Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

She nodded.

“Even Papa said he was special. Knew Teo. Liked him.”

Near their home, she stopped.

“What now?”

“Nothing, only that-”

“I hate it when you do that!” Carlo said.

But she held her tongue and walked on, realizing that Loffredo hadn’t told her which arsenical compound he’d found around Ugo’s lips, in the wine glass, and on the napkin. She must find out.

For the past week, she tried not to think of Loffredo and his unfortunate desire for her, but she had no choice. She simply must visit him at this late hour-she was running out of time. Why hadn’t he given her complete information about the arsenic? Perhaps he thought the information was too much for a woman to handle. Her nipples bristled. Thank the Madonna she hadn’t gone to him last week. Such behavior was understandable in young men, but at his age? What right had he to ask her to compromise herself? Oh, it was all too much of a muddle, but before she had time to conclude her deliberations, they were at their front gate.

“I need to see Loffredo.”

“At this hour?” Carlo asked.

“Wipe that smile from your face. You, too, Vicenzu. This is business and cannot wait until tomorrow. I need to ask the medical examiner what compound he found around Ugo’s mouth. He neglected to tell me.”

Vicenzu winked at Carlo. “Probably too busy-”

She turned and walked away.

Her cheeks burned by the time she arrived at Loffredo’s office. The windows were dark, the door locked and bolted, so she rounded the piazza and doubled back through empty side streets to his villa.

Seated in the parlor waiting for him, her eyes canted this way and that while she ran a hand through her hair and straightened her cape. Like a lovesick animal in spring, she told herself. Her stomach was in knots.

Gas jets hissed in wall sconces and a thick oriental carpet muffled her tread. The room was crowded with overstuffed furniture. Elena’s taste, of course. On the far wall, a fire burned in the hearth and in front of it, was a comfortable-looking love seat and two chairs. Off to one side stood a grand piano. Maria would adore it.

Bookcases lined one wall so she busied herself by running a finger over the spines and reading the titles of each volume. His tastes were eclectic. Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Heraclitus were wedged between well-worn medical tomes. Interspersed with these were books by the moderns. Petrarch and Boccaccio sat next to Flaubert and Melville, and beside them, Leopardi, Cavour, and Amari. Strange, no Dickens.

A memory swept her away. It was early summer. She was home from school. Entering the study, she surprised her father and Loffredo in heated discussion about some activist or other. The reverie faded as she forced herself to consider her present situation. Yes, she wanted him. No, she would not act on her feelings. There were others to consider-her children, Elena, and of course, Giorgio’s memory. No, the affair was impossible, at least for now. She was here because she needed information and she prayed he wouldn’t misunderstand the intent of her visit.

He entered.

She could see his hurt in the way he held his shoulders. It made her feel all the more disheartened by her behavior. She hadn’t considered his feelings. Worse: if she hadn’t needed information from him now, she wouldn’t be here at all. No, not at all. That’s how little she felt for the suffering of others.

“I’m sorry.” She hung her head.

“But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He began moving toward her.

“You mistake the reason for my visit.” She couldn’t control her tears. Oh, Madonna, help me . How she had used him. She swiped at her eyes and blurted out, “Which one?”

“Pardon?”

“You found arsenic around Ugo’s mouth. It matched the stain on the napkin, the residue in the glass. Which compound? Is it the same as the contents of this?” She held up the small tin from the shoemaker’s workroom.

For a moment, he stopped and made no sound.

A tide of rapture charged over her, so powerful, it felt like the first time.

He moved to her, taking the tin from her grasp, and she succumbed to his charms.

• • •

Later, he whispered in her ear as he kissed her goodbye. “Arsenic trioxide. Same as the contents of the tin.”

Tuesday, February 19, 1867

It had taken all of Assunta’s skills to mask the circles beneath Serafina’s eyes. After she combed out the knots in her hair, she was ready to attend Ugo’s funeral. The bell in the campanile began to toll.

Wearing her finest black bombazine for the occasion, Serafina walked between Carlo and Vicenzu. She kept her shoulders straight and her head still. Trying to ignore what she felt were an unusual amount of nosey passersby, she stared straight ahead at something indistinct. Did she imagine the sly glances her sons shared with each other?

She didn’t know, but she felt herself a fool one moment and a schoolgirl the next. She shook her head. What right did she have, jeopardizing the investigation, her reputation, her stipend, and her children’s future by having an affair with the town’s medical examiner, even if he was an old friend with the stamina of youth? And Oltramari was such a crotchety town. Word would get out. It would lead to misunderstanding, ill will, finally to disaster.

And what about Elena’s feelings? How could she, Serafina, be so uncaring? What if she were Loffredo’s wife and Elena the lover? Impossible, he’d never fall for Elena. After all, there was a reason the poor woman bore him no children.

Truth be told, he’d loved Serafina all his life. A pity they hadn’t married: they would have filled that empty villa of his with lusty screamers. She felt her cheeks take on a glow. But the danger of having an affair was too deep. Never again, she told herself and smiled.

As they approached the church steps, they were stopped by a line of carabinieri blocking their path. Serafina jumped up and down, trying to glimpse the bier. The piazza bulged with onlookers, some of them crowding the carts of vendors who sold candles, flowers, or religious articles. Mourners dressed in their best black attire. Men held onto their silk hats in the brisk wind. Women in watered silk clutched at their skirts, ends of their shawls whipping in the blowing air. Peasants stood silent, waiting for the procession to begin.

A corner of her cape brushed Serafina’s eye. She held a hand to it and gritted. Through the blur she watched the casket appear. Draped in black and carried on pallbearer’s shoulders, the coffin bobbed up the Duomo’s steps. Wearing a tall hat, Rodolfo held a handkerchief to his face. Veiled in thick gauze, Graziella held his arm, her head bent. Teo and the baby were not in attendance, apparently left in the care of a nurse.

Behind them, carabinieri marched two by two, keeping time in halting step, swords drawn, faces solemn. Surrounded by guards wearing their plumy helmets, the dignitaries marched into the church. Serafina blinked several times trying to clear her vision, lined up with the others waiting their turn to enter the church. Inside, the audience pushed and prodded her on either side. She found it impossible to view or hear the proceedings.

Carlo whispered in her ear. “This is useless.”

“Let’s go. I need to open the shop,” Vicenzu said.

“Why? No one’s buying medicinals this morning. Besides, I want to say a word to Rodolfo.”

“You haven’t yet realized, have you? You know he’s guilty. Even I think he poisoned Ugo’s wine. But it’s over. Abatti’s the killer and will be hung.”