The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story

by Megan Chance

  “What answer could that be?”

  “I don’t know. I planned to ask her that this morning.”

  Samuel glanced up at the window and frowned. “Come. Let’s go somewhere warm.”

  “There’s no place warm here.”

  “Someplace else then. There’s a café in the campo.”

  “We can’t leave. The police asked us to stay.”

  “Then the kitchen.” Samuel took my arm. “You’re shivering, Elena. They can find us there if they need us.”

  “But Nero—”

  “He’ll know to find you there too.”

  Gently he pulled me with him, and I had to admit I was glad once we stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. I had not realized just how cold I was. My hair was wet too, from the snow, dripping down my neck and into my collar.

  Samuel sat on the bench with a sigh, but I could not be still. I pulled my cloak more tightly about me and paced. “Do you remember anything from the exorcism?”

  “I barely remember the day.”

  “I want to know what Madame Basilio understood. I want to know what she saw. Tell me what Laura’s ghost has shown you. Everything you remember.”

  “Umm . . . the woman drinking and falling. The man with the pistol. Blood on the walls . . . Christ, will you stop pacing? It’s too hard to concentrate when you’re playing Lady Macbeth.”

  “What else? What do you remember about Laura?”

  “She’s angry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “But you know that.”

  “When she possessed you, I saw jealousy too.”

  “Perhaps she knew what would happen between the two of you when Nero showed up,” Samuel said. “It wasn’t so hard to predict.”

  “She didn’t love him anymore. Why would she care? There’s something more. Something we’re not seeing.”

  “I don’t know what else that could be.”

  “Anger seems odd for a suicide, don’t you think? Sadness I would expect, and hopelessness. Regret, perhaps. But I don’t feel those things from her, and neither do you. Not really. When you woke from your seizure the other night, you thought you’d drowned. You were certain of it. You remembered falling, and that you were angry and afraid. These are all her memories. What is she trying to tell us?”

  Samuel stilled.

  I went on, “When you were choking yourself—when you were choking me—you spoke in Venetian. Whatever you said meant something to Nero’s aunt.”

  “Elena, be careful what you’re considering.” Samuel’s voice was very low.

  “I don’t even know what I’m considering,” I said, but that wasn’t true. I did know. I felt it like a clenched fist in my chest, in my stomach.

  “You think Laura’s spirit returned for vengeance,” he said. “You think it wasn’t a suicide, but murder.”

  “I don’t think that,” I said anxiously. “I don’t know anything. Who could have murdered her? Why?”

  Samuel’s gaze locked to mine. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  “No,” I whispered. “He wasn’t here. He was in Milan.”

  “He was,” Samuel said. “And then he wasn’t.”

  I remembered what Samuel had said: When he returned from Venice to the news that Laura was dead, I thought I might lose him. The thing that had jarred. Dully, I said, “He told me he went straight to Paris from Milan.”

  “Then he lied to you,” Samuel said bleakly. “Or he’s forgotten. He went to Venice in between. He brought me that book. The Nunnery Tales. We’d talked about it and he wanted to show me. He’d left it here, and he told me he’d stopped to get it. I didn’t think anything of it. By then, his anger with her was past. It never occurred to me that he would hurt her.”

  “Because he didn’t. He wouldn’t have.”

  “He’d taken care of his rival, so I thought it was over.”

  “It was,” I insisted. “It had to be.”

  He paused. “I think I understand.”

  “Samuel, it can’t be. He can’t have done such a thing.”

  “She’s showing me what happened, Elena,” Samuel persisted woodenly. “She’s demonstrating through me. You’re her in all these scenarios. I’m him. The jealousy, the anger . . . it’s what she saw in him. It all makes sense.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense at all!” I could not bear to hear his words, each of which felt to be a blow, sinking deep and true. “You said he was despondent when he heard she’d died.”

  “I also said I thought he was punishing himself.”

  “I won’t believe it. I suppose next you’ll tell me that he’s responsible for his aunt’s death.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You saw him, Samuel. He was beside himself.”

  “He didn’t want to return. You’re the one who said that. He knew it would be bad news. He knew the police would be here.”

  I felt sick with fear that it was true. “I don’t believe it. I can’t.”

  “It makes sense though, doesn’t it?” he pointed out reasonably. “You say his aunt understood something. Perhaps she realized what had happened and she confronted him with it. He went to talk to her that night. The next morning, she’s gone.”

  “But I heard her.” I grasped at anything, everything. “That night, when he came to bed, I heard her in the courtyard talking to Giulia. She was alive then, and he didn’t leave me the rest of the night. It couldn’t have been him.”

  “Are you certain he didn’t leave you?”

  “I’m certain. We . . . I’m certain.”

  Samuel said thoughtfully, “Then perhaps it’s true that she slipped. But it seems coincidental, don’t you think?”

  I felt near tears. “It can’t be him. He hasn’t lied to me. I know he hasn’t.”

  Samuel looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to believe it either, Elena. He’s my closest friend. I trust him. But I know him too.”

