Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  Marco drew closer and took Chiara’s hands into his own. They were icy cold, and she looked pale and breathless.

  She gathered her courage. ‘But you asked why I spoke about an experiment,’ she continued. ‘Well, in the past my visions have usually been spontaneous, and I’ve only managed once or twice to go into a trance on purpose. Also, this was the first time that I’ve ever attempted to use my gift while actually holding a murder weapon . . . But I don’t think I told you anything that actually helped with your investigations.’

  ‘Who knows . . .?’ reflected Marco. ‘So you did this to help me, is that right?’

  ‘I wanted to try.’ Chiara finished the rosolio in her glass, and the alcohol brought a touch of colour to her cheeks. ‘Searching for the truth is one of the permitted uses for the Gift.’

  A female corpse, blonde hair, a gondolier. Nothing that might be linked to the deaths of Barbaro and Corner, or even to Ottoman spies, thought Marco. Yet Chiara’s vision was certainly intriguing, and perhaps it had opened new avenues for the inquiry. Moreover, this fascinating woman attracted him more than ever.

  ‘Might it have been Lucietta, the maidservant from the Corner household, whose body you saw?’

  ‘I don’t know, Marco. The visions never relate to a specific time.’

  ‘Well then, please will you come with me to Dolo the day after tomorrow? That was where she lived, and I need to know whether she went home. I could send someone, but I think it would be wonderful to go together. We’ll take the Burchiello up the Brenta, then get off at Dolo. Also, if we actually find Lucietta, she’ll be much more willing to talk to another woman.’

  ‘I’d love to come.’ Chiara smiled. ‘But Marta, my housekeeper, will come with me. She keeps an eye on me night and day.’

  At that very moment, footsteps could be heard hurrying along the corridor and the door flew open without so much as a knock. As if conjured up by Chiara’s words, a tiny woman stood there, trim and neatly coiffed, although it would have been hard to say how old she was. She curtseyed politely.

  ‘Your Excellency. What an honour to have you in this house! I must thank you for having freed our Maso.’

  Chiara started to laugh. ‘Here is my dearest Marta!’ she exclaimed. ‘You didn’t see her the other day because she’d gone to visit her nephews and nieces.’ Then, turning to the housekeeper, she said, ‘You might think of knocking next time, Marta.’

  ‘Why should I?’ said the elderly woman in an offended tone. ‘Ladies never have anything to hide. I’ve prepared a good jug of chocolate, which is steaming and freshly whipped. I’ll go and get it now. But Chiara, tell me the truth. Have you had one of your visions? You’re looking pale and dishevelled, as you always do when you’ve been visited by spirits.’

  Chiara sighed. ‘Marta would like me to stop having visions, although she knows full well that it’s nothing to do with me. I’ve also told her again and again that spirits don’t come into it. But she insists that, sooner or later, something terrible will happen to me—’

  ‘Nonsense!’ interrupted Marta. ‘I only say that because spirits shouldn’t be trifled with.’

  On the way home, Nani sung Chiara’s praises with each stroke. ‘She’s really a beautiful woman, paròn, and so friendly. Just right for you.’

  ‘You mention this to anyone, Nani, and there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Oh, paròn, you know me! I’ll be as silent as the grave. But you didn’t stay long. I thought I might have to spend the night in the gondola.’

  ‘Impudent boy! She’s not that sort of woman, so watch your tongue and talk about her respectfully. In fact, come to think of it, don’t talk about her at all.’

  Nani hid his smile. So this is serious, he thought. And high time too. The paròn deserves a good woman!

  As Marco walked through the gate leading into the garden, still feeling exhilarated from his fascinating evening, he nearly tripped over Plato, who was stalking out, his tail held high. ‘Where are you off to at this hour? Have you got an assignation?’ The cat rubbed against Marco’s leg, purring, and then trotted off into the dark.

  Upstairs in his bedroom, Marco saw a note on his bedside table. Intrigued, he opened it.

  Why haven’t you been to see me for over a week? Have I done something to offend you?

