Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  This time it was a long wait, and to Marco it seemed interminable. There was a strange atmosphere in the room. He could only hear the lapping of the water in the nearby canal and Chiara’s heels as they echoed on the floorboards.

  Then suddenly the woman jumped then collapsed into the armchair in front of the fire. The flames rose higher, like red tongues that seemed to be crying out, shrieking.

  Marco was horrified to realise that he, too, had fallen under the spell. Chiara was white-faced and she twisted the rope convulsively in her fingers. Then she put a hand to her throat as if she were suffocating and shouted out loud.

  The light wavered and again he could hear the cries, although now they were fainter. Chiara’s face was streaked with tears.

  Marco leaned forward, rigid with anxiety, not daring to interrupt. Time seemed to stand still. Chiara’s eyes were now wide open, and she stretched out her hands, as if to beg for mercy. The rope slid on to the floor and seemed to writhe there, like a snake.

  At last, with a long shudder, she came back to her senses and looked around, bewildered, as the familiar objects gradually came back into focus. Then she fell forward on to the floor and burst into tears.

  Marco rushed to pick her up and held her in his arms as her sobs became more agitated. Marta, too, hurried in and embraced her little girl as, with Marco’s help, they carried her to her bed. ‘What happened, little one? You shouldn’t have done it again, not so soon.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ stammered Chiara at last. ‘It was terrible, and I thought I was the one who would die.’ Marta made her sip a little water. ‘Now, leave me with Marco,’ Chiara begged.

  Marco waited until she spoke. ‘The vision was so clear, and it seemed endless. I’ve never seen something so clearly before. The girl was there again, Marco, but she’s not Lucietta. I saw her blonde hair again. She’s wearing a scarlet cloak, made from Venetian scarlet cloth. Behind her is a church, an Eastern-looking church. It looks like San Zaccaria.’ She stopped to take another sip, while Marco held up her head and breathed in the scent of her hair. ‘They are hurting her, hurting her terribly. She screams and groans. Then she’s dead, Marco. I feel that she’s dead and must be buried. All that red is also blood. Then suddenly I saw a ship and I knew that it had arrived from the East . . . and I felt that someone was praying for help . . .’

  ‘Well, you sleep now, my little one,’ murmured Marta, walking back into the room. ‘Let’s leave her to rest for a little,’ she said to Marco. ‘Please follow me, Your Excellency.’

  She took him back to the salon and poured out the chocolate. ‘Chiara has these extraordinary gifts,’ she started, ‘and she wants to help people. I don’t interfere when she prepares tisanes and other concoctions, but when she summons the spirits I am always afraid.’

  ‘Are they really spirits?’

  ‘I don’t know. She says she just sees fragments of reality, and that the visions are like lightning.’

  ‘Yes, she said something like that . . .’

  ‘Whatever these visions are, she doesn’t make them up. She really does communicate with some mysterious force, whatever it might be, and it frightens me. Usually, they happen out of the blue, but she’ll be in trouble if she starts to prompt them! Even she doesn’t know what forces she might be unleashing . . .’

  The old woman took a long sip of chocolate and remained silent and thoughtful. ‘But it’s even worse,’ she continued, ‘when she has premonitions. My Chiara manages to reconstruct the past, but at times, and much more rarely, she can foresee the future. Sometimes she realises that something terrible is about to happen and she won’t rest until she’s done what she can to ward it off. She always says that everyone has a destiny, but that we can change it because God has granted us free will. It’s all rather difficult to understand, isn’t it, Your Excellency? Living here, in this house, I’ve had to learn to find my way around among these mysteries. Has she told you that this Gift, as she calls it, is passed down by the women of her family?’

  ‘Yes, she told me,’ he replied, hoping that Marta would tell him more.

