Chapter Nine

“Would you learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery.“
-  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I blinked, trying to dispel the thickening cloud confusion and conflict in my head. Gabriel, with his quiet conviction and sun-warmed smile, couldn’t possibly be that man. And yet, something in the inspetorre’s calm, assured delivery curled uneasily at the edges of my certainty. 

“So what you’re inadvertently trying to tell me is,” I swallowed, my fingers curling in my lap. “That you suspect Gabriel killed Vittorio, in the bay while I was sleeping?! 

“No, I just want you to be vigilant,” cautioned Inspector Gianetti. “You don’t know Gabriel very well and I can see you already have feelings for him. I want you to be on your guard.”
“He’s not a murderer,” I insisted calmly. “Even if he was accused before, he wasn’t found guilty or he wouldn’t be here. And why would he kill Vittorio? It makes no sense.”
“Don’t be naive, Miss Stewart,” urged the Inspetorre. “Everyone is capable of murder, all they need is the right motivation, the right trigger.”

I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to believe Gabriel could commit such violence. That he could have pushed Vittorio to his death, watched as his skull splintered against the rocks, be unmoved while the blood and life drained from the poor man’s body. That wasn’t the Gabriel I thought I knew.

The bubble of sweet bliss I had been floating in deflated completely, the guilty pin held between Inspetorre Gianetti’s fingertips. After the elation of sharing my troubles with Gabriel and the much needed comfort he had given me, now I was harried with doubts and regret. Tears pricked behind my eyes and my mouth twisted. Inspetorre Gianetti stood.

“Please, I did not mean to upset you,” he said, gently, putting a hand comfortingly on my shoulder. “Perhaps you are right in your opinion of Signor Moreau, but I couldn’t say nothing. You are a witness in this case and I have a responsibility to protect you. This is an ugly business and I want you to be safe.” 

I nodded, my lips unable to form words. 

“If you think of anything that could help us, or if you need my help, please call me.” Inspetorre Gianetti handed me a card. “My direct number is on there, call any time.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

I sat staring at his card, the words blurring in and out of focus. I was half aware of Sofia’s voice, escorting the Inspector out. I felt suddenly sick, wishing the afternoon had never happened.

Sofia hurried back into the room.

“What did he say?” she demanded, immediately defensive.

“Oh, just that Gabriel is his prime suspect,” I replied, my jaw wobbling.

“What?!” Sofia cried. “You’re not serious?”

I threw up my hands.

“I don’t know,” I sighed, overwrought. “I can’t think straight.” 

“Tell me everything he told you,” Sofia ordered and drew out a chair.

As I repeated what Inspetorre Gianetti had said, the ludicrosity of it sank in. Sofia echoed my thoughts.

“They must be mistaken,” she said. “Not got the full story on this other murder case and as to poor Vittorio, well they’re . . . aggrapparsi a un filo di speranza. Gabriel was there where the body was found, so he’s suspect number one.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. I just can’t see him doing something like that.”

Sofia brushed my arm.

“You really like him, don’t you,” she said, kindly. “That’s why you’re so upset?”
“Yes,” I nodded.

“Well, you know, the only way this is going to get sorted, is if you talk to him,” she surmised. “Ask him about this other murder in the Netherlands. Just for your peace of mind.”

I inwardly balked at her suggestion.
“What’s going to stop him from lying to me?”
“If he cares about you, he won’t want to lie to you.”
“Pft,” I scoffed.

Suspicion infected my mind now, its poisonous tendrils burrowing deep. I was not going to be easily convinced. 

“Well, you should at least find out what he has to say about it,” advised Sofia. “Give him a chance to explain.”

“I guess,” I agreed, reluctantly. “He asked me to dinner this evening.”
“Perfect, but maybe don’t bring up the murder while you’re in a restaurant full of people. You don’t want to create a scene.”

