shake the pharmacist out of bed.
Around midday one of Inspector Portera’s men, who had ventured all the way to Vaso di Failla, a deep, desolate, funnel-shaped gorge strewn with jagged rocks and crumbly, treacherous clay, with a few rare clumps of sorghum here and there, fired a shot in the air to alert the others who had spread out in several directions. The marchese’s body lay at the bottom of the gorge. When he arrived at the spot, Portera made everyone take a few steps back and started reading what the ground had to tell him. Then he called the others.
“The marchese slipped from here. See that streak right at the edge? The ground is naturally slippery there, so you can imagine what it would be like after the three days of rain we’ve had. Poor Don Filippo tried to stop his fall. See how that shrub of sorghum over there is stripped away? But it wasn’t enough, and he kept on slipping. Then he must have gathered speed, probably broke his neck, and at the end of his fall even hit his head on a rock.”
“Why do you think he was already dead when he hit his head?” asked Fofò La Matina.
“Because there’s very little blood on the rock. In any case, we’ll know more after we bring in the body. But my question is: Why did he venture so far from home, and to such a dangerous place?”
“The marchese, poor guy, wasn’t all there in the head anymore,” said Pirrotta.
“Oh, no?”
“It’s true,” interjected the pharmacist. “A few days ago Pirrotta told me the marchese broke a rooster’s neck because the animal didn’t crow at the right time of day.”
Then he turned and addressed Pirrotta directly:
“Did the marchese eat a lot yesterday?”
“I’d told him not to; I’d warned him about eating so much. He must’ve fainted, or felt dizzy, and then he fell.”
“Well, let’s be patient,” Portera concluded, “and take him away from here.”
“May I ask a question?” inquired Fofò.
“Go right ahead.”
“Who should inform the daughter?”
There was silence. Nobody had the courage to volunteer.
“Well, if that’s the way it is, I’ll take care of it myself,” said the pharmacist. “I’ll go at once, so she’ll be prepared when her father comes home dead.”
Portera was a born cop. He sensed that something didn’t add up in this affair, but couldn’t figure out what.
When the body was recovered from the gorge, he sent it on to Vigàta with Mimì and dismissed his men as well. He brought his horse up alongside Pirrotta’s mule.
“I want to see the room the marchese slept in.”
The first thing he noticed, upon entering the room, were the items on the bedside table: wallet, leather pouch, and a small cardboard box. Don Filippo’s gold watch had been found in the pocket of his vest, still running, though the chain had been broken. The wallet was full of money, and the pouch filled with coins. Inside the little box he found four white pills.
“Do you know what these are?” he asked Trisina, who was nursing her baby.
“Yessir. Pills the pharmacist gave to m’lord. They helped the burning in his stomach.”
“I’m taking the wallet, pouch, and box with me.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Pirrotta.
The inspector sat down, poured himself a glass of wine without asking permission, and began questioning.
“Whose kid is that?”
“What do you mean, whose kid? He’s mine,” said Pirrotta.
“Why was the marchese living here instead of at home?”
“We’re not the ones you should be asking that. Maybe it’s ’cause after his son died, he felt more comfortable living with us.”
“Why, didn’t he feel comfortable at home?”
“Seems not. An’ he felt so comfortable here, in fact, that he left all the land in Le Zubbie in our son’s name.”
The revelation hit the inspector like a punch in the stomach. The motive for a possible homicide had just fallen away. Pirrotta felt no pity for him.
“And he wanted to adopt him. And me an’ Trisina were in
Around midday one of Inspector Portera’s men, who had ventured all the way to Vaso di Failla, a deep, desolate, funnel-shaped gorge strewn with jagged rocks and crumbly, treacherous clay, with a few rare clumps of sorghum here and there, fired a shot in the air to alert the others who had spread out in several directions. The marchese’s body lay at the bottom of the gorge. When he arrived at the spot, Portera made everyone take a few steps back and started reading what the ground had to tell him. Then he called the others.
“The marchese slipped from here. See that streak right at the edge? The ground is naturally slippery there, so you can imagine what it would be like after the three days of rain we’ve had. Poor Don Filippo tried to stop his fall. See how that shrub of sorghum over there is stripped away? But it wasn’t enough, and he kept on slipping. Then he must have gathered speed, probably broke his neck, and at the end of his fall even hit his head on a rock.”
“Why do you think he was already dead when he hit his head?” asked Fofò La Matina.
“Because there’s very little blood on the rock. In any case, we’ll know more after we bring in the body. But my question is: Why did he venture so far from home, and to such a dangerous place?”
“The marchese, poor guy, wasn’t all there in the head anymore,” said Pirrotta.
“Oh, no?”
“It’s true,” interjected the pharmacist. “A few days ago Pirrotta told me the marchese broke a rooster’s neck because the animal didn’t crow at the right time of day.”
Then he turned and addressed Pirrotta directly:
“Did the marchese eat a lot yesterday?”
“I’d told him not to; I’d warned him about eating so much. He must’ve fainted, or felt dizzy, and then he fell.”
“Well, let’s be patient,” Portera concluded, “and take him away from here.”
“May I ask a question?” inquired Fofò.
“Go right ahead.”
“Who should inform the daughter?”
There was silence. Nobody had the courage to volunteer.
“Well, if that’s the way it is, I’ll take care of it myself,” said the pharmacist. “I’ll go at once, so she’ll be prepared when her father comes home dead.”
Portera was a born cop. He sensed that something didn’t add up in this affair, but couldn’t figure out what.
When the body was recovered from the gorge, he sent it on to Vigàta with Mimì and dismissed his men as well. He brought his horse up alongside Pirrotta’s mule.
“I want to see the room the marchese slept in.”
The first thing he noticed, upon entering the room, were the items on the bedside table: wallet, leather pouch, and a small cardboard box. Don Filippo’s gold watch had been found in the pocket of his vest, still running, though the chain had been broken. The wallet was full of money, and the pouch filled with coins. Inside the little box he found four white pills.
“Do you know what these are?” he asked Trisina, who was nursing her baby.
“Yessir. Pills the pharmacist gave to m’lord. They helped the burning in his stomach.”
“I’m taking the wallet, pouch, and box with me.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Pirrotta.
The inspector sat down, poured himself a glass of wine without asking permission, and began questioning.
“Whose kid is that?”
“What do you mean, whose kid? He’s mine,” said Pirrotta.
“Why was the marchese living here instead of at home?”
“We’re not the ones you should be asking that. Maybe it’s ’cause after his son died, he felt more comfortable living with us.”
“Why, didn’t he feel comfortable at home?”
“Seems not. An’ he felt so comfortable here, in fact, that he left all the land in Le Zubbie in our son’s name.”
The revelation hit the inspector like a punch in the stomach. The motive for a possible homicide had just fallen away. Pirrotta felt no pity for him.
“And he wanted to adopt him. And me an’ Trisina were in