Death in the Floating City

by Tasha Alexander

  “He suffered longer, and more, than most people could bear before he set foot in this barn.” I couldn’t stop shaking and was sick all over the floor.

  Colin took me in my arms, wiped my face with his handkerchief, and carried me out of the barn. “It is a horrible thing, of that there is no doubt.” He put me down on the trunk of a fallen tree and sat next to me. “Drink.”

  I took the flask from him and swallowed a swig of whisky. It burned my throat. “I know nothing can justify murder,” I said, “but Conte Barozzi deserved to die for what he’d done to Facio.”

  “We don’t know everything, Emily. We only have the sliver of information given by his neighbor, and we know the garden at Ca’ Barozzi was a disaster. What if Trevisani hadn’t been doing his job?”

  “He still didn’t deserve this.”

  “No, but it would make him take a share of culpability.”

  “I don’t think he was responsible at all. You didn’t see his home, Colin. They had saved and saved to buy a beautiful cradle for the baby. This was not a man who was lazy or afraid to work. He would have done whatever the conte wanted—and if that was nothing, who was he to argue? Colin, if you could see how these people lived…” My voice trailed into a sob.

  “I know, my dear, I know.” He put his arms around me. “The world is full of bleak injustice.”

  He indulged my grief for ten minutes and then insisted we return to Venice. I did not argue. There was nothing more we could do for Facio, save clear his name of suspicion if he had not murdered his former employer. The boat ride along the river and through the lagoon gave us the opportunity to decide what to do next.

  “Look how Facio suffered from the loss of his job,” I said. “What if the Vendelino servants heard talk of the possibility of the family’s fortune being decimated? Could concern over their fate have prompted one of them to commit murder?”

  “That seems a stretch, Emily. Besides, I don’t think we need more suspects. We’ve plenty already.”

  “Bear with me,” I said. “I agree it’s far-fetched, but I think it would be worth at least looking at the people they employ and seeing if any of them has a connection to someone we’re already considering.”

  “It can’t hurt,” he said. “Although it really would be relevant only if the codicil on the painting is recognized as legitimate.”

  “You and I understand that, but perhaps a servant, who hasn’t had the benefit of an education, wouldn’t.”

  “We can go if you like,” he said, “but I’m worried about you, my dear. Let’s stop at Caravello’s shop first. You can talk to Donata. She’ll help you deal with what you’ve just seen. I realize that sometimes I’m too callous about these things.”

  His idea was an excellent one, as I’d not managed to stop trembling since we’d left the barn. Donata threw her arms around me the instant we told her what had happened and took me to a quiet corner of the shop, leaving Colin and her father to a game of chess. She brought two chairs and placed them facing each other, close together.

  “I locked the door so we won’t be disturbed,” she said. “Papà can miss business for a little while.”

  “It was so awful, you can’t imagine,” I said. My hands were cold, and my lips hurt because I’d bitten them until I drew blood. “The grounds of the Villa Tranquillità are stunning. In the midst of one of the gardens is a barn, lovely and quaint on the outside, left standing only to set a suitably rural scene. The interior is a most desolate, gritty place. A place that would make a person want to die.”

  “But Facio went there just for that purpose,” Donata said. “It wasn’t the barn that made him do it.”

  “I know, but if you could only see it. There’s something about it. Not just the appearance,” I said. “The structure is nothing out of the ordinary, but there’s something to the atmosphere inside. Something evil.”

  “You don’t think Facio was murdered, do you?” she asked.

  “No. It was clearly suicide.”

  “You’re certain? What if he knew something about Barozzi’s death? What if the murderer lured him out there and killed him in a way that would cause no suspicion?”

  “How?” I asked. “Colin is confident Facio did this himself.”

  “Could he prove beyond doubt that there was no one else present when Facio died?”

  “I suppose not.” The idea was disturbing. “The murderer could have had him at gunpoint and forced him to put the noose around his neck.”

  Donata nodded. “Perhaps that’s why the place feels so evil.”

  “But Facio had done nothing to suggest he had sensitive information,” I said. “We have no reason to suspect that he would have returned to Ca’ Barozzi after he’d been fired, unless it was to murder the conte.”

  “You still believe it was suicide, then?” she asked. I nodded. “Do you think he took his life because of despair or because of guilt?”

  “That I don’t know,” I said, “but I can’t believe, given all the circumstances, that someone else would have forced Facio to kill himself. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Donata smiled. “The color is returning to your complexion now that you’re starting to think about the case again. I’m glad I could provide you with a way back to it, grim though it is.”

  “It’s much appreciated,” I said. “Your theory was an interesting one, but not realistic in this case, given the evidence.”

  “I don’t have so much experience as you,” she said. “No forced suicides. I’ll remember that.”

  Knowing we could not afford to dawdle for too long, I thanked Donata and pulled my husband away from his game of chess. We bade good-bye to our friends and decided to make a quick stop at the Danieli to check on Brother Giovanni’s progress before calling on the Vendelinos, but we never made it up to our room. Colin read the wire handed to him by the concierge and pulled me straight back to the water entrance, where he directed the waiting gondolier to take us to Ca’ Vendelino posthaste.

