He needed to talk to a professional informer, one of those shadowy figures whose services were so readily used by the secret services and by the Inquisition. It was a distasteful thought, but Marco knew it was the only way to find out what the group were up to now.
CHAPTER 7
The news about Piero Corner arrived unwarranted and unexpected, ricocheting around Venice like cannon fire.
Early on Monday morning – 11 December, to be precise – Marco found his secretary, Tiralli, visibly shaken as he waited outside the door on the mezzanine floor of the Procuratie Vecchie.
‘Your Excellency!’ The young man was out of breath, as if he had run fast. ‘It’s an awful tragedy! All Venice will soon hear of it! Something dreadful has happened . . .’
‘Instead of panicking, just tell me,’ grumbled Marco.
‘About an hour ago, the lamplighter on his dawn rounds found a patrician’s body under a portico. It was Piero Corner of the Corner family at Ca’ Grande. He seems to have been strangled with a rope, just like Marino Barbaro. He was on his way back from the Ridotto. His gondolier was found nearby in the gondola, bound and gagged.’
‘Where’s the corpse?’ exclaimed Marco. ‘What else do you know?’
‘The body is still lying where it was found; the guards wanted a magistrate to see it straight away, and as you’re always the first on the scene . . .’
‘. . . you lost no time in coming to tell me,’ Pisani finished. ‘Well done. But where is it?’
‘Not far from here, under the portico of the Fonteghetto della Farina, where the Accademia di Pittura is. It struck me that if he was killed in the same way as Barbaro, the two crimes might be linked.’
‘A good assumption. Let’s go.’
It had been an anxious weekend for Pisani. Conjectures about Barbaro’s mysterious murder had swirled around his mind, overlaid with the image of Chiara Renier, which came back to him more often than he would have expected. What the devil was the matter with him? He wasn’t some youngster to lose his head over a woman, and as for his love life, he was content with the services of Annetta, the beautiful embroideress in the apartment near San Rocco where he had been a regular visitor for a few years now; he found her pleasant company and not too taxing.
Chiara, however, intrigued him. He’d never met such a lovely, spirited woman. He had to find a way to see her again, but he didn’t know how.
On Saturday night, his sleep had been disturbed and he’d dreamed about Virginia. She was waving as she walked away from him, towards fields of light. He had called out to her, but she had not turned back and he’d woken bathed in sweat.
All Sunday, he had dawdled between his study and the salon, reading in snatches and thinking. He had tried to work on some official papers but couldn’t keep his mind on them; instead the memory of Chiara kept coming back to him, and to his surprise, every time he thought of her he found himself smiling. Rosetta had looked at him quizzically when she saw him but had not said anything.
That evening he had gone to dinner with his parents in the handsome Gothic-style family palace on the Grand Canal. He had raced up the imposing staircase with the major-domo struggling to keep up, and strode across the sumptuous hall that overlooked the canal to find the family sitting together in their favourite salon, the one with the ceiling painted by Tiepolo with a fresco of Venus and Mars.
‘Here’s Uncle!’ shouted his two nephews in unison, rushing to meet him as he entered.
‘What have you brought us?’ asked Stefano, a six-year-old blonde cherub.
Marco handed the boys a pack of Rosetta’s sweet biscuits, a renowned delicacy.
‘First me, because I’m the littlest!’ cried Carlo, who was constantly on the go and headstrong to match.
Once the boys had been pacified, the adults moved into the adjacent red room for dinner, where a famous collection of porcelain and old glass was displayed on either side of the fireplace.
Marco sat opposite his father and noticed how his hand trembled a little as he held his fork. He’s getting older, he thought sadly. Teodoro Pisani was nudging eighty and still an imposing figure, but he had lost much of the drive that had made him one of the most brilliant senators of the Republic and ambassador to England and Spain, and at times his gaze seemed clouded.
Marco’s mother, Elena, much younger and elegantly dressed in a blue gown embellished with lace and a luminous pearl necklace, was talking vivaciously. ‘It’s the children who keep me cheerful,’ she remarked at one point. ‘But sometimes I think about you, Marco. I know you’ll never forget your wife, but don’t you ever think of making a new life?’
