Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  A private room had been reserved at the Leon Bianco for Avogadore Pisani. Its walls were covered with ivory-coloured silk and the chandelier could be seen reflected in each of the large mirrors. As she sat down, Chiara took off her cloak and smiled at him. It was rather a cheeky smile that started with her eyes. Now that he was actually with her, Marco felt embarrassed. Yet he could not help but smile back, even though it was one of his characteristic half-smiles. Chiara unfurled the magnificent blue fan that she had received that afternoon.

  ‘Er . . . I hope it met with your approval . . .’

  ‘I’ve never owned such a beautiful one.’

  The waiter arrived just then to take their orders and to fill the goblets with sparkling white wine. They raised their glasses and smiled again.

  Chiara was wearing a necklace of aquamarine stones that shone like her eyes, and her hair was wound into a coronet around her head that shimmered like gold. Marco’s heart was beating fast and he was afraid to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing. The young woman waited for him to speak with bated breath.

  ‘Chiara,’ Marco whispered at last, ‘I don’t know how to start because I’m not accustomed to paying court to young women. I’m not a regular at the salons, and I don’t pay my respects to society ladies; I don’t even go to the theatre or to receptions much. A real old curmudgeon, that’s what I am, and old-fashioned with it. All I want to say is that I hope my company doesn’t bore you.’

  ‘I don’t expect the most esteemed of Venice’s three avogadori to be a ladies’ man who spends his time flirting.’ Chiara smiled. ‘What’s more, I’m a working woman, a commoner, and I don’t suppose those gallants would seek out my company.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ commented Marco, gazing at her. She looked enchanting.

  The waiter interrupted them as he returned with a dish of steaming risotto. For the moment, the spell was broken.

  ‘How are the inquiries going?’ asked Chiara as soon as the man had gone.

  Marco gave her a broad overview of the investigation. He felt that he could trust her to be discreet. He had told Chiara about Corner’s death the previous day, and now he described his visit to Corner’s widow and mentioned the possibility of espionage, the dissolute lifestyle of the four men and Lucietta’s disappearance.

  ‘How have you discovered so much in so short a time?’ she asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘Certainly not by using the police guards. I’ve not yet even updated their head, Messer Grando, or the Council of Ten and the inquisitors, for that matter. But now that Corner’s dead, because he belonged to such an illustrious family, I’m sure they expect an official statement. I have my own methods, you know. I visit the witnesses personally, mostly unannounced, and when it seems necessary to question the servants – who wouldn’t talk freely to me, of course – I send my gondolier.’

  ‘The handsome lad who brought us here and who didn’t take his eyes off me for the entire trip?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Nani. He’s as inquisitive as a magpie and isn’t used to seeing me with beautiful ladies.’

  The waiter returned with a splendid roast duck and proceeded to serve them as they sat in silence.

  ‘But you aren’t bound by monastic oath, are you?’ resumed Chiara when they were alone once more.

  ‘Almost.’ Marco nodded. He was surprised to hear himself talking to her and describing his solitary life, his devotion to his work and his love of sobriety. He also spoke about his ideals, and the illusory hope that dedication to justice might make even the slightest contribution to universal order.

  ‘I, too, am alone,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and I also love my work. I remember nothing about my mother because, like I told you, she died while I was a small child. My father was wonderful, but he’s been gone for five years now.’

  With a light caress, Marco placed his hand over the young woman’s, and Chiara surprised him by lifting it up and turning it over. She studied the lines on his palm.

  ‘You are a person of great sensitivity,’ she said in a serious tone. ‘Do you see the Mount of Venus?’ She pointed to the rise at the foot of his thumb. ‘You’re capable of great love. And you’re strong and courageous,’ she continued as she looked at the swelling below the little finger. ‘But . . . what’s this? What happened?’ She stopped suddenly and looked at him uncertainly.

  Marco’s sad smile and his firm gaze prompted her on.

  ‘You were very much in love with a woman, and she’s no longer here.’

  Marco flinched and the pain was etched on his face. ‘Continue . . .’

