Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  ‘Go and look for Baldo Vannucci,’ he ordered. ‘If you take a turn around the taverns in Rialto, you’re sure to find him.’

  ‘But, paròn, Baldo Vannucci is—’

  ‘I know quite well who he is. Tell him that I’ll wait for him at one tomorrow at the Osteria della Pergola at the Zattere, and that I want to know everything he can tell me about Marino Barbaro, Piero Corner and Paolo Labia. Don’t say a word about this to anyone and come back and collect me in a couple of hours.’

  From his reply, Nani was clearly not convinced. ‘Tell me, paròn,’ he couldn’t help asking, torn between surprise and curiosity, ‘now that we’ve brought Maso back home, or rather back to work, what are you going to do here for two hours, given that there are only manufactories around here?’

  Marco snorted. Why did all of his servants think they should keep an eye on him? ‘It’s my business, Nani! Just make sure you don’t mention this to anyone either.’

  Young Maso hurried across the bridge, his face flushed with emotion, and slowly opened the front door of the workshop. Chiara lifted her eyes from her papers and recognised the outline silhouetted against the daylight immediately. ‘Maso!’ she exclaimed, running towards him. ‘You’re back!’ She embraced him with relief.

  Looking beyond Maso, she suddenly froze. Was it or was it not him?

  ‘It is you . . .’ she murmured in confusion. ‘Excellency, you are Avogadore Pisani. You brought him back . . . So, Maso has been released . . .’ All the anxiety she had felt that morning vanished. This was what her premonition had been about.

  Marco walked in and bowed slightly. ‘Yes, there is no question about his innocence. I found myself passing these parts,’ he said, ‘and I thought . . .’ He stopped, since there was no point continuing to lie. What an extraordinary woman, he thought. She runs the workshop on her own, but she has the class of a great lady.

  Chiara watched him carefully. Without his robes and wig he was a very handsome man, and he was looking at her, smiling, almost shyly, a suggestion of that half-smile which made his dark eyes shine. But why had he come?

  ‘You’re most welcome.’ She pulled herself together. ‘How can Maso and I thank you? Indeed, on that subject,’ she remembered, ‘would you allow Maso to run home and reassure his parents?’

  The young man was already surrounded by a group of colleagues who were congratulating him with hugs and slaps on his shoulder. He didn’t wait to be told twice before he ran out of the door, heading straight home. Chiara and Marco were left watching him in the penumbra of the workshop.

  ‘Well, I should be getting back . . .’ Faced with those smiling blue eyes, Marco again found himself not knowing what to say.

  Chiara saved him. ‘Allow me, Your Excellency, to offer you some refreshment. Indeed, given the time, perhaps you would care to stay for lunch.’

  Pisani did not even pretend to hesitate, and he followed her upstairs to the first-floor apartment. While Chiara Renier was giving orders, he looked around: it was a pleasant house, full of books, with a spinet finely painted with pastoral scenes under one window, and even a painting by Canaletto. The mistress of the house was clearly well educated and a woman of taste.

  ‘Are you looking at the painting?’ He was distracted by her return. ‘I love beautiful things, and my father was able to pass on much of what he knew before he died. My mother . . .’ Chiara stopped for a moment and sighed. ‘She died while I was still a child. But I was born in October, under the sign of Libra, and people like me can only find peace in harmonious surroundings.’

  ‘Do you believe in astrology?’

  ‘In some aspects of the supernatural, yes, even though it is a sphere still shrouded in mystery.’ She sat down beside Marco on a divan. ‘For example, to see the influence of the stars on a person’s character, one need only think of nature: the flowers and fruits of autumn are different from those of other seasons. But astrology apart, I do think that our lives have more than one dimension.’

  The conversation was taking an unexpected turn. ‘Do you have a deep faith?’ ventured Marco.

  ‘I believe in a God of love and mercy, but that’s not what I meant,’ replied Chiara. She concentrated, looking down at her folded hands. ‘I believe there is an invisible, spiritual life which runs parallel to our physical world. Artists are the only ones who can perceive and give form to this supernatural harmony. Take that painting by Canaletto, for example. He’s not particularly valued by Venetians and his works sell more abroad. Here, he is often regarded as an illustrator. Yet I see something magical in his works, in the way he recreates reality, as if it were an enchantment.’

