by S. D. Sykes
Then we climbed the stairs again to Adolpho’s room and thoroughly searched through his belongings, finding only a rosary, a pair of clean hose, a hair comb, and a purse tied beneath the bedstead. When I opened this purse, I found three golden ducats, exactly like the ones I had taken from the house in Burano, and then, I’m ashamed to say that a madness came over me again, urging me to drop these coins into my own purse, just as I had done before—but this time my plan was foiled, for Giovanni was peering over my shoulder.
“Bredani had some money then,” he commented.
“Yes,” I said, trying to disguise my disappointment, before quickly closing my hands around the coins. “Three golden ducats is a large sum for a guard to have in a purse, don’t you think?” This was without mentioning the eight coins that were already secreted away inside my chest.
Giovanni stood back. “Bredani must have stolen this money, Oswald. He was poor.”
“Or it was paid to him.”
“For doing what?” said Giovanni.
“It has something to do with the murder of Enrico Bearpark,” I said quickly. “I’m sure of it.” I paused. “And whoever paid him this money, then had him killed.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To stop him from talking to us, of course.”
Giovanni shook his head skeptically. “No, no. I can’t believe it,” he said. “Where is your proof of this, Oswald? Bredani was a fool. The type of man who easily makes enemies.” Giovanni threw up his hands. “There’s no proof that he had anything to do with Enrico’s murder. He could have stolen these three coins from anybody.”
“It is more than just the coins,” I said calmly.
“Oh yes?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Adolpho Bredani was the man I chased from the water gate on the night of Enrico’s murder.”
“But you said you didn’t recognize the man you chased away,” said Giovanni, now frowning.
“I didn’t. Not before tonight,” I said. “But now that I’ve seen Bredani’s face, I know it was him. There is no doubt.”
Chapter Fifteen
Our two guards placed Adolpho Bredani’s body onto a makeshift bier, but the innkeeper would not let us leave his tavern until we had settled all of Adolpho’s supposed debts. When I refused to pay, a gang of men—occasional associates of the innkeeper, I presumed—appeared from nowhere and blocked our path. It was lucky that I had discovered Bredani’s three golden ducats, as Giovanni would never have paid these debts from his master’s purse. I made an effort to pry more information from the innkeeper in return for settling Bredani’s debts, but, as might have been predicted, the man knew nothing and had seen nothing. He just wanted his money, and he wanted us to leave.
It was pitch-black when we finally made our way back to Ca’ Bearpark in San Marco, and by the poorest of luck Filomena was in the courtyard as we transported the body of her brother toward the lowest rooms of the house. I was unable to stop her from seeing Adolpho, and the cruel, bloodied wound that had opened his throat to the air. Adolpho’s face did not bear the serenity and peace of death; instead it was set in a grimace of fear and pain.
Filomena screamed at the sight, then ran back to the external stairs, moving with surprising speed, given that she was so heavy with child. Her momentum petered out at the landing, where she fell against the corner spindle and was caught by her lady’s maid. I tried to give my assistance, but the maid practically barged me out of the way and then escorted Filomena toward her bedchamber, where the door was shut firmly in my face.
I dusted myself down, knowing that I must now inform John Bearpark of the murder, but just as I reached the door to the old man’s staircase, Bernard dashed across the piano nobile, dressed only in his linen chemise. “I understand there’s been another killing, my lord?” he said breathlessly. “And the victim is from this very household!”
I cleared my throat. “Yes. It was Adolpho Bredani. A servant to Master Bearpark.”
Bernard put his hand to his mouth. “You see. It’s just as I said before. The murderer is picking us off, one by one.”
I put my hand on Bernard’s sleeve, feeling a firm arm beneath the cloth. “Calm yourself. There is nothing to be worried about.”
“But what should I tell Margery?”
“I suggest that you don’t tell her anything,” I said, before releasing his arm and making my escape.
I knocked and then entered Bearpark’s bedchamber, to find him seated in a chair by the window, having recovered sufficiently to be able to read a Psalter by the flame of a single candle. For a moment his appearance shocked me, for the candlelight reflected so oddly from his spectacles that his eyes looked like two orbs of fire. As he turned to greet me, the angle of the light changed and the strange illusion dissolved.
“What’s the matter Lord Somershill?” he asked me. “Why all this noise and commotion?”
“Adolpho Bredani has been murdered.”
He peered at me for a moment, as if my words had not made sense. Then he lifted the spectacles from his nose and placed them into his lap. “Murdered?” he said at length. “Where?”
“We had news that Bredani was staying at an inn in Dorsoduro,” I told him. “We went to find him, but . . . but we were too late. He had been killed only moments before we arrived.”