Gabriel’s embrace, his smile and idle chatter washed over me. I ate my food, gulped down the wine, but tasted nothing. Numb, all I could concentrate on were Inspetorre Gianetti’s words, replaying relentlessly in my mind like a stuck record, and the questions burning in my throat. I don’t know what I said or did during that meal, my memory of it a cloudy smudge. I almost leapt up from my chair once the bill was paid, eager to be out of the restaurant, away from the constant low hum of conversation and the grating screech of clinking glasses and cutlery. 

Stepping back out onto the street was like stepping out a steaming shower and into the cool air of the garden. It was a welcome but short relief. Gabriel took my hand and we walked down towards the harbour. I frantically thought of how to ask him, sweat moistening the nape of my neck. Gabriel strolled serenely beside me, the evening sun dancing across his face. 

We reached the waterfront and paused. I snatched my chance.

“I have to ask you something,” I said, calmly, as if I hadn’t silently rehearsed the line multiple times.
“Of course,” Gabriel smiled. “What is it?”

My heart throbbed.
“Is it … is it true you were suspected of murder in the Netherlands?”

There was no masking his surprise. He dropped my hand and turned his gaze out at the moored boats.
“Yes, I was,” he exhaled, adjusting his collar. He paused. “But it was a mistake. I was never charged.”

My thoughts scrambled.
“And then you came here?” I asked, unsure of how to continue.
“Yes,” he said, his voice measured, the faint whisper of a grimace on his lips. “My name had been dragged through the newspapers, my whole life had been analysed and dissected. I had to get away.”

I nodded detachedly. I felt Gabriel’s eyes narrow on my face.
“How did you find out?” he asked.
“Inspetorre Gianetti told me.”

He nodded.
“Because he thinks I killed Vittorio?”

I rubbed my forehead.
“I don’t know,” I said, falteringly. “He didn’t say he suspected you, it was more like . . . a warning. He asked me questions about the night at the bar and the day at the bay, and then he told me about your past and . . . well, I didn’t know what to think.”
“Well, I can’t fault his motive,” admitted Gabriel, after a moment. “We don’t know that much about each other, do we? And with such leading questions, what else could you think?”

We stood looking past each other, the silence awkward and uncomfortable.

“This explains why you were so preoccupied at dinner,” said Gabriel, at last.
“Yes,” I acknowledged, wincing. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“Wondering if you were dining with a murderer?”

“Yes, I mean, no! Of course not!” I denied, too quickly, too loudly, the truth of his guess horrifying me. 

I blushed furiously.

“Don’t worry,” he said, gently. “If I were you, I’d be wondering too. But as to what happened in the Netherlands, it was a bizarre theory dreamt up by an over zealous journalist and the police felt obliged to investigate. That’s all.”

I wanted to believe him, so much. But not all my worries had been allayed.

“And what about Vittorio?” I pushed. “Did you speak to him that night at the bar?”

He studied me for a long moment, as if deliberating how much of the truth I was prepared for.
“Yes,” he said, eventually. “He was a bit drunk and talking nonsense. I suggested he go home and sleep it off, and he left. I never saw him again, alive.”
His words sank slowly in, recalling Vittorio’s dead body to my mind. I breathed in shakily and sagged down onto the stone balustrade.

“I didn’t kill him, Jenny,” said Gabriel, watching me. “I know that’s easy to say, especially through the lense of Gianetti’s magnifying glass.”

I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let him see the flicker of doubt in my eyes. He crouched down so he was level with me and tipped up my chin.

“I care about you,” he said, softly. “More than I should, perhaps. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
His words were sincere, his eyes earnest, but something felt off. As if his words were too precisely chosen. I suppressed the threatening tremors in my stomach and swallowed.

“Then why is it I feel that there’s more you’re not telling me?” I challenged.
He stood and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Because some things are difficult to explain in a way that sounds right,” he said, his eyes hooded and dark. “Especially when you’re trying to be honest.”

He spoke plainly and unemotionally, but there was a hint of fatigue. Or perhaps restraint. 

“I would never lie to you, Jenny.”

He looked at me so resolutely, as if needed me to believe him. And in that moment, I did.