  He needn’t have worried. She was eager to confide in someone. ‘I was here with the Renier family in the days of Chiara’s grandmother and mother,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea how many cases they solved! For example, once, the baker lost her child. Chiara’s grandmother told her that he was on an island in the lagoon, and indeed they found him there. He had hidden on a boat and got off when no one was looking and couldn’t find his way back to the city. If they hadn’t found him, he would have died from the cold. Another time, Chiara’s mother had a vision and told the doctor’s wife that her husband, who’d disappeared, was under a particular bridge. Unfortunately, he was there, but he was dead. Then there was the time that the merchant Bembo couldn’t find his father’s will. The man had died suddenly, and Chiara’s mother was able to tell him exactly which brick on the floor he should look under. Heavens, I could go on and on . . . But will Chiara’s vision be useful to you in your investigations?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ admitted Marco. ‘If what she told me this evening is true, I need to start all over again. But it’s getting late, and I should leave you to take care of your mistress.’ Marco rose and collected his cloak. He needed some time to think.

  When he got home, it was very late. Only Plato was still up and waiting for him in his study, purring while he lay proprietorially on two sealed letters that someone had left on Marco’s desk.

  Marco lifted up the cat, who growled slightly. He opened the first, which was from Zen.

  I’ve asked around for news of Paolo Labia and been to the places he usually goes to, including the barber, the pharmacist and his favourite caffès. No one seems to have seen him for quite a while.

  The second letter gave off a very heady, brash perfume. It was addressed to Avogadore Marco Pisani. It was accompanied by a note from his secretary Tiralli, stating that he’d thought it appropriate to deliver it personally.

  ‘Well, my dear Plato,’ guessed Marco as he broke the wax seal. ‘Here we have a classic example of a Venetian anonymous letter.’ He read it aloud: ‘If you want to find a lead in the right direction, look for the person who’s disappeared from Castello. Is that all?’ Pisani asked his cat. ‘If what I learned from the spirits this evening was right, and if this letter is hinting at the truth, then I fear I may have to broaden my search to discover who killed Corner and Barbaro. But where should I look?’

  Plato had walked over to smell the letter, which was still in Marco’s hand.

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s a common perfume, isn’t it? Who could have used a scent like that? A courtesan, you say? But one at the bottom end of the scale. Well, give me a helping hand, old fellow: is there a courtesan, well past her prime, involved in the case? Yes, of course there is: Barbaro’s lover, Lucrezia Scalfi. What’s more, I was supposed to get back in touch with her, but then events led me elsewhere. Shall we lay a wager that this is her work? It means that I really have missed something. But don’t worry, Plato. Tomorrow I’ll lay on a proper interrogation, and I’m willing to bet that she’ll tell me everything.’

  CHAPTER 18

  There had been a sudden change in the weather. When Friday dawned, the city was enveloped in a fog so thick that houses, palaces and bridges appeared like shadowy phantoms rising above the streets beside the canal as Marco and Daniele were rowed through the canals that criss-crossed the Dorsoduro and Santa Croce districts, heading for the tavern belonging to Biagio Domenici.

  ‘Go behind San Giacomo and moor at Fondamenta del Megio.’ Zen leaned out from the awning to give the instructions to his gondolier, Bastiano.

  The two friends were on Zen’s boat because Nani had been given a delicate mission that morning: to take Chiara a bunch of flowers and a letter in which Pisani enquired after her health. And later that afternoon Nani would be involved in further inquiries regarding Paolo Labia’s whereabouts.

  ‘Tell me about yesterday,’ the lawyer went o
n. ‘How are things going with Chiara? And what about that maidservant who disappeared from the Corner household? Did you find her?’

  Marco ignored the first question and instead told Daniele all about Lucietta and the way she had been raped during her time at the Corner palace, and also the arrogance of the man she had made the gross error of marrying. ‘And the little boy is the spitting image of his grandmother, Francesca Corner. He’s the son that Piero never had, and he’ll never know anything about his real father. Poor boy: the descendant of one of the Corners of Ca’ Grande will labour in the fields like a wretched peasant.’

  ‘Their fate was already sealed,’ agreed Zen. ‘But at least they’re alive.’

  ‘And we’re back at square one on this case. I feel we need to hurry if we’re ever going to solve it. This gang of rogues is petering out: two are dead, and there’s no trace of the third. Biagio is our last chance to find out what they were up to. And I’ve got a feeling that the murderer may well be on Biagio’s trail, just as we are.’