  * * *

  On the way to the palazzo, my husband and I discussed strategy. I would open by bringing up the issue of the servants. Colin would take it from there. After she’d received us, Zaneta did not dismiss our request to look over her staff records, but she made no effort to hide the fact that she found it extremely troubling. “I do not like the implied accusation,” she said. “I do not employ individuals with murderous tendencies.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” I said. “It’s really just to confirm nothing’s amiss. One can’t be too careful in these situations.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “The housekeeper will assist you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. We did not get up from our seats.

  “Well?” she asked. “Is there something else?”

  “I’m afraid there is,” Colin said. “I’ve had a rather alarming telegram from the American Embassy in Paris. There was no reception the night of Barozzi’s murder, and no one admits to having seen your son there anytime in recent memory.”

  “That can’t be true,” she said. “Angelo told me all about the party.”

  “He may have been lying to you, signora,” Colin said.

  “Angelo does not lie. Anyway, why would he have murdered that boor of a man? It makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense if he feels his inheritance is being threatened,” Colin said. “Men have killed for much less.”

  “Neither of us had spotted anything unusual in that painting,” Zaneta said. “He had no reason to think he was under any kind of threat.”

  That might or might not be true. I remembered that in my initial conversation with Angelo, he’d first claimed no interest in or knowledge of art, then later revealed a passion for Impressionism. Why the inconsistency?

  “We are not suggesting, Zaneta, that his guilt is a foregone conclusion,” I said. “If we believed that, we wouldn’t want to investigate your servants. Even so, we have to speak to your son, too.”

  �
�I don’t know that he’s home. You’re welcome to inquire upstairs.”

  Angelo and his wife, along with their three children, lived on the second floor of the house. Zaneta explained that, as was customary, they were given the privacy one would expect had they lived in a building separate from his mother. Venetian palazzi were built for extended families. The head of the family and his wife occupied the first floor, his heir the second. Various unmarried brothers, should there be any, would be given bachelor apartments. In these enlightened (I apply to the word a sense of irony) and modern days, the same courtesy could be offered to the heir’s sisters, should he have any. In the Renaissance, however, only one girl would be allowed to remain at home. She was given the task of helping to raise the heir’s children. Any remaining sisters would either be married off or sent to a convent. If they were fortunate, they might be given a say in their fates.

  The portego above the one in Zaneta’s section reflected Angelo’s tastes. A large painting of Venice, done in Impressionist style, hung in the room, as did several other smaller pieces by Monet and Sisley. Much though I appreciated the paintings, they didn’t quite fit with the room’s ornate beamed ceiling and heavy wooden doorways.

  Colin strode without hesitation into the room, calling out for a servant. One appeared in short order, followed by a young woman who identified herself as Angelo’s wife. She directed a maid to take Colin to her husband and then offered me a seat on one of the benches lining the long walls of the portego.

  “I assume this has something to do with these unfortunate rumors about forgotten wills and families who can’t stop blaming everyone else for their plight?” she asked.

  “If that’s how you’d care to describe it.”

  “I would,” she said, “and I’m tired of it.” She was a petite woman, curvy and moderately pretty, though not striking in any way. Detracting from her appearance was the scowl that seemed permanently etched on her face.

  “Were you in Paris with your husband on his recent trip?” I asked.

  “No, I’ve never had the slightest interest in travel. Why would anyone want to leave Venice?”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “I can’t say I remember,” she said. “It’s so difficult to tell if he’s here or elsewhere. In either case I see him virtually the same amount.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Should I be counting the years?”

  “It’s a simple question,” I said.

  “Five. My eldest daughter is four.”

  “Had you ever met Conte Barozzi?”

  “It’s possible,” she said, “but I have no memory of it.”

  “Where were you the night he was killed?”

  “My youngest was suffering from a summer fever. I was up till sunrise watching over her.”

  “Was there a doctor present?”

  “Good heavens, woman!” She stood up and backed away from me, her eyes fiery. “What are you suggesting? That I care about the Vendelino family so much that I’d kill for them? That my fate is so intricately connected to theirs?”

  “Isn’t it?” I asked.

  “I have my own fortune,” she said. “If my husband ever deserted me or if he came into ruin, he could not touch it. I don’t need him half as much as he needs me.”

  “Do you have reason to believe he would desert you?”

  “No,” she said. “I use it only as an example.”

  It was an odd example, and one that set my mind going in an entirely different direction. Distracted and convinced I would get nothing else useful out of her, I excused myself and went downstairs in search of the housekeeper. Forty-five minutes later I held in my hand a ledger listing the names of every servant employed by the family in the past fifty-odd years. They had records of the same going back to the seventeenth century. Too late for Besina, but not for someone else.

  When I’d finished, Colin was still entrenched with Angelo. I interrupted them only briefly, to whisper to him what I’d learned. He nodded and agreed that I should return to the Danieli. If my instincts were right, Paolo could be in a significant amount of danger. I only hoped he hadn’t gone home. Before we left the hotel he’d asked if he was still being detained for his safety, and we’d told him no. At the time, it had seemed reasonable.

