by S. D. Sykes
I extinguished a quick smile and turned back to Michele. “I need to find out a little more about Enrico,” I said, causing Michele once again to regard me with suspicion. His eyes narrowed. “I need to know about those parts of his life that he kept secret.” I hesitated, wondering how to phrase my next question. “I understand that Enrico had lovers.”
Michele puffed. “We all have lovers.” He then looked at me disparagingly. “Apart from you, I expect.” He waved his hand over my outfit. “I doubt you have any luck dressed in those clothes.”
I ignored the insult. “Yes. But Enrico was different, wasn’t he?” I dropped my words to a whisper. “His lovers were men.”
Michele froze. “Says who?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
He sat up straight and focused his eyes upon me. “Who sent you here? Was it the Signori di Notte?” He reached inside his sleeve again for his knife. “Are you one of their spies?”
“No,” I said. “I’m nothing to do with the Signori. But even so I need to know the truth.”
“Get out of here,” he said, now pointing the knife at my face. “Get out of here with your accusations.”
The knife glinted in the candlelight, but I didn’t move. “Was it you, Michele?” I said. “Were you Enrico’s lover?”
“Keep your mouth shut!”
“Did you argue with Enrico, and then kill him?” I pointed to his knife, which was now so close to my cheek that I could almost feel the blade. “You seem very ready to attack.”
Suddenly he had grabbed me, holding my neck in an arm-lock with the tip of his knife biting into the skin of my throat. “You think you can come in here and say such things to me?” he said. “Such insults?”
I remained perfectly still, while Giovanni unhelpfully flapped his arms and made a great fluster behind me. “Put your knife away, Michele,” I said evenly. “I just want the truth.”
The knife bit harder. He hissed in my ear. “I’ll tell you the truth, Silent Englishman. I have never taken a man as a lover, and I never will. Do you understand? And if you ever come here and make such an accusation again, then I will cut your throat.” With this, he twisted the knife until it pierced my skin, before he released me with a thrust, sending me flying across the room. “Go on!” he said, trying to chase me from the tavern. “Go back to John Bearpark. Tell him that there are no stains on my conscience. Tell the old fool to look at himself in the mirror.”
I put my hand to my throat and found that he had drawn blood. “What do you mean by that?” I said, standing my ground and refusing to be chased any farther.
Michele folded his arms. “Ask Bearpark about the letter of denunciation.”
I looked to Giovanni for an explanation, but my companion only refastened his eyes to the floor.
“Oh I see. You didn’t know about that, did you?” said Michele, with a laugh. “The Bearparks have been denounced. A letter was sent to the Consiglio.”
“I don’t understand.” I said, looking again to Giovanni. “What letter?”
Michele slipped the knife into his sleeve and reseated himself upon the bench. “Not so pleased to be John Bearpark’s investigator now then, are you?” he said with a smirk. “Not when the Bearpark family has enemies who will denounce them to the Consiglio dei Dieci. Enemies who will stick their nasty little accusations into the mouth of the lion.”
I turned to Giovanni. “What mouth? What lion?” He shrugged, pretending once again not to hear me, so I grasped him by the fur of his cloak. “What is this man talking about?”
Giovanni cringed away from me. “There are special boxes,” he said nervously. “Carved with the faces of the lion of St. Mark.”
“And?”
“A person may post a letter into these mouths. It is read by the Consiglio dei Dieci.”
“What sort of letters?”
Giovanni tried to shake me off, but I would not release him. “They are accusations of immoral behavior,” he said, pretending to choke.
Michele interrupted. “Don’t tell lies, clerk. The Consiglio don’t care about immorality. They care about corruption and treason.”
I squeezed my hand tighter, no matter that Giovanni’s choking act was becoming more dramatic. “So, what did this letter say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Giovanni. Don’t lie to me.”
