The Art of Killing Well by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis Read Free Book Online Page A

a few drops at the bottom. Belladonna actually has a pleasant, sweetish taste, rather like julep, which could easily be mistaken for the sugary taste of that wine. I therefore suggest analysing …”
    For years – almost ten, to be precise. Since he had been sent to Campiglia Marittima in 1882, after his promotion, the only murder he had had to deal with had been the killing of Ginocchino, the donkey of the baker Artemio, beaten to death with a stick by the tenant farmer Pancacci after the animal had eaten Pancacci’s good trousers, which he had hung over a pole in order not to ruin them while he slept off a hangover in the baker’s stable. Apart from that, lots of thefts of chickens and a few brawlsamong peasants who were too drunk to do each other serious harm. What made it worse were the visits at Christmas time by his father-in-law, Lieutenant of Carabinieri Onorato Passalacqua, who had taken part in the expedition which years earlier had put an end to the career of the famous brigand Stefano Pelloni, better known as the Ferryman. Every year without fail, his father-in-law would brass him off with his account of that heroic enterprise, especially the gun battle which had ended with the whole gang in irons and the Ferryman himself mortally wounded – a deed for which the good lieutenant, although not saying it in so many words, implied that he was responsible. And the inspector would sit there, swallowing bile along with Christmas cake, all too aware of the fact that in this godforsaken swamp where he had been sent, even if he was a hero, there would never be a way to show it.
    â€œâ€¦ and I’d stake my life on these conclusions. Well, my dear Ispettore, I’ve done my duty and, believe me, it hasn’t been easy. But now I’m happy to leave it all up to you.”
    â€œThat is my duty, my dear Dottore,” the inspector said.
    It will be a pleasure, he thought.
    â€œTell me, Ispettore, what I must do.”

    The baron sat waiting by the table, upright without being rigid. A true nobleman, in tragedy as in good fortune. The inspector had thought of interviewing him before the others, both as a form of respect and because, at first glance, he seemed the person most affected by the matter.
    â€œA few questions should suffice, Barone. I need to know what happened this morning in detail. A painful duty for you, and, believe me, equally so for me.”
    In a monotone voice, the baron recounted that morning’s events. When he came to the point where he had entered the cellar, the inspector stopped him.
    â€œSo the door was bolted from inside?”
    â€œPrecisely, Ispettore. In order to enter, it was necessary to force it free of its hinges.”
    â€œI understand. Please excuse the interruption. Now, if you’ll allow me, I must ask you some specific questions. When you entered, was there a glass of port in front of the dead man, together with the corresponding bottle?”
    â€œYes, there was.”
    â€œHad you ever seen that bottle before?”
    â€œOf course. It’s part of my personal reserve. Porto Garrafeira, manufactured by the Niepoort company, and given to me by His Excellency Barone Ramalho, the Portuguese Ambassador, who deigned to visit our vineyards and cellars six years ago.”
    â€œSo you are accustomed to drinking that wine. When was the last time it was served to you?”
    â€œLast night, after dinner. We gathered in the billiard room to toast the success of my good friend Barone Cesaroni’s horse Monte Santo. I had champagne served to my guests, as is fitting for a toast, but I had my port brought expressly for me. You see, I suffer from dyspepsia and cannot indulge in champagne with impunity. So I apologised to my guests and served myself.”
    â€œDid you serve yourself personally? I mean, did you pour the port into the glass?”
    I’m not a tramp like you, replied the baron’s eyes. Since when do members