Read Online The Marshal at the Villa Torrini by Magdalen Nabb - Free Book Online
Authors: Magdalen Nabb
Tags: Suspense
Ads: Link
'I only checked his hands and face . . .'
'Where else would you check? He was dressed, wasn't he? In any case his hands would be practically all she could reach. They'd have been in ribbons.'
'She did have nails? I mean, they weren't bitten down or anything?'
'No. Besides, we've removed whatever was under them as a matter of routine. You can't rule out someone else's possible presence entirely, I presume.'
That was true. Nobody had seen another person but there was no proof . . .
'Would you mind if I came out there?'
'Want to see for yourself, eh?'
'No, no, I wouldn't dream . . .'
'I was only joking. Help you to get your thoughts in order. I understand.'
Thoughts. The Marshal only wished he had any thoughts. He didn't understand anything about this business except that he didn't like Julian Forbes. And that didn't make the man a murderer, for goodness' sake. If the internal organs were found to be healthy there would be nothing for it but a verdict of accidental death.
'And that fellow lying there drunk!'
'What?' Fara, driving him out to the Medico-Legal Institute, had up to now seen the Marshal only as a kindly, if grumpy, father figure who'd made his first year in the army rather more comfortable than it would otherwise have been. Now he was disconcerted by this new version. He was silent for ages and didn't hear if you spoke or asked him something. Poor Fara, never having had occasion to go there, wasn't at all sure how to find the Medico-Legal Institute. His inquiries had been ignored and it was fortunate for him that once they reached hospital city at Careggi everything was signposted.
He peered about but could see no drunk.
'Do you want me to stop?'
No answer. Perhaps it was because he was on a diet. Fara knew all about the diet. Everybody at the Pitti Station knew all about the diet. And he'd heard it could do strange things to your brain, not eating.
'We're here, Marshal.'
'Eh? Ah.' He got out and stumped inside the large white building, removing his hat as he went. Fara shrugged and drove on to turn the car.
'There we are. Haven't quite finished sewing her up yet. You're not squeamish? We can wait if you'd prefer it.'
The Marshal shook his head and the pathologist sent his assistant away. The thorax was still open but the scalp had been sewn back in place. Until now, the Marshal had only seen her soaked from the bath water. Her hair had dried to a lightish brown and was wavy. It was spread in the dissecting trough now, but probably it had just touched her shoulders. There were grey hairs above her ears.
She was brilliant, Signorina Müller had said, but by now they had taken away her brain. She had been an intelligent, mature woman and she had drowned like a baby . . .
'Why is it,' he asked the pathologist who had parked himself on one corner of the table, arms folded, rubber gloves held in one hand, 'that babies drown like that?'
'Like I said, it's more choking than drowning, maybe in a few inches of water, maybe on their own vomit, sometimes in ways that remain undefined. You must have heard of so-called cot deaths. A baby's helpless, can't lift its head or move or signal for help.' He shrugged. 'What can I say? I can tell you what she died of—asphyxiation—but the how and the why . . . I'm afraid you'll have to sort that one out.'
'I'd like to know how with no evidence.' The Marshal's face was dark with displeasure. Then, remembering he wasn't addressing one of his carabinieri, he added, 'I beg your pardon. It's just such a funny business. Not clear cut.'
'Well—' the pathologist slid down from the table and got hold of Celia Carter's blue-white hand, turning it in his own and looking at her wedding ring—'the usual theory is the husband did it unless there's proof to the contrary.'
'If anybody did it at all. If it wasn't really an accident.'
The pathologist looked up at him. 'You don't believe that.' It was a statement, not a question.
'No. No . . .'
'I must say, I don't either. I
'Where else would you check? He was dressed, wasn't he? In any case his hands would be practically all she could reach. They'd have been in ribbons.'
'She did have nails? I mean, they weren't bitten down or anything?'
'No. Besides, we've removed whatever was under them as a matter of routine. You can't rule out someone else's possible presence entirely, I presume.'
That was true. Nobody had seen another person but there was no proof . . .
'Would you mind if I came out there?'
'Want to see for yourself, eh?'
'No, no, I wouldn't dream . . .'
'I was only joking. Help you to get your thoughts in order. I understand.'
Thoughts. The Marshal only wished he had any thoughts. He didn't understand anything about this business except that he didn't like Julian Forbes. And that didn't make the man a murderer, for goodness' sake. If the internal organs were found to be healthy there would be nothing for it but a verdict of accidental death.
'And that fellow lying there drunk!'
'What?' Fara, driving him out to the Medico-Legal Institute, had up to now seen the Marshal only as a kindly, if grumpy, father figure who'd made his first year in the army rather more comfortable than it would otherwise have been. Now he was disconcerted by this new version. He was silent for ages and didn't hear if you spoke or asked him something. Poor Fara, never having had occasion to go there, wasn't at all sure how to find the Medico-Legal Institute. His inquiries had been ignored and it was fortunate for him that once they reached hospital city at Careggi everything was signposted.
He peered about but could see no drunk.
'Do you want me to stop?'
No answer. Perhaps it was because he was on a diet. Fara knew all about the diet. Everybody at the Pitti Station knew all about the diet. And he'd heard it could do strange things to your brain, not eating.
'We're here, Marshal.'
'Eh? Ah.' He got out and stumped inside the large white building, removing his hat as he went. Fara shrugged and drove on to turn the car.
'There we are. Haven't quite finished sewing her up yet. You're not squeamish? We can wait if you'd prefer it.'
The Marshal shook his head and the pathologist sent his assistant away. The thorax was still open but the scalp had been sewn back in place. Until now, the Marshal had only seen her soaked from the bath water. Her hair had dried to a lightish brown and was wavy. It was spread in the dissecting trough now, but probably it had just touched her shoulders. There were grey hairs above her ears.
She was brilliant, Signorina Müller had said, but by now they had taken away her brain. She had been an intelligent, mature woman and she had drowned like a baby . . .
'Why is it,' he asked the pathologist who had parked himself on one corner of the table, arms folded, rubber gloves held in one hand, 'that babies drown like that?'
'Like I said, it's more choking than drowning, maybe in a few inches of water, maybe on their own vomit, sometimes in ways that remain undefined. You must have heard of so-called cot deaths. A baby's helpless, can't lift its head or move or signal for help.' He shrugged. 'What can I say? I can tell you what she died of—asphyxiation—but the how and the why . . . I'm afraid you'll have to sort that one out.'
'I'd like to know how with no evidence.' The Marshal's face was dark with displeasure. Then, remembering he wasn't addressing one of his carabinieri, he added, 'I beg your pardon. It's just such a funny business. Not clear cut.'
'Well—' the pathologist slid down from the table and got hold of Celia Carter's blue-white hand, turning it in his own and looking at her wedding ring—'the usual theory is the husband did it unless there's proof to the contrary.'
'If anybody did it at all. If it wasn't really an accident.'
The pathologist looked up at him. 'You don't believe that.' It was a statement, not a question.
'No. No . . .'
'I must say, I don't either. I
Similar Books
