The Carpet Cipher

by Jane Thornley

  “Oh, that is not good.” I caught the look that passed between Evan and Sophia—swift and warm. “Let me take care of that right now. Please sit at the table and I will get the coffee—espresso, Americano?”

  Her accent was as musical as a concerto. Everything about her was engaging, in fact. Why couldn’t Evan’s friend be a rotund middle-aged woman who answered to “Mama” and made heaping pots of spaghetti sauce? What was she to this enigma of a man, anyway, and why should I care?

  I took a seat across from Evan and did as I was bid—helped myself to sliced meats, ham, cheese, fruit, and crusty bread. Sophia poured coffee into each of our cups and left a flask. “I will leave you now. Take as much time as you need. I will work in the shop today so no hurry. Giani is keeping watch.”

  Evan met her eyes again. “Thank you again, Sophia.”

  “My pleasure.” The woman dashed out the door.

  “Who is Giani?”

  “Sophia’s son.”

  A silence fell across the table while I ate and Evan sipped his coffee reflectively. Had he been anyone else I would have asked about his relationship with Sophia but I could feel the barricade rising around the subject so reined myself in. It wasn’t any of my damned business, anyway.

  I stirred sugar into my coffee and looked over at him. “Do you have any idea who is watching the villa? They seem to be engaged in a protracted stakeout and one or more smoke too much. Otherwise, I haven’t a clue about their identity—a couple of men and a woman. I suspect Seraphina may know who they are but she’s not talking. She wants me to think they are the press but I don’t believe that for a second.

  He leaned forward. “There’s evidence that you are under watch by a group of some unknown identity, which she may suspect. Several individuals have been seen lurking about, watching the villa, watching you, Seraphina, and the countess also. I have reason to believe that they may be connected to the murder and the theft.”

  “But why me? What do I have to do with it?”

  “My theory is that they believe that the countess brought you in as an expert to unlock the painting’s secrets and thus they require you for that purpose also.”

  “What? I mean, that’s ludicrous. I’m no expert!"

  “Consider this from an outside perspective—” he began counting off on those long fingers of his “—you have been involved in several successful antiquities and art operations in conjunction with Interpol over the years; you manage a large textile and ethnographic gallery in London, which is now rumored to be emerging into a lab of some kind; and finally, of equal importance, you are connected to several antiquities elements worldwide. You can, Ms. Phoebe, easily be considered an expert.”

  I sighed. “I’ve always said that an expert is only someone who knows slightly more on a given subject than the person naming her as one.” I shoved my hair behind one ear. “But I’m really no expert on Renaissance art other than what I learned in university. It’s been an interest of mine, certainly, but not in the thorough sense when there are countless true experts out there that could be called in.”

  “Maybe they have been and found nothing?”

  “Then how can I?”

  He leaned toward me again. “You underestimate yourself, madam—my apologies, Ms. Phoebe. What have you gleaned from the paintings to date? You have seen photographs, I presume?”

  I wasn’t playing that game without quid quo pro. “You presume correctly, but you show me yours and I’ll show you mine. You go first.”

  His quirked a smile.

  “Rupert’s seen those works in person and, knowing him, he is not without a theory, not to mention firsthand information,” I continued. “Collaborate, Evan, and in the interest of partnership, the first piece of information must come from your side.”

  That little smile again—partly appreciation, partly amused chagrin. “Very well, though I preface this with the knowledge that Rupert had hoped to share this with you personally. “He and Maria Contini were once engaged—”

  “I know all about the broken promises, including the fact that Maria had offered that painting to Rupert as a kind of consolation prize but later withdrew the offer.”

  “Did you know that part of the reason she wanted Sir Rupert to have those paintings was because he is Jewish?” He could tell by my expression that I did not know that. “She withdrew the offer on the night she told her mother her intent. A great argument ensued, at which point her mother disclosed the fact that the paintings held a valuable secret. Generations of Continis shielded that painting without ever knowing why. Whatever happened, Maria could not give it away, a fact that finally hit home.”

