Paganini's Ghost (33 page)

I was at the far end of the corridor, about to go down the stairs, when I suddenly remembered why I knew the name Bianchi.

A
ntonia Bianchi—there it was on page seventy-four of one of my biographies of Paganini. And alongside it was a portrait of Antonia that bore an uncanny resemblance to the photograph of Nicoletta Ferrara, née Bianchi, I'd seen at Stresa. They had the same mouth and nose, the same look of stubbornness in the eyes—so many similarities, in fact, that even without the clue of their surnames, I would have suspected that they were related.

Antonia Bianchi was a singer who became Paganini's companion for a few years in the 1820s, and the mother of his only child, Achille. She was twenty when she met the violinist. Paganini was forty-one. They were together for four turbulent years but never married. Paganini, of course, was not an easy man to live with, but Antonia seems to have been almost unhinged in her fits of temper and jealousy, attacking her partner in public and attempting more than once to smash his precious Guarneri del Gesù to bits. The son she produced was the only thing that kept Paganini and her together for those few years.
Without Achille, on whom he doted, Paganini would have walked out on Antonia long before he actually did. When the acrimonious split finally came, Paganini gave Antonia two thousand scudi to relinquish any claim over Achille, and from then on father and son were inseparable.

Two thousand scudi? I wondered about that sum as I read through the relevant pages of the book. It wasn't a large amount, particularly when compared with the phenomenal fees Paganini was charging for his concerts. Antonia doesn't appear to have had any great maternal urges and may well have been glad to get rid of her son. But given her violent, vindictive nature, it was perhaps a little surprising that she should have let Paganini off so lightly. Or had she?

The money was clearly not the only thing she took with her. Paganini must also have given her the gold box that Henri le Bley Lavelle had made for Elisa Baciocchi. How else did it come to be in Nicoletta Ferrara's house? By the time of the split, it was several years since Paganini had paid his gambling debt to Barbaia with the jewelled violin. The gold box would have been no use to him, so parting with it would probably have been no great sacrifice. The Bergonzi violin, too? Had that also been Paganini's, and had he included it in the financial settlement with Antonia? Paganini had a reputation for being a miser, but he could be extremely generous when he chose. He gave innumerable benefit concerts for charity and a large gift to the struggling Hector Berlioz. In his will, he left an annuity to Antonia, showing he had not forgotten her, though many years had passed since their parting. They had not been happy together, but she was the mother of his son and he made sure that she was properly provided for.

Did he give her anything else? Or did Antonia take anything else with her when they separated? I pondered on those questions as I got ready for bed; then they slipped from my mind as sleep overtook me. I had a bad night, waking regularly every couple of hours, tormented by nightmares about Vladimir Kousnetzoff and Olivier Delacourt. It was a relief when morning came and I could retreat to my workshop and lose myself in my work.

Nearing lunchtime, I heard footsteps on the terrace and looked up from my bench, to see Guastafeste outside. We went into the house and I made us both a cheese sandwich and a green salad.

Guastafeste waited until I'd poured two glasses of red wine and was seated at the table before he said, “Are you all right, Gianni?”

“Why shouldn't I be all right?”

“Yesterday—that can't have been easy for you. There was Paris, too. Finding Alain Robillet's body, then Vladimir Kousnetzoff's. We have people we can call on, you know. Trained counsellors who are used to treating trauma. Do you want to talk to one of them?”

“I don't need a counsellor, Antonio. I have you to talk to, though to be frank, I don't really want to talk. Not about the bodies anyway. I'm more interested in what happened after I left Castenaso.”

“Delacourt confessed,” Guastafeste said. “He admitted killing Kousnetzoff and Robillet. A falling-out among thieves, it would seem. He thought they'd double-crossed him, tried to cut him out of his share of the jewelled violin.”

“They were all in this together?”

