The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  To her final unseemly breath, Donna Prassede barked instructions in her reedy, birdlike voice. Don Abondio sat attentive, offering reassurance at her bedside. Then, after both she and her insufferable husband had shuddered their final unholy spasms in their fetid bedroom, the priest paid a barrowman two scudis to dump their festering bodies in a plague pit for burning.

  It was a busy time, and Don Abondio continued his ministrations apace—from the first light of day—until well into the night and beyond. He worked steadily, collecting gold, silver and all manner of lucrative tributes from his wealthy parishioners and offering nothing but empty words of comfort in return.

  As one day melded seamlessly into the next, it became difficult for Don Abondio to place a name to the day, or even an hour to the morning, as so much about him had turned to darkness. It was on one such day, that contessa Isabella Manzoni’s faithful servant Perpetua arrived at the rectory, before the hour of daybreak and bade him make haste to her mistress’s bedside.

  It was with grim heart that the priest gathered up his cloak and bible and followed the blubbering servant through the hellish rain soaked streets. As they travelled upwards, through the labyrinthine alleyways, towards the palatial hilltop home of the contessa the smell of death hung heavy in the air, and the priest felt compelled to draw his cloak up over his face to mitigate the rancid stench. When at last they arrived at their destination, the blood red dawn was beginning to swell over the dark hills to the east. The light brought little comfort, revealing as it did a hellish miasma of burnt flesh hanging over the blackened city.

  “Make haste your reverence,” said Perpetua urgently, “less we should miss my Lady’s parting.” The priest gave her a grim look and followed her up the pathway to the contessa’s villa.

  As Don Abondio set foot on the doorstep of the grand home, a chill of foreboding ran through him. Feeling as though he was about to witness the event of his own painful demise, every fiber of his being told him to flee now, lest he move forward over the ninth circle of hell, into a realm of damnation so complete it would consign him to an eternity of icy torment.

  But move forward he did, stepping over the threshold, and following the pale-faced Perpetua up the grand staircase, towards her mistress’s, chamber. Don Abondio followed her slowly, reluctantly, his feet heavy with his betrayal of God and the holy brotherhood of mankind.

  When at last he was shown into the contessa’s chamber, he was shocked, despite all the many visions of death he had seen in the past days, to behold her countenance, it was a face quite different from that which he remembered, so sallow and pale and devoid of hope—and yet, beneath the parchment skin, and skeletal features, there remained a vigor and determination quite unlike anything he had seen amongst the many other tortured souls he had ministered to

  Don Abondio moved forward with faltering steps, until he reached her bedside. He paused, bowed his head and said, “I am here for you my Lady.”

  The contessa smiled weakly. Her expression showed a monumental strain that told the priest that soon, even such a simple movement as that would be impossible.

  He stared down at her. She was still beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. He felt the need to share the desire that had always been impossible, but words failed him.

  “Hold my hand,” she said.

  Don Abondio gave the contessa a tight look, his face straining against the emotions that boiled within him. He clasped her hand. It was warm and yielding, with the texture of Paschal beeswax. Soon, the final agonies of death would be upon her. The priest closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer, to the God he knew had deserted him.

  “What news from the outside world Don Abandio?

  “The news is not good my Lady, perhaps upon your recovery we will talk further on such matters, but now you must rest, gather your strength for the coming ordeal.”

  “I do not care much for ordeals…” again she smiled weakly. “What word do you carry from my friends? There has been no word in days. ”

  “Dead. All dead.”

  The pause was a long one, the silence stretching across worlds and back again.

  “Pepetua,” whispered the contessa at length. “Bring wine, and two glasses if you would,”

  “Wine at this hour Signora, I hardly think so,” said Don Abondio quickly, then as he saw his hostesses face sink inwards with disappointment, he just as quickly said, “On second thoughts, a glass of wine might be just the thing, to warm the soul on a morning such as this.”

  Perpetua gave her mistress an anxious nod, and disappeared from the room. As Don Abondio turned to watch her go, he noticed with surprise, the framed portrait of Lady Lucretzia staring down from the wall that faced the contessa’s bed. The painting that had once so closely resembled its mistress now bore testament to the savage changes that had overwhelmed her countenance, in the few short days since last he had seen her.

  “The painting madam, you moved the painting.”

  The contessa gave him a pained expression. “The past is now dead to the world, as soon will I be. In the final hours it amuses me to watch the memories fade. But before I go I wish to make a confession.”

  “It is normal under such circumstances, madam but…”

  “Silence you fool, and listen to me.” Whispered the contessa. “I have a secret so dark and sinful that I know I will never be able to greet my dear husband Lorenzo in heaven, even if you offer me the final sacrament in accordance with holy laws.”

  “Only God himself has the authority to decide such matters Signora. It is good for the soul that you confess your sins, for just as night follows day there can be no absolution without contrition. Even as he spoke these well-practiced words of comfort, Don Abondio felt hollow inside, that he should offer a sacred rite he himself no longer believed in. But under the ghastly circumstances, lies were his only option.