  Marco looked thoughtful. Her words opened strange horizons. He glanced over at the spinet and changed the subject. ‘Can you play, too?’

  ‘I studied music for quite a few years. Music is solace for the soul. Would you like to hear something?’

  Chiara played sweetly but with undoubted authority. The notes of Monteverdi sounded clear and melodious. Marco sat back as he studied this surprising woman and the unfathomable facets of her personality. A delicate profile with a slightly upturned nose, a willowy figure. He was overwhelmed by a desire to be close to her. What was happening to him?

  At lunch Marco enjoyed the delicately cooked fish, fresh from the market, followed by a delectable zabaione. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and they spoke of books and music. Then Marco broached the subject of Piero Corner’s murder and how the presence of an unusual length of rope linked the crime to the earlier death.

  As they talked, the avogadore wondered how he could ask to see her again without seeming indiscreet. There were strict rules of etiquette in Venice regarding unmarried women, and Chiara had no parents to protect her from malicious gossip.

  In the end he made up his mind. ‘I would enjoy it if we could continue our conversation, Chiara. Would you give me permission to address you informally like this? And you could leave aside my title, too. My name is Marco. Would you do me the honour . . . or rather, would you care to come to the Leon Bianco with me tomorrow evening?’ This was the city’s most refined locanda, frequented by noblewomen and even by visiting royalty.

  Chiara hesitated. She was not accustomed to accepting invitations, but this man was an avogadore, one of the highest magistrates, an esteemed figure. What was more, for the first time in her life, this was a man whose presence touched her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said at last. ‘But, Your Excellency . . . I mean Marco, you must do something: bring me that piece of rope you were talking about.’ And in response to Marco’s look of surprise, she added, ‘I know something about fibres and yarns, and I’d be interested to see it.’

  Humming the notes of Monteverdi, Marco walked back to the gondola and pretended not to notice Nani’s questioning glances as he was rowed to Zen’s office, close to the church of San Moisè. He walked through the room full of clerks, then entered the study without knocking and sat down in front of his friend, who was reading a bundle of papers. Marco was euphoric and it showed.

  ‘Well, well!’ Daniele grinned, pushing the papers to one side.

  Marco was like a bottle of spumante whose cork was about to pop, and he wasted no time in telling his friend all about the meeting.

  ‘You’ve fallen in love,’ Zen pronounced when Marco had finished. ‘And about time too!’

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over me. There’s something different about this woman . . . when I’m with her, I feel marvellous. Then I think about Virginia and I’m ashamed.’

  ‘Your wife hasn’t been with us for a long time, Marco. She would have understood, you know. But there is a problem. However beautiful, wealthy and educated this woman is, she is a commoner, and as you well know it’s very difficult for a patrician to marry a commoner.’

  ‘Yes, you need the permission of an avogadore . . .’ The two friends burst out laughing. ‘But before we even get that far, we need to get to know each other better,’ Marco went on. ‘For now, I’ll be happy ju
st to see her.’

  ‘Lucky devil, you don’t have to worry about courtship,’ Marco remarked that evening, looking down at Plato, who was curled up in his armchair in the study. The room was dark, lit only by the dancing flames of the fireplace. The cat’s green eyes shone like lanterns.

  What luck, he thought, that the four guards had arrested Maso by mistake, otherwise he’d never have met Chiara. It was not just that she was beautiful, intelligent and a woman of refined taste, she had something else that had struck him from the first moment he’d seen her. It was hard to describe, but she shone with an inner light.

  Marco looked up at his wife’s portrait above the fireplace. She seemed to be smiling at him. ‘You know,’ he whispered, ‘how much I loved you, and how desperately I mourn you and our son. You’ll always be in my heart, but now I must move forward.’

  He jumped as Rosetta walked in with his night-time cup of chocolate.