Chiara Renier’s face came into his mind again. ‘It’ll have to be the right woman, Mamma. It’s not that simple,’ he parried.
‘You make things too complicated,’ replied his sister-in-law, a beautiful Venetian woman with a rose-like complexion and auburn hair. She was expecting her third child. ‘Take Giovanni, for instance. He certainly keeps going.’ She smiled as she pointed to her large belly.
Hearing his name, Giovanni protested. ‘What’s that, Rossana? You know well that it’s the Lord who grants us children . . .’
‘With a great deal of help from you,’ his wife replied, amidst the general hilarity.
‘I almost forgot,’ Marco’s mother said as soon as the laughter had died down. ‘We’ll be having our traditional reception on St Stephen’s Day and it would give me great pleasure if you were not there alone.’
‘Of course, Mamma. I’ll bring Daniele Zen with me,’ joked Marco.
‘You know quite well what I mean. It’ll be a wonderful evening. Just think, the famous choir from the music school at the Mendicanti have agreed to sing for us. And I’ve invited some artists, too, like Tiepolo, who’s back from Bavaria. Perhaps Rosalba Carriera will be there, even if she rarely goes out any more. What a shame that such a great artist has been robbed of the gift of sight! Then we’ll have the pleasure of the usual family friends, including Carlo Goldoni.’
As he was walking to the place where the corpse had been found, Marco thought about the previous evening with a touch of sadness: his ageing father, his nephews, his brother’s happiness. He felt as if he’d lost his way.
Contrary to usual, the quay in front of the imposing buildings of the Mint and the Terranova Granaries was deserted: the food stalls against the wall were bare and the chicken coops lay abandoned in a corner. Even the gondolas moored to the wooden jetties looked forlorn. A small but colourful crowd of onlookers had gathered at the end of the quay, close to the Fonteghetto, and as he drew nearer, Marco saw that a number of police officers were holding them back. As he arrived, the guards cleared the way for him and, having crossed a small bridge, Pisani suddenly found himself in front of the body.
Corner lay on his back under the portico, his bloodshot eyes staring at the sky, his hands still clasping at the rope that had been tightened around his neck. His expensive white wig had slipped off, leaving his shaved head bare. He was in evening dress, and the face mask, which was compulsory in the Ridotto, had been cast into a corner.
The avogadore knelt, tenderly closed his eyes and removed the rope. He immediately noticed that it was the same kind as the one that had killed Barbaro. He put it in his pocket before it could go missing. Marco felt a lump in his throat: the death of a young man always seemed a terrible injustice. But the corpse in front of him also meant that an assassin was on the loose in Venice and it was his duty to stop him.
There was no need for a doctor to certify the cause of death, so, turning to the guards, Marco gave the order to cover the body. ‘Get a stretcher ready,’ he continued, ‘and carry the corpse to Palazzo Corner. You can go on foot, it’s not far, but use the cloak to guard against prying.’ He took the rope from his pocket and gave it to them with the instruction to leave it in his office.
He turned to look at his secretary thoughtfully. Tiralli was dressed in black and he had a naturally official look, which made him the ideal candidate for even the most
unpleasant tasks.
‘You, Jacopo, go with them,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go ahead in order to give the family the news.’
Tiralli would have given anything not to go, but he did not dare refuse.
The crowd was thinning, and many headed towards Saint Mark’s or to Rialto to look for acquaintances they could share the news with. It was then that Marco caught sight of a gondolier wearing the Corner family colours. He was sitting on the ground sobbing. Marco went up to him. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.
‘Oh, Your Excellency, I could easily be dead too.’ He could barely get the words out. He told the avogadore how, on the previous night, his master had gone to the nearby Ridotto, as he often did on a Sunday, ordering his gondolier to wait by the boat. But when the usual time came for his master to return, a man had sprung out of the shadows and attacked him, giving him a mighty blow on the head with a club. When he regained his senses, he was lying gagged on the bottom of the gondola, trussed like a chicken. He could remember nothing else. ‘My poor master,’ he sobbed, ‘they really wanted to kill him!’
