and fast age at which one became an elder. She supposed you had to survive your natural life expectancy, then live on at least another lifetime. After two centuries, you were getting there. Dracula was an elder, and Lord Ruthven, and Geneviève. Kate was ninety-six. If she’d stayed warm, she might still be alive.
Charles, ten years older, was.
Had the little girl scared off the Crimson Executioner? That didn’t sound likely.
Silvestri ordered his men to lay down Kernassy’s cape and looked at the body. The press photographed the scene with the famous fountain picturesquely blurred in the background. The Inspector put on a serious expression. Like Malenka, he gave the photographers different angles. He experimented with looks: contemplative, decisive, determined.
Reporters paid attention as Silvestri announced, ‘I corpi presentano tracce di violenza supernatural,’ and proceeded to rattle off a statement they all jotted down.
Century-old schoolgirl Italian knocked around the back of her head, tainted by profane Sicilian picked up in the war. She didn’t have to understand every word to catch the policeman’s drift. It was a scene-of-the-crime speech, the same the world over. Every effort was being made and every lead followed. An arrest was promised in the immediate but non-specific future. Kate had first heard the song at the site of one of the Jack the Ripper murders, performed by the artist who made it famous, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
Of course, Jack was never arrested.
Kate wondered if she should tell Marcello the police thought her innocent. He’d been startled enough by the moment of discovery. Even through cool-baby shades, he registered shock and suspicion. She knew the impression would be hard to shift. To him, she might always be a bloodthirsty monster.
Damn. There was always something.
She chided herself. Two people were destroyed and she was worried about impressing a warm man who, she was sure, found her as attractive as a face-rub with a dead fish.
She hadn’t disliked Gabor Kernassy. And Malenka was more ridiculous than anything else. They might have been shallow, but they were kinder to her than convention obliged them to be. Even Malenka was funny. Kate had planned to write about the circus around the starlet. She’d have made money from them. Considering murder as news, she still might.
They had been slaughtered in front of her.
A long-bladed silver knife had fetched off Kernassy’s head and skewered Malenka’s heart. The police found the thing in the fountain, washed clean. Silvestri made sure it didn’t vanish along with Malenka’s dress.
Kate knew she wouldn’t let this go. She had a great deal to occupy her in this city, unfinished business of long standing. But this was now her business too.
Someone called her name.
For an instant, she thought it might be Marcello. But it was a woman.
Geneviève.
She was behind the rope barrier, wearing a white straw hat and sunglasses. She waved at Kate with another hat.
‘They won’t let me through,’ Geneviève shrugged, smiling.
She looked so young.
Her sun-blonde hair shone. Her smile was almost a little girl’s. Her old eyes were out of sight. She was genuinely pleased to see Kate.
She’d given the police the telephone number. Silvestri must have had someone make a call. That was considerate.
‘I’ve been told I can go free,’ Kate said. ‘I’m innocent.’
‘I doubt that, Kate.’
She spoke English with the ghost of a French accent.
They hugged over the rope, cheek-kissing. It wasn’t quite comfortable, as if someone were between them.
Charles, of course.
They were only friends in that they triangulated on Charles, and perhaps il principe. So many complications ran between them all. Edwin Winthrop fit into the pattern, too. And Penelope.
‘I’ve brought you a chapeau ,’ Geneviève said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t expect the sun. The English never do and in this one thing I assumed the Irish
Charles, ten years older, was.
Had the little girl scared off the Crimson Executioner? That didn’t sound likely.
Silvestri ordered his men to lay down Kernassy’s cape and looked at the body. The press photographed the scene with the famous fountain picturesquely blurred in the background. The Inspector put on a serious expression. Like Malenka, he gave the photographers different angles. He experimented with looks: contemplative, decisive, determined.
Reporters paid attention as Silvestri announced, ‘I corpi presentano tracce di violenza supernatural,’ and proceeded to rattle off a statement they all jotted down.
Century-old schoolgirl Italian knocked around the back of her head, tainted by profane Sicilian picked up in the war. She didn’t have to understand every word to catch the policeman’s drift. It was a scene-of-the-crime speech, the same the world over. Every effort was being made and every lead followed. An arrest was promised in the immediate but non-specific future. Kate had first heard the song at the site of one of the Jack the Ripper murders, performed by the artist who made it famous, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
Of course, Jack was never arrested.
Kate wondered if she should tell Marcello the police thought her innocent. He’d been startled enough by the moment of discovery. Even through cool-baby shades, he registered shock and suspicion. She knew the impression would be hard to shift. To him, she might always be a bloodthirsty monster.
Damn. There was always something.
She chided herself. Two people were destroyed and she was worried about impressing a warm man who, she was sure, found her as attractive as a face-rub with a dead fish.
She hadn’t disliked Gabor Kernassy. And Malenka was more ridiculous than anything else. They might have been shallow, but they were kinder to her than convention obliged them to be. Even Malenka was funny. Kate had planned to write about the circus around the starlet. She’d have made money from them. Considering murder as news, she still might.
They had been slaughtered in front of her.
A long-bladed silver knife had fetched off Kernassy’s head and skewered Malenka’s heart. The police found the thing in the fountain, washed clean. Silvestri made sure it didn’t vanish along with Malenka’s dress.
Kate knew she wouldn’t let this go. She had a great deal to occupy her in this city, unfinished business of long standing. But this was now her business too.
Someone called her name.
For an instant, she thought it might be Marcello. But it was a woman.
Geneviève.
She was behind the rope barrier, wearing a white straw hat and sunglasses. She waved at Kate with another hat.
‘They won’t let me through,’ Geneviève shrugged, smiling.
She looked so young.
Her sun-blonde hair shone. Her smile was almost a little girl’s. Her old eyes were out of sight. She was genuinely pleased to see Kate.
She’d given the police the telephone number. Silvestri must have had someone make a call. That was considerate.
‘I’ve been told I can go free,’ Kate said. ‘I’m innocent.’
‘I doubt that, Kate.’
She spoke English with the ghost of a French accent.
They hugged over the rope, cheek-kissing. It wasn’t quite comfortable, as if someone were between them.
Charles, of course.
They were only friends in that they triangulated on Charles, and perhaps il principe. So many complications ran between them all. Edwin Winthrop fit into the pattern, too. And Penelope.
‘I’ve brought you a chapeau ,’ Geneviève said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t expect the sun. The English never do and in this one thing I assumed the Irish
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