  ‘What are you doing, paròn, here in the dark? Is there something worrying you?’ She, too, turned to look up at the portrait, and then added, ‘Your wife’s been gone for a long time, and it’s not good for you to stay here, brooding, all on your own.’

  ‘You’re right, Rosetta,’ Marco sighed. ‘Light the lamps.’

  He sat down at his desk. The cat followed him and stretched out on top of some papers.

  ‘Let’s see, Plato,’ Marco remarked, thinking aloud, as soon as Rosetta left. ‘We’ve got two corpses, both strangled on the street at night using a rope that might be Turkish or perhaps Portuguese. They were friends, but one of them was in trouble and had got into bad company, and even had secret papers from the Arsenale in his apartment. What I really need to know now is what Alvise Cappello has to say about those documents. Corner, on the other hand, came from an illustrious and well-off family; he’d been a bit wild in his youth, but he seems to have quietened down after marriage. Then there’s that story about the young maid. This gang of friends, which also included Paolo Labia and a servant, were involved in a rape and one of them had to patch things up . . . but how, I don’t know.’

  Plato mewed loudly in his sleep.

  ‘What are you dreaming of?’ his master wondered. The cat opened an eye. ‘See if you can follow my line of thought.’ Plato yawned. ‘If Barbaro was a spy, he might have been killed by the counter-espionage agents. But the secret services remove any corpses and dump them in deep water, with a stone around their neck; they never leave them in the street. Anyway, how does Corner fit into this? He certainly didn’t need to stoop to earn a pittance, like Barbaro. Unless he was killed because he knew about his friend’s murky dealings. And what about that unusual rope? It’s like a signature of some sort. Perhaps Barbaro was cheating a Turk, and the Turk decided to take revenge. Old Lucia said that she’d seen one passing the house a few times. But that doesn’t help with the puzzle of Corner’s death. I need to find out more about the whole gang, and perhaps about the maid, too, even though that was a few years ago, it seems. Yet a peasant felt able to threaten Barbaro at the time. And Corner was certainly involved in that, if I’m to believe what that young woman told Nani. Do you know what, Plato?’ Marco concluded, stroking the cat. ‘Let’s go and have a good hot bath, and then off to bed.’

  At the mention of a bath the cat jumped off the desk and, with a couple of elegant leaps, settled himself on the topmost shelf of the bookcase.

  CHAPTER 9

  Decked in mourning, Palazzo Corner was visible from far down the Grand Canal. Drapes of black velvet trimmed with gold hung from the large Renaissance windows and were reflected in flickering black brushstrokes in the water below. The huge family coat of arms above the doorway on to the canal was also draped in black cloth.

  Marco stepped out of the gondola, followed by Daniele Zen, and together they walked up the steps that led under a triple archway to the large atrium with its multicoloured marble floor, furnished with two plain coffers.

  Marco had decided to visit the deceased man’s family early in the morning in order to avoid the throng of visitors who would invade the palace after the funeral.

  ‘Nani, you know what to do,’ he whispered to the gondolier, who hurried off towards the servants’ quarters. ‘Let’s go,’ he added, turning to Zen as they set off up the stairs.

  On the first floor Marco recognised the major-domo, who was in black livery and led them through a series of rooms. These spacious surroundings had been designed by Sansovino in the sixteenth century, and they retained the austerity of that period: high ceilings with painted beams, plain furniture, walls covered by huge tapestries. Now, even the floor-length windows were curtained in mourning, and only a few candelabras lit the way.

  Piero Corner lay on a gilded catafalque in the centre of the main salon. The light of four large candles carved flickering shadows on his waxen face. On a bench to the right of the corpse a row of nuns chanted the rosary prayers, a group of visitors whispered beside one of the windows and two elderly maidservants sobbed beside a console table.

  Marco and Daniele approached the bier and stood there for a moment in reflection. Corner, who now looked at rest, was a handsome young man, with regular features. He was dressed in a long blue silk jacket embroidered in silver; somebody had thoughtfully pulled up the white lace of his collar to hide the garish weal left on his neck by the murderer’s rope.