  The tavern owned by the Domenicis was a large place standing on Fondamenta del Megio, and it might once have been elegant. Given the time of day, only a few of the thirty or so tables were occupied by customers: strange Albanese wearing amply gathered pantaloons, tall and muscular Slavs, swarthy-looking retailers of pepper and ginger from the Middle East, and Turks who came to Venice to trade cloth from Flanders and English wool. They were all men who lived and worked in the nearby Fondaco, where they were required to do business. The wine counter served both wine for the Christian clients and fruit drinks for the Muslims. A tall, buxom girl ran backwards and forwards from the hearth to the tables, serving plates of fried fish, while a corpulent middle-aged man, whom the serving girl called Lele, washed glasses in the large stone sink.

  Zen approached the latter. ‘My name is Avvocato Zen, and I’d like to speak to Biagio.’

  ‘Biagio’s not here,’ said the man, without so much as a glance. ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘Private business. Where can we find him?’

  Lele scratched his head and looked at Zen, puzzled. ‘To tell the truth, we were also wondering where he is. He’s not been seen around here for a week. Not that he’s much missed. Usually he comes here to drink and pick quarrels with the clients, or he plays cards or chases the girls. He’s never given us a hand serving when it’s busy! But you could ask his mother – that’s if she knows anything more than we do.’ Then, as an afterthought, he asked, narrowing his eyes, ‘Why’s a lawyer looking for him, though? Is there another inheritance around? It seems good luck always comes to those who least deserve it.’

  ‘Where’s his mother?’ asked Daniele patiently.

  ‘Signora Maria? She’ll still be in bed at this time of day. I’ll get someone to take you. Pina!’ He shouted in the direction of a back room and a young girl, not much more than a child, popped out, wearing a stained apron and with a kerchief around her hair. ‘Pina, take these gentlemen to the mistress, but check that she’s awake first. If she’s still asleep, you’ll certainly hear about it afterwards . . .’

  ‘If she’s asleep, we’ll make sure she wakes up,’ grumbled Marco, who had had enough of waiting.

  They left Bastiano, the gondolier, to have a glass of wine and followed the girl up a steep staircase which led to the apartment on the upper floor.

  Pina knocked timidly on a door and in response came a torrent of abuse. ‘What the devil is that noise at this hour of day?’ It was a woman’s voice, hoarse and rough. ‘Is that you, Pina? Curse you. I hope you fall down the stairs and smash your face one of these mornings!’ The torrent was only ended by a fit of coughing.

  Marco threw open the door without further ado and walked into the dark room. He regretted it immediately because he was almost knocked over by a stench of sweat mixed with alcohol, with distinct undertones of stale urine. ‘Open the window,’ he ordered, and the girl hurried to obey, overawed by a voice that was more imperious than that of her mistress.

  ‘Who are you?’ shrieked the vague form under the blankets. ‘How dare you walk into a lady’s room? I’ll call the police.’

  ‘I’m Avogadore Pisani,’ said Marco. ‘And the gentleman with me is Avvocato Zen. I need to have a serious conversation with you, so make haste and don’t keep me waiting.’

  On hearing the avogadore’s name, a nightcap emerged from the blankets, under which were a few strands of blondish hair and a pale, heavily lined face with a hooked nose, two searching eyes with deep shadows beneath them and a narrow mouth. The woman smiled, although any appeal was undermined by the sight of her rotten teeth. ‘Pardon me, Your Excellency, I didn’t know . . . I am far from presentable . . . Give me ten minutes and I’ll be at your service.’

  ‘I fear that Biagio has escaped,’ commented Daniele as they waited on the landing.

  ‘At least we’ll hear what his mother has to say,’ replied Marco. ‘But what a harridan!’

  Maria Domenici finally received them, dressed in a pretentious velvet gown besmirched with stains. She’d found the time to don a blonde wig, which had seen better days, and to put on some make-up, and her rouged cheeks stood out against her pale skin. She had even placed a beauty spot above her upper lip, and two gaudy rings flashed on her right hand. She was seated on a gilded chair and beside her on a table were three glasses and a bottle of red wine.

  The room was large and might have been refined except for the general disorder. The sight of the unmade bed, a pile of clothing on the chair and the remains of a dinner accompanied by several empty bottles on the table under the window caused a surge of disgust in the visitors.

