by S. D. Sykes
“I wouldn’t say that.”
He raised his aged hand in an attempt to wave away my opinion. “You take the wrong meaning. You cause offense all the time. And most importantly, you miss the detail. No, no. It will not do. This investigation needs a native Venetian speaker.”
I was insulted, and, under different circumstances, I might have insisted upon working alone, but there was still my fee to be agreed on, so I was forced to keep Bearpark sweet.
The old man seemed to read my mind. “So, we come to your payment,” he said. “I propose ten ducats.”
Ten ducats. What use were ten ducats to a man who needed forty? I shook my head. “No no. I would need at least fifty,” I said.
Bearpark’s mouth hung open in genuine shock. “Fifty? God’s bones, de Lacy. I want you to find only one murderer. Not a whole gang of them!”
“I guarantee that I will find the man responsible for Enrico’s murder,” I said with bravado. “But my price is fifty ducats.”
Bearpark rubbed the wrinkled skin of his cheeks. “Twenty.”
I needed forty ducats to cover my debts to Vittore, and a surplus to finance our journey home. “Fifty,” I insisted.
The old man bristled with indignation. “How can you justify such an extraordinary fee? It’s outrageous.”
“That’s my price, Bearpark.” I paused. “But, of course, if you don’t think that your grandson is worth such a fee, then I will bow out.”
“Now wait a minute,” said the old man, “that’s not what I mean.”
“And let’s not forget that the investigation will be dangerous, Bearpark. You said so yourself. I might even come to the attention of the Signori di Notte.”
He looked me up and down. He was a trader after all, and this was just another negotiation. “Thirty-five.” I tried to object, but he spoke over me. “I will not pay more.”
“Forty-five.”
He heaved a great sigh. “Very well then. Forty-five. It is absolutely my last offer.”
A spare five ducats might suffice, as long as I was careful. “Forty-five it is.”
“Payable when you bring me the name of the murderer,” added Bearpark.
“Well, perhaps you—”
Bearpark clenched his fists and fixed me with a glare. “The name of the murderer, de Lacy. Then you get your money.”
The group at the other end of the room was now edging closer, like a gang of nervous dogs creeping up on a carcass, so I decided not to argue. I looked back to Bearpark, but it seemed our negotiation had exhausted the old man and he had closed his eyes, allowing his spectacles to slip down from his nose and fall onto the bed. When I went to lift them away, however, he woke up and grasped my hand. “Report to me, Lord Somershill. And me alone,” he urged, as the others came nearer. “When you find the man, you must tell me first. Do you understand?”
I must have hesitated, for now Bearpark squeezed. His grip was firm, and I was unable to pull my hand away. “Find Enrico’s murderer,” he told me. “Then I can die in peace.”
I looked down upon his ancient face and it was impossible to stop the thought that now intruded into my mind. Would Bearpark last long enough to pay my fee?
It had been a number of years since I had turned my mind to solving the puzzle of a murder investigation, and I will admit to being momentarily invigorated by this new challenge—but when I cast my mind back to my previous cases, my enthusiasm waned. My first investigation had involved finding the killer of two young women, and my second, the murderer of two newborn babes. Neither memory could be described as fond. Instead they invoked an old, familiar gloom, and when I retired to my room, I knew what was waiting for me—skulking in the corner and watching me with its vigilant, unblinking eyes.
I walked to my window and tried to ignore its presence by looking out upon Venice—even though my view was restricted to the canal below and the houses on every side. On a rooftop terrace opposite, a servant was hanging wet tunics onto a long pole that she then pivoted out to lean over the canal. On the floor below, her mistress sat at a tall, arched window, reading a book while a servant combed and plaited her long hair. A finely woven Persian carpet had been hung over the low sill of this window, announcing the woman’s status and the wealth to every passerby.