The old man suddenly looked as bloodless as a bowl of washed tripe. “Are you sure?”
“His throat was cut, Bearpark.”
Bearpark slowly replaced the glasses on his nose and looked at me, dumbfounded. “I don’t understand.”
I was about to explain more when Mother made a sudden and unwelcome entrance. “John. I have some news,” she said, as she rushed to Bearpark’s side.
Mother’s appearance squeezed the blood back into the old man’s veins. “I know about the murder,” he snapped at her. “Your son has just informed me.”
Mother missed his tone, such was her agitation. “No, no. It’s nothing to do with the murder. It’s your wife, John. The child is coming.”
“My son?” Bearpark’s scowl dissolved into a broad grin. “My son is coming.”
He went to stand up, but Mother almost pushed him back into the chair. “You must stay here.”
“I will do no such thing!” he said.
She laid a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Now, you must listen to me, John Bearpark. Your wife has had a terrible shock. She saw the face of her murdered brother, and it caused her waters to break.”
“She saw the body?” Bearpark turned to me. “What fool allowed that? Was it you?”
What could I say? “I tried to bring Bredani back quietly,” I protested. “It was just unfortunate that Monna Filomena was in the courtyard as we returned.”
He gathered the energy to wave a fist in my direction. “I tell you this, de Lacy. If your carelessness causes any problems to the birth of my son, then you will be very sorry. Very sorry!” There was suddenly a hard and cruel intensity in his eyes that did not wane.
“What would you have me do?” I protested. “Leave the body of your wife’s brother in a brothel? Would that not attract the attention of the Signori di Notte or the Consiglio dei Dieci? Or whoever else it is that you want to avoid?”
“Don’t you dare to—”
“Do calm yourself, John,” said Mother. “Your wife is perfectly well.” She pursed her lips and folded her arms. “As you know yourself, Monna Filomena is a particularly young woman, so there is no need to fear that her child is in danger. And you really should not lay any blame at my son’s feet. He was merely doing as you asked, and conducting his investigation.” She pointed to the pitcher of wine. “Now stay here and take a drink. When the child is born, you shall be the first to know.”
Bearpark fell back against the spindles of the chair, no longer the angry husband, but once again a trembling and fragile old man. As a servant held a bowl of wine to his lips, Mother herded me out of the room. “Really, Oswald. I do wonder at your behavior.” As I tried to arg
ue, she closed the door in my face.
That night I could not sleep, for the house was filled with the expectant, nervous energy of child labor. Filomena did not scream, instead she made a low, resonant growl that vibrated through the building as if a carpenter were using a pump drill somewhere in the lower parts of the house. There were footsteps as well. The hurried, determined footsteps of servants running between the kitchen and the bedchamber, and the slower, deliberate steps of a midwife, waiting for the next stage of labor. These sounds conjured unwelcome thoughts, evoking memories that I did not care to remember—so I closed my eyes, for I knew what was crouching in the corner of the room. It would not catch me out again.
At first light came the cry of a newborn child. I threw a cloak over my chemise and joined the rest of the household in the piano nobile, waiting outside the door to Filomena’s bedchamber. Bernard wandered through the crowd in a daze, and though I tried to avoid him, he tapped me anxiously on the shoulder just as the child beyond the door let out a deafening wail.
“What’s happening, my lord?” he asked. “Has there been another murder?”
I was too tired to be polite. “God’s bones, Bernard! Monna Filomena has given birth. Can’t you hear the infant screaming?” Bernard flinched slightly, as if Filomena’s pregnancy was news to him. He was about to ask some other ridiculous question when John Bearpark pushed his way through us with all the vigor and determination of a young husband.
“Get out of my way,” he said. “Get out of my way! I want to see my son.” The servants moved aside and cast their eyes to the floor, already knowing what Bearpark would discover when he looked upon his newborn child. There was no male heir swaddled in linen. Instead, Filomena had given birth to a daughter. By all accounts the child was a beautiful, healthy girl, and certainly she screamed well enough—but what are daughters in this world to some parents, other than a bitter disappointment?
Above the cries of the child, I could hear Bearpark’s calls of anguish, and his condemnation of his wife’s failure to provide him with a son. He even made the accusation that the child was not his. The servants heard every word of this onslaught against their mistress, and they looked to each other with nervous, fearful eyes. Bearpark’s words did not frighten me, however. With each insult, a ball of rage swelled in my chest. When I heard Filomena crying, I could contain it no longer.
I charged into the room to find Bearpark looming over his wife, as she shielded the child from his eyes. For some reason my mother was also in attendance, pretending to do something useful with a bowl of water.