His coughing reached a new crescendo, and I was forced to release my hold, as we had attracted an audience. When he had finally cleared his throat, straightened his hair, and then felt for his keys, Giovanni looked up at me. “I don’t know what the letter said, Oswald. You must believe me.” He then gave a mournful sigh. “My master wouldn’t tell me.”
“But you knew there was a letter?”
Giovanni went to answer, but we were interrupted by Michele’s laughter.
“What’s so amusing?” I said, turning to the man who once again had a hand down his braies.
“What a skillful investigator you are, Silent Englishman,” said Michele, nearly choking on his own hilarity. “Everybody knows about this letter, but you!”
Chapter Thirteen
I strode through Castello in a rage, while Giovanni trotted at my heels, summoning the courage to speak to me only when I had taken a wrong turn or was about to be drenched by a bucket of slops from an upper window. He tried repeatedly to apologize for not telling me about the letter of denunciation, but I refused to listen to his litany of regrets and excuses. Giovanni should have told me, and that was the end of it. My mood only worsened when I happened to notice the face of the ragged boy again in the crowds. There was no doubt now, this child was following me.
When we finally arrived back at Ca’ Bearpark, I strode through the courtyard and went up the exterior staircase three steps at a time, while the servants stood aside and let me pass. Giovanni still scampered in my wake like a dog, and it was only when I reached the bottom of the stairs to Bearpark’s bedchamber that he gathered the courage to stop me. I looked down to see his fingers grasping my cloak.
“Please, Oswald. My master may be sleeping.” He was panting, in an attempt to regain his breath after our brisk march across the city. “You should ask if he is well enough to talk before you go in.”
I pulled my cloak away. “Just leave me alone, Giovanni.”
As he attempted to hold on, I experienced the sudden desire to kick him away. My foot almost throbbed with enthusiasm. But thankfully the moment passed, for, as I looked across the piano nobile, I saw that Filomena was watching me with solemn intent.
I quickly bowed to her, and Giovanni did the same, though his acknowledgment was delivered with the usual contempt he showed to his master’s young wife. I then asked Filomena if Bearpark was well enough to receive guests, and she nodded, giving me permission to proceed. I did not wait around to hear her answers to Giovanni’s farther questions to her on this matter. He wondered if she was sure of this fact, and did not Master Bearpark like to sleep in the afternoon? I heard only the tone of her response as I climbed the stairs, and it was not polite.
I pushed at the door of Bearpark’s chamber to find Mother at the end of his bed, rubbing a pungent balm into the old man’s bony feet. “What are you doing here, Mother?” I asked, as Giovanni edged into the room behind me, only to remain by the wall.
Mother raised her hands into the air, splaying her fingers as if they were covered in dough. “I’m rubbing some Treacle of Venice into John’s feet,” she said. “The poor man is losing the feeling in his toes.” She then pointed at a small glass jar beside the bed. “I bought this remedy for you, Oswald. Do you remember? From that apothecary at the Rialto market.” She gave a sigh. “Not that it did any good.” I did remember the man, and I did remember his remedy—the so-called Teriaca, or “Treacle of Venice” as it is known in England. It is a foul-smelling mixture of pulverized roots, leaves, and spices, with the addition, so the apothecary claimed, of crushed viper’s skin and powdered scorpion. Mother had rubbed this balm onto
my forehead repeatedly to cure my melancholia, but it will come as no surprise to hear that it had no effect upon my mood, other than to annoy me.
“Can you leave us please, Mother. I need to speak to Bearpark.”
She looked aghast at this request, as if I had announced that I wanted to take the man out for a gallop on his most hot-blooded stallion. “But John is sleeping, Oswald. Come back later, when he’s taking his broth.”
“No. I want to speak to him now.”
She directed me into a corner of the room, indicating that she wanted a private conversation. “We’ve already had quite a disturbance this morning, Oswald,” she whispered. “Those two foolish pilgrims burst in and caused an argument.”
“I thought Margery was staying in her room, after her attack?” I said.
