by Dave Duncan
Discretion seemed advisable. I tore up an old shirt to wrap my shin, dressed quickly—shaving would have to wait—and swept the fragments of glass against the wall with the Guise of Night rags, which were wet, dirty, and in places bloody. What to do with them then was another problem. Throwing them out the window would have been the solution had my room overlooked the canal, which it doesn’t, so in the end I just tossed them in the bottom of my wardrobe. Vasco had seen me wearing them; he had almost certainly been the intruder who closed the casement. I took a few deep breaths and quietly opened the door. The way out was blocked by a faceless mass that I identified easily as Nino Marciana, an amiable fellow with more muscle than a Michelangelo model.
“The Lord be with you, Nino.”
He spun his bulk around. “And with you, messer Alfeo.”
“What are you doing here?”
The kid pondered, looking troubled. “Vizio said I was to stand here and not let anyone in.”
“Did he say I was not to come out?”
“Um…Don’t think so.”
I waited, then said, “Then may I pass, please?”
He shifted, and at that moment a procession came trooping in through our front door. It was led by Bruno, with the Maestro on his back and tears running down his face, for any form of death or violence upsets our gentle giant horribly. He had known Danese, which would make it worse, and would never understand what had happened, for sign language cannot explain such complicated matters.
Right after them came four more hefty Marcianas carrying the mortal remains of Danese Dolfin on a blanket—to leave a good Christian corpse lying around would be disrespect to the dead. Behind them came Father Farsetti, and I caught a glimpse of Filiberto Vasco in back of him, but by then the pallbearers were going into the atelier. Since the Maestro was occupied in dismounting, I hurried over to see that the corpse was properly delivered to the examination couch.
The priest had already done that and was dismissing his helpers with a blessing. Rigor mortis was well progressed, for the body still lay awkwardly twisted although it was no longer supported by the hilt of the rapier, which had been removed. My palace clothes were nowhere in sight, so the Maestro must have hidden them when he tidied up.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“That has still to be established, Alfeo.” Father Farsetti was covering the corpse with a sheet, the one that always lies on the examination couch. He is a tall, spare man, soft-spoken, witty, and understanding. His flock adores him, especially the women, although I have never heard a word of scandal about him.
“He was run through from behind,” the vizio said at my back. “A dastardly murder by some bravo too cowardly even to look his victim in the eye.”
Turning to make suitable response, I closed my mouth with a click as I recognized the rapier Vasco was holding. It had bloody smears on the blade. He raised it as if to admire the hilt.
“Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori,” he said, reading out the inscription on the guard. “My Latin is not as good as it should be, Father. ‘Love conquers all,’ of course…”
“‘Love conquers all and we yield to love,’” Farsetti said. “It is a quotation from Virgil, quite appropriate for a weapon. It should be possible to trace the original owner, although I expect it was stolen.”
“Not necessarily,” Vasco said, leering at me so widely that he almost drooled. “The other side reads, From VV to LAZ, and a date. Remind me who VV is, Luca.”
Danese had been killed with my rapier. The day just kept getting worse.
17
When Luigi saw the body, he rushed upstairs as fast as he could totter, and thundered on the door of Angelo Marciana’s mezzanine apartment. More than just a fiendishly cunning bookkeeper, Angelo is a man of steady nerve and many sons. He told Nino, Renzo, and Ciro to follow him and the women to stay home with the children, then ran down to see for himself. At once he ordered Nino to fetch Doctor Nostradamus, Renzo to inform Father Farsetti, and Ciro to stand vigil over the body and make sure nobody looted it. Renzo probably ran right underneath me as I clung like moss to the side of the building. Meanwhile Luigi had informed the Jacopo Marcianas also, so several of them arrived. By the time the vizio appeared and saw that he had serious work to do, the loggia must have been as crowded as the Piazza in Carnival. He ordered whoever was the best boatman to go and fetch Missier Grande—no nonsense about informing the local sbirri when the Council of Ten was already involved, although I am sure he did not say that. He also ordered everyone else back upstairs, but by then whatever marks I had left on the floor had been scuffed out of existence.