  Just then another young man walked across the room towards the bier. He had a slight limp. Marco recognised him as Dario Corner, the deceased man’s younger brother, who strongly resembled Piero, although he was of heavier build, with an unhealthy-looking, pale, flabby face. At close quarters you could see the scars left by an attack of smallpox in his youth. His eyes were swollen, as if he had been crying for hours.

  Marco and Daniele went over to him and murmured the usual condolences. They embraced him in turn.

  ‘It’s such a tragedy!’ Corner interrupted them, wiping his eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘What will we do without him? He was the head of the family since our father died a few years ago and was newly married, with a two-month-old baby girl. My sister-in-law is distraught. But, Pisani’ – Corner looked at Marco diffidently – ‘I imagine you’re here to make inquiries about the murder?’

  ‘I’m here to pay my tributes to the family,’ said Marco. ‘And I’d like to present my condolences to your mother, and to his widow.’

  ‘My mother is not able to receive anyone at present. You must excuse her, but such a blow, and so unexpected . . . Tomorrow she might feel up to seeing you, perhaps. However, my sister-in-law is in her room with the child and I know your visit would give her comfort.’ He signalled to a servant to announce the guests. ‘Excuse me if I don’t come with you,’ he added. ‘I had a nasty fall and it’s very painful to go upstairs.’ He pointed to his bandaged knee.

  In the big bedroom on the second floor, Eleonora Corner was already dressed for the funeral, her beautiful face pinched by sadness. She was standing beside the cradle, where the baby slept blissfully unaware, her rosy cheeks looking angelic against the frills. When she saw them, she burst into sobs, which she managed to stifle with the white lace handkerchief she held in her hand, its brightness forming a striking contrast with her black gown.

  ‘Your Excellency Pisani,’ she cried, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘you must find whoever did this. We were so happy together, Piero and me. Why would anyone want to destroy my family?’

  Marco was shaken. The young woman’s pain was genuine and it stirred uncomfortable memories of his own tragedy. Like Virginia, Eleonora came from a rich family in Padua. She had been little more than a schoolgirl when Corner met and married her, and since then he had been an exemplary husband.

  ‘Did he have any enemies, as far as you know, or anyone who had threatened him?’ Marco’s question was put as tactfully as possible.

  ‘No, everyone liked him, even the servants, who mourn him as if he had been a relative . . .’ Eleonora answered in a trembling voice.

  ‘Had he broken off re
lations with a friend? Sacked a servant?’ The question might have seemed out of place, but Marco had in mind Zanetta’s story of the maid seduced by Piero and sent home a few years earlier. Barbaro’s housekeeper had also recalled a peasant who had delivered threats to the barnabotto’s residence. And then there was the coarse and frayed length of rope that had been used to strangle both men. But the episode with the maid had happened before Corner had married, and Eleonora could not have known about it.

  She shook her head and continued to sob silently.

  Daniele took over. ‘Signora, was your husband involved in any business deals, like a large purchase, for example, that might have been of interest to someone? Or did he ever say that he suspected an acquaintance of passing confidential information to a foreign ambassador? Do you know whether he had dealings with Turks, for example?’ Although the Serenissima did sometimes turn a blind eye to some offences, it dealt harshly with anything that involved spying.

  ‘No! Piero told me everything and there were no grey areas in his life. He would have told me if there had been any rivals, and he didn’t know any pressing secrets. He was killed because someone wanted to rob him, I’m sure of it, and you must find out who did it.’

  Marco and Daniele took their leave. Neither had mentioned the fact that the purse of ducats found on the corpse ruled out any suspicion of theft.

  Outside the palace, in the calle and in Campo San Moisè nearby, a crowd was already gathering which would follow the corpse to its burial place in the church of Santi Apostoli, where the family tomb was.

  The Corner family had not held back. Representatives from the guilds and from the great schools were on their way with their flags; the delegations from the main monasteries had already assembled, together with the priests from the surrounding parishes. There were a few robed magistrates and Marco recognised some patricians and numerous senators. They were all waiting to take their place in the gondolas which, draped in mourning, were now converging on the palace to make up the funeral procession.