When she turned to look at me, I shifted my eyes back to the canal. The dark buildings and blue sky were reflected in the glassy green surface of the water. There was a tranquillity to this view, a peacefulness that was interrupted only when a small piatta glided past causing a series of ripples and eddies. Seated upon the crude bench of this small boat were Bernard and his sister, Margery, no doubt on their way to visit yet another holy shrine of Venice. The pair had not wasted their time in this city, and were always out somewhere buying yet more relics, badges and indulgences to add to their already enormous collection. Even from my vantage point on the second floor, I could see that Bernard was staring into space, while Margery was picking at her fingernails. She looked quite relaxed, in contrast to her usual demeanor at Ca’ Bearpark, when she sat stiffly at the supper table with her head bowed and her hands clasped. Now she leaned against the back of the bench and let her legs spread out into the hull of the boat.
As I watched the pair drift away into the distance, I stopped daydreaming and made an effort to concentrate upon the investigation. Would I follow Bearpark’s advice and start by looking for Enrico’s lover? The idea made some sense, but then again, it sniffed of being too simple an explanation—relying upon hearsay and Bearpark’s own conjecture, whereas I knew that murders are solved by the examination of facts. I left the window and strode about the room with purpose, deciding that I should start by writing down everything that I knew this far. What I needed was a blank manuscript—a small booklet in which to catalog the facts I already had in my possession. A wax tablet and stylus would not suffice, for it was too small and temporary for my purposes.
Having made this decision, I walked down to the courtyard, where I found a servant and bid him go to the Rialto market on my behalf and purchase something for me to write upon. With Bearpark’s criticism of my Venetian still ringing in my ears, I thought I might use this instruction as a test of my skills in this language. So I told the man specifically to buy me a pamphlet that was small and easy to hold, no larger than the average Psalter. It should have at least ten leaves and be without a fancy binding or cover, so that it would not appeal to a thief. I would even accept a palimpsest, where the previous writing had been washed from the parchment with oats and milk. The man seemed to understand me well enough, and when he returned with the exact object I had described, I felt vindicated. I then sat in a corner of the piano nobile and thought through the events.
Enrico had been assaulted and tortured before his death. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know where. I knew only two things for certain—that I had found his dead body at the water gate, and that I had chased a man from the scene. I wrote these points down in my pamphlet and stared at them for a while—thinking, at first, that they were formless and faint. But soon I realized that they raised another question. A question that should have occurred to me before all others. I tucked the pamphlet under my belt and went to seek out the man who could give me an answer.
I found Giovanni on the lower floor of the house, where he had his own small and musty chamber among the storerooms. This room, or “bureau” as he liked us to call it, was lined with wooden shelves for the many records and ledgers that pertained to Bearpark’s trading. At first, Giovanni seemed flustered, even annoyed by my presence in his cramped domain, but since he could hardly ask me to leave, he offered me a stool at one side of the room, as if trying to tidy me away.
“Lord Somershill. Please,” he said, “sit down.”
I complied with some reluctance, as the stool was low, and once I was seated, my legs were nearly bent to my chest. “I need to ask you a question, Giovanni,” I told him.
He flushed a little and began to touch the keys at his belt. “Yes, of course, my lord. Wha
t is it?”
“Firstly, you may call me Oswald.”
His face fell at this suggestion. “As you like, my lord,” he said tensely. “I mean, Oswald.”
“You know that you are to assist me in my investigation?”
He nodded. “Indeed, yes. My master has informed me.”
“Good. So we should not be slowed down by unnecessary epithets.” I chose the word deliberately, hoping that he would have to ask me what it meant. He didn’t.
“Yes. Very well . . . Oswald,” he said, touching the keys again, as if this ring of iron shanks and bows were a sacred talisman. “What do you want?”
I bristled at his choice of words. “Please say it this way, Giovanni. What would you like to discuss?”
He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
I rolled my eyes. “You must call me Oswald.”
Giovanni took a deep breath and paused before enunciating each word. “What would you like to discuss, Oswald?”
