‘It wasn’t the first time that he’d been here?’
‘Of course not, but he’d never stayed so long before.’
Daniele turned to the girls, who were now dressed more modestly. ‘What about you? Did you see anyone go upstairs? Didn’t you hear the fight going on?’
‘It was so noisy down here,’ said the older girl, who’d been surprised in one of the upstairs rooms with a client. ‘So that’s mostly what I could hear. Although I did hear a chair falling over in the next-door room, but I didn’t think anything of it—’
One of the younger girls interrupted. ‘I saw someone,’ she said. She had the complexion of a peach and her blue eyes still had a glimmer of innocence. ‘I saw a man going upstairs.’
‘Tall, short, old or young?’ urged Pisani.
‘Well, he was certainly tall, but he was wearing a cloak and had a hat pulled over his eyes. I noticed him because, instead of stopping to listen, as most of them do, he grabbed a wine jug off a table and rushed upstairs, looking as if he had something to do.’
‘I suppose you didn’t notice whether he was carrying a stick?’
‘If he had one, he must have hidden it under his cloak.’
There was nothing more to be done. Pisani and Zen climbed, dead tired, back into the boats and were rowed back to the palace.
‘You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’ Daniele said. ‘Three people have been killed and, for the time being, we can’t say anything about the murder of the girl from Castello, so soon rumours will be rife around the city that there’s a murderer on the loose who goes around strangling people at night for no good reason.’
‘Although you and I know quite well that there is a motive,’ reflected Marco, ‘and the killer might be Ibrahim, the Turk, who is trying to cover up his espionage dealings because, if the inquisitors got wind of them, he’d be banned from Venice for good and couldn’t do business here any more. But it might also be someone linked to the girl who was killed. Although why they’d wait so long is a mystery!’ By now they’d arrived, and Marco stepped ashore before concluding, ‘But I’ll soon know where the girl was and tomorrow I hope to have more precise details about her disappearance. I’ve asked Tiralli to look through the files.’ Marco turned to his friend. ‘Why don’t you come and see me on Sunday, and we can talk about it then? I’m hoping Chiara will join us,’ he said.
‘In that case, I’ll definitely be there. A quartan fever wouldn’t keep me away. I can’t wait to meet the enchantress who’s bewitched you.’ Zen smiled.
You’re closer to the truth than you realise, thought Marco as he embraced his friend goodbye.
It was already dinner time and the ducal palace was half empty. Marco found Nani waiting for him in his office. The fire was out, so the young man was impatiently jumping up and down, trying to keep warm.
‘I know everything, paròn,’ he burst out. ‘I know where Labia is.’ Then, at a sign of encouragement from Pisani, he went on. ‘This afternoon I went for a wander around his family’s palace. The Labias are a suspicious lot and it’s not easy to bluff your way in. But then I spotted a maidservant who was coming back with a large bundle of laundry. I offered to help her carry it and soon I was inside. She then felt obliged to offer me a glass of water, and, as always, we soon got talking . . .’
‘Get to the point,’ said Pisani with some impatience.
‘It seems that young Paolo has a fairly disreputable lifestyle, and he left, very suddenly, a few days ago to go to the family villa on the mainland. To be precise, he left on Tuesday 12 December, just as all his peers were attending Piero Corner’s funeral.’
‘It’s an odd time of year to go off to the villa,’ said Marco. Most Venetians usually went to their country villas for the villeggiatura in the early summer and returned in September after the grape harvest. But right now, in December, the villas around the Brenta would be deserted.
‘Well, it was obviously an excuse. He went to Villa Labia in Mira, but he wasn’t alone. Apparently, he had an escort of six of the strongest male servants and gondoliers, all of them capable of wielding a sword.’
‘So at least he’s safe and I can go and see him whenever I want,’ said Pisani – although it had to be said that he was less concerned about the safety of this wretch and more about the fact that now Labia was the only one who knew how that poor girl from Castello had met such a terrible end. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘you can take me to Calle Venier.’ Nani struggled to repress a smile. ‘But first I want you to stop off briefly at Palazzo Corner. I need you to check something with your friends there . . .’
