, nothing to do with daggers. Not even knives.”
“Well, if you think of anything, let us know immediately.”
Outside in the car, Moretti and Liz Falla sat for a moment without speaking.
“Talk about Beauty and the Beast, eh, Guv? Felt me up when I came before — very slick. I’m sure his wife didn’t see a thing. What a bastard!”