  “He loved Laura.”

  “He was angry with her. You didn’t see him. I did. He was jealous and furious. He loved her and he felt betrayed. It was as if she’d crushed his whole life into nothing.”

  What was it he’d said? That Laura had been something certain in a sea of uncertainty. One thing to cling to when everything else was falling apart around him.

  But to kill her . . . it was so at odds with what I knew of him. His gentleness and his depth of emotion. A man who wasn’t afraid to show how upset he was at his aunt’s disappearance. Who wasn’t afraid to say “save me.”

  Save me. From what? “I’m not a good man.”

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “I won’t believe it of him.”

  Samuel looked as distraught as I felt. “We may not have a choice.”

  The kitchen door opened; we both turned to see Nero come inside. My heart seemed to swell; I felt thick with love and longing. But then it all slammed into a nauseating, horrible knot. He looked ravaged with grief, face drawn, dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair looking as if he’d run his hands through it dozens of times.

  “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been—what is it? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “What happened with the police?”

  He frowned, but thankfully he was too distracted to pursue it. “I’ve told them everything I know. They’re talking to Giulia now, and I’m to send the two of you up. It’s a lot of bother for an accident, if you ask me, but it seems they’ve nothing else to do today. Do you mind? I’ve told them about the exorcism and Padre Pietro already, but they have some other questions.”

  “Like what?” Samuel asked.

  “They aren’t sharing them with me.” A quick, forced smile. He sat on the end of the bench near Samuel. “I’ve no idea what they expect to find. But if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything about a ghost. They
already think everyone here is mad.”

  I did not let myself look at Samuel. Instead I stared at Nero, soaking him in, those laughing eyes that weren’t laughing now, the question mark of a curl near his ear, the blade of his collarbone beneath the open collar of his shirt.

  “What is it?” He asked me, bemused. “Have I something on my face?”

  “No. It’s just that . . . I love you.”

  His eyes warmed; his smile was answer enough, soft and quiet and real despite his obvious strain and grief. He turned to Samuel. “You won’t say anything about hauntings, will you? They’re already half inclined to take you away. The whole Satan thing troubles them—well, how could it not? A ghost would send them over the edge, I’m afraid. I don’t really relish the thought of arguing with four hundred Venetian officials about where they’ve taken you.”

  It could not be him. Look at him there. How could it possibly be him?

  Samuel said, “What do you think, Elena?”

  I knew he wasn’t just asking me about whether or not to tell the police about the ghost. “We’ll say nothing,” I said firmly.

  He nodded, but he was so somber it ached.

  “You’d best go up,” Nero said. “They’re waiting.”

  Samuel rose and opened the door. The damp, chill air rushed in, along with a few snowflakes, bigger now, and wetter, more slush than snow. He stood back, waiting for me to precede him, but Nero caught my arm, rising and pulling me to him in one motion. He whispered in my ear, “I love you too, cara,” and gave me a quick kiss, and I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into his arms, to believe completely in his innocence, and yet . . . there it was, that little prick of conscience and suspicion. Oh, how I hated it.

  I kept hating it as he let me go, and I followed Samuel out into the courtyard, leaving Nero behind.

  Chapter 32

  Neither Samuel nor I spoke as we went up. Giulia opened the door, her face swollen and streaked with tears, and I remembered Nero saying how Madame Basilio had rescued Giulia and Zuan from the street when they were children. As we followed her bowed, grief-stricken steps to the sala where the police waited, I wondered what Giulia thought, if she suspected Nero in this at all. They’d been lovers, and I could not help but wonder how recently.

  I pushed away the thought, which was unfair and unworthy. He said he loved me; I would know if he was lying. I would know. I knew just what to look for. The brief shift of a glance, the too ardent protestations, the wheedling manipulation. “If you do this for me, we’ll be free. We can go away. We can be together. Come away with me.”

  The memory pressed as if to torment me: “You and I can leave all this behind. We’ll make love in every city on the Continent . . .” Nero next to a barrel of wriggling, splashing eels. Pressing his forehead to mine. “Let’s not go back.”

  It wasn’t the same. Nothing about him was the same as it had been with Joshua Lockwood. He was not lying to me.

  Inside the salon, two police officers spoke to each other in low voices. When we paused at the doorway, and Giulia said in a choked voice, “Mamzelle Spira and M’sieur Farber,” they stepped apart. They’d seen us already in the courtyard, but now they studied us as if for the first time, and I felt them measuring; I felt their questions and suspicions as if they’d voiced them, particularly when they looked at Samuel.

  I put my hand on his arm, the only support I could offer, and I saw how they noticed that too, how every movement we made seemed full of gravitas and import, a clue for them to follow.

  Giulia withdrew; one of the officers gestured to a settee. Samuel’s limp seemed to become more pronounced, the sala too large to cross, as we went and sat.

  One—tall and handsome, with a lovingly tended mustache, long and waxed at the tips to hold its smiling shape—introduced himself as da Cola, and his fellow—broad shouldered and thick, like a fit battering ram, with a face that looked as if he’d served as one—as Pasqualigo.

