by D. V. Bishop
Aldo noticed the doctor looking at him. Was the physician simply appreciating a fellow professional, or was it something else – something more? ‘I know your faith has particular traditions when it comes to the end of life. Did you see Samuele’s body?’ The doctor nodded. ‘What did you make of it?’
‘Death would have been quick. A single wound from a blade. No hesitation.’
Aldo smiled, despite himself. Orvieto’s eyebrows rose in response. ‘I don’t often get the chance to talk with someone who sees death with such clarity,’ Aldo explained. The sound of retching continued outside. ‘Most people are more like Benedetto.’
The doctor nodded. ‘My student is the same. A strong young man, but ruled by his feelings. I had to send him home; he knows the Levis. To succeed as a physician, you must focus on the body, as much as the person.’ Orvieto washed and dried his knife, returning it to a drawer full of blades. Any of them could have been used to slay the moneylender.
Aldo frowned. The doctor had an appealing way about him, but it was worth remembering that everyone was a potential suspect. ‘Did you ever borrow from Levi?’
‘No,’ Orvieto replied, without hesitation. ‘That man would squeeze a giulio from marble if there was profit in it. You won’t find many with a good word for him.’
‘So I’m learning. What about his rivals – Dante, and Sciarra?’
‘Do I think they could have killed Samuele?’ Orvieto stroked his beard. ‘Dante is the gentlest of men. I doubt he could harm a spider, let alone a person. As for Sciarra . . .’ The doctor paused. ‘He’s a grasping little man, but I’ve never seen him wield a weapon of any kind. The way Samuele was slain, that required genuine skill.’ Orvieto picked up a short knife, balancing it in his palm. ‘May I show you?’
Aldo spread out both arms, inviting an attack. ‘Please.’
The doctor approached, blade in hand, until they were close enough to embrace. Looking Aldo in the eyes, Orvieto thrust the knife at his chest. It stopped a hair’s breadth from Aldo, the tip sharp and steady. ‘This was a close killing. Almost . . . intimate.’
‘So I see.’
For a moment there was nothing but the two of them, looking in each other’s eyes. Then Benedetto stumbled through the doorway, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth. Orvieto stepped aside, lowering the blade.
‘What did I miss?’ the constable asked.
‘The doctor’s been most helpful,’ Aldo replied. ‘Better?’
Benedetto nodded, though his greenish pallor suggested otherwise.
‘Then we should move on.’ Aldo ushered the constable towards the hallway, pausing to look back at Orvieto. ‘Two last questions. Where were you on Monday night?’
‘With Moise Bassano until dawn – he’s not a well man.’ That confirmed what the old man next door had said. Despite his ease around a blade, there was no obvious way Orvieto could have killed Levi, not while tending to Bassano all Monday night. The doctor arched an eyebrow. ‘And what was your other question?’
Aldo smiled. ‘Your first name.’
‘It’s Saul.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Orvieto nodded, the corners of his mouth curving upwards. ‘If you need anything . . .’
‘I’ll know where to find you.’ Aldo urged Benedetto back out to the street. They had dozens more people to question. Everything else had to wait – for now, at least.
Strocchi was doing his best not to be awed. Having been in Florence close to a year, standing inside Palazzo Landini was far from his first time inside a rich merchant’s home. But the grandeur still impressed him. Back home, only the church had a staircase. Palazzo Landini had three levels, with servants bustling between them. This grand residence might not be far from the glowering presence of the city’s prison, but inside the palazzo was a world away from the squalid degradations of Le Stinche.
A haughty woman swept towards Strocchi, her face full of steely resolve. ‘I’m Pasqua Landini,’ she announced. ‘I hear you wish to speak with Agnolotti.’
‘Yes, signora. It’s about the murder of a young man—’
‘How much?’ Pasqua demanded.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How much for you to go away?’ She snapped her fingers twice and a servant appeared, clutching a pouch heavy with coin. ‘Well?’
Strocchi stepped backwards. ‘I didn’t come for money, signora. I’m a constable with the Otto. I simply wish to ask your husband some questions.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not here on behalf of that repulsive officer?’
So Cerchi was using Corsini’s murder to extort money. Strocchi fought back the urge to curse. ‘No, signora. I’m not like him.’