  Good heavens! He had completely forgotten, and now his conscience was pricking him. It was Annetta, the embroideress. Something would need to be done, but in the morning.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘She’s the most beautiful woman in Venice, I swear! I’ve never seen anyone like her. What’s more, she’s elegant, a real lady!’

  ‘A lady, eh? Have you ever heard of a lady living near the church of the Gesuiti and managing a weaving manufactory?’

  ‘It’s not just birth that counts! Signorina Chiara Renier is more of a lady than most of the gentlewomen I’ve met!’

  It was early morning and Nani was squabbling with Rosetta in the kitchen on the mezzanine floor of Marco’s house. It was a well-lit and scrupulously clean room, and the sunshine beamed off the pewter plates hanging on the walls. A stew was already bubbling on the stove, giving off an inviting smell, while a basket of shellfish was suspended above the copper sink to catch the drips. The two servants, old Martino and Giuseppe, had gone out and Nani was enjoying an early-morning bite in the company of Rosetta and Gertrude, the cook. Plato was licking up a saucer of milk and looking a little the worse for wear after a night of adventure.

  The conversation had turned to their master’s exploits the previous evening. Nani was not one to keep quiet and his description of Chiara was not short on detail.

  ‘She wore a fur-lined cloak and a velvet gown. Absolutely breathtaking. As for her hair, it’s like a cascade of golden curls. Her eyes . . . well, all I can say is that it’s like looking at the sky on a cloudless day! She talked to me for quite a long time, you know.’ Feeling pleased with this description, Nani craned his neck to look into the garden, checking that his master hadn’t yet come down.

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t call her a lady! She’s far too forward,’ intervened Gertrude, frowning as she plucked a partridge. Short and plump, she looked much older than twenty-nine because of her flat nose and receding chin.

  ‘Oh, Gertrude, we all know you’ve got a soft spot for the master,’ teased Rosetta, ‘but you’re really not his type.’

  Gertrude blushed a deep red. ‘I never had the honour of meeting Signora Virginia, but she was a great lady – God preserve her in his mercy! Her portrait says it all.’

  ‘But he can’t spend the rest of his life looking at a painting. He’s entitled to make a new family, and he shouldn’t only think about work!’ Nani burst out.

  ‘I agree,’ chimed Rosetta. ‘The poor man has done nothing but work for the past twelve years. He’s been faithful to her memory – may she rest in peace – and now it’s time for him to start afresh. But this woman is an artisan; she may well be the owner of the workshop, but couldn’t he choose a noblewoman?’

  ‘Signorina Renier is better’ – Nani’s defence was heated and he struggled to find an apt comparison – ‘better than those spoilt darlings who’ve never been outside a palace and are only capable of giving orders and gossiping.’

  ‘Just because she paid you some attention doesn’t mean she’s a real lady. She probably only did it to impress the master,’ Rosetta snorted.

  ‘Exactly,’ Gertrude intervened again. ‘There isn’t a woman in Venice who wouldn’t throw herself at the master. She’ll be no different.’

  Nani was about to reply when he heard the click of the garden gate. He looked out of the window.

  ‘Hallo, is your master at home?’ Daniele Zen’s booming voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Make yourself at home, avvocato, and I’ll call him straight away.’ While Rosetta went to summon Marco, Nani went down and led the guest into the main room.

  Pisani happened to be walking downstairs, freshly shaven and perfumed and ready to go
to the ducal palace. Instead of his usual boots, he wore silk stockings and kid shoes.

  ‘You have to save me, Marco,’ beseeched Daniele with a twinkle in his eye that belied the gravity of his words.

  ‘At your service. Nani, bring us a cup of coffee.’ Unusually for him, Marco was wearing a brocade waistband under his long jacket, which he had thrown back over his shoulder. He gestured towards a small table in the salon.

  ‘The Santelli family have invited me to lunch,’ Zen explained as he pulled over a chair.

  ‘Ah, your fiancée, Maddalena . . .’