Pisani waited patiently in the gondola while Nani went into Ca’ Grande. He came back half an hour later, looking very pleased with himself.
‘That was easy,’ he said, laughing proudly as he sketched a bow, like a real-life harlequin. ‘I hope Your Excellency will remember his humble servant at New Year.’
Marco stretched out to cuff Nani affectionately around the ears as he stepped aboard. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘You were quite right. There was a young seamstress who came to the Corner household to deliver sewing ordered by Signora Francesca. Do you remember Elvira, the maid who flirted with me in the kitchen the other day? Well, she got to know her because she would occasionally stop to chat. A good girl, she says, engaged and soon to be married.’
‘And who was she?’
‘Her name was Marianna Biondini. She was a sailor’s daughter from Castello. Apparently she lived in a calle overlooking Rio Sant’Anna.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Elvira said she was quite pretty, and elegantly dressed, with blonde hair. But at some point – she thinks it was in the spring, last year – she stopped coming. Signora Corner was extremely annoyed because she’d relied on her as a seamstress. She sent one of the servants to Castello and they came back with the news that the girl had run away from home.’
After so many false trails, here at last was something concrete. ‘Nani, you have my permission to ask for whatever you want,’ promised Pisani as the young man started to row, guiding the boat into the side canals towards Chiara’s house.
Chiara herself opened the door, looking anxious and tearful.
‘Chiara . . .’ he murmured, walking into the hallway. ‘Chiara . . .’ He looked down at her in the light from the staircase. ‘Chiara . . .’ He held her gently to him, stroking a curl back from her face. He had an overwhelming desire to kiss her, but he held back.
She smiled, looked up at him and brought her lips to his. At last, he felt the softness of her mouth and sensed its rose-scented sweetness.
‘Chiara, I’ve missed you so much,’ murmured Marco at last, as the strain of the last few hours dissolved. ‘Will you allow me to stay here for a while?’
He was a Pisani, the city’s highest magistrate, but at that moment he felt like a beggar. He had been shaken more than he cared to admit by Lucrezia’s dramatic revelations that morning, the race to find Biagio at the inn and the violence of his death. But more than anything, he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl and how she had died.
Chiara took his hand and led him upstairs. ‘Perhaps you’ve not eaten yet? And neither has Nani. I’ll look after you now, and Nani can go into the kitchen, where Marta will give him whatever he likes.’
She sat Marco down at the dining table and served cold meat and a delicious glass of cool white wine from the Euganean Hills. She watched him as he ate. His tired face and sad, deep eyes filled her with unexpected emotion. It was as if she had known him for ever, yet her heart was beating with the fear of losing him. She would have loved to caress his face, hold him close and make him smile.
After dinner, they sat on the divan, Marco now relaxing as he held Chiara’s hand between his own. Then he told her about the tumultuous events of the day. Finally, he asked the question that had been on his mind since the morning. ‘How did you know that something awful was about to happen? You didn’t try to have another vis
ion, did you?’
‘No, sometimes I just have these strong premonitions, which leave me perturbed and worried. That’s why I warned you to take care. I was terrified that you might be the one in danger.’
‘Why?’ asked Marco impetuously. ‘Would you be sad if something happened to me?’
Chiara blushed and looked down. ‘I don’t quite know what to say. Some days ago you confided that you were terribly antisocial and wouldn’t know how to court a woman, but I’m not familiar with such social finesses either.’ She twisted the stray curl that hung down her neck. ‘Yes, Marco, I want you to be happy, for ever.’
‘Do you know what that means?’ Marco spoke for them both. ‘We love each other, Chiara.’ He laughed. ‘I love you, and you love me. We are in love!’
He held her close and buried his face in her hair. It was smooth and perfumed.
‘I am so happy,’ he whispered. ‘Good Lord, it has been so long,’ he went on, pulling back from the embrace, ‘since I’ve felt as I do right now! Finding you is like a gift from heaven, one I dared not hope for any more.’