  “Maria must have known something about their importance prior to that.”

  “Only that it was essentially hidden in the house for as long as she could remember. The Continis did not want it to be seen; something Ms. Contini hinted had to do with their great value and possibly a religious element.”

  “Because the bride and groom were from two different religions? But surely that wouldn’t have been an issue now?”

  Evan grimaced. “Signore Contini was a staunch Catholic and saw marrying into another religion to be a blemish to the family line. He bristled against the possibility of Jewish blood in the Contini veins.”

  “So he was anti-Semitic as well as a foolish, blindsided pig.”

  Evan’s brows arched at my vehemence but he nodded in agreement. “Aptly put. You don’t appear surprised about anything I’ve disclosed.”

  This time I leaned forward. “I’m not. You’ve only confirmed something I’ve suspected—not about Rupert, of course—I didn’t know he was Jewish, but about the Bartolo.”

  “An exquisite and valuable piece of Renaissance art. I didn’t have the opportunity to see it in person, unfortunately—Sir Rupert’s affiliation with the Continis being far before my time—but I have seen the photos he keeps.”

  I plucked out my phone to display the pictures I took of the painting, focusing in on the minute detail of the Bartolo’s wedding scene in particular. “The carpets are particularly interesting. Do you see the one beneath their feet?” I pinched open a close-up.

  “A prayer rug, correct?”

  “Possibly but not one like I’ve ever seen before. It was probably presented as Anatolian by the look of some of the motifs but those large geometrics are totally out of character. The lantern design is shown upside down for one thing, and though it’s not unusual for a Muslim prayer rug to be shown in a church in Renaissance art, there’s something off about the whole composition. And the actual knotting of the rug looks Berber. Do you see this twisted key motif right here?” I tapped the phone with my finger as Evan pushed aside the plates to lean forward.

  “It looks Chinese.”

  “It is based on a Chinese phoenix-and-dragon motif and yet those knots linking them form hexagrams, part of a larger one is partially hidden below the bride’s feet. That could be the Star of David.”

  He nodded. “Quite possibly.”

  “Regardless, that’s a mishmash of cultural symbols and has to be significant. Add to that, that the border feature is pure unabashedly Berber.”

  “Berber as in Morocco?”

  “Exactly. I have only ever seen that composition of geometric design in Berber rugs. So why has Bartolo taken the time to visually weave together such diverse elements? The Renaissance embedded layers of messages and symbols into their art, as you know, and this carpet reads like a Renaissance encryption.”

  Did I see something like appreciation warming his gaze? “Now I see exactly why Nicolina called you into this.”

  “She asked me to come as a friend for moral support and to help solve Maria’s murder. Never once did I think that interpreting Renaissance art might be part of the picture. Frankly, it isn’t even my specialty and I’m hardly a cryptographer.”

  “But you are a carpet expert and evidently those carpets are key. Perhaps the contessa doesn’t choose to involve too many outside experts. Perhap
s you are the one she hopes will unlock the answers? You do have a certain reputation among the art trade.”

  “Which would be so nice if she’d deigned to mention it.”

  “In any case, she did show you the photo. What else have you gleaned?”

  I pulled back and sighed. “I’m sure what I see has been seen by others. For instance, if you look carefully at the wedding picture, it appears to take place in a church or cathedral and yet you will see in the background a cluster of people who seem to be raising their hands in dance—odd for a wedding inside a church, don’t you think? Also, if you look at the arches over the wedding party they actually form more of an umbrella shape than a true arch, which is just another subtle nod to another culture, probably Eastern. This painting is more than the usual Renaissance contract between two families.”

  “One that links two religions.”

  “Yes, Jewish and Christian—something almost unheard of at the time.”

  “I’ll see if I can find out more about this marriage, if there are even records, but there should be something.” He said that as mildly as if he would do a quick Google search.

