Doctored Evidence by Donna Leon Page B

you took her to the train?’
    â€˜A housedress, the sort of thing you never see any more. Buttons down the front, short sleeves, made of something like nylon or rayon. Synthetic. Must have been terrible for her in thisheat. It was grey or beige, some light colour, and had a small pattern on it; I don’t remember what.’
    â€˜Was it something you saw her wearing in the house, when you saw her from your window?’
    Signora Gismondi considered this, then answered, ‘I think so. She had that and a light-coloured blouse and dark skirt. But most of the time she had an apron on, so I don’t have a clear memory of her clothes.’
    â€˜Did you see any changes in her while she was there?’
    â€˜I don’t know what you mean by changes.’
    â€˜Did she get her hair cut, or coloured? Start to wear glasses?’
    She remembered the white roots of Flori’s hair that last day, when she’d taken her to the café to try to calm her down. ‘She stopped dyeing her hair,’ she finally said. ‘She probably couldn’t afford it.’
    â€˜Why do you say that?’ he asked.
    â€˜Do you have any idea of what it costs to have your hair dyed in this city?’ she asked him, wondering if he had a wife and, if so, whether she was of an age to dye her hair. She guessed him to be somewhere in his fifties: he would have seemed younger than that, she realized, were it not for the thinning of the hair at the crown of his head and for the lines around his eyes. But, paradoxically, his eyes seemed those of a much younger man: astute, bright, quick to register what they saw.
    â€˜Of course,’ he said, understanding themeaning of her question, and then, ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Signora Battestini? Anything at all, Signora, no matter how unimportant or inconsequential it might seem and, yes,’ he went on with an easy smile, ‘no matter how much it might sound like gossip.’
    She responded easily to the invitation to be of help. ‘I think I said that everyone in the neighbourhood knows her.’ He nodded and she continued. ‘And they know she’s caused me so much trouble . . .’ Here she stopped briefly to interrupt herself, ‘You see, I’m the only person whose bedroom faces her apartment. I don’t know whether other people’s bedrooms were always at the back, or if they’ve changed their houses around over the course of the years to get away from the noise.’
    â€˜Or whether it’s just recently that this has begun,’ he suggested.
    â€˜No,’ she responded immediately. ‘Everyone I talk to tells me it’s been going on since the son died. The people to my right have air conditioning, so they sleep with the windows closed, and the old people below me close their shutters and windows both. God knows why it is they don’t suffocate during the summer.’ She suddenly realized how stupidly garrulous she must sound and broke off, tried to remember what had started her on this subject, then, finding the thread, returned to it. ‘Everyone knows her, and if I mention her name, everyone is ready to talk about her. I’ve heard her life story a dozen times.’
    â€˜Really?’ he asked, obviously interested. He turned a page in his notebook and glanced at her with what she took to be an encouraging smile.
    â€˜Well, let’s say I’ve heard bits and pieces of her life story.’
    â€˜And would you tell me what they are?’
    â€˜That she’s lived there for decades. I’d guess from what people say that she was in her eighties, maybe older,’ she said. ‘There was the one son, but he died. People have told me it wasn’t a happy marriage. I think her husband died about ten years ago.’
    â€˜Do you know what he did?’
    She paused and tried to remember, dredging through half a decade of random gossip. ‘I think he had some