Father Farsetti would have been in San Remo’s at that time on a Saturday. He is a young man and not too puffed up with ecclesiastic dignity to run in an emergency, but he found Danese well past the need for last rites. Giorgio arrived, accompanied by the twins—they being uninvited but irresistibly eager to view a real corpse—followed closely by the Maestro on Bruno’s back. He at once dispatched all three Angelis to the Ghetto Nuovo to fetch Isaia Modestus, whom he freely acknowledges to be the second-best doctor in the Republic.
The body could not be left where it lay and the Maestro wanted to inspect it, so Father Farsetti agreed that it should be moved upstairs and that was arranged. The vizio extracted the rapier and took charge of it. I can barely imagine the intensity of his joy when he read the inscription and saw whose it was. No doubt he fantasized juicy visions of watching my beheading between the columns on the Piazzetta.
Pessimists, on the other hand, are rarely disappointed.
A very few minutes later, when Vasco confronted me with it in the atelier, Father Farsetti shot me a horrified look. He is well aware of my full name. As my confessor he certainly knows of Violetta Vitale.
My head was spinning, but I believe I concealed my bewilderment fairly well. “I must have a talk with you soon, Father,” I said cheerfully, “but the problem is no more urgent than usual.” He nodded, looking relieved.
Vasco smiled happily. “You acknowledge that this is your rapier, messer?”
“It was until it was stolen,” I said, “and I know who took it.”
He scoffed.
“If not you,” I said, “then who? You were on watch in the salone all night, weren’t you?”
“What is this?” the Maestro screeched in the doorway. “Carnival? The Giudecca Festival? The marangona has rung, has it not? Out of here, all of you!” He hates strangers in his atelier. About a dozen Marcianas shamefacedly withdrew, leaving four of us and the corpse.
Vasco was still tying my bonds, as he thought. “You were in bed and asleep from the time we met last night until the alarm was raised this morning, is that correct?” he said.
My wiggle room there was thinner than a razor, as we had all removed our hats out of respect for the dead and my hair was still damp. “I do not have to answer your questions, citizen.”
His smile spread over his face like a cancer. “But you will answer the inquisitors when they put those same questions, clarissimo.”
“This is an unseemly conversation in the presence of mortality,” Father Farsetti said heavily. “Filippo, do you really believe you can learn something that may help the authorities catch the murderer?
The Maestro came forward, thumping his staff. “If you will evict these two yapping puppies, Father…Thank you.” He moved into the space Vasco had vacated and handed me his staff. “Bring my instruments.”
He poked and prodded while I fetched his medical bag. The best way to determine time of death is to estimate internal temperature, but Farsetti might not permit that indignity to a corpse, and he would certainly forbid any sort of dissection. The Maestro thrust two fingers into the corpse’s mouth, but did not suggest any worse intrusion. I gave him one of the scalpels I keep razor sharp for him and he slit open the blood-encrusted doublet to examine the exit wound. The dying man had lost so much blood that his clothes were stiff with it, yet still tacky near his skin.
; The Maestro demanded that the corpse be turned over, so Vasco and I obliged. Face down, it seemed even more widely contorted, and I held one of its ankles lest it roll off the couch. The Maestro examined the entry wound, which was surrounded by a circle of subcutaneous hemorrhage where the hilt had impacted or pressed against the flesh, but the deceased had bled much less on that side. The blood on his leg had come from a stab wound in his calf, which confirmed my vision in the fire. There was a separate patch of blood on the back of his ruff, which was badly crushed, and his right wrist showed faint subcutaneous bleeding, too recent to date from my blow on it a week ago.
“Well, apprentice?” Nostradamus said. “What do you conclude?”
“He was stabbed in the back, master.”
Vasco crowed, as if I had just initialed my own death warrant. “How do you know that, since you weren’t downstairs to see?”