  “I will confront Angelo,” Colin said, “and follow you to the Danieli as soon as possible.” He kissed me on the lips and slipped back through the half-closed door to the room in which the two men were speaking. I caught a glimpse of the Vendelino heir, his booted feet up on his desk. He was smoking a cigar and had an air of confident security about him.

  I was half-expecting the concierge to hand me a message when I entered the hotel and so paused in front of his desk. He handed me an envelope. We knew the solicitor to whom Colin had spoken would be sending a reply soon; this was sure to be it. What I had not anticipated was the content of that reply:

  Quite possible painting codicil could prove valid, especially if court could be presented with corroborating evidence.

  This surprised me. I had expected something quite the contrary. This development made me even more eager to see what progress Brother Giovanni had made. But when I opened the door to my suite, I faced a catastrophic mess. Our belongings were scattered everywhere. As I went in further, calling for the guard Colin had stationed in the corridor, I saw that the monk lay unconscious on the floor and that all the manuscript pages were gone. Emma and Paolo were nowhere to be seen.

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xxi

  The pain in Besina’s body was nominal when compared with that in her heart. Uberto had broken her arm and knocked three teeth from her jaw, but she cared not about that. What mattered was that he would not let her see her son. No one, having heard the charges her husband made against her when he went to the Doge’s Palace to petition for divorce, offered her any support.

  Infidelity was rife in Venice, but indiscretion would not be tolerated from a noblewoman.

  Besina would not be allowed to see Tomaso again unless he chose to seek her out when he reached the age of adulthood. Uberto insisted on the terms. Even though he was no longer convinced of his child’s paternity, Tomaso was his only possible heir, and Rosso wanted something rather than nothing. So far as he was concerned, Tomaso was his.

  Besina’s father, shamed by his daughter’s actions, refused to let her stay in Ca’ Barozzi, and so she was sent, with a legacy so minute she could only afford the smallest and barest of rooms, to the convent at San Zaccaria. Here, Besina would be forced to take Benedictine vows and promise to live out the rest of her life in pious study and prayer. For two years, neither any member of her family nor any of the many noble ladies she’d counted as her friends tried to see her. She was dead to them. They were embarrassed even to know her.

  The ordinary rules at San Zaccaria were far from stringent. Many, if not most, of the nuns had felt no calling to dedicate their lives to serving the Lord. They were cast-off daughters who had been deemed not pretty or charming enough to squander the family dowry on. Or they were orphans, grown now and too old for the city’s famous ospedali that took in girls abandoned by their courtesan mothers and noble fathers.

  Besina’s holy sisters studied music and wrote poetry, and some even took lovers and hosted parties, but she did none of this. She kept to herself, spoke very little to anyone, and asked for only one thing: a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. It was not given to her. If she had the money to purchase it herself, the abbess told her, she could. But Besina did not have any money of her own. So she sat in her room, alone, staring out the small window. At first, Besina’s reticence drew the attention of the other residents. Eventually they grew tired of trying to coax from her any semblance of friendship.

  Unlike her fellow nuns, Besina was not allowed any correspondence. Her father had forbidden it, and the abbess saw fit to enforce his policy, as she did his insistence on allowing only family to visit his wayward daughter. Her family stayed away
from San Zaccaria. Besina was left all alone.

  Until Lorenzo came.

  22

  The guard we’d placed outside the door to our suite insisted nothing unusual had happened. He had heard no disturbance. No one had entered the room. Yes, he had allowed the conte and contessa to leave, but Colin had told him they were free to do so if they wanted. The majordomo of the hotel assured me there had been no sign of disturbance in the lobby. I quizzed the gondoliers who worked in front of the hotel, across the pavement of the Riva degli Schiavoni. They had seen nothing unusual, but they had each only just returned from their latest trips and hadn’t been back for more than a few minutes. A crowd of tourists waited to board their boats. Soon these gondoliers would be off and replaced by others. It was just like the people strolling by in front of the hotel. Constant turnover. It would be nearly impossible to determine who had been outside at just the right moment to have spotted our intruder.

  Trying not to panic, I returned to our suite, where I was met by the hotel doctor, whom I’d had sent up to assist Brother Giovanni.

  “No serious damage to the man,” the doctor assured me. “A strong dose of smelling salts was enough to bring him around.”

  I thanked him and pulled a chair next to the settee on which Brother Giovanni was reclining. “What happened?” I asked.

  “It was very strange, signora,” he said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. “I was hard at work, as you know. The signore and signora were arguing in the other room. Eventually they stopped, although I can’t claim to have been paying them much attention and don’t know exactly when that was. I did, at some point, notice the absence of their strife.”

  “What then?”

  “I wish I’d been more alert,” he said, “but I was engrossed in what I was finding.”

  “Had you uncovered something significant?” I asked.

  “It was too soon to tell, I’m afraid. My progress has been slow, as you know. Care is essential. I had revealed a few partial lines, but nothing that could help Paolo.”