  “I lied to everyone, again and again. My dear husband Lorenzo died of the plague, as did his men. They met their unholy fate at night, in the farmyard stables of our estate in Como. They died with the animals, to prevent the contagion spreading to the house. I made my escape, accompanied only by my closest servants. And so it was, that I arrived back in Milan, bereft of honor, with only a heritage of death and lies to call my own.”

  “Do not upset yourself madam, you were left with little choice.”

  “But, I brought the sickness with me, don’t you see? All those innocents who welcomed my return are dead, and the responsibility for their fate is mine.”

  “You cannot know that,” said Don Abondio quietly. “I seem to remember that fool of a mayor telling us that there were very many methods of transmission. So do not think harshly of your actions, the whole town is rotting with this accursed sickness. Would you suggest that you are responsible for their fate too?”

  The contessa lay in silence, her eyes burning with a furious passion.

  At length she said, “What of you Don Abondio, what is the secret of your protection?”

  The priest cast his gaze lower, “I am a humble servant of the Lord Signora. I know nothing of such secrets.”

  “But surely you must. Your ministrations bring you so close to the sick and the dying. How is it that you are protected from the sickness? Is your belief so strong—your mission to complete God’s work so important, that he has made you immune from this curse he has thrown upon us?”

  “I assure you, I have no immunity Signora,” said Don Abondio bitterly, his natural caution lost by this accusation. “I too have suffered the tortures of this unholy sickness, I felt the power of its torments many years ago, when first it came upon our fair city. Though mercifully I was spared its final deathly conclusion.” As soon as he had uttered these words, the priest drew back, regretting that he had revealed his darkest secret to a woman such as this, exposing his vulnerabilities to all manner of threat.

  The contessa’s eyes grew wide, as though the devil himself had just landed at her bedside.

  She
tore her hand free of his.

  “It was you, all along!” hissed the countess, in a dry whisper, “You are an anointer. A spreader of the plague! All who come into contact with you are doomed!”

  Don Abondio snapped to his feet in panic, “It is not true Signora, a cruel twist of fate—a test from the Lord himself—I confess I do not know the answers, how can I when the power of prayer has betrayed so many?”

  “It is not prayer that has betrayed us Don Abondio—it is you!”

  The priest leaned forward, pressed his fingers to the contessa’s lips in the hope that he might silence these words of madness, but the contessa shrank away, her dry lips working slowly, as her exhausted lungs filled ready for a cry of fear.

  It was then that the moment filled him with the compulsion to silence his accuser. Don Abondio seized one of the many pillows that lay upon the bed, and thrust it across the contessa’s face, holding it there, that he might prevent her fevered warnings from reaching the ears of the world.

  The contessa struggled with a vigor that surprised him. Despite the advanced stage of the sickness, she still had a good deal of strength. As she struggled beneath the pillow, fighting to draw breath, Don Abondio knew that he could not afford to let her.

  She would reveal his secret.

  She would accuse him of certain murder.

  She would…

  The struggling became more feeble now…

  He had to make sure…

  He forced his knee on the contessa’s fragile chest. He pressed the pillow down over her face, until slowly, ever so slowly, the deathly convulsions under the forbidden sheets became weaker and weaker.

  Finally, there was no more movement. No sound, save the mountain breeze rattling gently against the windowpane.

  Don Abondio held the pillow in place, to make certain his secret was safe.

  The deed done, he felt a vile euphoria flood through him.

  Slowly he released the suffocating pressure on his victim, turning away, so he would not have to witness the ghastly vision of death he had created.

  The maid stood in the doorway to the chamber, holding a decanter of wine and two glasses on a silver platter. From the wide look of fear in her eyes and the rattle of the glasses on the tray Don Abondio knew at once that she had witnessed everything.

  He rose from the edge of the bed and smiled sadly.

  The maid dropped the tray. Glass and wine and silverware flashed towards the floor—a bloody and irrevocable explosion, masked only by an unholy scream of fear.

  —No one to hear the scream.

  —No one but Don Abondio.

  He walked towards her slowly, an open hand reaching out towards her, in a gesture of supplication.

  The maid backed away, slowly, fearfully, not daring to tear her eyes away from the deadly fingers that reached out towards her. The balustrade at the top of the stairway impacted her hard, the surprise of the impact took her breath away, She struggled to correct her mistake, but as the priest reached out towards her, correction was impossible. The momentum of the impact spun her around and over the rail, into the stair well and down, down to the hard marble floor below.

  Don Abondio came to the rail and looked down. He looked down at the broken figure for a long time, watched the blooming pool of blood spread wide on the cold marble floor. Then, when he had seen enough, he walked back into the contessa’s chamber and stood before the painting of the Lady Lucretzia. He sighed. Beauty—such an ephemeral thing. He paused for a long moment, staring into the eyes that would always remind him of the love he could never know. Then, he removed the painting from the wall, wrapped it tightly in his cloak and headed out into the chill of the day.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 21

  Venice. Don Abondio stood by the window of his room, looking east over the Piazza San Marco. It was market day, and thousands of merchants and their customers were thronging busily in the gaily-colored square below. He felt the cold finality of the marble rising up through his bare feet, a sensation that triggered dark memories of the city he had left many weeks before.