They looked at each other. Their reservations had been swept aside and there were no more barriers between them.
They were brought back to the present by a quiet knock. ‘Excuse me, Your Excellency.’ Marta’s head appeared around the door. ‘I’ve made a cup of hot chocolate.’ It was the housekeeper’s way of checking that her child was safe.
The couple turned towards her, smiling.
‘There’s no hurry, my love,’ murmured Marco. ‘We have all the time we want.’ In response to the elderly woman, he said, ‘On Sunday, dear Marta, you must accompany Chiara to lunch at my house. It’s high time she sees where I live, and I want to introduce her to my friend, Daniele Zen. You, too, you’ll have to summon up the courage to meet my Rosetta: she’s very nosy and complains a lot, but she’s the salt of the earth.’
CHAPTER 21
On Saturday morning, in the privacy of his office, Pisani looked at the papers that Tiralli had found in the archives. These were the folders relating to people who had disappeared in the spring of 1751. Given that there were only three, it did not take long for Marco to confirm the victim’s identity.
The first folder was about a corn merchant who had vanished, leaving a welter of debts. Then there was the case of a young fisherman who had failed to return one morning after a storm. A week later, his boat had been found, empty, high and dry on a sandbank. These accidents were rare, but they did happen. The last folder seemed thinner than the others, but it bore the name of Marianna Biondini.
Marco read the witness statements with care, and the outcome of any searches that had been made. The disappearance of Marianna Biondini, aged eighteen, a linen seamstress resident in Calle Grimana, Castello, had been reported by her aunt, Giannina Biondini, on Monday 24 May 1751. According to the report, the girl had gone to Saint Mark’s Square with her friend Angela Sporti, the previous afternoon, and had never come home.
When the friend was questioned by the guards, she had declared that she and Marianna were on the way home together after sunset, when she remembered having promised to visit her godmother. At that point she left Marianna, and she did not know what had happened to her afterwards. The captain responsible for the case, one Giandomenico Brusin, had widened the search, in line with normal procedures. From the report he had subsequently written, it appeared that the girl lived with her aunt and her father, a sailor on a cargo ship, who was away from home at the time.
A fact then emerged that, according to Brusin, might explain the girl’s disappearance. Marianna was engaged to Angela’s brother, Giorgio Sporti, who, because of his size, went by the name Giorgione. He was an apprentice baker who also lived in Calle Grimana, and he worked for Mastro Luca in Campo San Zanipolo. When the police went to summon him for questioning, Giorgione was also missing and, according to his parents, he had boarded a ship bound for an unknown destination.
After a month, given that no traces of the girl had been found, either living or dead, the police had concluded that she must have left home voluntarily and had probably eloped with her fiancé. Giandomenico Brusin, captain of the guards of the Serenissima, had therefore announced that the case was solved.
Pisani angrily snapped the folder shut, picked his wig off the table where he had laid it and shoved it back on his head. Then he instructed Tiralli to send for this Brusin.
‘Is this the way to carry out an investigation?’ he said accusingly as soon as the man was ushered into the room.
Brusin had a square face adorned with a heavy black moustache. He reeked of wine despite the early hour and his uniform jacket was buttoned wrongly, both of which led Marco to surmise that he’d been sitting around with his jacket off, drinking, even though he was on duty. ‘I . . . Excellency . . . I don’t understand. What investigation? What did I do?’ He was visibly quaking.
‘This appalling piece of work! Perhaps this will remind you!’ shouted Pisani, slamming the folder down on the table, producing a cloud of dust in the process.
The captain came closer to the desk, dragging his feet, and then leafed through the papers. ‘Yes, that’s right . . . it was about that girl who disappeared. But it was quite a while ago . . .’ He still couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong, but in the avogadore’s presence, he thought it safer to keep his mouth shut.
‘Have you nothing else to say? Did you do everything possible?’
