Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  He took a length of rope out of his pocket and compared the two. ‘Hold on while I consult someone who’s a real expert. Gigio!’ he shouted at a passing apprentice. ‘Get me the Levantino.’

  The apprentice trotted off and a quarter of an hour later came back with a huge man in sailor’s garb and well-worn leather gloves.

  ‘Listen, Menico,’ said Micheli, turning to the newcomer. ‘You’ve spent time in the Levant, and you’ve also worked for the Turks. What do you make of this rope? Is it one of theirs?’

  The man held it between finger and thumb to examine it more closely. He had a deeply furrowed and sunburnt face and his eyes were almost invisible under his heavy eyelids. ‘It might be,’ he said at last, ‘but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Pay no attention to his appearance,’ explained Micheli, turning to Nani. ‘He’s dressed as a sailor but now works on land here with us.’

  ‘Well,’ continued Menico, unperturbed, ‘it’s certainly made from North African material, but the rope itself could be Turkish or even Portuguese. Portugal gets its raw materials from Libya, too, and they don’t have the same ropemaking skills we do. Sorry I can’t tell you more.’

  Thanking Micheli and the burly sailor, Nani took the murder weapon and retraced his steps to find an impatient Pisani.

  ‘I’ve not learned much, paròn,’ Nani began. ‘The foreman seemed certain that it was a Turkish rope, but then another man joined us. He’s called the Levantino because he’s sailed in those parts, and he was more doubtful. He thinks it could well be a Portuguese rope.’ Nani proceeded to give his master a detailed account.

  ‘So,’ Marco said, as the gondola headed for Piazza San Marco, ‘the rope might be Turkish or Portuguese. Well . . . at least we know that it’s not Venetian.’

  Once back at the Procuratie Vecchie and dressed again in his robes, Marco headed towards the ducal palace and his office, where a guard saluted him and said, ‘There’s a person waiting for you. She’s been there for a while.’

  Marco threw open the door then stopped in his tracks at the sight of a woman standing in profile, looking out at the sky through the glass of the large window. She wore a voluminous cloak made of a warm, apricot-coloured brocade and her thick blonde hair was tied back, apart from a few rebellious curls. The early-afternoon light seemed to give her a shining halo. As she turned, he noted that her smile shone even brighter than her hair, and her eyes were the colour of cornflowers.

  ‘Pardon me, Your Excellency, if I’m disturbing you,’ she began with a small curtsey. ‘My name’s Chiara Renier, and I employ the young man you’ve arrested, Tommaso Grassino, who I’m certain is innocent.’ A shadow of worry crossed her face. ‘I would like to know what will happen to him and what I can do to help. I know him well and he’s my best apprentice; there must have been a misunderstanding. His parents are in such a state . . .’

  Utterly bemused, Marco did not move, worried he might trip over his gown if he took too hasty a step forward. He felt ridiculous in his wig compared to this graceful figure. At last, he pulled himself together and gave a slight smile.

  ‘Please, signora.’ He pointed to a wide stool facing his desk, while retreating behind it himself and trying to look as relaxed as possible. ‘So . . . Grassino. I agree that he is not guilty, but until I can exonerate him completely, it’s better that he stays where he is.’ Then he stopped in embarrassment, afraid that he might start stuttering.

  Chiara watched Pisani’s change of expression with some apprehension. She felt a familiar tingling run through her and was surprised to realise it felt like a good sign. He was young for such a prestigious office and he looked sensitive, with that slightly lopsided smile that lit up his gentle, intelligent eyes. Luminous motes of dust danced in front of her eyes and she shivered. She needed to take control of herself: this was not the moment to give way to her intuitions as a clairvoyant. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them the lights had faded.

  ‘Your Excellency is right,’ she replied, lowering her gaze, which made Marco feel as if the sky had clouded over. ‘I have complete faith in your benevolence and won’t disturb you further. I will also reassure his parents.’ She stood up in a single fluid motion that revealed a brocade shoe and a dainty ankle.