  It had been a long journey east from Milan, through the badland territories of Lombardy where the armies of the invaders held control over the ruins of a land that had once been worth conquering and mercenary bands of brigands fought for whatever was left. The party of refugee travelers Don Abondio joined up with, were held up no less than five times, before a column of French troops took pity on them, escorting the party as far as Mantua. From there, the priest had made company in the city’s garment district, with a party of Venetian merchants who had encouraged him to follow them eastwards, into the lands of the Venetian Republic.

  No matter how fast the party rode, it seemed that the plague was ahead of them. In every town and village they encountered to the horizon and beyond, they were burning pyres of plague ridden corpses in the futile hope such action would stem the unstoppable march of the pestilence. Their efforts were in vain, and by the time the party reached the city of Venice Don Abondio had lost count of the dead he had been required to administer to.

  The unfortunate journey, trying though it was, did however serve a purpose more valuable than anything Don Abondio could have been anticipated at the outset, for once in Venice he was provided introduction by the head of the party of Merchants to none other than Giovanni Tiepolo, the grand Patriarch of Venice, a man whose stern duty it was to minister to the collective souls of the most cosmopolitan city in the world.

  Signor Tiepolo proved a most gracious host, welcoming Don Abondio to his bosom immediately, with a brotherly hug and an offer of accommodations that might meet the priest’s requirements, until a more permanent solution to his needs could be found. Don Abondio thanked his new host, with the quiet, understated gratitude that he knew would be well received. In addition he offered upon the desk of the Patriarch, a purse of gold coins as a contribution to the pastoral needs of the city.

  When he saw the gold, the Patriarch attempted to conceal his surprise, but by the way he drew deep his breath and licked his lips with the coiled edge of his tongue, Don Abondio realized that his vulgar and somewhat obvious bribe had served its purpose.

  “I understand that the whole of Lombardy is crying out under the curse of the sickness?” said the Patriarch, as he weighed the bag of gold experimentally in his hands.

  Don Abondio nodded slowly, “God has forsaken his people,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper.

  The Patriarch strained forward in his seat, wondering that he had heard this statement right, “Forsaken father? Surely it is God’s will that he reaps the souls of men as freely as he sows them?”

  Don Abondio gave the priest a tight look, as the sight of a thousand tortured deaths flashed though his mind. The priest had seen so much that the horror of lies seemed as nothing when compared to the reality of the world around them. And so it was, that the priest agreed with his host, offering easy platitudes in place of objective comment.

  The Patriarch listened to Don Abondio’s tale of mercy and salvation as though he were listening to a sermon from Jesus himself, and when the priest had finished his grand tale of prayer and absolution, he all but applauded, tapping his steepled fingers together, as if restraining himself from immediate prayer.

  “It is Gods will that you have been sent to us Don Abondio, there can be no other explanation. I ask you, how else could you have survived such a perilous journey through the plague-ravaged hinterlands of Lombardy, so that you could arrive at our door, with golden tribute! I tell you, such an event is quite without precedent!”

  “You are very kind, to herald my arrival so Signor, but I want no fanfare, merely a simple room, so that I might rest my weary head, and enjoy the solitude of quiet prayer.”

  “Nonsense. You are our honored guest Signor, you will have a suite overlooking the Piazza, and tomorrow you will assist me in giving praise at the church of San Geminiano, it will serve as you introduction to the society of the Republic of Venice!”

  A
n impossible heresy! Don Abondio felt terror rise within him. All his sins compounded! He sat frozen staring at Giovanni Tiepolo as though he were the Angel of Death himself. He was trapped. There was no escape from his sin, if forced to preach once again in public, his wicked secrets of betrayal would be discovered by all—how would it be possible to preach the word of God, when he was nothing more than a murder and a fraud, paying lip service to a gospel that no longer held any truth or value for him—

  The Patriarch misinterpreted this frozen horror, as a show of pious frailty. A wide smile of pure bliss spread wide across his face, and he held out his hands to the heavens, as though the room was filling with the light of spiritual providence. “Then it is decided, you will join us for mass tomorrow. You will speak of your faith and the inspiring journey that led you to us.”

  Don Abondio bowed his head. Again, his shame was misinterpreted as modesty and devotion to a quiet belief in righteousness.

  The Patriarch rang a bell that sat on his desk and they were joined almost immediately by a pair of glad faced attendants, who showed Don Abondio to his new apartments overlooking the Piazza San Marco.

  And so it was, that Don Abondio the priest found himself alone at last, looking out over the doomed mass of humanity seething like locusts in the square below. His bare feet edged forward on the cold marble. In the distance the lagoon glinted, an enticing sun-kissed gold that beckoned him forwards.

  Don Abondio opened wide the windows of his apartment and stepped out onto the balcony. He felt the soft wind on his face, heard the rush of the market calling up to him on the noonday air. All around the square the scarlet banners of the republic fluttered in the breeze, like a field of blood. He stepped out now, onto the balcony, into a world that seemed meaningless—unreal. He turned, caught sight of the portrait, leaning against the dresser and smiled. Then he turned without thought and toppled forwards, falling down, down, until the nose he had tied around his neck tightened abruptly, in a final act of betrayal.