‘I see.’ Pursing her lips, Pasqua dismissed the servant. ‘Sorry, but my husband cannot answer your questions. He’s at church, seeking forgiveness for his sins. His many sins.’ She stalked away, pausing to glance back at Strocchi. ‘And before you ask, no, I do not know which church Agnolotti has gone to. Frankly, it would be better if he never returned.’
Aldo let Benedetto talk to the family in the next house. The recruit was nervous, but effective enough. Aldo directed Benedetto to talk to those on the side of the street opposite the Levi house, while he took the other side. ‘If you find someone who saw any strangers on Monday, come and fetch me. If you discover any witnesses to Levi’s murder, bring them to me.’
Benedetto went away with his chest puffed out, full of pride. That wouldn’t take long to wear down, but for now it made him useful.
The homes on Aldo’s half of the street brought few surprises. Yes, everyone knew Levi – or knew of him, at least. An embarrassed couple admitted borrowing money from the dead man, but could prove where they were observing the curfew the night he was slain. Most professed sympathy for Rebecca, but none had a good word for her father.
A goldsmith called Volterra lived next to the Levis. He recalled seeing outsiders come and go. There had never been more than two at a time. Were they always the same men? That was hard to tell. They hid their faces behind hoods. But one of them was rich, judging by the quality of his cloak. Volterra recalled hearing the men argue with Levi. It sounded as if the moneylender was trying to back out of a loan. The goldsmith thought he might recognize the rich man’s cloak, if he saw it again – but couldn’t be sure.
Aldo moved on to Levi’s rival Sciarra, hammering at the door until the moneylender came to an upstairs window. ‘We’re asking if anyone saw strangers the day of Levi’s killing.’
‘I told you all I know,’ Sciarra spat.
Curse this man and his obstinacy. ‘You said nothing but riddles. Come down here.’
‘Not for the likes of you.’ Sciarra held up an arm, swathed in bandages. ‘Yedaiah will hear about your methods.’
‘Yedaiah only has authority to deal with Jewish disputes. Besides, he’s away visiting his ailing sister.’
‘Then I’ll report your brutality to the Otto, tell the magistrates how you treat people!’
Sciarra obviously knew nothing of the court’s interrogation methods. It was useless arguing with this fool. Sciarra was full of piss and bluster, but lacked the palle to kill another man. That didn’t mean he was beyond hiring someone to do it, but—
‘Captain Aldo!’ Benedetto waved from a house opposite the Levis’ front door. He had a stout old woman beside him, her sour features framed by a headscarf.
Aldo strolled towards them. ‘I’m an officer, Benedetto. The Otto only has one captain, Duro. He commands the guards at Le Stinche – and is a lot less forgiving than me.’
The constable gestured at the old woman. ‘This signora found the body. She’s the one who summoned the night patrol.’
At last – a witness who might actually have seen something. Aldo quickened his pace, eager to question the woman. But a male figure lurking at the northern end of the street caught Aldo’s eye. The man resembled the ringleader of the bandits who had tried to kill Levi. Aldo gave Benedetto brisk instru
ctions as he passed the constable – take the witness inside and stay with her, no matter what happened. Do it now.
The man was still at the end of the street, looking at his surroundings as if lost. Florence was a labyrinth for those who didn’t know it well. The Duomo and the Arno were helpful landmarks, but often hidden from view among the narrow streets and close buildings.
Aldo continued towards the lithe figure, careful not to catch his eye. The man turned to face via dei Giudei, revealing a scar down one cheek. It was him! Aldo pushed by a girl carrying salted fish from the stalls near Ponte Vecchio. She spat a curse, drawing the bandit’s attention. He saw Aldo, their eyes locking for a moment.
Then the bandit bolted.
Chapter Eleven
Aldo raced after the bandit, ignoring the pain in his knee. By the time he reached Borgo San Jacopo, the bandit was running hard for Ponte Vecchio. But the approach to the bridge was choked with sellers hawking poultry, fish and produce to potential buyers, all of them arguing about prices. The aroma of fresh bread filled Aldo’s nostrils as he passed a baker. In the next doorway three youths were playing dice, pushing and shoving at each other, shouting to be heard over the babble of voices. Ahead the bandit had to swerve round a trader holding live chickens high in the air, one in each fist, proclaiming their price a bargain. The birds clucked and protested, flapping their wings, feathers fluttering down.