An easy one. “You told me so a moment ago, but the condition of the corpse proves it.” I returned my attention to my master. “The stroke missed his heart and likely penetrated the aorta, accounting for the massive hemorrhage in the dorsal area. A heart wound would not have bled so much. He died of exsanguination and asphyxiation. I mean he bled to death, but he may have suffocated first, as his thoracic cavity filled with blood. The punctures are so tiny it would not be possible to remove the sword and replace it from the opposite direction without leaving evidence. I estimate that he died about nine o’clock last night, but you can undoubtedly judge that more closely than I can, master.”
I thought that I had done quite well so far. There was another conclusion to be drawn, a very obvious one, except that I was not supposed to know about the absence of significant bloodstains in the loggia. Since nobody had yet mentioned that, I yielded to temptation and dangled a lure to see who would bite.
“He must have known his assailant,” I said, “and trusted him enough to turn his back on him, because no man will stand still to be impaled when he can leap into a canal. Dolfin was never much of a swimmer as a child, but the Rio San Remo is barely deep enough to drown in, even at high tide.” No one commented and I pushed on. “So he was standing in the loggia, looking outward—perhaps hoping a gondola would come by, although the hour must have been late. His companion was farther back, possibly on the pretext of seeking better shelter from the rain. Or possibly he came from the door.”
Vasco’s eyes gleamed, and I realized that I had given myself away in earnest this time.
“Or else,” I continued, “Danese was waiting for Luigi to open the door for him, and the murderer came from the watersteps, perhaps disembarking from the very same boat. When Dolfin was struck, he fell back on the hilt of the sword, driving the blade in as far as it could go. It would have snapped if he had fallen forward on it. Which way was he facing?”
For a moment no one spoke, although the Maestro’s lips were pursed hard enough to hurt.
Then Father Farsetti said, “His head was almost in the corner of the house wall, which means he had been facing outward.” The priest is the finest player of simultaneous mental chess I have ever met—I have watched him play six games at once—so either visualizing violent crime was not another of his skills, or he was playing along with me just as the Maestro was.
A clatter of feet announced the arrival of Corrado and Christoforo, jostling their way through the door, competing to be first with the news and shouting over each other: “Dr. Modestus says—” “The Jew says he—” “—he is sorry but he—” “—will visit a sick person—” “—cannot come to view a corpse—” “—but not come—” “—on the Sabbath.” “—to see a dead one.”
“Damntio!” the Maestro snapped. “Very well, then! Away with you! That is unfortunate,” he confided to the priest. “I would value his opinion on the time of death, for Their Excellencies will certainly want to know that.” He was more annoyed at himself for having forgotten that today was Saturday.
The boys slunk out, angry at not being paid.
“I arrived here about ten o’clock,” Vasco announced confidently. “It took me much hammering to fetch that oaf of a doorman, and some minutes to argue my way in. There was certainly no carcase cluttering up the loggia then.”
“You are sure of the time?” the Maestro demanded, cutting off Father Farsetti’s protest about disrespect for the dead.
“Reasonably. It was about an hour after the curfew rang. The doorman says he locked up at curfew. For what the old fool’s testimony is worth, this morning he agrees that my knock came about then.”
“Luigi does not always interpret curfew the way the sun does,” I said, “is it possible that sier Danese was killed later than ten o’clock, master?”
He frowned, but did not look at me. “I estimate time of death as being within an hour of curfew, either before or after.”
My sword had killed Danese, so only a total blockhead would not see that I was in very grave trouble. But Vasco himself was now testifying that I had been in Ca’ Barbolano until after ten, so the earlier Danese had died, the less my peril. Ironically, Vasco had not yet seen this.
“I assure you,” he said, “that I did not overlook a corpse at my feet while I was waiting for that wreck of a doorman.”
“I did not say you did, Vizio. Turn him over again, please.” The Maestro slit Danese’s doublet and shirt and pulled free the bloodstained cloth. “Water and a cloth, please Alfeo.”
I assumed he wanted to look for postmortem bruising, evidence of the way blood had settled after death.