Mother shook her head in irritation. “Well, she was here as well, Oswald. With her great shining black eye. Anybody would think the woman had contested a wrestling match on Lammas Eve.”
“The black eye is hardly Margery’s fault, Mother. She was attacked.”
“Yes, I know all about that, Oswald.” She crossed the room to the basin of water and washed her hands free of the Teriaca. “It is her brother I blame, and his foolish desire for taking shortcuts. The very same calamity might have befallen me on Giovedì Grasso, you know. Even though I begged that fool to take the main streets.” She shook the water from her hands. “The pair are very odd. Imagine the impertinence—striding in here and demanding that I leave the room.”
“Did you comply?”
She fanned her face with her hand. “I had no choice, Oswald. Bernard might be little more than a peddler, but he was very insistent.”
“And you didn’t listen at the door?”
She folded her arms and looked back at Giovanni, to make sure that he was out of earshot. “I stayed on the landing only in case John needed me,” she said defensively. “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
“Of course not,” I whispered. “But nevertheless, did you hear anything?”
Now that we’d established that her snooping was merely accidental, she softened. “From what I could hear, Bernard was upset about Enrico’s murder. There was a good deal of shouting until I rushed in and put a stop to it.” She leaned a little closer. “I think the foolish man was afraid that the murderer would return and attack Margery. Or so he said, as I chased him out of the room.”
I turned to see that Giovanni had edged toward us and wanted my attention. “We should come back later, Oswald,” he said nervously. “My master is sleeping.”
I now had two opponents, which only served to harden my resolve to speak to the old man. So, instead of taking their advice, I made a point of crossing the room and tapping vigorously on Bearpark’s arm until he woke with a start.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “What is it?”
Mother ran to his side. “I’m so sorry, John, but my son seems desperate to speak with you.” She then threw me a hostile glance, before stooping to speak very slowly and deliberately into his ear. “I expect Oswald has made some important progress with the investigation, so you must forgive his enthusiasm. He just wants to tell you his news.” She then made a great display of tucking the sheets under his chin, only for Bearpark to pull them back immediately and wave her away. He would not play the meek invalid to Mother’s overbearing nurse. Mother brushed over this offense by fiddling around with a bottle at the side of his bed, and then upending the hourglass, so that the sand might once again trickle from the higher bulb to the lower.
While Mother was carrying out this performance, Bearpark motioned for me to sit next to him. “So, tell me, Lord Somershill. What is this news? Have you found Enrico’s killer? Is that why you’ve woken me?”
I remained standing. “Why didn’t you tell me about the letter of denunciation, Bearpark?”
He coughed. “The what?”
“The letter that was sent to the Consiglio dei Dieci.”
Bearpark’s complexion suddenly matched the white of his sheets. More alarmingly, he appeared to be gulping, and I wondered if he were struggling to breathe. Mother rushed to tend to him, but Bearpark pushed her away. He coughed again and found his voice. “Who told you about that?” he said, squinting into the corner of the room, where Giovanni continued to lurk. “Was it you?” Bearpark said, pointing at the young Venetian. “You? With your loose tongue?”
Giovanni crept forward into the light. “No, master. I swear it.” He glared at me ferociously. “Please, Oswald. Tell my master. It wasn’t me.”
“But you should have told me, Giovanni,” was my reply. I turned back to Bearpark. “Instead I had to learn about this letter from one of Enrico’s friends.”
The old man snorted.
“Why did you give me only half the information?” I said. “Who am I? Uriah the Hittite? Sent into battle in ignorance of the facts?”
Mother bustled forward and tried to touch Bearpark’s forehead. “Do keep your voice down, Oswald. John is not deaf.”
She went to smooth down his hair, but Bearpark gripped her hand and pushed it away. “Please, woman. Stop touching me!”
“I think you should leave,” I said.
