After that, it took mere minutes to reach Venice, Evan taking diversionary maneuvers by diving into different canals snaking through the city—left, right, left again. Our pursuers disappeared from sight. Once we were slipping down a quiet narrow canal between two buildings, Evan cut the engine. “Do you see that archway to the right, madam?”
“Yes, Evan, I do.” I needed some smart-ass name for him.
“Take that alleyway through the buildings, cut across the street to the left, cross a bridge, and within a block you’ll come to Cannaregio and the villa down the canal. It’s the safest place for you right now as Ricki here informs me that the Contini residence is crawling with police. Go inside and stay there until I contact you. We are going to divert our friends and ensure that they are not on your heels.”
“I need to speak to Rupert.”
“You will.”
I watched the arch draw closer with its time-worn steps leading into the water and in seconds I had jumped out. “Be careful,” I called as they pulled away, and within ten minutes I was striding up to the door of the Contini villa without further mishap. My temper, however, was on the boil.
A uniformed carabiniere stood by the door, his back straight but his gaze shifting in all direction. “I am staying here,” I said as he moved to block my way.
“Your name, signora?”
“Phoebe McCabe.”
With that he opened the door to let me pass and I moved directly across the hall to the salon, combing my matted hair with my fingers and fortifying myself for what had to be done.
Inside the room, Nicolina could be seen sitting in tense silence, her hands in her lap, while across from her sat the same suited detective I had seen earlier plus another. On the other side of the room, a white coveralled man was dusting for prints. Everyone stood when I entered.
“Phoebe!” Nicolina cried in a mix of welcome and desperation.
I shoved a lock of fuzzy windblown hair from my brow. “Afternoon, Nicolina, Detective. Excuse me for interrupting but I’ve just been chased across the lagoon by a boatload of armed thugs who may or may not have been after me because they think me more important than I am. Mind if I join the conversation?”
10
Detective Guido Peroni from the Venetian Questura was a thorough man. He had already been stationed at the villa for six hours interviewing every member of the household and returning again and again to grill the weary countess, who assured him that she was doing everything to cooperate. To Nicolina’s credit, she did not pull arrogance as a shield in the kind of imperativeness that a countess might well deploy under the circumstances.
I had, however, thrown a proverbial spanner in the works. After I had disclosed to Peroni everything I knew or thought I knew about the painting, it became apparent that Nicolina had not.
“And you believe this painting may be a kind of cipher, Ms. McCabe, and that may be why you are such interest to your pursuers today?” the detective asked as he sat there with the photo portfolio open on the table before him. He was a thick-set man in a well-tailored suit with a receding hairline and shrewd eyes that glinted in the light washing through the tall windows. Beside him on the couch sat another suited policeman, younger and leaner, taking notes while listening to every word with the diligence of a human lint-catcher. Occasionally he’d interrupt me for clarification of a word or an idea. Though both men’s English was excellent, he obviously was ensuring that nothing was lost in translation.
“Possibly,” I said, “though I can’t imagine why anyone who knows even a little about Renaissance symbology couldn’t see the same things. I’m not a Renaissance scholar by any means. I studied art history but as a generalist.”
Peroni was peering at the Bartolo with a magnifying glass. “Yes, but you are a textile expert, are you not, from a big London gallery? And with affiliations with Interpol and a recent history of involvement with several key finds?”
So he did his homework. I hurried on. “My reputation is exaggerated, but back to the carpets: please understand that my assessments are only guesses and need a lot of research to back them up.”
Peroni turned to Nicolina. “Did you request the help of Ms. McCabe because if her expertise?”
“No,” Nicolina replied evenly. “I asked her to accompany me for moral support as a friend.”
“How fortunate for the countess that you have such an experienced friend.” He turned back to me. “Please tell me your assessment of these carpets to the best of your knowledge.”
