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costumes — here, let me show you the damage.” She led the way inside.
    The damaged costumes were still where Liz Falla had seen them, lined up on the foldaway table: the three women’s tailored suits, one dress, a man’s suit, and a German uniform.
    â€œTo which characters in the film do these belong?” Moretti asked, bending over them and examining the gashes in the German uniform. The dagger must have been sharp to have torn the tough fabric as it had.
    â€œThe dress and two of the suits belong to the countess, the other woman’s suit is for a fairly minor character, the housekeeper, the man’s suit belongs to the village priest, and the German uniform is for Gunter’s character. Those are the dummies I was using over there.”
    Liz Falla went over and poked her fingers through the holes. “Through the heart,” she said, “— or where it would be.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I said to Piero,” said Betty Chesler. “Through the heart, I said.”
    â€œI presume there’d been a break-in?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking, though it wasn’t that difficult. I wish now I’d opted for a trailer, but this was so roomy and I like the higher ceiling. Besides, I wasn’t that worried with security guards patrolling the grounds. Whoever it was came in through the window.” Betty Chesler indicated the broken pane. “And now that we’ve lost the location manager” — this was said with heavy sarcasm — “the police have dusted for fingerprints. The young lady took the dagger away.”
    â€œHe — whoever — left the weapon.”
    â€œYes. Very fancy, like something out of an Errol Flynn movie, as I said to the police officer here, but I imagine you’re too young, aren’t you, to know who I mean.” Betty Chesler shuddered. “I just screamed when I got in here and saw what had happened. It looked like a massacre.”
    â€œWas it generally known that these particular costumes would be on the dummies that night?”
    â€œWell, anyone coming in and out of here over the past three or four days would have known, because that’s how long they’ve been up. Mr. Lord and Mr. Bianchi wanted some changes to the countess’s outfits — they’re building up her role, so I hear — and Mr. Sachs had put on quite a bit of weight since his original fittings, so we had to alter them.”
    â€œAnd the housekeeper and the priest?”
    â€œCasting changes. For the housekeeper they’d gone from a jolly roly-poly English actress to a gaunt Italian lady, more of a Mrs. Danvers type — you know, like in Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca ? And they’d gone the other way for the priest — from cadaverous to cuddly, don’t ask me why.”
    â€œI see. Thank you, Ms. Chesler. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, this is where you can reach me.” Moretti handed her his card. Then, on the spur of the moment, he asked, “Do you have any theories yourself? You talked about an omen. A warning.”
    Liz Falla was standing by the table where the attacker had left the dagger. As he said this, Moretti saw her look across sharply at him, then away. She said nothing, so he continued. “About what? Or whom?”
    Betty Chesler looked at Moretti. “I don’t know for sure,” she said slowly. “I work on a lot of historical films, and sometimes I get a strange feeling, standing in a room like this, surrounded by the past. It could be just that — but whatever this is about goes a long way back. That’s my opinion.”
    â€œA long way back — in time, you mean?”
    â€œRight. This isn’t about what Gilbert Ensor did or said to insult Monty Lord, or what the marchesa did or said to upset — well, just about everybody, that one. I mean, I can understand why knives — guns aren’t so