Mother looked at me, and then at Bearpark. Sensing defeat, she gave a great huff of dissatisfaction and gathered up her skirts. “I can’t stay here, Oswald.” She sniffed at the air. “The broth needs attending to. I can smell it burning. Those fools in the kitchen can’t be trusted.” She then strode out of the chamber with admirable haughtiness, before slamming the door in her wake.
When Mother had left, I returned to my questioning. “Why didn’t you mention this letter of denunciation to me?”
Bearpark had regained enough of his composure and color in the intervening moments to demand that Giovanni pass him his spectacles. Once the things were resting on his nose, he addressed me again. “I don’t want you to worry about this letter, Lord Somershill,” he told me. “It’s not relevant to your investigation.”
“Oh yes?” I said. “And how can you be so sure of that?”
He waved my words away. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. The letter was just a piece of mischief. It wasn’t even signed.” He screwed up his nose and shook his finger to emphasize his point. “If a person cannot put his name to an accusation, then the Consiglio do not take it seriously.”
“But you knew about the letter?”
“Yes, yes,” he said with some irritation. “I was invited to the palace for a discussion, of course. But we just had a glass of wine and laughed about it.”
“But you weren’t told what the letter said?”
“They read it out to me once, Lord Somershill. It was some tittle-tattle about the Bearpark family not being honorable Venetians. I can’t remember the exact wording, I’m afraid. As I said before, it was just foolish mischief.”
“But who would send such a letter?”
Bearpark sniffed. “I have some rivals in Venice. That’s all. I may be a citizen, but I’m still a foreigner.” Bearpark paused. “There are things about this city that you must understand,” he said at length. “I’ve been a successful man, Lord Somershill. I’ve overcome all of my disadvantages, and prospered.” He cleared his dry throat and then motioned for Giovanni to hand him the bowl of wine that was resting on the table, next to Mother’s pot of Venetian Treacle. The wine seemed to restore his spirits.
“But it’s not easy for those of us who are not named in the Golden Book,” he said, passing the bowl back to Giovanni. “For example, I was never allowed to hire one of the great galleys from the Venetian merchant fleet. Yet I was not defeated, I still managed to follow their flotilla to Southampton each year. My cog ship might have been a little old and a little slow, but I still persisted through the storms of the Bay of Biscay, fighting off many Barbary pirates. Once I reached England, I often did better business than the Venetians.” He gave a short laugh. “Some of them didn’t like that, you see.”
“But you sacrificed your cog ship
for the dead of the Plague.”
“That’s right. And really this foolish rivalry should have stopped then, but Venetians have long memories, and every so often they still like to cause a little trouble for me.” He smiled. “But I’m used to it, my lord. Really. It’s only jealousy.” He clenched his fist with bravado. “Oh yes. It takes more than an anonymous letter to dampen the spirits of a Bearpark.”
It was a rousing defense, but I was not entirely convinced. “The timing seems odd,” I said. “Don’t you think? There is a denunciation of your family, and then your grandson is murdered.”
Bearpark shook his head so violently that his spectacles fell forward. “It’s just a coincidence,” he said, before pushing them back up his nose. “These people only want to make my life difficult, but they would not commit murder.” He was becoming angry, the frown lines deepening between his eyebrows. “Believe me. If they were in possession of any genuine secrets to reveal, then they would have signed the letter.”
“So, why did you keep the letter a secret from me? If it means nothing?”
The old man settled down beneath the sheets again. “Because I knew it would be a distraction. Something to set your investigation off on the wrong course.”
“How can you be so sure of that? To my mind, it is entirely possible that Enrico’s murder and this letter of denunciation are related.”
“Then you are a poor investigator, Lord Somershill. Jumping to conclusions, when you should listen to the facts.” He hit the bed with a thump. “Now, never mind all this nonsense about the letter. Tell me, what have you discovered so far?” He removed the spectacles from the bridge of his nose and regarded me closely. “Do you have a name for me?”
“No. Not yet,” I said, a little defensively.
Bearpark pounced. “So. What have you been doing then?”