“It’s very calming,” she said, “which is what I need.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Look at the ducks.”
She did so, and the faintest trace of a smile appeared on her face for just a moment. Then she looked back at me, and the expression of deep concern returned to her face. She gave a quick glance around the church, confirming that we were more or less alone (the sacristan was extinguishing candles in a side chapel). “Sior Alvise, they will be coming to question you. I thought it best to give you warning so you can prepare yourself.”
“Tell me exactly what has happened,” I said. “And if you get agitated, look at the ducks.”
She flashed a quick smile but returned to full seriousness immediately. “They woke me and my father very early this morning. It was before the Marangona and it was still dark.” The Marangona is the bell on the campanile of Saint Mark’s that marks the beginning and end of the working day.
“Who?” I said.
“The sbirri. And an examining magistrate. I don’t know his name. They didn’t tell us what had happened. They just wanted to know about that book of yours.”
“Which book?”
“The translation of Homer.”
“Ah,” I said. “It keeps turning up.”
“Yes,” she said, “and this time it had turned up next to a dead body.”
“I see,” I said, quite untruthfully. “What did they want to know?”
“Well, if you remember it was brought to us by a sbirro after you had lost it. Well, the same sbirro was helping the magistrate with the murder, and he recognised the book. He told the magistrate about it, saying that he had sold it to us, and so they came to ask about it. Of course, they didn’t tell us what it was all about. They just asked us what had happened to the book.”
“And what did you say?” I said with an uneasy feeling.
“Fortunately Father answered, and he just said that he couldn’t remember. And then when they pressed he said he thought he had sold it to an English visitor but he couldn’t be sure.” She looked hard at me. “Father doesn’t usually tell untruths, but he had a bad feeling about this affair. He told me afterwards that he had immediately suspected something very bad had happened and he didn’t want to send them on to you until we had had time to find out more about it.”
“That was very considerate of your father,” I said. So now I had Sior Fabrizio’s descent into untruth on my conscience as well.
“After they had gone,” she went on, “we found out from the neighbours that they had found a dead body not far from our house. In Corte Lavazzera. He had been stabbed, several times. Apparently it was a dreadful sight.” She swallowed. “A boy had slipped as he came out of his house to go to the bakery where he works, and he found it was blood he had slipped on.”
“Oh, goodness,” I said, as much concerned by the troubled expression in her eyes as by the story itself. I wondered whether to tell her to look at the ducks but decided it would sound too flippant.
She made a great effort to get a grip on herself and continued. “He gave the alarm, and they found this poor man huddled in a corner of the square, in what they called a pool of blood. Whoever had done it had been in some kind of rage, they said. He had stabbed him over and over again, continuing even after he was dead. They didn’t find the knife, but they did find a book, which they say must have fallen from the murderer’s pocket in his fury. So then the sbirri came and one of them recognised the book, as I said. They came immediately to ask us about it.”
“So they don’t know your father gave it back to me,” I said.
“No,” she said, “but I don’t think it will be long before they work it out. They know it was originally yours. And they know that you are our friend.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She looked a little surprised. “For what?”
“For calling me your friend.”
She waved her hand dismissively at this. “Of course you are, Sior Alvise. The fact we’ve had some moments of – of misunderstanding, well, that doesn’t mean anything.”
“But also thank you both for thinking of how to help me now.”
“You really did know this man, then?”
“Yes,” I said. “I did. And unfortunately the last time I saw him we exchanged some angry words. In front of quite a lot of people.”
“Where was that?”
“At a gambling house in Corte Contarina where he worked,” I said.
“I see,” she said. “That’s not good.”
“In case you’re worried about my frequenting gambling houses,” I said, “I should say—”
Again she waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be foolish, Sior Alvise. Of course that’s not why I’m worried.” She gave a half-smile. “You know there are aspects of your life that do give me some cause for concern, but it’s never crossed my mind you might be a gambler. At least not a gambler of that sort.”
“I don’t like to think I’m causing you concern,” I said, “but I can’t deny I’m touched by it.” And I wondered whether, by way of proof, I should put my hand out and touch hers. But even as I thought so I remembered the touch of Isabella Venier’s skin, and that wave of guilt washed over me again. My hands did not move.
“So what will you do?” she said.
“I will have to speak to the Missier Grande,” I said. “He is the only person who can offer me any kind of protection.”
“And where will you stay?”
“Well, I’m hoping that the Missier Grande will be able to help me there too,” I said.
“And you have no idea who could have committed this murder?”
I shook my head. “Boldrin did not live in a very pleasant world,” I said. “I have no doubt he will have had enemies. But I can’t think of anyone who would behave with that kind of ferocity.” A thought struck me. “Nobody mentioned seeing or hearing a Neapolitan anywhere nearby?”
“A Neapolitan?” she said. “Why?”
“Just a thought,” I said.
She was frowning. “As it happens, we had a Neapolitan visitor in our shop just yesterday.”