  ‘She went to heaven many years ago.’ She smoothed out his hand before looking at it again with even greater concentration. Her voice faded to a whisper. ‘Now she’s in the light . . . together with a child. They both protect you . . .’ Chiara suddenly understood what she was saying and burst into tears. ‘Pardon me, Marco, I had no idea.’

  ‘She was Virginia, my wife,’ he explained, his eyes glistening. ‘She left me twelve years ago, together with the son who had just been born. I’ve never mentioned them to you . . . How did you know? Is it written on my hand? I’ve always believed that fortune tellers are charlatans.’

  ‘Most of them are,’ admitted Chiara as she pulled herself together. ‘To read a palm, you don’t just have to know the lines, you also need to have a special connection with the person.’

  ‘How did you learn?’ asked Marco, his interest piqued.

  ‘I’ll tell you. But first, did you bring the rope, as I asked?’ Chiara sounded anxious, as if she had just been struck by another thought.

  ‘The rope that was used to strangle Barbaro? It’s a very odd request to come from a woman. Yes, it’s in the gondola.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s go back to my house.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Gliding forward with each of Nani’s rhythmic and powerful strokes, the gondola moved silently through the back canals of Cannaregio towards Chiara’s house. As the blade cut through the water it left trails of bubbles that shone brilliantly in the moonlight.

  Marco watched the procession of palaces, houses and small squares, some of them just tiny spaces between the buildings, while Chiara and Nani talked in a relaxed fashion. Marco had been caught off guard by her invitation. A strange woman, he thought. Why is she taking me back to her house? I treated her with immense respect, and now she’s behaving like a . . . No, it can’t be possible. I couldn’t have been so mistaken? Chiara is what she seems. She’ll have a good reason.

  They walked into the empty house from a small door that opened from the calle and climbed up to the first-floor apartment. Chiara removed her cloak and led Marco through the salon and the dining room and into a gallery where, without a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door of her bedroom, which was lit by two chandeliers. Confused, Marco looked around: he was not ready to enter this intimate space, not yet.

  His embarrassment continued as Chiara took a key from her purse and opened a small door in the room, hidden by the wall coverings. She headed into the darkness and lit two oil lamps. ‘Come in,’ she called, without a thought for his unease. ‘You need to know something about me.’

  With growing surprise and a touch of apprehension, Marco stepped inside. The space was deceptively large and almost empty. The windows had been bricked over and, along the walls, a few shelves held large vases like those you would find in a pharmacy. On a table were pestles, mortars, retorts and stills, as well as a few old books.

  Chiara closed the door behind them. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a witch. But since it takes very little for people to start gossiping, I keep what I do inside here absolutely private.’

  ‘And what do you do?’ Marco said in a low voice, not understanding.

  ‘Drugs. I prepare drugs. My grandmother knew all the field herbs and their medicinal properties. It’s a gift that is passed from generation to generation in my family. She taught me to recognise the plants, to pick them at the right moment and to use their
healing properties to treat people. When the doctors would only recommend purges and bloodletting, she would offer remedies that healed wounds, helped the pain of toothache and banished fever, and even worms. In those days, mothers would frequently go to the priest and ask them to pray for nine days to heal their sick children, but illness belongs to this world, not the next, and it is the earth itself that gives us the remedies to combat it.’

  Here was a new facet to this odd young woman. Marco was amazed and curious to hear more. He looked at the vases lined up on the shelves and neatly labelled. ‘What do you use those for?’ he asked.

  ‘In that vase,’ Chiara answered, pointing to one, ‘there are fenugreek seeds. They’re used as a tonic after illness, and they also induce lactation in women who have just given birth. In that other vase I keep dried savory, which is an excellent remedy for diarrhoea and colic. With the vinegar in that bottle I clean wounds to make them close rapidly, but it’s even more effective to use the oil I make from cloves. It’s in that little flask up there. I keep it there because it’s so expensive. So, no witchcraft, as you can see.’

