The Burchiello stopped again in the lock at Mira to allow the water level to rise once more. Then the procession of villas started up again. ‘That,’ said Marco, pointing to the right, ‘is Villa Contarini. In front of it is the factory where they make candles for the whole of Venice. And now we’re coming to Villa Corner, close to that Carmelite monastery. The other building is Villa Fini,’ he said. ‘And that’s Villa Velluti, which belongs to the famous soprano. A little further on, you’ll see Villa Grimani.’
When they arrived at Dolo, the Burchiello moored in front of La Posta, an inn, where the horses would be changed. Chiara woke Marta, who had dozed off, and they crossed to the inn. Marco would have liked to order lunch, but the housekeeper wouldn’t allow it. ‘Who knows what they’ll give you to eat! Just order some wine because I’ve brought plenty of food.’ She opened up her basket and began serving up meatballs in a sauce with pine nuts, alongside slices of roast veal.
Marco tucked in willingly. ‘You know, Marta, you’re as good a cook as my Rosetta,’ he said.
‘You flatter me, Your Excellency. I’m just an elderly housekeeper and I would never dream of competing with the cook in the Pisani household.’ Privately she thought how friendly and kind he was. If only his intentions were clearer. What was it that he wanted from her dear Chiara?
They crossed the village in a rented carriage, passing the watermills and the boatyard. Soon they were in the centre, beside a church with a tall bell tower. Inside the dark nave, a priest walked towards them and Marco asked for information about the Segati family.
‘They’re my parishioners,’ the priest replied. ‘But they moved to a new house a few years ago. If you follow the path between the fields behind the church, you’ll come to a canal at the end. Turn right, and after five hundred paces or so, you’ll come to the house.’
They followed his directions and soon arrived at a small farmhouse, surrounded by fields and flanked by a barn with a granary above it. The farmyard was quiet and an old man was bent over a row of cabbages in the kitchen garden beside the house.
Marta stayed by the carriage while Marco and Chiara crossed the yard in the pale sunshine and walked into the kitchen through the open door.
‘And who are you?’ asked a man sitting in front of a wine bottle. He wore a shabby fustian jacket and breeches that had seen better days, and although he was young, his nose was red and swollen like those of many drinkers. His tangled hair fell down over his eyes.
‘I’m the head of police,’ Marco said, introducing himself. ‘I would like to see Lucietta Segati.’
‘What’s that stupid woman done now? She’s probably in the barn. She’s been there for the past hour or more, mucking out the animals. She still thinks she’s a maid in that fancy palace. She’s a lazy good-for-nothing, with that brat of hers clinging to her legs.’
Marco and Chiara exchanged questioning glances as they walked over to the farmyard. ‘At least she’s alive,’ said Marco quietly.
At that moment a woman emerged from the barn. Apart from the fact that she was heavily pregnant, it was impossible to tell how old she was. In one hand she held a pitchfork, while the other dragged a reluctant little boy who must have been about two. She looked enquiringly at Marco, who introduced himself as the head of police and asked her name.
‘I’m Lucietta Segati,’ she said. ‘The man in the kitchen is my husband.’ Now that they were closer, it was clear that she was young, but her face was deeply etched with fatigue. Her black hair was gathered into an untidy bun. ‘At your service, signore,’ she added, bobbing a curtsey, as she had been taught in the Corner household.
Marco wondered at the desperate turn of events that had changed a maidservant in a grand house into a slovenly-looking woman who had aged before her time. Aloud, he said, ‘We would like to talk to you about what happened to you in the Corner household. Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’
‘Lucietta!’ It was her husband and his tone was impatient. ‘The wine’s finished! Don’t stand there blathering, you need to prepare the hen feed.’
The woman hurried awkwardly into the kitchen to do as he asked, then she led the visitors into the kitchen garden, among the rows of vines. The old man came closer but remained silent. ‘My father,’ Lucietta said, introducing him. ‘He was the one who insisted I should marry.’ She sighed.
‘When she came home, she was dishonoured, pregnant,’ interjected the older man. These were words that he had clearly repeated to himself time and again. ‘That was when Momo came forward. He was a farmhand and accustomed to work . . . I thought it was right.’