We could begin at last. “There is something that’s troubling me about Enrico’s murder.”
“Yes?”
“Where was the guard to the water gate? He should have found the body, not me.”
Giovanni looked away awkwardly. “Ah, yes. The man has disappeared.”
“Since when?”
“Nobody has seen him since yesterday.”
“What’s his name?”
“Adolpho Bredani,” said Giovanni softly.
“And you’re not suspicious that he’s disappeared?”
Giovanni jumped to his feet. His face had flushed. “It was not my idea!” he blurted, waving his hands about in the air. “I did not want Bredani as a guard. The man is . . .” then he stopped himself.
“The man is what?”
Giovanni sat down again, in an attempt to control his temper. “He is bad and untrustful.”
“The word is untrustworthy,” I said quickly, not giving him the time to argue otherwise. “Why did you employ this man, if he’s of such poor character?” Giovanni frowned. He had not understood me, so I rephrased the question. “Why did you give him a position as guard?”
His anger flared again. “I did not! I warned my master against him. Adolpho Bredani might be the brother of Monna Filomena, but he is a bad man.”
“He’s Monna Filomena’s brother? Are you sure about that?”
“Of course.”
This revelation took me by surprise. “That seems a strange arrangement, Giovanni. A member of Monna Filomena’s family employed as a servant in her own household.”
Giovanni shrugged. “The family is poor, Oswald. She is always looking for . . .” Yet again he seemed to be struggling for the right word. Usually his English was more fluent than this. “My master tries to help her family. You understand me? There was a cousin who worked in the kitchens. And now Monna Filomena’s brother works as a guard.” He huffed. “Even when I spoke against it.”
So this was the arrangement behind John Bearpark’s marriage to Filomena—her beauty and youth in return for the old man’s patronage of her extended family. It was a common enough contract, usually brokered by the bride’s father, though I still found it unpalatable, especially in cases such as this, where there was such a vast disparity in their ages.
I put aside such thoughts and returned to my questioning. “What does Bredani look like?” I asked, hoping that I might remember the man.
Giovanni frowned, as if this was a difficult question. “He is tall, with black hair and brown eyes.” He pursed his lips and could not hide a short snort. “The women say he is handsome, I believe.”
“I see. And is it only the women who like him? He didn’t catch Enrico’s eye, for example?”
Giovanni regarded me for a moment. “So, my master has told you of Enrico’s shame?”
“He’s told me the truth, yes,” I said.
“Well Adolpho was not one of his lovers,” said Giovanni. “I am sure of that.”
I tried to recall an attractive young man of good height, but I’m ashamed to say that I had become like so many noblemen in recent years. I had allowed myself to adopt the failings of my rank and had stopped noticing what servants looked like. They moved about in the background, facilitating and enabling my life, and yet I took no more notice of them than I took of a stranger in the street.
“Very well. I need to speak to this Adolpho Bredani,” I said with purpose. “Somebody must know where he is.”
Giovanni gave a short shrug. “I expect he’s hiding. Ashamed that he left the water gate.”
I raised myself from the low stool and rubbed a cramp from my leg, before wandering across the small chamber to the corner, where Giovanni had erected a shrine to the Virgin. The diptych was a crudely painted trinket, but clearly a prized possession. The light of a small candle flickered beneath the Christ child, and a rosary was hung upon one corner of the frame.
“You say Monna Filomena’s family is poor?” I said, turning back to Giovanni.
Giovanni kept his eyes from mine. “Yes. But her marriage has richened them.”
“Enriched.”
Giovanni frowned at my correction, before launching into a new invective. “Bredani was nothing before my master helped him.” He threw up his hands. “Nothing! Just a fisherman, digging clams from the mud of the lagoon. Master Bearpark brought him to the heart of the city and gave him money and new clothes. He wants the boy to learn his letters and numbers, so that he can assist me with the ledgers.” He puffed his lips. “He gets everything that he wants.”