“Oh really?” I said. “Did you notice anything about him?”
“He wanted to buy a copy of Ariosto,” she said. “He didn’t seem to be a very, well, a very literary sort of person. But Father chatted away, telling him he had been to Naples once as a young man, and that he thought it was a very beautiful city . . . The man himself didn’t say very much.”
“Nothing else about him?”
“I think he was lame,” she said.
“Ah,” I said.
She looked at me. “Does that tell you something?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’m not sure what to do with the information.”
“Tell it to the Missier Grande,” she said. It was the first time she had ever referred to my employer, and she did it without visible distaste.
“I will do so,” I said.
“Sior Alvise,” she said, “I know you can have had nothing to do with this terrible crime.” She looked straight into my eyes as she said this. Her own eyes were lucent with tears.
“Siora Lucia,” I said awkwardly, “I don’t like to see you distressed.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “It’s you who are in trouble, and I wish I could be of more help.”
“You’ve done more than enough in running all the way out here,” I said. “I’m so sorry for all the worry I’ve brought upon you and your father.”
She forced herself to give a smile. “It seems we are going to compete in our apologies. I was too harsh on you the other day. I should have been more understanding.” She turned away. “Now I’ll have another look at those ducks.”
“There’s another painting by Cima,” I said, gesturing to the right. “At least there should be . . .” I stared in some uncertainty at the right-hand wall. There was a gap on the plaster, with the clear marks of a missing painting.
“That’s strange,” I murmured.
> “What is?”
“The other painting by Cima has disappeared.”
“Oh, really?” She was only half interested, which was understandable enough.
However, I was definitely intrigued. I crossed over to the sacristan, an elderly man with white hair and a benign expression; there were parishioners who claimed that his benignity of appearance helped him in the sideline he had established of selling used wax to local taverns. “Excuse me,” I said, “can you tell me what’s happened to the painting of Constantine and Helen?”
“Oh, that,” he said, “Father Marco thought it might be better to keep it in the sacristy for the moment.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know it shows Constantine and Helen standing by the cross.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, there you are. That’s why.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I really don’t follow you.”
“You’ve heard of all these other items that have been stolen over the last few months,” he said.
“Well, vaguely,” I said vaguely.
“We lost Saint Spiridion a few weeks ago,” he said, gesturing to a nearby altar. “You know we have the guild of sabbionai who attend the church?”
“The what?” said Lucia in puzzlement.
“The sand-carriers,” he repeated. “You know, people who carry sand.”
She looked as if she were about to ask where or why but then thought better of it. The sacristan went on, “Their altar had a reliquary of Saint Spiridion, who’s their patron saint. It had come from the East, a fine piece in silver, and it just disappeared. Well, Father Marco had been talking to other priests and it seems that it’s only Greek items that have been disappearing like that. So he thought, what with Constantine being Greek . . .”
I was about to object but then thought better of it.
“. . . he said we had better keep it somewhere safe until this business is cleared up. You can come and see it, if you like.”
“Another time,” said Lucia firmly. “I’m afraid we’re in something of a hurry now.”
I realised that Lucia was right. There were more urgent things to think about.
“Thank you, sior,” I said. “It’s very worrying. Unfortunately we have to go now.”
“Certainly,” he said. “You don’t want to light a candle first?”
“Yes,” Lucia said at once. “Let’s say a prayer before we go.”
“Let’s say it to Saint John the Alms-giver,” I said, leading her to the altar dedicated to this saint in the right-hand transept. “He was bishop of Alexandria, and when the relics of the True Cross were captured from Constantinople by the Persians he set out for the capital to bless Emperor Heraclius on his mission to recover them.”
“Goodness,” said Lucia. “You’re beginning to sound just like my father.”
“Remember I’m a cicerone,” I said, “and this is my parish church. Naturally I’ve read up on the stories associated with it. Anyway, I’ve a feeling I need the protection of a saint who can help in the recovery of precious things.” I was not entirely sure what I meant by that, but it felt right.
She humoured me, and we lit a candle in front of the altar, where the saint’s remains lay in a rich urn. There was also a painting devoted to him, which Lucia studied with some care.
“By Jacopo Marieschi,” I said. “It was painted five or six years ago.”
“He looks kindly,” she said, presumably referring to the saint rather than the painter. “I hope he can help. But now you had better go.”
“I’ll try to speak to the Missier Grande,” I said. “I’ll get word to you later.”
“Don’t come to the shop,” she said.
“No, of course not. I’ll find a way to send a message.” I gestured towards the door of the church.
“You go first,” she said. “I’ll say another prayer.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I didn’t say it would be for you,” she said with a smile.
“No, that was presumptuous of me.”
“But it will be. You certainly seem to need it.” On a sudden impulse she held out both hands to me, and I stooped and kissed them, my lips lingering no longer than was courteous. For those few instants I managed to put Isabella Venier out of mind.