‘Shall we start from the beginning?’ suggested Marco, who was struggling to piece the story together.
‘When did you come home?’ interrupted Chiara, directing her question at Lucietta.
‘It was nearly three years ago now, in January 1750. I was with child.’ She looked down. ‘We were desperate. But the Corner family gave me some money as a dowry.’
‘I’d gone to Venice,’ added her father. ‘I wanted the wretch who’d seduced my daughter to marry her. That’s how things work here in the countryside. But he refused even to see me, he was that arrogant. I even stood shouting under his companion’s house, that rascal Barbaro. No one paid any attention to me there either.’
Marco smiled at the idea that the eldest son of the Corner family might have married a maidservant.
‘And what about the dowry?’ prompted Chiara. She wanted the two of them to feel at ease before she started to ask any more probing questions.
‘It was quite a sum of money, a good pile of ducats,’ continued the old man. He scratched his head and stretched out a hand to ruffle the hair of the child, who still held tight to his mother’s bedraggled skirt. ‘By the spring Lucietta’s pregnancy was clearly visible, and the gossip started. That’s when Momo came forward. He offered to marry the girl and let the boy use his name. He didn’t have tuppence to call his own, but with the dowry we could rent this piece of land from the Barnabite fathers and also buy what equipment we needed for the fields and the beasts. I convinced Lucietta and the couple married.’
‘And what a good marriage it’s been!’ commented the girl. ‘As soon as the marriage deeds were signed, Momo put down his tools and has done nothing but drink. Instead it’s me and my father who have to do all the work, even when I’m in this condition . . .’ She held her prominent belly. ‘And never a kind word, let alone a caress for the boy.’
‘Luciettaaa . . .’ Momo’s rough voice could be heard shouting. ‘Don’t stand around wasting time! There’s work to be done!’
Marco turned and strode back to the house and into the kitchen. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, seizing the man by his jacket and lifting him bodily on to his feet. ‘You are wilfully obstructing justice and for that I could have you thrown into prison.’ The man paled and started to shake. ‘But that’s not all. If I find that you’re living off your wife’s dowry, that you’re drunk and make her work, and you treat both her and the boy badly, then in accordance with Law 348 of the Great Council I’ll have you packed off to row the galleys for the rest of your life. And remember that, from now on, even if you don’t realise it, someone will be keeping an eye on you!’
He’d spoken so loudly that when he came back Chiara looked at him, her unspoken question hanging in the air.
Marco took her aside and confided quietly, ‘Yes, I made that law up. It doesn’t exist, but it should! You watch – it’ll have an effect.’
Chiara knew that they had to press on with the matter in hand, so she turned back to Lucietta. ‘What exactly happened to you while you were working in Palazzo Corner?’
The girl started to cry. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions now?’
Marco felt that he had to tell her about the deaths of the two patricians and about the investigations.
‘You don’t think it was us . . .’ implored the old man, who looked terrified.
‘Of course not,’ Pisani assured them, a
lthough he had of course previously thought exactly that. ‘But anything that emerges about Corner and Barbaro’s behaviour might be useful to us. So’ – he turned to Lucietta again – ‘that’s why we need to hear your story.’
‘Dead . . .’ murmured Lucietta. ‘Piero Corner is dead.’ And she instinctively reached out to hug the child.
Marco looked properly at the boy for the first time and recognised Francesca Corner’s high cheekbones and aristocratic nose. Here was the male heir that Piero had not had from his wife, he thought.
‘Young master Piero had had his eyes on me for a while,’ Lucietta started, drying a tear with a corner of her apron. ‘He’d grab hold of me whenever I passed, or he’d corner me in the kitchen when no one was around and try to kiss me. Things like that. I certainly never let him. I knew that some masters would take advantage of young girls and you had to be careful. In the evening I’d lock myself into my room. But one night, I think it was in mid-November, I heard loud voices laughing outside my door. I recognised the young master’s voice and that of his friend, Barbaro. They seemed drunk. Then I heard a key turning in the lock. They must have found another one that worked. I hid under the blankets . . .’ Lucietta broke down.