Aldo got within eight paces of the bandit before the throng closed in around him too. A leering hawker lurched in front of him, proudly displaying a length of brocade. ‘Something for your wife, sir? Take this cloth to a dressmaker and once your wife sees the results, you will be making babies together that same night?’ Aldo pushed him aside with a stiff arm and a curse so harsh it made the hawker’s eyes widen in shock.
The bandit glanced back, and Aldo could see panic in his quarry’s eyes. Good, now the bastardo knew how it felt to be stalked. The bandit shoved his way through a circle of young men watching two of them compete at civettino, the game known as little owl. The two contestants were in the middle of the ring, deflecting each other’s playful kicks and punches. The bandit charged between them, his shoulder colliding with one of the contestants, sending the youth sprawling on the muddy, merda-strewn street. Those watching cried out in protest but the bandit kept going. An old man leaning on a wooden crutch stopped to look and a shove from the bandit sent the cripple tumbling into a display of wizened lemons, collapsing the stall. A cascade of people moved to help the cripple, while others helped themselves to the fruit. The crowd parted and the bandit was free again, running for the bridge.
Aldo snarled at those in his way to step aside. The bandit had to be stopped before he crossed Ponte Vecchio. Once north of the river, it would be much easier for him to disappear. Aldo hurdled the fallen cripple, narrowly avoiding the head of an eager woman stooping over to gather the rolling lemons into her apron. She hurled abuse and a rock-hard lemon at Aldo, the fruit striking him in the back. He hurried on, ignoring the stream of insults.
Up ahead the bandit looked over his shoulder again – and ran straight into a heavy carcass balancing atop a butcher’s shoulder. The bandit staggered back before lurching on, but the impact had stolen his momentum. Aldo was only a few steps behind him as the bandit recovered, lurching towards the southern end of Ponte Vecchio. The bandit lashed out with a boot as he passed a stall hugging the corner. His well-aimed kick upset the display of fish so they went spilling across the cobbles marking the start of the bridge, a slither of silver scales and crimson guts spreading in front of Aldo. One leap to clear the mess and—
Aldo came thudding down on the road, his shoulder crashing into the stones, legs and arms flailing. People were laughing and pointing, some of them close to tears of glee. He must look an utter fool, sprawling in fish guts. Aldo tried to get back up, sharp pain stabbing through his good knee. The fish seller was yelling at him, demanding to know who’d pay for these losses? Aldo dug in his pouch and threw two coins on the cobbles before stumbling onwards, up the rising slope of the bridge.
But by the time Aldo had staggered to the highest point on Ponte Vecchio, the bandit was gone, vanished into the restless sea of faces that filled the bridge during daylight. Palle!
Aldo limped back the way he’d come. Why was the bandit in Florence? His actions in the hills proved the man was no fool. If he had held the blade that killed Levi, the bandit would have left the city as soon as its gates opened the next morning. Coming to via dei Giudei two days later made no sense. Yes, the skill of the murder did suggest the work of a professional. But Levi was killed after dark, in a close-knit part of the city. Levi knew whoever stabbed him, or else he wouldn’t have let them into his home. The bandit preyed on easy targets along high mountain roads – not wary Jews in an unfamiliar city.
Aldo stopped at the end of via dei Giudei, recalling the ambush in the hills. The bandit with the musket had told the other two that Levi was dead. Aldo only discovered Levi was still alive after the ringleader had retreated. Of course! The bandit had come to the city for his payment, believing he and his men had killed their target. That meant whoever hired them to murder Levi lived close by. Catch the bandit and his client’s name would soon follow.
The stench of raw fish invaded Aldo’s nostrils. His hose was stained with blood, guts and scales. It was enough to turn the stomach if he’d eaten anything since dawn, but there wasn’t time to solve either problem now. The bandit was still in Florence, unfamiliar territory, it seemed. Quick action could ensure he stayed in the city.
Benedetto was in the doorway opposite the Levi home. ‘Why did you run off?’