It was true. One of the policemen showed Marco a pouch full of ducats that had been found on Corner’s body. This was certainly not robbery.
The Ridotto, where so many Venetian fortunes had been squandered, was deserted at this time of day, with only a couple of valets who were finishing the cleaning. Pisani was not a regular because gambling had never attracted him, so he looked around with a certain degree of curiosity. The place was luxurious. The large central salon – which would have been crowded yesterday, as usual – had painted ceiling beams and its doors opened on to smaller rooms used for the different games. The walls were embellished with precious damasks and adorned with paintings and mirrors, and the interiors were lit by numerous six-branched chandeliers made from gilded wood.
Pisani stood by the cashier’s table as he waited for the manager. He was almost certain that he wouldn’t learn anything useful, but it was best to follow up this lead, too, while it was still fresh.
The manager had dressed in a hurry and the hem of his lace-frilled chemise poked out of his breeches. ‘So sorry, Your Excellency.’ He bowed and awkwardly finished tucking in the stray undershirt. He had already heard the news. ‘It’s dreadful! I can’t believe it, and just close by, while his gondolier was waiting for him outside!’ As he spoke, he glanced furtively at his reflection in a large mirror to check that his wig was straight. He must have been about sixty, but he strived to look younger.
‘Think back to last night, Signor Baldi,’ Pisani encouraged him. ‘Did anything happen? An argument maybe, or some players who traded insults? Anything involving a woman?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’ Baldi frowned, and his powdered complexion immediately revealed a criss-crossing web of deep wrinkles. ‘I remember clearly that poor Corner joined the basset table as soon as he arrived, then he moved on to play at faro. He was enjoying himself, and there were no arguments. At around midnight, if I’m not mistaken, he went to eat something in the refreshments room. I noticed because he had taken his mask off while he sipped his chocolate. Then he went back to the table. Women? No, certainly not for Piero Corner. In the past, maybe. Until last year he would occasionally bring a courtesan here. But since he married, not once. It seems that he was deeply in love with his wife. Even more so since the birth of his little girl . . .’
‘A daughter?’
‘Yes, born just a few months ago. He adored her and told everyone about her.’ Baldi’s eyes were now tear-filled, and even Marco felt saddened at the idea that the child would never know her father. Marco wondered at his own reaction. Why was he being so sentimental?
On leaving the Ridotto, he didn’t feel like going straight back to the ducal palace, so he stopped in Piazza San Marco. A few gentlemen, wrapped in brightly coloured cloaks, were sunning themselves in the winter sunlight and talking about the news. Many of them craned their necks to watch him pass, and some greeted him in the hope that he might stop to give them further details. A group of commoner women were chatting enthusiastically, ignoring the protests of the children whose hands they held. A few small dogs were barking as they gave chase across the square. Behind the Piazzetta the masts of vessels stood out, lazily rocking in the waters of Saint Mark’s Basin.
Pisani handed a few coins to a youngster and asked him to find Nani. Inside Florian’s, he thought it likely that he would find Daniele Zen enjoying coffee, and indeed there was his friend seated at a table at the back of the coffee house.
‘Marco, what’s happened?’ the lawyer said, greeting him.
Pisani gave him a detailed account of events before describing his own inquiries; Nani’s exploits in Zanetta’s shop were met with hilarity.
‘But this second murder complicates matters because it’s clear that the two deaths are linked,’ Marco concluded.
‘Well, at least you can set that young man free from prison now.’
‘True. There’s no good reason for keeping him there. I do believe he’s an upright citizen. On Friday . . .’ – and here Marco hesitated for a second – ‘. . . the woman who employs him came to see me and made a statement in his favour.’
‘And what’s she like?’ Zen asked, having noted the minute pause. He knew Marco well.