Chiara reached out to embrace her, spontaneously. ‘Would you prefer it if we talked alone?’
‘No, it’s all right, I can do this. I was alone against the four of them because there was also another nobleman who stood and watched. Biagio was there, too, and I was always terrified of him. “You know what I want. Hasn’t your mother told you what men do to little whores like you?” Corner said. I knew nothing . . . and I started to scream, but Biagio put his hand over my mouth while Barbaro undressed me.’ Lucia flushed scarlet as she remembered the episode, but she continued courageously, ‘Then Corner climbed on to me while Biagio and Barbaro held me down. I was crying. “And remember,” he told me at the end, “if you blab about this, especially to my mother, I’ll have some jewellery placed in your room and you’ll be packed off to prison as a thief.”’
‘Was that the only time?’ asked Marco.
‘Sadly not,’ Lucia admitted, staring at the ground. ‘From then on, Corner would come to my room on his own, once every three or four nights. I was terrorised. Then when I discovered I was with child, I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Who knows whose child it is?” he said. “Everyone knows that you’re out with the gondoliers at night.” That was the final insult. I braced myself and went to the mistress and told her everything.’
So much for Signora Corner and her claim to know nothing, thought Marco. Aloud, he said, ‘What was her response?’
‘She didn’t seem that surprised. She gave me a dressing-down, saying that it was all my fault, and then she sent me packing with a little money on the side. That’s how I came to settle here with Momo, but now he does nothing but drink.’
‘I’m sure he’ll change his ways from now on,’ Marco assured her.
‘One other thing, Lucietta . . .’ It was Chiara who suddenly broke into the conversation. ‘Have you ever owned a red cloak, a scarlet cloak?’
Lucia’s eyes widened at the strange question. ‘Me, a scarlet cloak? No, never. That would be far too expensive for me.’
When they walked back to the farmyard, they found Momo turning over the straw that he’d mucked out of the barn. ‘You’re tired, Lucietta,’ he said to his wife. ‘Why don’t you sit in the kitchen while I finish the job off?’
Marco gave him a withering look. ‘Just remember that I’ve got someone watching you. One step out of line and I’ll send you to the galleys.’
CHAPTER 17
On the return journey, the Burchiello was almost empty. There were just two merchants playing cards by candlelight in a corner. The weather was still fine, but an icy wind had got up, which found its way into the minute cracks in the cabin. Chiara preferred to wrap herself tightly in her fur coat and stand on the stern, breathing in the river air. Enveloped in her cloak, Marta remained seated beside Marco.
‘I love that girl as if she were my own daughter,’ said the elderly woman, breaking the silence in a meditative tone, as if talking to herself. ‘On his deathbed, her father asked me to take care of her. By then, I’d already brought her up and, believe me, Your Excellency, there’s no one else like her.’
Marco smiled at her sincerity. But there was a question that had been troubling him. ‘I agree that Chiara is an extraordinary woman. But, tell me, why has she never married?’
Marta sighed. ‘You’ve just seen how that poor Lucietta has been reduced to misery, Your Excellency, and yet you ask that question. My Chiara is twenty-five years old, she’s independent, educated and rich. She’s accustomed to dealing with international clients, she’s travelled, and as a workshop proprietor she’s a full member of the Weavers’ Guild; she manages her money as she thinks best, she designs the fabrics herself . . . in a nutshell, she’s a businesswoman. You know quite well, and probably better than me, that if she married, all this would end. Money, business decisions, guild relations, everything would be claimed by her husband. There’s never been any shortage of suitors . . . her colleagues, wealthy shopkeepers, even the owners of luxury shops, they are all queuing for her hand. But she doesn’t need a man.’ She chuckled. ‘There’s a particularly wealthy merchant, a widower who deals in silk, who’s so enamoured of Chiara that he sends her a bunch of flowers every two or three months, and inside there’s the most exquisite jewellery: a pearl necklace, bracelets, brooches, you name it.’