  I looked at him. “How? The records would be minimal that far back, wouldn’t they?”

  “Not in Venice, which is a city that took to recording its every breath long before the fifteenth century. And where there are churches, there will be records, and I suspect this ceremony took place in a church under the guise of a Catholic ceremony, no matter how well-disguised the event. For some unknown reason, the Contini ancestors accepted a Jewish bride into their midst, one who would have been forced to convert and the truth of their union hidden by everyone.”

  “And a very dangerous thing to do in the 1400s. It would be considered heresy by the Catholic church.”

  “Indeed, especially as Venice was moving toward segregation. In 1516, Venice would officially segregate its Jewish citizens into a getti, the first ghetto in history,” he said.

  “Oh, my God, what would have compelled a wealthy Venetian family like the Continis to support, even celebrate, such a union?”

  He tapped a finger on the table. “That is the question, my dear Watson.”

  I smiled slowly and said: “Look, I’m Sherlock, you’re Watson, and don’t you forget it.”

  He smiled back and beautifully, by the way, but I’ve said this already. Some things bear repeating. I’d been known to flirt with this man and have him flirt back but that was in the days when my heart belonged to another—safe-distance flirtation, in other words. Now nothing felt safe.

  “Let’s get back to business, my dear Watson,” I said. “It could be love that brought the bride and groom together, though I realize that such emotions hardly served as wedding material back in the day.”

  He was about to answer when suddenly the door flew open and Sophia rushed in. “I am sorry to disturb but a boat comes! You said to alert you of something suspicious. It is not a tourist boat but carries four people. One appears to have a gun!”

  Evan and I exchanged glances and jumped to our feet. “A gun openly displayed?”

  “What is this—America?” I exclaimed.

  “Giani sees it with his glass thing from the tower. He saw one man open his jacket and the gun was strapped across his body. He just texted.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t try anything here in broad daylight, and what are they after, anyway?” I cried.

  “You,” Evan said.

  “This is crazy. I told you that I’m no expert. I just dust off old things and classify a lot.” This wasn’t false modesty; I really didn’t see myself as being particularly gifted.

  “It’s not what you know but what they think you know that matters.” He grabbed my hand. “Besides, you know more than you give yourself credit for, madam. Come, we’ll escape into the church and wait until we can safely bolt for the boat.”

  Which meant a quick-paced stride across central Torcello straight toward the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta, which turned out to be an amazing Byzantine structure with two majestic end walls covered in gilded mosaics. The two flanking walls were whitewashed to enhance the beauty of the two ends. All of this I took in as we race-walked down the aisle.

  “Slow down and walk as if you’re a devotee,” Evan whispered.

  I slowed my pace while pulling my wrap up over my head, which probably made me look like some bizarre runaway mushroom. And I did feel a sense of deep respect inside of any religious house, but my presence here felt like an imposition of the worst kind.

  The usual mill of tourists wandered around taking pictures of the mosaics, whispering their appreciation, while a handful of those I presumed to be locals lit candles and prayed quietly in the pews or before the image of a golden Christ.

  I tugged on Evan’s arm to pull his ear down to my level. “They’ll be methodical; they’ll spread out and comb every inch of this island and are bound to come in here, too.”

  “I realize that,” he whispered back. “Follow me.”

  So I followed him past the altar and behind a column to where a stone bench sat in shadows against the wall. There we were holding a Bible between us, our heads together as if reading the text together. It was probably one of the strangest moments of my life, to be hiding out in plain sight in that ancient cathedral with Evan, the former MI6 guy. We barely moved as the minutes ticked by and Evan periodically shot cautious glances toward the door.

  Eventually a solitary man entered, his eyes darting around the space as if looking for something or someone, neither tourist nor supplicant but a man on a mission. Our heads remained bowed as we waited tensely until he left.