Taking a deep breath, I attempted to pull it all together. “The paintings have an odd combination of cultural motifs that can’t be accidental. You know, of course, that Renaissance art often used portraits and paintings to capture a moment of significance, kind of like a pictorial contract,” I told him. “This one shows a wedding between two families, two very different families, I might add.” I waited for Nicolina to explain more but she appeared locked in some fortress of her own choosing. I sighed and continued, a shield of my own in place by way of my most scholarly tone even though I was in way over my head. “Though Bartolo was not known for embedding secrets in his work the way da Vinci was, I think it’s reasonable to assume that he may have been commissioned by one or both of the families to do exactly that.”
“Interesting.” Peroni was focusing on a detail of the nave. “I am not an art expert,” the detective said, looking up at last, “but one does not live in Venice without some knowledge of the subject. Bartolo was from the Sienese School, am I correct?”
I nodded.
“So these families are Sienese?”
“Not necessarily. Renaissance artists often traveled all over Italy on commissions from wealthy patrons. If the families wanted to put a little distance from this contract and their hometown, they might choose a painter from another city. Still, I believe that the motif in the bride’s robes are actually from the Continis’ own weaving mills, which could mean that one of the parties is from Venice, maybe even from this family. I can’t confirm that, though.”
Peroni turned to Nicolina. “Is that true, Contessa, that these fabrics may be from a Contini mill, which I understand has stood down the street for at least that many centuries?”
Nicolina’s face remained unmoved. “It is true that Maria Contini has many motifs stored in the vault’s library and that this may be among them.”
The detective did not acknowledge that comment but placed the photo upon the table and drew back. “I see with my humble and unschooled eye a beautifully painted scene of a wedding party, which appears to be taking place inside a church of some wealth and majesty. I know nothing of carpets and motifs but I do know most of the churches and basilicas in this city and this one is not known to me.”
“I believe that’s because it’s actually a composite of two houses of worship—a church and a synagogue—and it’s supposed to be a symbolic location rather than a real one.” I shot a quick glance at Nicolina, who refused to meet my eye. “The altar and the nave seen to the left are clearly Christian but the dancers behind the bridal party appear to be forming a chuppah with their hands and, if I’m not mistaken, the design under the bride’s feet could be the Star of David. That’s just a guess, of course, but it does explain a few things. Even the arches in the wall to the right appear to be a blend of two architectural styles—half Gothic arch, half Eastern, which doesn’t mean anything by itself but could when combined with the other elements. It is my guess that this painting is the Renaissance equivalent of a contract between two wealthy families—one Christian and one Jewish, an incredibly risky and startling partnership given the age in which it occurred.”
Peroni looked at me in surprise while Nicolina’s eyes widened with something like fear.
“I’ve attended a Jewish wedding or two so I recognize the signs. Still, I doubt they’d be evident to any casual viewer of the painting, especially not in the 1400s. The painting is probably for the owners’ eyes only but a contract nonetheless.” I turned toward Ni
colina again. “The paintings have never been cataloged or appeared in any exhibitions. The family has kept them private for centuries.”
“The Continis have always been very private people,” Nicolina said evenly, “and naturally one does not wish to advertise their priceless art.”
“And yet someone obviously discovered that they existed and hence it is gone,” Peroni said.
“Yes. Anyway, as I said, it would be extremely dangerous for a Jewish girl or boy to marry into a Christian family or vice versa,” I continued. “The marriage would have to be hidden, and the reasons for those two families coming together in the first place significant. The wealthy rarely married for love but as an alliance between two families in order to bring together fortunes or titles. In this case, one must have been significant enough to be worth the risk.”
The detective was watching me carefully. “What do you think may have prompted this partnership?”
“Since Jews have been persecuted across the ages, that’s what puzzles me, too. I don’t want to eliminate the possibility of love—the bride and groom do seem happy, it’s true. Maybe they wanted to hide themselves under the cover of another family, but why would the Continis agree to such a thing when it would mean risking their lives?”