‘And what does Chiara do?’ asked Marco indignantly.
Marta held her cloak more tightly. ‘She sends everything back, of course. With a polite note, thanking him courteously. She doesn’t want to be indebted to anyone.’
Listening to Marta talking about Chiara’s suitors, Marco experienced an unexpected jolt of jealousy. ‘And has she ever been in love?’
‘Never!’ the housekeeper assured him. ‘These merchants are beneath her; they’re too preoccupied with their goods and their wealth.’ Marco suddenly thought of the lunch with Maddalena Santelli’s family and he couldn’t help but agree that Chiara would never be at home in that sort of company. But he wasn’t a merchant and he wasn’t seeking monetary gain. Like Chiara, he had higher ideals. He had never thought he could feel like this again. But did she feel the same way?
Chiara was thoughtful, too, when she came back into the cabin. In a low voice, she was saying, almost to herself, ‘Yet I’m sure I saw a woman’s body. She was enveloped in a scarlet cloak . . . but she was certainly blonde, and Lucietta is dark. And she says she’s never had a red cloak.’
‘Is it your visions that you’re thinking of?’ asked Marco.
‘It’s strange. The woman I saw wasn’t Lucietta Segati. Which means that there’s another girl involved in this.’
‘Not that I’ve heard about,’ reflected Marco. ‘Lucietta is alive, so you must have been wrong. Perhaps what you saw was the violent assault.’
‘No,’ replied Chiara stubbornly. ‘There was a corpse, a body to be buried. I feel these things as well as see them. Anyway, are you going to come back with me to collect the rope?’
Marta interrupted. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re planning to try again, to see if you can have another vision. But I won’t let you. It’s dangerous. Sooner or later you might come to harm.’
‘Just this once, Marta,’ insisted Chiara. ‘There’s something I might have missed, and I must find out what it is. Just once more.’ And she planted a large kiss on the older woman’s cheek.
Later, as Nani was rowing Marco and Chiara across the lagoon, heading back from Fusina to the parish of the Jesuits where Chiara lived, he told Marco about what he had discovered that day.
Biagio’s mother, who didn’t enjoy a particularly good reputation in the neighbourhood, had started out with a grubby little den where she served the worst-quality wine and, in the evening, various soups and fried fish. Then suddenly, the previous year, in June 1751, she had
moved to a handsome premises on Fondamenta del Megio, near the Republic’s granaries and just behind the Fondaco dei Turchi. The handful of people who knew her, and to whom Nani had talked with considerable care, could tell him nothing about where she had found the money.
The story matched the information that Vannucci, the inquisitors’ spy, had given him, and also what Marco himself had learned at lunch with the Santelli family. The money almost certainly came from the Corner family, but what were these services for which Biagio had been so richly rewarded?
Nani had visited the tavern, but he had seen no one who could have been the landlady’s son and he’d purposely not asked any questions.
Once back at her house, Chiara ushered Marco into the salon, which was warm and welcoming, while Marta hurried into the kitchen to prepare hot chocolate. The rope was still there, lying on the floor by the sofa, as if no one had dared to touch it.
‘What do you intend to do? Aren’t you fearful of summoning your visions again? We don’t know what forces you might provoke,’ Marco said anxiously. ‘Please, Chiara, don’t try. Leave it to me to find out how they died. I don’t want you to run any risks.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘perhaps I shouldn’t repeat the experience so soon, but I feel as if I should have noticed something. I must cross the boundary once more . . .’ She put a hand on either side of her temples, as if to concentrate better. ‘There are some other details, ones that will certainly point you in the right direction,’ she went on. ‘You sit down and relax. Empty your mind, like you did the other evening.’
Marco sat on the sofa and Chiara blew out the candles, leaving the firelight as the only source of light in the room. This time she didn’t sit. She picked up the rope and, holding it, paced to and fro in the dim light. ‘You see,’ she whispered to Marco, ‘I’m not doing anything to invoke it. What would you call it . . . the memory of objects? I’m just here and alert: if any unknown force wants to reveal itself, then I am ready.’
Murder in Venice Page 14