  Finally Evan straightened. “They won’t leave this island until they find us. We’ll have to risk dashing for the boat,” he whispered.

  “Can the boat outrun them?”

  “No. Our best hope is to get a head start.”

  “But what do they hope to gain?”

  “Perhaps to kidnap you. The paintings themselves did not tell the thieves what they wanted to know but they think maybe you can. That may mean that they don’t mean to shoot you, at least not at the moment.”

  “Comforting. They’ll just torture me first. And we thought we’d be safe here on this island.”

  “Torcello was a poor decision on my part for which I deeply regret. I believed it perfect for our meeting, which it was, but it is simultaneously wide open and exposed the way Venice is not. Are you ready to run?”

  “Sure.”

  But before we ran, we walked, casually and hopefully unobtrusively, out the door and across the earthen square. Evan was a big enough man to attract attention for anyone looking for him and I stood out with my red hair and art wrap. Neither one of us wore T-shirts and baseball caps like many of the other day-trippers. Evan removed his peaked hat and tucked it under his jacket, letting his light brown hair blow in the breeze while he gazed about the square as if fascinated by every detail.

  When we were halfway down the path heading to the dock, we bolted. In seconds we were untying the boat, but as soon as we jumped in, we saw a man standing three speedboats down talking urgently on his phone.

  “We’ve been seen,” Evan said, opening up the throttle. “Hold on.”

  As if holding on was even necessary. I just sat there, all the way across the marsh toward the open lagoon, the boat racing as fast as it could, which in speedboat terms was like a Smart car struggling to be a Lamborghini.

  “I thought you love speed, Evan?”

  “I believed this would putter under the radar but, trust me, I have another one more impressive.”

  It only took minutes to see a speedboat pull away from the island behind us and zoom at our puny wake at a much faster clip. “Do you want me to drive while you shoot?” I called.

  “You watch too many spy movies, mada—Ms. Phoebe. Shooting is not wise under the circumstances,” Evan called back.

  “What circumstance—being chased by a boatload of armed criminals? Sounds like a few shots over th
e bow as a deterrent just might be the thing.”

  “Not if they shoot back, which they inevitably will,” he shouted over the slap of waves and the putter of the engine.

  I gripped the sides, thinking that we could row faster than this. Meanwhile, our pursuers were gaining on us, making me wonder what exactly they had in mind. If it was true that they wanted me, which I still considered ridiculous, then Evan would be seen as an obstacle worth killing in their eyes. And who would see a kidnapping in the middle of the lagoon where boats zip by all the time and a shout or a cry— maybe even a gunshot—probably couldn’t be heard? Suddenly I felt frightened.

  Evan was talking into his phone between quick glances at the gaining speedboat. Venice was growing closer but not close enough. I imagined scenes where James Bond raced down the canals in his superboat but I doubted we’d even reach the canals let alone zip anywhere in this one.

  Our pursuers were so close now that I could make out their features—three tanned men and one woman, all wearing sunglasses, leather, and stony expressions straight out of some thriller movie. They looked like carbon copies of one another. And then Evan was slowing down and another boat was pulling up from the opposite direction—shiny, new, and, I suspected, jet-propelled.

  “Quick, jump!” Evan called.

  Leaping from one rocking boat to another is not easy even when stopped, especially when carrying a carpetbag. The chop alone set the thing to swaying like crazy even while the driver tried holding the two boats together but I still managed to leap over the side into the other boat.

  A little guy with a leathery face and a cigarette between his teeth grinned at me. Evan jumped in behind me, yelled something in Italian, and took the helm while the little man sat back and bared his tobacco-stained teeth in the direction of the approaching speedboat. Our little boat was left to float away by itself.

  That left our pursuers arriving just in time to grabble with our wake, the new speedboat being far faster than even theirs as we whipped the water toward Venice. This may have been the fastest boat I’d ever been in, fast enough to leave the bad guys far behind while yelling at our backs.