Brusin scratched his head. He could vaguely remember the case, but the details now eluded him. ‘We carried out searches. But we didn’t find anything.’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Pisani. By now he was pacing around like a lion circling its prey, although every now and then he snatched at his gown so as not to trip. ‘Did you check the sailing dates at the Arsenale and the fiancé’s destination? Did you check whether a girl of her age had boarded some other boat in the days after Marianna Biondini disappeared? Did you question the girl’s friend thoroughly, as well as the neighbours and her relatives? Were you aware of any problems she had had? Had she ever left home before? Was she the subject of gossip? Where did she go when she delivered the household linen she sewed? Was there a man who was bothering her? Did the family have any debts?’
Overwhelmed by such a stream of questions, Brusin cowered, hunching his shoulders and staring at the floor.
‘Enough!’ ended Marco, even more irritated by the man’s reaction. He pointed to the door. ‘Get out of my sight, and at least go and tidy yourself up. And if I ever find you drunk on duty again, I’ll throw you into a cell without a second thought.’
Bowing nervously, Brusin retreated hastily from the room.
‘That’s not justice,’ Pisani muttered. ‘People like him don’t give a damn about anything. Is it surprising that those criminals got away with it?’
Marco was still trying to calm down when Tiralli brought in a note that had just arrived via one of the many couriers who walked around the city delivering the post. The handwriting was uncertain, almost childish. Your Excellency, Pisani, it read, the merchant Ibrahim Derali has just come into the tavern, and I am obeying your orders by writing to advise you immediately. I will try to keep him here for as long as possible. Your reverent servant, Lele.
Marco sat for a moment longer, thinking. Then, he turned to Tiralli and said, ‘Take the bissóna from the Avogaria and get there as fast as you can. You need to collect an important witness, but because he is a citizen of the Ottoman Empire, I can’t send the police because it might look as though he was under arrest. Is that clear?’ He smiled at the young man. ‘We’d find ourselves in very hot water with the Sublime Porte. You’ll need to use all your charm to persuade him to come here of his own will.’ He stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘And before you set off, stop by at Florian’s and order coffee and pastries to be brought here in an hour’s time. That’s diplomacy too.’ Then Marco explained to his secretary exactly where to go and what to do.
Jacopo Tiral
li was rushing out of the office when he bumped into Maria Domenici, Biagio’s mother, who was responding to a summons from the avogadore. Holding her mistress’s arm was the young girl who had told Pisani and Zen about the man who, by shaking a bag of coins, had convinced Signora Domenici to reveal her son’s hideout. It was clear that the young girl was terrified and feared that her role would soon be discovered. Marco gave her a quick sign of reassurance.
‘Wait outside, Pina,’ ordered her mistress in a trembling voice as she walked into the office.
Pisani was sorry to have summoned the old woman, but he needed to ask her an urgent question. After her son’s corpse had been brought to her the previous evening, she was still clearly distraught and seemed to have shrunk in stature, struggling even to stand. The arrogance of the previous day had vanished without trace. She wore her good gown, but the lace on the bodice now hung limp and the odd grey hair was visible under her wig.
She curtseyed with effort, her face streaming with tears, and then walked forward to kiss Marco’s hand. Marco withdrew it promptly, but he helped the old woman up and led her towards a chair.
‘I regret having had to disturb you at such a time,’ he said, ‘but there is something I need to know in order to catch your son’s murderer.’
‘Ask, Your Excellency. I will do everything I can to help you.’ She wiped away her tears with a very damp handkerchief.
‘Yesterday morning you lied to me.’ Pisani looked at her severely. ‘And if you hadn’t, your son would still be alive.’ The woman bowed her head. ‘You refused to tell me where he was hiding, and in doing so you let the killer find him before we did.’
‘It’s not true,’ she said loudly, bursting into sobs. ‘How could I have known . . .? My Biagio . . . how will I manage without him?’
Pisani waited for her to calm down. ‘You must now tell me the truth. You refused to tell the law about Biagio’s hiding place, but you did confide in someone else. Who was it?’
Signora Domenici gave a start. ‘How did you know? Who told you?’ she stammered.
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