Page 36 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
‘The girl is not only lazy but audacious. Look! She has drunk the wine and now sleeps in a stupor! She even dares to wear my robe!’ Stepping forward, Lucrezia shook her by the shoulder.
The girl’s arm flopped to her side, but she showed no sign of waking.
‘Claudette?’ Approaching, Cecile brushed back a tumbled lock of hair from the maid’s face.
‘And, she tries on my garnets!’ Lucrezia snatched the earring from her lobe. ‘For this, she shall be dismissed. I shall speak to the Countess myself.’
‘Claudette!’ Carefully, Cecile raised her into a sitting position, tipping back her head.
No sooner had Cecile done so than she flinched away.
The girl’s eyes were closed and her mouth slack, the rouge upon it smeared across her cheek. Lucrezia’s garnets were about her neck but, above, another ring of scarlet encircled her throat; a band of livid bruising.
‘Mio Dio!’ Lucrezia’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Lei è morta!’
Cecile tried to think. What was one supposed to do? There was a small mirror upon the table. With shaking hands, she picked it up, holding the silvered glass close to Claudette’s mouth. Was there any sign of breath?
A horrible chill settled over her as Cecile saw there was none.
’We must fetch the doctor.’
‘It is too late for that help.’ Lucrezia had turned pale, her voice wavering. ‘Better to inform your brother. He will fetch the captain and arrange what is necessary.’
She looked down, into Claudette’s face, her voice barely a whisper. ’Did they intend this to be me,cara? Here, at my dressing table?’
Her eyes lifted to meet Cecile’s. There was fear in them, such as Cecile had never seen before.
In daylight, it would be impossible to mistake the two—but in dim light, with the maid’s hair pinned in the same style as Lucrezia favoured, wearing her rouge and kohl, her clothes, her jewels?
Cecile shook her head. ‘There’s no reason for anyone to wish you harm. But, whoever did this is responsible for Senhora Fonseca’s death. I’m certain.’
‘And for fighting with Mr. Robinson?’ Lucrezia passed her hand over her eyes. ‘It makes no sense.’
’Nor to me.’ Cecile felt suddenly immensely tired, the weight upon her shoulders heavier than she could bear.
She hadn’t known a great deal about Claudette; she was in Maud’s employ, rather than her own. She felt sorry for it now.
What family did she have? Far away, there might be a brother or sister, parents even. Maud would know. They would try to send a telegram.
That thought brought a new wave of sadness. How terrible would it be, to receive news such as this, in that impersonal way? A letter would be better.
Walking to the window, Cecile drew back the other curtain, hooking it into place. When the captain came, he’d need to see everything clearly.
Now the room was fully lit, she saw that a swathe of black lace had been draped over the mirror at the very back of the dressing table.
A mourning veil?
She’d only seen Lucrezia wear it once, at the church in Scogliera. There had been a memorial service for her brother, though no body to bury. Whatever scorched bones existed, they were interned beneath the smouldering castello. The new conte seemed to have no interest in either restoring the castle or recovering Lorenzo’s remains—and Lucrezia had shown no desire to mourn her brother in the usual way.
Only at the requiem mass had she worn black, and dark purple for the few days thereafter. Once they’d left Scogliera, she’d put all sombre colours aside.
Lucrezia had been standing very still but she leant forward now, her fingers tugging at the corner of the lace. It dropped to reveal a single word painted upon the looking glass; written in the same rouge that stained Claudette’s cheek, the letters ill-formed, daubed from the mixture of carmine and beeswax, applied by a clumsy finger.
PUTTANA
Lucrezia turned to Cecile, all colour drained from her face.
Cecile knew the word, though it was not one she’d ever had cause to speak aloud.
In Italian, someone had scrawled ‘whore’ upon Lucrezia’s mirror.