“And so a secret locked into the carpet, perhaps, something worth killing for?”
I met his deep-set brown eyes. “My guess is a dowry. The bride is standing on the Star of David and the groom is on the edge of the motif. She brought a valuable dowry to a wealthy Christian family, one that for whatever reason was worth the risk both families took to secure it. It had to be protected at all costs.”
11
Commissario Peroni and his team exited shortly after that, insisting that a guard be placed on the house despite Nicolina’s pleas that she didn’t need one. Nevertheless, a guard was assigned to the patrol outside the building and Peroni assured us that he would return within the day. I had no doubt they would.
That left Nicolina and me sitting soberly in the salon with so much unsaid between us that I swear it darkened the air. Or maybe that was just dusk.
It was me who broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell me what you knew about that painting, Nicolina?”
“Because I did not know how important it was!” It was as if I’d flipped her switch. She threw up her hands. “I did not know that this family’s history was in any way related to the theft! I should have, perhaps, but it is a priceless work of art in its own right, yes? Also, I would have told what I did know once we had time. When have we had time? First the police came and the funeral arrangements had to be made on top of the horror of losing Maria under such circumstances!” She covered her face and wept. She was exhausted, overwrought even, and I knew I was being an insensitive pig.
And she had a point: there hadn’t been much time and, admittedly, she had a lot on her shoulders. But I wasn’t quite ready to let the matter drop. “Of course, it’s been terrible for you. I understand that, but to leave me in the dark while putting Seraphina on to me, too—that I’m having trouble swallowing.”
“I was looking out for you,” Seraphina said, appearing like a stealth missile into the room.
Like I believed that. “Really? More like you were looking for Rupert.”
Seraphina’s little face was so pinched it might have been one of those apple dolls. “Yes, we wish to speak with Sir Fox, this is true, but when I saw we were being watched across the way, I knew I must protect you, too.”
I got to my feet. “Without telling me, by saying it must be a paparazzi stakeout? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No!” Seraphina and Nicolina said at once.
I crossed my arms. “Well, something’s got to give. I’m not putting up with this. I was asked here to help solve a murder, not be lead around by a leash like a puppy.” That’s exactly how I felt.
Nicolina had crossed the room to take me by the shoulders. “Forgive me, Phoebe. I am sorry for keeping such secrets. I come from a family of secrets and promised Maria that I would not talk of her family, but now I see I was wrong. Too many things are burying us alive. They killed Maria, whoever they are—Rupert, somebody. It must end; we must find the truth! I will try harder from now on, I promise.”
I pulled gently away. “Then let’s start with this family history and you can tell me everything you know, but please let’s eat first. I haven’t had a proper dinner since we arrived. There seem to be a few good restaurants around.” It was a peace offering, a chance to regain neutral ground.
Nicolina’s swollen eyes widened. “This is terrible! I will rectify this as soon as possible but no restaurant.”
Apparently you can tell an Italian that she’s been a misguided person but never imply that she hasn’t fed you properly. The country’s citizens had standards. The countess rang the bell for Zara, and uttered a string of the imperious Italian sentences to the housekeeper, who shot me a hostile glance before exiting the room.
“Zara will prepare dinner for us,” Nicolina said. “I have requested fish and local dishes. I have not eaten properly since we arrived, either. I have been a very poor host.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, I’ll head to my room and freshen up. My hair must look like I’ve wrestled a Gorgon and lost. We can have that long talk of ours after supper.”
Escaping to my room gave me time to think and to truly fix my disheveled self, which revealed near-mythic proportions in the mirror. Medusa had nothing on me, snaky tresses aside. After something like a shower under a sad little trickle of water, I changed into my only non-jeans pants—leather—donned a silk blouse Nicolina had given me the year before, and fastened on a pair of gold hoop earrings. Really, that’s about all I could manage in the elegance department but at least I felt moderately presentable.