  Da Cola said in French, “When did you last see Madame Basilio?”

  I answered in kind, “Yesterday afternoon. But I heard her, last night. In the courtyard.”

  “You’re certain it was her?”

  “She was calling to the housekeeper. Yes, it was her.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know. I’d been sleeping. Perhaps midnight? It had just started to snow.”

  Da Cola frowned. “Where were you?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  “You were looking out the window?”

  “No, I—” I felt myself redden. “I was in bed. As I said, I’d just awakened.”

  “How do you know it had just begun to snow?”

  There was no way to avoid it. “When M’sieur Basilio came in, he said it.”

  “He came into your bedroom?”

  I felt Samuel tense beside me as I said, “Yes.”

  “You’re lovers?”

  “Is this necessary?” Samuel asked.

  Da Cola glanced at Pasqualigo. “Yes, I’m afraid so, m’sieur. Mademoiselle Spira, answer the question please.”

  I stared down at my hands. “Yes, we are.”

  “Was he with you all night?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re certain? Perhaps you fell asleep and he snuck out?”

  “I would have known,” I said. “And . . . it would have been a very long time later.”

  “Ah.” Da Cola’s smile was knowing and a bit obscene. He leaned back on his heels. “Very good. And you, m’sieur? When did you last see Madame Basilio?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “At what time?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Pasqualigo said, “She was here with the priest, yes? For the exorcism?”

  “She was.”

  “She stayed for the entire rite, yes?”

  Samuel looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Pasqualigo crossed his arms over his burly chest. “You were the subject of the rite, were you not? You were there.”

  “I don’t remember any of it.”

  “Because the devil had you in his hands, yes?” da Cola asked. “I would very much like you to tell me how it is, m’sieur. I have heard of such things, but I have never seen it myself. I’m quite curious. When Padre Pietro called the demon forward, were you there as well, watching? Your . . . soul . . . or conscious mind . . . whatever one calls it? Were you aware of what was happening?” He sounded genuinely curious, but I could not be certain. It required all my skill to translate.

  “I don’t know how an exorcism usually is,” Samuel replied steadily, though I saw how tense he was. “But no, I was not aware.”

  “Is it like slipping into sleep? Or perhaps . . . swooning?”

  “No,” Samuel said tightly.

  “But you have no agency, yes? So the devil could make you do . . . well, anything, and you would not know it or remember it?”

  “I don’t think it had anything to do with the devil.”

  “You are not possessed? Then why call the priest?”

  “It wasn’t my idea—”

  “But you allowed it, yes? So there was a part of you that believed it may be true that a demon resided within you?”

  “No, I—”

  “The housekeeper says you convulsed and screamed. She said she had never seen such a thing. She believed the devil was inside you.”

  I could not help myself. “That isn’t what happened at all.”

  Da Cola didn’t even glance my way. He raked Samuel with a razorlike gaze. “Those bruises around Mademoiselle Spira’s throat. Who made those?”

  I felt something within Samuel surrender. “I did.”

  “And around your own throat?”

  “I did that as well.”

  “Do you rememb
er doing this?”

  “No.”

  “Did it happen during this exorcism?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it was the devil, then, working through you? Would this same devil have, do you suppose, followed Madame Basilio into the early morning? Perhaps onto a bridge?”

  I gasped. “No! No, that’s not what happened at all! Samuel’s an epileptic. The exorcism caused him to have a seizure. He didn’t know what he was doing. It’s not uncommon for them not to remember afterward—”

  “Elena,” Samuel warned.

  “—and I never thought it was a demon. That was Father Pietro’s idea. I just wanted to know if there really was a ghost, and what she wanted. Then she possessed Samuel and made him strangle me—”

  “Elena!”

  Samuel’s voice called me to myself. I broke off, horrified at what I’d said.

  “What ghost?” da Cola asked.

  “Laura Basilio’s,” I said lamely.

  Da Cola threw a questioning look at his partner, who said, “The daughter of the old woman. She died two years ago. Three, maybe. Drowned in the rio.”

  “Just like her mother?”

  Pasqualigo’s grin was a thin line. “Bad luck.”

  “Who is seeing this ghost?” da Cola asked.

  Samuel and I were both quiet. I dared not look at him.

  “Let me guess. M’sieur Farber, yes? A ghost that possesses him and makes him strangle people? Perhaps like . . . a demon?”

  Again, we were silent. The sick churn in my stomach worsened.

  Da Cola said, “We spoke to Father Pietro earlier. He told us that M’sieur Farber became violent enough that he had to be restrained.”

  “He was unconscious by then. There was no need,” I said angrily.

  “Was this exorcism successful?” da Cola asked Samuel, who shrugged.

  “Don’t ask me. I don’t remember.”

  “Nothing?”

  Samuel shook his head.

  “When is your next memory?”

  “From later, when I woke up. I was in bed. Buckled in. Elena was there. I asked her to take off the restraints.”