Guastafeste nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich, then wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Delacourt had a long-standing business relationship with Villeneuve and Robillet—buying and selling stolen jewellery. It was Delacourt who first got the scent of the jewelled violin. He came upon the entries in Henri le Bley Lavelle's records by chance and mentioned it to Villeneuve and Robillet. They had a contact in Saint Petersburg—Vladimir Kousnetzoff—who was also interested in the violin. Kousnetzoff wasn't just a musical agent. He had another business on the side—smuggling stolen fine art and antiques out of Rus sia and using Robillet and Villeneuve to find wealthy buyers in the West. Kousnetzoff knew all about Jeremiah Posier and the jewelled violin he'd made for Catherine the Great. He'd recently acquired some of Posier's private papers, including a letter dated 1848 from the estate manager at Castenaso, enquiring about the provenance of the violin.”

“The estate manager?”

“Lorenzo Costa.”

“The one who was killed by Austrian soldiers when they were billeted at the villa after Isabella Colbran's death.”

“Yes,” Guastafeste said. “And who decided to hide the violin from the soldiers by getting the local blacksmith to weld it into the ironwork of the summer house. The blacksmith who was also killed by the Austrians.”

“Taking the secret with him to the grave,” I said. “How did Delacourt know where to look?”

“He didn't. He and Kousnetzoff knew the violin had been at Castenaso. They went there a few weeks ago but, like us, found only ruins. Then the gold box surfaced and that distracted them temporarily, gave them another lead to follow. It was only a couple of days ago that they remembered the summer house and went back to Castenaso for a second look, taking with them a hacksaw.”

“We should have guessed in Paris,” I said. “We asked Delacourt if he'd heard of Posier and he lied, said no. Any jeweller worth his salt would have known who Posier was.”

I took a sip of my wine.

“What happens to the violin now?”

“It will have to go to a jewellery expert, someone who can clean off all the tar and restore the violin to its original condition.”

“And then?”

“Who knows? It will probably end up in a museum—on display in a glass case.”

Guastafeste ran his hands through his thick black hair.

“You have to wonder at human greed, don't you?” he said. “What people will do for a piece of metal adorned with a few mineral crystals. To kill two people for that—it doesn't make any kind of sense.”

“Two? Aren't you forgetting François Villeneuve?”

“There's a complication,” Guastafeste said. “Delacourt denies killing Villeneuve. He says he wasn't even in Cremona when it happened.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I'd like to say no. That would make everything so much simpler. Delacourt killed them all, Villeneuve, Robillet, and Kousnetzoff. Case closed. But I think he's telling the truth. He's admitted two murders. Why not admit the third—if he did it?”

“But then who . . .” I began.

“Kousnetzoff's a possibility. Unfortunately, we can't ask him.”

“Why would Kousnetzoff kill Villeneuve?”

“To get his hands on the gold box, perhaps. Lodrino sold it to both of them, after all.”

“But the box was in the hotel safe, and only Villeneuve had access to it. Killing him wouldn't have got Kousnetzoff the box.”

Guastafeste shrugged.

“I don't know, Gianni. Maybe we'll never know for sure.”

“What did Delacourt have to say about it? Did you ask him?”

“Yes, we asked him. He said he didn't know. It wasn't him—he was adamant about that. More than that, he couldn't—or wouldn't—say.”

“So Villeneuve's case is still open?”

“I'm afraid so. We're going to have to go back to the beginning, look again at all the evidence. Examine Villeneuve's movements from the time he first arrived in Cremona; where he went, who he met. Check the forensics, see if we can pick up a lead.”

“Lodrino?”

“He has a watertight alibi for the time Villeneuve was killed.”

“Serafin?”

“His alibi stood up—unfortunately. It's not just his mistress, either. Several other people can vouch for his being in Milan all that Sunday morning. No, I have a feeling the killer is someone we haven't thought of yet. Someone who's been out of the frame so far. Someone who knew Villeneuve, or met him during his stay and was also interested in the gold box. Interested enough to kill for it . . . Gianni?”

He was gazing at me curiously.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” I said.