  ‘Come back whenever you want to,’ Marco hastened to assure her. What on earth had happened, he wondered, to his famous nonchalance where women were concerned? ‘If I have any news, where can I find you, or rather, how can I contact you?’

  ‘In Calle Venier, close to the Jesuits.’ Chiara Renier shot him an impish look and smiled. Her mouth was vibrant and generous and her smile could brighten the stormiest day. ‘I own the Renier weaving manufactory. Do you see this cloak?’ she added with a tinge of pride. ‘We make this fabric ourselves, using the latest looms but with traditional designs, and we sell it all over Europe.’

  ‘A cloak worthy of a queen . . .’ ventured Marco.

  ‘Yes, we supply the court of France and the court of Turin.’

  A highly capable woman, and one with angelic looks. Marco wracked his brains but at that instant he could think of nothing to detain her.

  ‘Until we meet again, signora,’ he said reluctantly, and watched as she walked through the adjacent room with a light step.

  He sighed. What on earth was happening to him? Perhaps she was married. But no, Maso had said that she wasn’t. Perhaps she lived on her own because . . . well, who knew why? He’d have liked to know more about her. But what excuse could he use? Perhaps he could invite her to a concert or to a reception, for example, one of the ones his parents gave at the family palace. There would surely be one to mark the start of the Carnival. He’d have to think up a plan. And the next time he saw her, he would make sure that he was not wearing his wig and gown.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hidden in the shadows of the covered passage that opened on the huge Campo San Barnaba, Nani had been sitting for a while watching the comings and goings from the victim’s house on the other side of the canal. It was only lived in by barnabotti like Marino Barbaro, each more impoverished than the last.

  He had seen an old man emerge from the entrance wearing expensive silk stockings, despite the fact that his cloak was tattered. A young maidservant had popped out of another door, but only to talk to a boy who was waiting, and they had vanished around the corner to flirt. An old woman was now returning, dressed in elbow-length lace gloves and an outmoded gown, and she disappeared inside through a half-open door that was carefully closed behind her.

  Now, as the sun was setting, Nani hurried across the Ponte dei Pugni and made his way into a shop.

  ‘At your service, young man,’ the girl said cheekily as she sidled towards him.

  Nani pretended to browse the goods on display. He picked up a jacket that was resting on a pile of other garments, rummaged around in a box of lace-trimmed chemises of somewhat doubtful colour and made an attempt to try on a bautta mask, usually worn with a black cloak and often seen during Carnival.

  ‘Are you looking for something for a party?’ The girl stepped closer. Tall and well built, she had a round, peasant-like face that was not unattractive, and her generous bosom half spilled out of her tight bodice. ‘Zanetta at your service,’ she introduced herself. ‘With your build, you could easily wear a white wig and tricorn, and everyone would take you for a gentleman. Look, try this one.’

  Nani looked with disgust at the white curls draped over a wig stand in a corner. He calculated the likelihood of an infestation of fleas and stepped back a little: like master, like servant, Nani had picked up Pisani’s obsession with cleanliness.

  ‘Let me think about it . . .’ he prevaricated. ‘What I need now is a drink to warm me up. This winter has been fine, but it’s cold. Why don’t you come with me to the tavern over there? My name’s Nani.’ She wasn’t the type of girl to be seen with in an elegant coffee house.

  Zanetta didn’t need to be asked twice. As well as being attractive, with his sea-blue eyes and wide
shoulders, the young man seemed to be well off. ‘Hold on while I close up the shop and I’ll come.’ She threw a lace shawl over her head, bolted the door and set off with Nani. The day had been quiet in terms of business so far, but now the end looked promising.

  The drinking house was not as rough as Nani had feared, given the area. A good fire burned in the fireplace and the flames helped to light the room. The glasses on the serving counter seemed clean, and the bar lady was wearing a spotless apron. They chose a corner table and ordered two glasses of frizzantino white wine.

  ‘Here’s to health.’ Nani smiled, lifting his glass. ‘You’ll be tired after the day’s work.’