“Go now,” she said. “And be careful.”
“I will,” I promised.
20
I stepped out into the grey morning air. I realised that with the urgency and panic of the last quarter of an hour I had had no time to roll my eyes up at the tedious inevitability of yet another day of caigo. Still, I could not really complain. Anything that made it easier for me to remain anonymous was welcome.
As I made my way towards the Riva I wondered if this meant that I was condemned to a life forever yearning for fog. I thought of my ex-colleague, Paolo Padoan, and wondered whether he too had found himself most at ease in misty weather – until that fateful day when he had taken advantage of the blazing sun to hang his washing out.
As usual, the crowds thickened as I approached Saint Mark’s Square. I wrapped my cloak more closely around myself. It was too early in the day to be wearing a mask, I realised, without arousing suspicion. I would just have to rely on the crowd, the fog and my carefully angled new tricorn hat.
I walked a couple of times up and down past the door that gave on to the private staircase to the Missier Grande’s office, carefully but discreetly looking out for anyone who might be watching. I realised it was an impossible task. The coffee houses were milling with people, many of whom had little else to do than watch the people going by. It is a Venetian pastime. And some of us have turned it into a profession, if a slightly unseemly one.
I would simply have to run the risk, I decided, and I walked as casually as possible towards the door before running swiftly and lightly up the stairs. There was no one in the outer office, which was unusual but not unheard of at this hour in the morning, and I walked straight through to Sior Massaro’s office.
He was sitting at his desk, quill in hand as usual. The moment he saw me his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he made a series of pantomimic gestures, dropping his quill and putting one finger to his lips, and waving the other hand as if to indicate that I should immediately crouch down on the floor, or possibly search for a handkerchief he had lost; when that left me bewildered, he flipped the hand over and waved it urgently in a shooing gesture. All the time his other hand remained close to his mouth, with that one upright finger tapping his pursed lips frenziedly in a plea for silence.
I wondered whether to answer with my own series of harlequin-like gesticulations, indicating my total inability to understand what he was trying to communicate, but in the end I took the course that seemed most likely to be the one he wished me to follow and backed out of the office as quietly as possible.
Seconds later he followed me, making a great show of shutting the door secretly behind us.
“Sior Marangon, you must flee, you must flee,” he whispered, his hands making flapping gestures again.
“Flee?” I said. “Can’t I see the Missier Grande?”
“It will do no good,” he said, his round face a picture of dismay.
“No good?” I said. “He’s my only hope.”
“He is no more.” This time he raised both hands to his face as if he were afraid it was going to peel off like a carnival mask.
“No more?” I gasped. “Is he dead?”
“He is no more the Missier Grande.” He somehow forced these words out. It was clear that this was the end of Sior Massaro’s entire world.
“He’s been dismissed?” I said, aghast.
Sior Massaro just opened his arms out, as if a verbal answer was too painful.
“So where – what . . .”
“The Inquisitors’ men are removing all his files at this moment. That’s why you must flee. I know they’re looking for you too.”
“You’re telling me to go on the run?”
/> His face, usually so comforting in its serene roundness, was painful to watch. Although sceptical of the competence of some of the higher authorities in the city, he had probably never before in his life suggested breaking any of the city’s countless laws and regulations. But at last he said, “I think it would be best. And I know the Missier Grande would counsel it.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“At his family home in Campo Sant’Agnese.”
I had never imagined him having such a thing. “And what’s he planning to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Sior Massaro disconsolately.
“And do we know why this has happened?”
“No one has said anything.”
This was standard procedure, so I was not surprised.
“But,” he went on, “I have to say I think it is connected with your activities.” And the reproachful expression on his face was awful to see.
“Ah,” I said, not attempting to defend myself. I had already guessed as much. Something struck me. “So why are you telling me to flee? Why not hand me over to the authorities?”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, that would have been my instinct,” he said, “but there’s something the Missier Grande said before he left the office . . .”
“What’s that?”
“He told me to say to you, ‘Don’t give up.’” He looked at me with some curiosity, to see if this meant anything to me.
“Don’t give up,” I repeated. “I see.”
There was a stir in the room we had just left, and he returned to his Harlequin mode, making urgent flailing gestures. “Quickly,” he said. “Run for it. Don’t go down the stairs. You can go on up to the roof and then . . .” He paused, thought for a moment and then said, “No, better go down the stairs.”
I went down the stairs. I could hear him making loud and clearly artificial remarks to cover the sound of my retreating footsteps. Before I reached the door at the bottom it opened and I saw the silver pommel of a cane enter, followed by the tip of a raised chin – and then, of course, by the rest of Marino Basso, closely followed by his hulking companion. I had the advantage of being above them in the gloom and so, after just a split second in which I wondered whether the roof would have been a better option, I kept on walking determinedly downwards. I had already passed them before Basso recognised me and squeaked, “Marangon!”
The Four Horsemen Page 21