  Marco was keen to know more so he pointed to another shelf, further away. ‘And what’s in those containers?’

  ‘That’s where I keep the rye I use for decoctions to treat colds, and that other bottle contains the oil I extract from pomegranate seeds. It’s an excellent vermifuge. But I’ve not brought you here just to show you my medicinal drugs,’ Chiara ended. ‘Come back to the salon, because I want to perform an experiment.’

  The room was dimly lit and the glimmer of the fire burning in the fireplace threw dancing shadows on to the walls. Chiara lit the candles in a pair of candleholders on the table, and their glow illuminated the painted spinet on which she had played for Marco during his first visit. He sat on the gilded divan upholstered in white brocade, the fine quality of the fabric drawing his attention.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked as she took two engraved glasses and a bottle of rosolio out of the glass-fronted cabinet. ‘It’s made here in my manufactory. We made an equal length for the Savoy hunting palace at Stupinigi.’ She handed a small glass of liqueur to Marco and then sat down in an armchair facing him. ‘Do you have the rope used in the crime?’

  Marco pulled it out of the pocket in his jacket and placed it on the table between them. ‘What are you going to do?’ he felt compelled to ask.

  Chiara smiled. ‘As I said, it’s an experiment. And I’m not certain it’ll work. If you don’t mind, we’ll talk about it afterwards. For now, just watch without interrupting because I have to concentrate.’

  She picked up the rope and went to sit in another chair by the fire. At that moment a log rolled, causing sparks to fly up the chimney. In the silence that followed, Marco could only hear the steady tick of the pendulum clock on the shelf.

  Chiara seemed to go into a trance as she watched the snaking flames, the gleaming colours reflected on her face. She looked serious but relaxed, her eyes half shut. Marco was transfixed and couldn’t take his eyes off her. Was something about to happen?

  After a minute or two, she sighed and started to speak.

  ‘I see something. There’s a body . . .’ Her voice was flat, monotonous. ‘A woman’s body.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘She’s wrapped in a cloak, a red cloak, made from that special cloth . . . scarlet, Venetian scarlet.’ She fell silent for a few moments. ‘I can see blonde hair against that red, perhaps also blood, and the blood is as red as Venetian scarlet . . .’

  The flames in the fireplace sprang higher, almost marking the tempo of the woman’s voice. Looking at her, Marco felt a sense of peace, as if time itself stood still.

  ‘A man has come into view now,’ continued Chiara. ‘He’s young, but I can’t see his face. Wait!’ she exclaimed, stretching a hand out as if to stay the vision. Her other hand squeezed the rope more tightly. ‘I can see his clothes: he’s wearing a sash around his waist, like a gondolier. Now . . . but he’s gone. How strange . . . a young gondolier, a scarlet cloak, blonde curls . . .’ Chiara pulled herself together. ‘It’s over.’ She sat quietly for a moment in thought, then stood up to get her glass from the table. The rope slid to the floor.

  ‘I don’t know whether I’ve helped you,’ she commented, taking her place again opposite Marco. She sipped the liqueur. ‘What I saw . . .’ She shook her head and her pale curls rippled, stealing the light from the candles. ‘You told me about the deaths of Marino Barbaro and Piero Corner, both of them strangled with a rope, about their profligate lives; you also mentioned the possibility of espionage and the story of that maid, Lucietta, who’s vanished. None of it ties in with my vision . . . Only the girl . . . perhaps,’ she added in a low voice. ‘Although if she’s the blonde in the cloak, then—’

  ‘Explain what you mean,’ interrupted Marco, disconcerted.

  ‘The cloak was stained with blood . . . but I might be wrong.’

  Marco sighed. ‘There’s no shortage of surprises tonight.’ He smiled. ‘At the restaurant you read my palm and guessed I was a widower—’

  ‘I didn’t guess,’ interrupted Chiara. ‘It’s written there, in plain sight.’

  ‘You yourself said that what counts is the sense of harmony between the seer and the subject. So this is a supernatural event.’