While I showered, someone had delivered a tray of sweets, bread, and cheese along with wine and water. It was all I could do to keep from devouring the whole lot but, as it was, I ignored the wine and took the edge off my hunger with a bit of cheese and sweets. The Italians ate so late—9:00 p.m. in this case—but that gave me plenty of opportunity to study the painting further.
I also checked my phone—no word from Max but an update from Peaches arrived assuring me that she hadn’t threatened any of the construction dudes yet. Then I sent a quick message to Evan to see if I could visit Rupert that night.
The response came back minutes later. Sir Rupert is finally sleeping soundly. Perhaps I could come to the villa and speak with the contessa and Seraphina tonight instead?
I’ll run it by Nicolina, I answered back. Somehow you have to enter without being seen by the police guard.
I left my carpetbag on the chair, shoved my phone into my pocket, and readied myself for dinner with the countess. By the time I descended the stairs, Nicolina was sipping an aperitif in the salon dressed in a long burnt-orange Fortuny gown. She stood when I entered the room, the woman and the gown heart-stoppingly beautiful as she twirled in the candlelight, the silken Delphos folds glimmering in the light. “I wear this in your honor, Phoebe. Maria gave it to me as a gift long ago and I brought it here to wear for her also.”
“Lovely.” I touched her silken sleeve reverently.
“She was wearing a stenciled velvet Fortuny coat when she died,” Nicolina said, “which says to me that her appointment that night was very important to her. She rarely wore her Fortunies out as they are now too fragile.”
I met her eyes. I needed to tell her sometime. “She was going to meet Rupert. She had called him in London and asked him to meet her here in Venice on some important matter. He came as soon as he could but she failed to appear at the appointed time. They were to meet near the warehouse. I believe him, Nicolina.”
She turned away to face the fire. “And you did not mention this to either me or the commissario?”
I rubbed my neck. “Peroni only asked me about the paintings—that’s my excuse. Anyway, Rupert is in hiding—from you, from who knows else—and he�
�s sick besides. What would happen if I added the police to his many Venetian interests? I agree that he needs to step forward and speak to the police himself, which I’m sure he’ll do as soon as he is able.” Weak, so weak. Why did I defend him? “But, in the meantime, will you raise the white flag long enough for Evan to come and meet with us here? If we’re truly going to find Maria’s murderer, we need to work together for once.”
“Oh, Phoebe,” Nicolina said, swinging to face me. “You are so trusting!”
“And you are so trigger-happy!” I said. “Don’t we need to at least gather the necessary evidence before reaching conclusions?”
“Ah, that is the lawyer in you talking. Rupert above anyone knows about the painting and that it may hold a secret. Maria’s mama had revealed their importance to her during that last horrible argument and Maria went to Rupert in distress to share all before Papa Contini chased him out of town. He should be on the suspect list.”
“And he could say the same about you. You are the sole beneficiary, after all.”
She froze. “Me, a suspect? But I would never…and I was not in Venice when Maria died.”
“You could have hired somebody—Seraphina, maybe—and you can believe that Peroni will have you checked out as a matter of course.”
“Yes, you are right,” she said finally, rubbing her temples with a manicured hand. “How foolish how that never occurred to me. I have been so preoccupied.” She turned back toward the fireplace, her gaze fixed toward the empty place over the mantel.
“So,” I said, stepping forward. “Why don’t we approach this collaboratively? Let’s assume that everybody is innocent until proven guilty and discuss what we know together. Let me see if I can arrange for you to talk to Evan at least, since Rupert is unwell. Maybe tonight?”
“What is wrong with Rupert?” she asked, swinging around.
“Pneumonia. He looks awful, burning up with fever and the whole nine yards. I’m convinced that he’s innocent, Nicolina. Whoever murdered Maria and stole that painting is probably connected to those bastards that chased us today, not Rupert. Evan was with me when they chased us out of Torcello, remember.”
The Carpet Cipher Page 12