“Are you jealous of him, Giovanni?”
Now he sprang to his feet in dismay. “Of course not! The man is lazy and refuses to learn. I can work better without him.” Giovanni took a deep breath, smoothed his hair, and sat back down rather heavily upon his chair. “Bredani was forced upon me,” he said.
“And you have no idea where he might be hiding?” I asked.
“No, no.” Giovanni reached over to the shrine and picked up his rosary. “I do not go where his type go.” He sneered. “Whorehouses. Taverns. Gambling pits. The most sinful places of this city.”
I smelled a sermon brewing. “I’m not suggesting that you do,” I said. “But Adolpho must have gone somewhere?” Giovanni only shrugged by way of answer. “You say he comes from a small island?” I said. “Which island is that?”
“Burano.”
“Is his family still there?”
Giovanni sucked his teeth. “I don’t know. I don’t speak to such people.”
“Then I will ask Monna Filomena,” I said. “She might know where her brother is hiding.”
Giovanni stood up in a panic. “No, no, Oswald. Please. Don’t speak to Monna Filomena about this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are saying things against her brother, and she will cause trouble for us.” He looked to the door, as if his mistress might be hiding in the corridor.
I frowned. “What sort of trouble?”
“She doesn’t like me. She whispers lies about me to my master.”
“Are you sure about that? Monna Filomena hardly seems to talk to her husband at all. Let alone about you.”
He waved away my opinion with some vexation. “She will warn her brother that we are looking for him. Then we will never find the man.”
“So what do you suggest then?” I said.
As Giovanni thought how to answer me, I scrutinized his face. He was young and cleanly shaven, and the candlelight sat well upon his oiled and glossy locks, but he disliked my examination and pulled his cloak about his shoulders. “I don’t think Adolpho Bredani is important to this investigation,” he said at length. “My master said we must look for Enrico’s . . .” He hesitated. “His special friends.” At the utterance of this word, he kissed his rosary.
“We will do,” I said. “But first I want to speak to this Adolpho.”
Giovanni shook his head. “No, no. We must follow my master’s instructions.”
“An inv
estigator never follows instructions, Giovanni. He follows clues.” The clerk opened his mouth, but then closed it again. “Questioning Adolpho is the obvious place to start,” I said. “The man should have been guarding the water gate, but he wasn’t there. So we need to find out why.”
“He was just in a tavern somewhere, Oswald. Celebrating Giovedì Grasso and drinking too much wine.”
I ignored his scepticism. “That’s possible, of course. But perhaps he witnessed something, and now he is too afraid to speak? Or perhaps it’s even worse than that?”
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps he was involved in the murder himself?”
At this Giovanni gasped and then kissed his rosary again. “No, no. Adolpho Bredani is a sinner, but I cannot believe such a story.”
I yielded, as it was too early to come to such conclusions. “You’re probably right, Giovanni, but nevertheless I need to speak to him.” I paused. “Let’s go to Burano. I expect he’s hiding there with his family.”
Giovanni frowned. “It’s a long journey, Oswald, and it’s too late now.”
I paused, knowing that he was telling the truth, for we wouldn’t be able to cross the lagoon to Burano and return to Venice in daylight. “Very well then,” I said. “We will sail tomorrow, at dawn.” Before Giovanni could object, I added, “And keep our plan a secret. We don’t want word of our visit reaching the island before we do.”
Supper was another stew of liver and onions—a meal that had filled the whole house with its evil perfume for most of the afternoon, though we were lucky to be eating meat at all. Mother made this remark, and we all heartily agreed. Not only was it true, but it broke the awkward silence that had dominated the meal, for as surprising as it was to admit, we had all rather missed John Bearpark and his library of anecdotes. Our only distraction was Filomena’s constant wriggling, as she tried to find a comfortable position in her chair. She was wearing a lighter gown this evening—a dress that revealed the true advancement of her pregnancy. It seemed that her child might be born any day.