  ‘She’s not my fiancée yet. That’s why I’m here. This time the excuse is that they want me to meet a cousin of hers who’s the attaché at the embassy in Constantinople – they even say he’s the right-hand man of the bàilo. But I think it’s just a pretext to catch me and give an official gloss to a relationship that honestly doesn’t exist. I can’t think of a way out without offending them. But if you come too, then it won’t look so compromising, and you can help steer the conversation on to general topics. Anyway, they’d be so happy to have an avogadore with them they’d forget about their schemes. You’re my only hope!’

  ‘Sounds like you’re not in love with the lady . . . I’ll do what I can. But first I’ve got a meeting with the three inquisitors’ – he swept his hand in front of himself derisively – ‘which is why I’m dressed up like this.’

  Pisani had decided to ask the three powerful magistrates for a meeting because they, not the criminal court, would be the ones who would hear the case against the murderer – if one was ever found – given that Piero Corner had been a patrician. It was a good moment to provide them with a fuller picture of the investigations, not to mention a prudent move. Above all, there was still the lurking suspicion that the Ottomans might be involved and, if it did prove to be espionage, then the sooner he involved the inquisitors the better.

  ‘And before meeting them, I’ve decided to ask our prince for some advice about how much I should tell them,’ Pisani continued. ‘In short, I have to go now but I’ll be free for lunch.’

  ‘I knew I could count on you.’ Daniele stood up, visibly relieved. ‘I’ll meet you later at the palace.’

  ‘Fine, but you can do something for me too. Later this afternoon, we’re going to pay another visit to the Corners. I need to question Piero’s mother and it would be better to have a lawyer present,’ Marco joked.

  ‘Yours or hers?’

  ‘Definitely mine. Everyone tells me that she’s rather tricky.’

  The Sala degli Scarlatti and the Sala dello Scudo – the latter dominated by the reigning doge’s family coat of arms – were crowded with a throng of nobles, complete with wigs and silk stockings, as well as with magistrates in their distinctive gowns. But as soon as the guard was informed that Avogadore Pisani wished to be received, Marco was waved through to the Sala Grimani. He entered swiftly, unaware of the murmur of disapproval behind him, and approached the slim, delicate man who was seated on a high-backed chair.

  ‘A friendly face at last!’ exclaimed the doge, rising and giving the younger man a warm embrace. ‘Your visits are far too rare, even though you work practically next door. You’ve abandoned this old man to the company of a bunch of untrustworthy and grasping courtiers and gossips!’

  Marco sketched a bow. ‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Most Serene Prince. But when I am dealing with grave matters, I know I can always rely on your experience.’

  ‘There was I thinking that only courtiers fawned!’ joked Francesco Loredan, taking Marco by the arm and guiding him towards the old-fashioned armchairs by the fireplace. ‘Don’t you remember when you used to call me Uncle Francesco?’

  The Loredan family had always been close friends of the Pisanis, and before he became doge, Francesco had spent many years as a successful merchant, never moving far from Venice and always turning down diplomatic positions. He had been a frequent guest at Palazzo Pisani, where he and Senator Teodoro would enjoy long conversations.

  He had watched Teodoro’s sons grow up and had spent many a day riding in their company during summers on the Brenta. What was more, he had never missed one of Signora Elena’s receptions.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s as lively and full of energy as ever, especially now that she has the grandchildren to look after. You’ll remember, Prince, that when my brother and I were young, she refused to hand us over to the maidservants but instead brought us up herself.’

  The doge smiled and his face crinkled into a web of fine lines. ‘Your mother is a great woman, Marco, and one of the most beautiful in the city, which is saying something, given that our women are the best-looking in Europe. If only I’d met a woman like her! But I chose bachelorhood, and now I feel I’m a prisoner in these four rooms . . .’ He gestured around the room, with its magnificent blue and gold ceiling, before adding, ‘I’m desperately lonely.’ Indeed, his expression had grown quite melancholy.

  Marco understood him perfectly. As the official figurehead of the Serenissima, the doge attended all the meetings of the highest state councils, but he had no power except for his own vote. He was simply the servant of the Republic. Shut in the palace, which he only rarely left, he was surrounded by the members of all the official bodies and the civil servants; the high points of his life were the ceremonies and banquets, where he appeared, carried on a chair, with all the trappings of office – the corno, his cloak of gold cloth and his sword – surrounded by standard bearers and heralded by eight silver cornets. For the Marriage of the Sea ceremony, he would stand in the prow of the bucintoro, the golden vessel that was the envy of the world, as it was rowed out to the mouth of the lagoon, followed by a fleet of gondolas and boats of every kind in a triumphal procession.