“You seemed to shut off just then. Your eyes went blank.”

“Martinelli,” I said.

“Who?”

“Martinelli. I've just remembered. Felice Baciocchi's cousin's daughter married Ignazio Martinelli.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Villeneuve's room at the Hotel San Michele,” I said. “Did you find any fingerprints you couldn't identify?”

“Of course. It was a hotel room. Dozens of people must have passed through it. Why?”

“I want to give you something for your forensics people to examine.”

“Forensics? Gianni, what is this?”

“If I'm right, there's someone I think you need to see.”

 

 

I didn't wait downstairs in the foyer this time, but went straight upstairs to the first floor, Guastafeste by my side. The corridor smelt of fresh paint. The workmen who'd been plastering earlier in the week had moved on to decorating. Their ladders and dust sheets encroached on the corridor, forcing us to tread carefully as we passed.

Marco Martinelli was in the office next door to Vittorio Castellani's. It was a tiny room. One desk and chair would have been enough for the limited space available, but two more desks and chairs had been brought in and somehow crammed together to enable three people to work there—though the conditions were so claustrophobic, I couldn't imagine anyone managing to get much done. The walls were lined with shelves that were overflowing with files and books, and on the floor were more books and files in cardboard boxes.

Fortunately for us, Marco was alone. He was pressed against one wall of the room, typing at a computer keyboard. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. He glanced up and stopped typing as Guastafeste and I squeezed through the door and found a tiny patch of floor on which to stand.

“Vittorio isn't here,” he said. “He won't be in until tomorrow now.”

“It's you we wanted to see,” I said.

“Me?”

I manoeuvred myself onto one of the other chairs and lifted my feet over a box.

“It's cosy in here, isn't it?”

“It's hell,” Marco said.

“But only temporary, I trust.”

“That depends on how you define
temporary
.”

“That's your office down the corridor, isn't it? The one where the ceiling fell in.”

“Yes.”

“And those boxes of books in Professor Castellani's office are yours, too?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I'm afraid I borrowed one of them.”

I glanced at Guastafeste, who held out the transparent plastic evidence bag he was carrying for Marco to see. Inside the bag was
Napoléon's Sisters: Caroline, Pauline, and Elisa
.

“This is yours, isn't it?” Guastafeste asked.

“What's going on? Who are you?” Marco replied.

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Yes, it's mine. What of it?”

Guastafeste flipped out his police ID card.

“Antonio Guastafeste, Cremona
questura
. I'm investigating the murder of François Villeneuve in the Hotel San Michele in Cremona nine days ago.”

Marco gave a sharp involuntary cry and put a hand to his mouth. The colour drained out of his cheeks. He looked down at the desk, breathing audibly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then he looked back at Guastafeste, his face tight and ashen.

“What's that got to do with me?” he said. “I've never heard of François Villeneuve, or the Hotel San Michele.”

“Villeneuve was hit over the head with a table lamp,” Guastafeste said. “There were fingerprints on the lamp that match the fingerprints on this book.
Your
book. How do you explain that?”

Marco didn't answer. I could see him thinking, going through his options. He looked at the door. In a less cluttered office, I believe, he might have considered making a break for it, but he was pinned against the wall by his desk, and besides, Guastafeste and I were between him and the exit. So he tried to brazen it out instead.

“Let me see that again,” he said, peering at the evidence bag. “No, I was wrong. It's not my book. I've never seen it before.”

“The book doesn't really matter,” Guastafeste said calmly. “It's your fingerprints that count. And I'll bet my pension that the prints on the table lamp are yours. When we get to the
questura
, we'll take your prints and get a proper match.”

“You're arresting me?” Marco said.

Guastafeste nodded. Then he cautioned Marco and made him aware of his rights.

“You're arresting me?” Marco said again. “For murder?” He was breathless, staring in disbelief at Guastafeste.

“That's correct.”

Guastafeste took a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket. Marco leaned back in his chair, pressing himself against the wall, his hands raised defensively.