  ‘There’s not much work in San Barnaba,’ said the girl. ‘Those wretches who live in the palace don’t have a penny to spend, even on second-hand clothes. Especially elegant, high-class clothes like the ones I sell. I get some of them from the maids in patricians’ households, although the mistresses make sure that the pearls and gold trimmings are removed before they leave the house.’

  ‘But the gambling house is nearby.’

  ‘Oh, the Casin dei Nobili. Yes, some of those have money, but as soon as they get there they only think about gaming, and anyway, wealthy people don’t buy used clothes. I’d say that many of them are scoundrels too.’

  It was time to bring up the subject. ‘I’ve heard that there was a murder here yesterday, someone who lived in the palace . . .’ Nani said, almost under his breath, rather absent-mindedly.

  ‘You’re right, it was Barbaro. They strangled him, poor man.’

  ‘Did you know him? I’m sure he’d have flirted with a pretty girl like you,’ Nani continued.

  Zanetta preened. ‘How did you know? Every now and then he would follow me around. Sometimes he would come into the shop and wait for half an hour or more, but he never actually bought anything. He’d just hang around and make a grab for me whenever I got too close. But I’m not that sort of girl and I chased him off.’ She pursed her lips with a virtuous look.

  ‘Who killed him? I wonder. Was he usually alone, or did he have friends?’

  ‘He had friends all right, far worse than him.’

  ‘And did they flirt with you too?’

  ‘No, they were gentlemen, or at least two of them were; the third was a servant.’

  ‘Sounds like an odd trio,’ Nani said, before he changed the subject; he didn’t want to make her suspicious. ‘Where are you from, Zanetta? You don’t speak like a Venetian.’

  ‘No, I’m from Polesine. My father is a peasant, but I managed to become an apprentice and three years ago I bought this second-hand clothes shop. Selling used garments is not too difficult, and the guild even lets people in from outside the city.’

  ‘So, you’re well off. Are you sure that Barbaro didn’t want to marry you?’

  ‘Him? Even though he was poor, he still had all the pride of the nobility, and he behaved as if he were as rich as his friends. Even that servant thought he was better than me, but as far as I could tell he was nothing more than a rogue. Sometimes, when the weather was cold, they’d wait for Barbaro in my shop – they never went into his house – and I used to hear them talk about certain things, when they thought I wasn’t around . . .’

  ‘And what did you hear?’

  ‘Enough to know that I had to be careful.’ The matter seemed closed. People in Venice loved chatting, but only if the gossip was inconsequential and harmless. As soon as someone suspected that their words could be reported to the police, they closed up like a clam. Fear of the inquisitors’ court and its spies was still tangible, even if over a century had passed since its trials had been surrounded by an air of terrifying mystery.

  ‘Did they try to hurt you? A decent girl like you!’ Nani’s indignation seemed genuine. But it was an effort to make her talk. How did his master manage to question people for a profession?

  Zanetta seemed flattered by Nani’s concern. ‘Not me, but I know another girl who had a terrible time.’

  ‘What happened? Did they . . . rape her?’ ventured Nani.

  Zanetta blushed. ‘It was a few years ago, and I’d only just arrived. At that time, all four of them used to stand in the corner, whispering to each other. It seemed serious. So one day, when they came in for one of their secret conferences, I hid behind a pile of clothes, and I heard every word they said.’

  Nani imagined the scene: the girl crouching silently, her eyes half shut but her ears straining to catch every syllable.

  ‘There was one . . .’

  ‘Who? What was his name?’

  ‘A certain Labia, Paolo Labia, who said, “It’s nothing to do with me. You were the ones who went whoring, so you need to sort it out yourselves.” And Barbaro replied, “But we all enjoyed it. You did, too, even if you just watched.”’

  ‘What about the others?’ insisted Nani.

  The girl finished off her wine and Nani signalled to the bar lady, who came to refill it.

  ‘The other two were the worst,’ continued Zanetta, who had now overcome her embarrassment. She pushed her shawl back on her shoulders with a coquettish glance. ‘The patrician said that it had been wonderful, that a virgin was hard to come by, and his servant insisted that, after all, they were noblemen and had done her a great honour. “But now she’s pregnant!” Barbaro said. “When her father finds out, he’ll kill us all. You know what peasants are like.”’