  ‘Not supernatural,’ replied Chiara. ‘The only facets of the world that we know are those we can perceive with our senses, but there are invisible energies all around us, criss-crossing like cobwebs. Just take the most commonplace, for example: thought. It can’t be seen, but of course it exists. Surely you don’t believe it would be impossible for someone to read another person’s thoughts? Science has never found tangible proof of this communication, yet it exists. I’m sure you, too, have experienced times when you knew what someone was going to say even before they’d opened their mouth.’

  ‘It’s true,’ reflected Marco.

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘for that to happen when you want it to, you need to have a special awareness.’

  The evening had taken a strange direction. Who was this extraordinary woman who reasoned like a philosopher and moved in a parallel world filled with invisible forces?

  ‘You frighten me . . .’ Marco hadn’t meant to say that aloud. ‘And what about the visions?’

  ‘Do you want to know what I feel? It feels as if I’m immersed in the flowing current of a river, a timeless river, and it’s a pleasant sensation . . . like being one droplet among billions of other drops of water . . . Then I start to see scenes. They appear like flashes, and at the time I have no idea what they mean. Sometimes they’re crystal clear, but most of the time they’re blurred, like a mosaic that hasn’t yet taken shape. On other occasions I hear voices, or just fragments, a few words. I never lose consciousness, but it’s like being half asleep, that moment between being awake and being asleep. Afterwards, I can describe what I’ve seen; I always remember it.’

  ‘Why did you say that this was an experiment, then?’ he asked. ‘When you knew very well what would happen? You can reveal people’s secrets by looking at their palms and you can see things by looking into the fire.’

  Chiara smiled with a tinge of sadness. ‘I’ve frightened you,’ she said. ‘Now you won’t want to see me again . . . It’s true, I can often tell someone’s character, even their destiny, from the palm of their hand, but as I said, it’s only because I have a greater awareness than most. I prepare medicaments to treat people’s illnesses using country herbs, and that is based on science. In fact, the ancient Egyptians used many of these drugs. My mother did, and so did my grandmother. As for the rest, these are nature’s gifts that pass down from generation to generation in my family. My mother and my grandmother had visions, as do I . . . I don’t know why. I mentioned earlier that we are surrounded by energies of different kinds, and sometimes we can establish contact with these energies . . . but perhaps I’m wrong. It’s true that, every now and then, I feel as if time has stopped. It happens suddenly, but I
don’t know why.’

  Chiara looked so delightful as she tried to find the right words to express what she felt. She held her head between her hands, as if to focus more clearly.

  ‘But can it happen when you’re not expecting it to?’ asked Marco.

  ‘I’ve come to realise that it often happens when I am looking at something that’s in motion, whether it’s clouds sweeping across the sky, or waves, or the flames in the fireplace, like this evening. I don’t fall asleep, but for a minute or two it’s as if I am isolated from everything around me, and I see things, things that will happen in the future, or that have already happened. They’re like flashes of insight, but without being connected in any way. Or sometimes I realise that what I’m seeing has happened or is about to happen in real life. I never talk to anyone about this. I know that they call people like me clairvoyants, but it takes very little to be suspected of witchcraft, even if there hasn’t been a witch hunt for years. In my family, they call it the Gift. I was taught to use it only for the good of others, and never for money.’

  ‘Is there a rational explanation for it?’ insisted Marco, who had never come across a similar phenomenon before. Above all, he wanted to understand all that he could about this strange, fascinating woman and her mysteries.

  Chiara stood up and poured herself a glass of water. She drank thirstily. ‘I’ve tried to explain it to myself,’ she continued. ‘I believe that it’s not just thought that’s invisible. All matter is imbued with energy. We’re filled with life-giving energy and I believe we’re immersed in an endless flow of energies that intersect and interact with each other. Even the objects around us are immersed in this flow, so it’s not that strange to think that a place or an object that witnessed or was used in a dramatic event, like a crime, receives a charge of energy that it retains, therefore preserving the memory, or even absorbing the thoughts of anyone involved in that drama.’