Aldo ignored the question. ‘Is the witness inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, I’ll talk to her. Do you know your way to the north gate?’
‘Of course.’
‘Get there, fast as you can. There’s a killer in the city, a fugitive. I need you to check everyone leaving through Porta San Gallo.’ Aldo described the scar-faced bandit, making Benedetto repeat the words twice. ‘Tell the guards to warn other gates in case he doesn’t head north. He mustn’t get out of Florence.’
The constable nodded. ‘What if he comes to Porta San Gallo?’
‘Have the guards hold him, and then find me. No, you stay there – send a messenger to find me. Now, go. Go!’
Benedetto dashed away. Aldo leaned against the door, his good knee throbbing with pain. Another visit to Dr Orvieto might be needed, perhaps some strapping round the knee or a massage. Tempting, but talking to the witness was more urgent.
The stout old woman was in the warm kitchen at the back of her home, feeding a black cat. She scowled when Aldo introduced himself.
‘Rebecca Levi asked me to find who killed her father, Signora . . .?’
‘Galletti – Elena Galletti.’ She reached down to stroke the cat’s back, but her piercing gaze never left Aldo.
‘How well do you know the Levis?’
‘The wife, she was a beauty, but Samuele is – was – an ugly man. In spirit, at least.’
‘It seems likely he was killed after curfew. Did you see anyone enter or leave after dark?’
A shake of the head; she wasn’t going to make this easy.
‘What about earlier?’
‘I heard them arguing.’
‘Who?’
‘Rebecca and her father – they’ve been arguing a lot lately. I saw her leave, but didn’t hear her return. I sleep back here.’ She nodded to a narrow bed in a corner.
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘Malachi Dante arrived just after Rebecca left. He didn’t stay long.’ The cat crossed the stone floor to sniff at Aldo’s ankles. ‘She likes you.’
‘She likes the fish on my hose,’ he admitted. ‘I slipped by a stall on Ponte Vecchio.’ That brought a smile to the old woman’s face. ‘How was it you saw the body after dark?’
Galletti called to the cat, summoning it back. ‘I was putting her out. She likes
to roam after dark. I saw the Levis’ door open, a lantern lit inside. I went across, looked in . . .’ Her eyes widened. ‘He was lying on the rug. I could tell he was dead. The night patrol was passing the end of the street, so I called to them.’
‘Did you see a knife?’
She shook her head. ‘But I didn’t go inside.’
It’d been too much to hope she had seen more than the night patrol had reported, but still worth asking. Aldo thanked her as she showed him out. He paused on the step. ‘Did you go to Samuele’s funeral?’
Galletti frowned. ‘I had no tears to shed for that man. But we are all taking turns to sit shiva with Rebecca. She needs her people around her now.’
‘Is Rebecca’s cousin with her – Ruth?’
‘No. It’s a long way from Bologna.’ Galletti shut the door, but her words lingered. Aldo cursed himself for not realizing the truth sooner. He had first met Levi in Bologna, at the home of his brother Shimon. Rebecca’s cousin Ruth must be Shimon’s daughter. So Rebecca had lied about where she spent the night Levi was killed. What else was she hiding?
Venus waited until well after noon before venturing out to Piazza San Lorenzo. It was important to see and be seen, but few women looked their best in the harsh light of January, and a courtesan must always look her best to attract the right kind of men. She was not a common puttano, available to be used and cast aside. She was a woman of refinement, able to excite and sustain a conversation as skilfully as she did any cazzo. A selection of regular visitors was her goal. Catching their eye required care and attention to every moment, every possibility.
Most women seen on the streets of Florence were maids, servants or those who worked in the mercato. The wives and daughters of wealthier men were expected to stay at home, or in a convent. Courtesans need pay no heed to such expectations.
Yes, they did have to dress as if married or widowed, but that was a necessary ruse to cheat laws enforced by the Office of Decency. Common puttane had to register with that court, stating where they lived and where they worked. But its officers were no match for the cunning and guile of true courtesans. An outward show of respectability – not to mention the occasional bribe – was enough to avoid such strictures. And when it came to bindings and constraints, Venus always preferred to be the one tying the knots.