The Art of Killing Well Read Online Free PDF Page B

able to do so”: the baron could hardly be expected to put his own diaphanous, manicured hands to work, nor could Gaddo, who found it an effort to hold a pen, be expected to pick up a hammer and chisel.
    In such matters, there was a precise hierarchy to be observed. In the first place, you called the estate manager, who in turn would call whichever of the servants seemed to him most fitted to the task and would supervise him as he worked, all under the watchful gaze of the family and guests, including the dowager baroness who had had herself brought down for that very purpose.
    One hour later, supervised and scrutinised by a multitude of eyes, the worker selected (Amedeo Farini, son of the late Crescenzo, known as “the cat” because of his astounding ability to sleep anything from sixteen to twenty hours a day) gave the final hammer blow and the hinges of the reinforced door yielded, after which he stood up and leaned all his weight on the door in order to bend it sufficiently for it to open. Which it did, noisily. Cautiously, the baron entered. As if by tacit agreement, he was immediately followed by the men, one at a time. A glance was enough for everyone. There was no doubt about it: Teodoro was dead.
    For those morbid readers who love detailed descriptions, let us say that the body was slumped on a wicker chair, with one hand dangling and remarkably pale, unlike his face which was a reddish purple. Teodoro’s work jacket had been placed carefully on a coat-hanger. On a small table in front of the dead man was a tray with a bottle of port and a glass with a little red wine.
    The room was pervaded by a strange smell.
    After entering, the baron stood to one side and avoided looking at the body. He was already as white as a sheet because of his sleepless night, but now he was giving even the corpse a run for his money. Gaddo stood beside him with his hand on his shoulder. Lapo, having at last realised the gravity of the situation, was close to the wall, motionless, trying to cause as little disturbance as possible. Signor Ciceri had knelt by the body and was gravely scrutinising the face. In short, everyone was behaving normally.
    Everyone except Artusi. After walking about the room for a while with a solemn frown befitting those who have found acorpse, he had begun to sniff the air in a manner that was first curious, then methodical.
    In the meantime, Signor Ciceri had got to his feet. “A heart attack, I fear. Barone, is there a doctor in the vicinity of the castle?”
    The baron pulled himself together. “What? No, no. The nearest doctor is in the village, in Campiglia Marittima. I’ll go and fetch him immediately.”
    â€œDo you feel up to it? You seem quite shaken.”
    â€œReally, father,” Gaddo said. “You look very tired. Perhaps I could—”
    â€œThank you, Gaddo, but no. I’ll go.”
    â€œAt least let me go with you,” Signor Ciceri said with a slight smile. “With my trap we’ll do it in a flash.”
    The baron thought this over for a moment. He was clearly none too enthusiastic about the idea. Then he shook his head and sighed, “If you insist, I’m most grateful. Gaddo, call Amidei and have him get Signor Ciceri’s trap ready.”
    Gaddo did not reply: he was looking at Artusi, eyes wide with astonishment.
    With good reason, in fact. Because Artusi, after sniffing the whole room, had gone over to the night table, taken out a full chamber pot, and now, with an intrigued air, was carefully sniffing the contents.
    Fortunately, the baron had not noticed. Still looking elsewhere, he repeated, “Gaddo, please.”
    Gaddo shook himself, and gave a forced smile. “I’m sorry, father. I’m going right now.”

Saturday, lunchtime
    Until lunchtime, the morning had been sad but peaceful.
    After the grim awakening, the residents of the castle had drifted outside in small groups, making sure they stayed away