  But the cost of all these solemnities came from his own pocket. He was no longer particularly rich, given the massive outlay the family had invested in his public office, nor even held in special regard, because the criticisms and grumblings that had undermined his predecessor, Pietro Grimani, the poet doge, had also affected him.

  ‘Stay for a while, Marco,’ continued Loredan. ‘I’ll call for a cup of chocolate for you.’ He shook a bell and gave orders to the steward who had appeared.

  ‘But the antechamber is full of people waiting . . .’ prompted Marco.

  ‘Let them wait,’ replied the doge. ‘Usually I have to fit in with their wishes, so for once . . .’ He trailed off as the steward reappeared.

  As they sipped the aromatic drink, the old doge and the young avogadore drew closer to the window overlooking the courtyard, which bustled with functionaries, secretaries, magistrates and military men.

  ‘What’s bothering you, Marco?’ Loredan broke the silence. ‘And what brings you to me?’

  ‘You’ll have heard,’ Pisani started, ‘of the death of the two patricians, Barbaro and Piero Corner . . .’

  Loredan nodded. ‘Yes, they were strangled. I believe you are in charge of the case and that, as usual, you’ve taken it on yourself to make the inquiries rather than handing them over to the police. I know, I know . . .’ He waved away Pisani’s explanations and continued, ‘And don’t think that I don’t believe you’re right. The police don’t have your training and expertise: it’s an old problem that has plagued our administration. So tell me all about it.’

  Marco gave the doge a full account of how matters stood, dwelling on the mysterious presence of an unknown Turk in many of the statements given by witnesses, and on the drawings found in Barbaro’s apartment, especially those of the top-secret plans for the dredger. ‘Later today,’ he ended, ‘I’m meeting the three inquisitors, who need to be informed because Corner was not just anyone. But what I’m not sure about is whether it would be better to suggest that espionage might have been involved, even if I have no firm evidence as yet . . . Indeed, as I said, I’m also pursuing a number of completely different trails.’

  The doge shook his head. ‘You’
re right, Marco. The inquisitors see spies everywhere they look. It’s pointless to alarm them, and in addition, the drawings do not appear to have left Barbaro’s apartment, therefore they weren’t even in foreign hands.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to start a diplomatic scuffle with the Sublime Porte . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ ended Loredan. ‘Don’t say a word about anything to do with the Arsenale and the Ottomans. Just continue your own investigations and let’s see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll try to gauge whether any of the officials are concerned about the presence of a foreign spy in the city.’

  Dressed in full official robes and wigs, the three inquisitors were waiting for Pisani in the hall of the Supreme Court, seated in high-backed wooden chairs. Messer Grando, the head of police, was also with them, looking sombre in his long black cloak.

  As on every other occasion, Marco found the dark room with its gilded leather wall-hangings oppressive. And as before, he drew inspiration from a brief admiring glance at Tintoretto’s large pictorial cycle on the ceiling.

  The meeting was friendly because, although Avogadore Pisani was renowned for his eccentricities, he was nonetheless well liked by the most powerful magistrates of the Republic because he never questioned their authority and, it had to be said, he brought a good number of criminals to justice.

  Pisani gave a concise account of the facts: finding Barbaro’s corpse the previous Thursday, namely on the morning of 7 December, then Corner’s death on the night between Sunday and Monday; the grounds he had for thinking that the same murderer had committed both crimes; and the kind of rope used on both occasions. He described the poor nobleman’s precarious lifestyle and hinted at the patrician’s dissolute youth, but he omitted the story of the maid’s seduction and he avoided any mention of the strange links between the victims and the gondolier Biagio, let alone Paolo Labia, particularly because he was not yet clear about the latter’s role. Most importantly, he never referred to the documents that had been found in Barbaro’s possession.