  ‘And what happened then?’ Nani couldn’t disguise the urgency in his voice.

  ‘After a few weeks, they seemed more relaxed. I heard the young aristocrat grumbling, “It cost me a fortune.” And Barbaro replied, “You can thank me for not letting the news spread further than your family. You had to pay because she was your maid, and as a thank-you now you can buy me one of these cloaks.” And the man chose a cloak that was almost new and paid for it without a second thought.’

  ‘But who was this man? You’ve mentioned a Labia, but who were the other two?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ The girl had finally grown suspicious.

  Nani paused, unsure how to answer. Pisani had told him to find out the names of the men Barbaro hung around with, but how could he get her to tell him without her finding out he was working for an avogadore?

  Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration. ‘I want to know so I can protect you. You see, Zanetta, you’re a beautiful girl, and I like being with you. I’m not a noble, but I have a successful food shop at Murano.’ Given that he was telling a pack of lies, it was wiser to say that he lived some way off. ‘I’m thinking of settling down and I’d like to get to know you better. I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  Zanetta smiled with even greater pleasure. This was almost a proposal. Nani felt a twinge of remorse. ‘Oh, Nani, what a dear man you are! But what can you do? They’re all rich and powerful men. And anyway, they’ve made themselves scarce for the past year or more.’

  ‘Even so, tell me who they are, and I’ll make sure they don’t trouble you any more.’

  The girl made up her mind. ‘The patrician’s name is Piero Corner, the one with a palace on the Grand Canal, and the other one is his personal gondolier. Biagio is his name, I think.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they never bother you again. I’ve got plenty of friends who are policemen. And the next time I see you, I’ll take you out for a meal in a trattoria where they cook the best fish in the whole of Venice.’

  ‘Oh, and there’s something else,’ Zanetta interrupted, now anxious to tell him everything. ‘Corner disappeared completely. He was no longer part of the group and I’ve hardly seen the others either, for a year or more, as I said.’

  Nani, hiding his triumph at the successful completion of his mission, took her hand between his, as if to thank her, and then changed the subject. They continued chatting and drinking for a while, until Nani, deeming he’d spent enough time with her to allay her suspicions, finally said, ‘It’s late. Will you let me take you back to the shop?’

  ‘When will you be
back?’ asked Zanetta boldly, once they’d arrived.

  ‘Very soon,’ lied Nani, backing away.

  As he rowed back to the palace, he couldn’t help feeling guilty for duping the poor girl; he’d have to keep well clear of Campo San Barnaba for the time being.

  Pisani was waiting for him in his study, but rather than feeling impatient, he had spent the time thinking of Chiara. Even so, he met Nani with a severe reprimand. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘But it was worth it,’ countered Nani, not in the least abashed as he proceeded to recount the evening’s events, word for word.

  When he came to the suggestion of marriage, Marco started to laugh. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Nani? Will nothing stop you?’

  ‘It’s all for the love of justice, paròn, and for the reward that I’ve earned.’

  When he was alone again, Marco went over the details in his mind: so Barbaro had been part of a group of rather disreputable friends, and they included Paolo Labia and Piero Corner, two important names, two powerful families. Were they somehow involved in his death? What was this story about the pregnant maid? Might Barbaro’s death have been an honour crime, perpetrated a few years later? Or had Barbaro been killed because of his involvement in espionage? Marco realised that he was unlikely to get any answers until his friend Cappello came back with more details about the documents that had been found in the dead man’s apartment.

  As for the two young patricians, he knew them by sight, and also knew that they brought no honour to their family name: Corner was a degenerate who spent his time whoring, gambling and brawling. But then after marrying a year ago, it was rumoured that his lifestyle had changed. Labia, on the other hand, was more of a puzzle: he had never been implicated in scandals, but there were rumours that he was a usurer and a pederast. Might these two men also be assassins? And what part did the gondolier Biagio play in all this?