  The woman waved to the sofa beside her. ‘If the gentlemen would like to take a seat . . . Can I offer them a little of this excellent Burgundy?’ When the men shook their heads, she promptly filled her own glass and raised it to her lips.

  ‘Signora Domenici,’ began Pisani, ‘we are here to meet your son, Biagio.’

  ‘Dear Biagio,’ simpered the woman. ‘I am sorry, but he’s not here at the moment. He’s away on business. There is always so much to do here, and he deals with the suppliers and entertains the clients, you know. He’s the one in charge of the tavern, which, as you’ve seen, is a classy establishment.’

  ‘We’ve noticed . . . But can you tell us where to find him?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve not the slightest idea. He comes and goes, and never tells me anything. I can’t help you, Your Excellency.’ The woman was still mincing her words, but her eyes never left the two men for an instant.

  Marco began to lose patience. ‘Signora, I don’t know if you’ve understood who I am. Do you realise that I could ask the police to search the entire city for your son and have him taken before the interrogators in the ducal palace? Also remember that I am not here to seek your help. Your son is in grave danger and I can save him.’

  ‘My son . . . the police? But why? He’s the best son in the world. He’s never done anything that might involve the police. You know that he still lives here with me. I couldn’t wish for a better son.’ While she was talking, she reached down to take a pinch of snuff from a little box and inhaled it with pleasure.

  What a way to wake up, thought Pisani in disgust. ‘By remaining silent, you are shouldering a heavy burden of responsibility, signora,’ he went on. ‘You might live to bitterly regret it. But tell me something else, how did you come to own such a “classy” establishment?’

  ‘Well, how do you think? Through honest hard work, of course,’ said the woman, tilting her head with pride. ‘As I said, my son is a good man, and people are fond of him. For many years, he was secretary to a great nobleman, and he rewarded my son by giving him this place.’

  ‘He worked for Piero Corner as a gondolier, I think, not as his secretary.’

  ‘Gondolier, secretary, what difference does it make? He was his trusted confidant and accompanied him wherever he went.’

  ‘You’ve heard what happened to Corner? And to the other no
bleman, Barbaro? Years ago, your son worked for him too.’

  ‘They’re both dead, poor things, and they came to a terrible end. But what’s that got to do with my son?’ The woman fished a handkerchief out of her pocket and pretended to wipe away a tear. But she seemed less sure of herself, and her hand trembled.

  Pisani leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Your son’s disappearance suggests he knows a lot about both of those men. It might even have been him who killed them.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that my son would kill his friends?’ The old woman pinched her mouth in anger and the beauty spot became unstuck and fell to the ground. ‘I’ll have you know we’re decent folk. And anyway, he couldn’t have done it.’ She had regained her composure. ‘On the nights when they were murdered – on both nights – Biagio was here, playing cards. Dozens of people saw him.’

  ‘Well then, if he’s innocent, he’s in grave danger too. Indeed, perhaps that’s why he’s in hiding. If you tell us where he is, you’ll do him a great favour.’

  Signora Domenici looked away, and for what seemed like an age she hesitated, locked in a struggle of her own. She played absent-mindedly with the snuffbox. ‘No, I don’t know, truthfully,’ she sighed at last, looking down. The moment of uncertainty had passed. ‘Believe me, I would do anything if I felt it was for my son’s good.’

  ‘He’s your only son, isn’t he?’ interrupted Daniele, changing the subject. ‘And where’s his father?’

  It was like opening the sluice gates on a canal. ‘I’ve only got him,’ prattled the woman, in a tone that suggested this was a frequent claim. ‘His father is a nobleman, a high-ranking lord from Verona. I was young and very pretty.’ She highlighted the word with a coquettish gesture. ‘He came to Venice frequently on business, swore that he loved me and had promised to marry me. It was to be a ceremony with no expense spared. I hadn’t yet met his family, but I knew that they were preparing great festivities. It was barely a month after I’d written to tell him that he was going to be a father, when one morning – and I’ll remember it until the day I die – a friend of his came to visit me from Verona to tell me that he had been suddenly struck by a fatal illness. He told me that he died with my name on his lips. He also brought me some money. But I was left completely alone, and with child.’