‘Well, fairly ordinary. She’s got a silk-weaving workshop, and she runs it on her own . . .’
‘Young or old? Beautiful or ugly?’ Daniele pressed, not taking his blue eyes off Marco for a moment.
Marco had blushed. ‘Young, and yes . . . not ugly. But what’s that to you?’
‘I know you, Marco. You’re hiding something.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth,’ Pisani gave in, ‘I liked her a lot, but I’ve only seen her once.’
‘That’s marvellous. Try to see her again.’ Daniele knew well how to pay court to a woman.
‘The trouble is, I don’t know how to. She’s not a courtesan, and she’s not a noblewoman, which, for me, would at least have been familiar territory. I know nothing about her, and I’m concerned that she’ll think I’m being forward.’ Unlike his friend, Marco was shy when it came to these things.
‘Seems like you’ve lost your head to her,’ Daniele remarked. ‘You know what? Discharge that young man – Maso, wasn’t it? Then put him in your gondola and take him to the workshop.’
Soon afterwards, the prison guards stood open-mouthed as they watched Avogadore Pisani invite a former inmate on to his gondola and then instruct his gondolier to row to an unknown destination.
CHAPTER 8
Chiara had felt restless from the moment she awoke, and from experience she knew that this meant something was about to happen.
Walking past her dressing-table, in her mind she had caught sight of the blurred but unmistakable reflection of the handsome avogadore in the mirror. For an instant she felt as if she were being drawn into a whirling cloud and she recognised this as the sign of one of her premonitions. The scent of blossom hung in the air as an unprecedented joy filled her heart and made her want to sing. She felt her cheek where she had sensed the light touch of a hand.
What on earth was she thinking? This wasn’t one of the occasional visions brought about by her powers as a clairvoyant. These were just a spinster’s daydreams.
Then she had tested the patience of the young maid who was dressing her hair, because the curls refused to stay in the right place. That stain on her green dress had not been removed and so she had to make do with a purple skirt and a generously décolleté bodice. She couldn’t find her coral necklace and had emptied her jewel case in search of it, and when she finally sat down late at table, she complained that the coffee was cold.
‘What’s the matter with you this morning, mistress?’ the young maid grumbled in exasperation. ‘Did you not sleep well?’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind,’ Chiara replied, feeling guilty for taking her bad mood out on the maid. She went to sit in the fashionably decorated salon. Sunshine fil
led the room, picking out the cream lacquered furniture and blue hangings. A handsome glass-fronted cabinet showed off her most precious belongings, and on one wall there was a view of Saint Mark’s Basin by Canaletto.
Chiara loved beautiful things and she often thanked her father for having given her a good education, first with the Ursuline nuns and then later at home, as if she were the daughter of an upper-class family, with tutors in music and literature. However, at the same time, he had also taught her the secrets of bookkeeping, double-entry accounts and exchange rates.
But today she just couldn’t concentrate, so she threw down the ledger which she had been trying to read and instead went down to the weaving workshop.
All the looms were busy. They were wonderful machines, some from as far away as England, and their wooden crosspieces rose up to the ceiling, allowing the complicated web of threads, expertly threaded, to be transformed into bolts of cloth. About twenty young men were working the looms, and the rhythmic clatter of the treadles always had a calming effect on their mistress.
Chiara walked around the large room, greeting the workers, who smiled back at her in acknowledgement: they worked well with this young woman because she knew the trade and had a good eye for new designs that resulted in a stream of new orders; moreover, she was not stingy. It was just a pity that she was single and appeared to have no intention of finding a husband, even if there was no shortage of suitors among those in the business.
Chiara checked a few of the latest silk samples and offered some suggestions. She glanced at Maso’s loom, which was silent, the work left unfinished, and sighed before going to sit at the desk in the small office next to the workshop. She picked up a bundle of letters from customers but couldn’t concentrate. Every now and then her eyes would stray to the door.
Nani tied the gondola to a post in the canal that crossed Calle Venier and Marco emerged from the cabin and jumped on to the street, followed by Maso.
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