As I turned toward the doorway, it was suddenly occupied. The big man in the red and blue robe was Gasparo Quazza, Missier Grande. Behind him came a nobleman in black robes and then Sergeant Torre, chief of our local sbirri. Out in the salone were several more constables and a very worried Giorgio. Without a word, Missier Grande nodded to the priest and Nostradamus, made the sign of the cross in respect to the corpse, and then turned to his vizio.
“The deceased,” Vasco said, “is nobile homo Danese Dolfin, recently married to Grazia Sanudo, daughter of the ducal counselor, Zuanbattista Sanudo. His body was found in the loggia this morning by the night watchman when he opened the watergate at sunrise. It was not there when I arrived here, as per instructions, at approximately ten o’clock last night, although Doctor Nostradamus judges that the time of death was between eight and ten. I assume the murder was committed just after I arrived, but I have not yet asked the watchman if there were any other callers. The weapon was this rapier, which had been thrust through the deceased from behind and has been identified by Alfeo Zeno as being his.”
Missier Grande looked to me for confirmation. So far not a single muscle in his face had moved.
“It is my rapier,” I said. “I wore it to the palace last night, and the fante who took charge of it will confirm that he returned it to me. When we came home, about seven o’clock, I put it back in its place on top of my wardrobe, out of reach of children. I did not touch it after that. It was stolen.”
“By whom?”
“Filiberto Vasco.”
Vasco chuckled. Nobody else did.
Quazza studied me in silence for a few moments. I studied him right back. Soon after I was apprenticed to the Maestro, Quazza’s daughter was abducted, literally snatched out of her nurse’s arms. The Maestro foresaw her and I recovered her, much as I recovered Grazia Sanudo, except that on that earlier escapade, in excess of juvenile rashness, I veered much closer to collecting my eternal reward. Quazza owes me a debt, therefore, but that will never divert him from doing his duty.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Because he was the only other person I know of to enter my bedchamber during the night.”
The deadly gaze returned to Vasco.
Vasco, regrettably, maintained his confident smirk. “I was keeping watch for intruders in the salone, as instructed. When the storm struck, the casement in Zeno’s room began to bang. After a few serious crashes, I decided he was either dead or absent. To prevent damage
to the building, I made my way in and—”
“You picked the lock,” I said.
“—obtained entrance and latched the casement. The bed had not been slept in. I did not look underneath it, nor in the wardrobe. Nor on top of it. I went out and closed the door behind me. I did not see his sword and did not take it.”
My bruised and abraded shin was hurting. The other was undamaged, but in fact I did not have a single leg to stand on. If I denied leaving Ca’ Barbolano during the night, I would easily be proved a liar by the evidence of the broken glass, removable window bars, and wet clothing. Calling Violetta as a witness would merely make everything worse, because the distinction between an “honest” courtesan and a common harlot is easily blurred. The court would assume I was her bravo protector, that Danese had hurt her or failed to pay her, and I had run him through. Off with my head.
“You deny this story?” Missier Grande inquired.
“I cannot answer your questions, lustrissimo.” I did not have to, for Missier Grande is not an inquisitor; he carries out the orders of the Ten.
“But you will answer mine.” The patrician stepped forward. Andrea Zancani was serving a term as one of the Lords of the Night Watch, the Signori di Notte, and thus was Sergeant Torre’s current boss. That is a starter position for the nobility, and I would have put him around the tender age of thirty. He is a resident of San Remo, so I often see him in church.
I bowed to him. “Alas, clarissimo, I was about to explain that this is a matter of state, in which I can answer only to the noble Council of Ten.”
Vasco did not make a sound, but was obviously enjoying himself hugely.
Zancani pouted and turned to Missier Grande. “You are taking this man into custody, lustrissimo?”
“I have no instructions regarding sier Alfeo,” Quazza said. “I should point out, though, that he is in fact of noble birth, sier Alfeo Zeno. Consequently he can only be tried by the Council of Ten itself.”