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them to talk about anything at all.
    With a wry smile she said, ‘And you see, people in the neighbourhood have told me other things about her. No matter how much their stories showed how much they hated her, they always finished by saying she was a poor widow who had lost her only child, and it was necessary to feel sorry for her.’
    Sensing her desire to be prodded into gossip, he asked, ‘What other things did they tell you, Signora?’
    â€˜About her meanness, for one thing. I told you she never tipped the postman, but many people have told me she would always buy the cheapest thing on offer. She’d walk halfway across the city to save fifty lire on the price of a packet of pasta: things like that. And my shoemaker said he got tired of her always saying she’d pay him next time and then saying, when she came in again, that she already had, until he wouldn’t let her into the shop any more.’ She saw his expression and added, ‘I don’t know what’s true in all of this. You know how it is: once a person gets a reputation for being oneway or another, then stories begin to be told, and it no longer much matters whether the thing ever happened or not.’
    Brunetti had long been familiar with this phenomenon. He’d known people who had been killed because of it, and he’d known people to take their own lives because of it.
    Signora Gismondi went on. ‘Sometimes I’d hear her screaming at the women who worked for her, hear it from across the
campo
. She’d shout terrible things: accuse them of lying or stealing. Or she’d complain about the food they made for her or the way they’d made the bed. I could hear it all, at least during the summer if I didn’t use the Discman. Sometimes I’d see them at the window and I’d wave or smile at them, the way you do. Then if I saw one of them on the street I’d say hello or nod.’ She looked to one side as if she’d never previously bothered to consider why she had done this. ‘I suppose I wanted them to know that not all people were like her, or that not all Venetians were.’
    Brunetti nodded again, acknowledging the legitimacy of this desire.
    â€˜One of them, she was from Moldavia, asked me one day if I had any work for her. I had to tell her I already had a cleaning woman, who had worked for me for years. But she looked so desperate that I asked around and found a friend whose cleaning woman had left, so she took her and she liked her, said she was honest and hard working.’ She smiled and shook her head at her own garrulousness. ‘Anyway, Janatold her that all she was being paid was seven thousand lire – that was before the Euro – an hour.’ Failing to keep the indignation from her voice, she said, ‘That’s less than four Euros an hour, for God’s sake. No one can live on that.’
    Admiring her for her anger, Brunetti asked, ‘Do you think this is what she was paying Signora Ghiorghiu?’
    â€˜I’ve no idea, but I wouldn’t be surprised.’
    â€˜What was her response when you gave her all that money?’ he asked.
    Embarrassed, she said, ‘Oh, she was pleased, I think.’
    â€˜I’m sure she was,’ Brunetti said. ‘How did she react?’
    Signora Gismondi looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap, and said, ‘She started to cry.’ She paused, then added, ‘And she tried to kiss my hand. But I couldn’t have that, not there on the street.’
    â€˜Certainly not,’ Brunetti agreed, trying not to smile. ‘Can you remember anything else about Signora Battestini?’
    â€˜She used to be a secretary, I think, in one of the schools, I’m not sure which one, elementary, I think. But she must have retired more than twenty years ago. Maybe even more than that, when it was so easy to retire.’ Brunetti wasn’t sure, but he thought there was more reproach than