Bearpark looked up at my entrance and squinted. “What do you want, de Lacy?”
“Go back to your deathbed, Bearpark, and leave your wife alone.”
Mother interjected. “Stay out of this, Oswald. It’s between a man and his wife.”
“The whole house can hear this argument, Mother. Every servant, down to the lowest scullion. They are gathered outside the door.” I turned to Bearpark. “You are shaming your wife, Bearpark. In front of your own household.”
The old man itched with fury. “And what is it to you?”
Filomena looked to me with pleading eyes, and I could see immediately that she was not grateful for my intervention. Nevertheless I continued. “You have a healthy child, Bearpark. Your wife has survived labor. For the sake of Christ, show her some respect and some kindness!”
Bearpark’s fists balled, and the loose skin of his chin trembled with temper. He went to return fire, but he could barely form the words, and then, suddenly, he fell back against the bed post, clutching his chest as if he had just been struck by an arrow.
Within a flash, Mother was at his side. “John? John? Are you unwell?” She helped him to a nearby chair, and then knelt at his side, holding his hand as tenderly as a child’s. Bearpark was shocked, but not dead. As Mother fussed over the old fool, I looked once again to Filomena, but her face was resealed inside its mask, and she would not meet my gaze.
I stalked out of the room, ran down the external staircase, and let myself out through the gate into the long Calle Nuova, finding the narrow passageway swathed in a rising mist. My heart beat strongly and I punched the wall of the house, releasing all my frustration and anger at Bearpark against the coarse surface of the Istrian stone. I continued until I could stand the pain no longer, and then, as I nursed my grazed knuckles, I knew that I couldn’t stay at Ca’ Bearpark any longer. The old man disgusted me, my feelings for his wife troubled me, and my investigation was failing. It was time to get away. It was time to escape.
My decision to flee was made—though I cannot say where I was intending to go. Perhaps I might have found a place to gamble, or even have walked from the Molo and let the sea have my bones? But as I fled along the thin path of Calle Nuova, an arm crossed my path. Attached to the arm was a demon—its skin shining with menace and its nose as long and pointed as a shrew’s.
I drew back until I registered that this was nothing worse than a mask. “I don’t have any money,” I said in Venetian, as a greasy rat scurried across my foot.
My assailant withdrew the mask from his face to reveal a pair of reddened cheeks, a pig-like nose, and tufts of blond hair. I should have realized before that it was Vittore. “Are you going somewhere, de Lacy?” he asked me.
“What’s it to you?”
He leaned forward, and his breath assaulted me with the fumes of a night spent drinking. He prodded my cheek with his fingers as he spoke, tapping a rhythm that kept time with his words. “I wanted to see you, de Lacy.” He laughed sarcastically. “But when I get here, you’ve come out to meet me. Isn’t that courteous?”
I pushed him away, but this only caused him to fall back with exaggerated mockery. I was no match for Vittore in a fight—we both knew that. “You’ll get your money,” I said. “You don’t need to keep reminding me.”
He bowed with more exaggeration. “I’m sure you will keep your promise, my lord. I know how you English like to honor your debts, but I thought you might need reminding. Today is Monday. And I want my money by Saturday.”
“I know that!”
“Good. But just in case you should forget, I want you to think about your mother as well.”
I stiffened. “Stay away from my mother,” I said. “She’s nothing to do with this.”
He grasped my tunic and pulled me to his face. Now I caught a sourness beneath the smell of stale wine. It was the stench of his teeth—two rows of stained, eroded stumps that were as rotten as his heart. “Because I know how much you care about her,” he said.
“Are you threatening my mother?”
“Of course I am.” He laughed.
I pushed him away for a second time and bolted for the gate back into the courtyard to Ca’ Bearpark. “Keep away from her,” I shouted over my shoulder. “You’ll get your money.”
Vittore only laughed louder. “I know I will.” He bowed with another of his exaggerated flourishes. “Until Saturday then. Silent Englishman.”
I slammed the gate behind me, with his laughter still ringing in my ears. There was no escape from Vittore. There was no escape from this investigation.
Chapter Sixteen
I first met Mary de Caburn in the summer of 1350, at Versey Castle, high up in the weald of Kent. In those days she was a scrawny, ragged little girl of ten, dressed in the clothes of a boy. A mother might have forbidden her daughter to wear the leather tunic of a lowly squire and to leave her hair uncombed, matted even—but Mary’s mother had died many years before, leaving Mary and her sister, Rebecca, to flit about the Versey estate like a pair of feral pigeons. Their father, Walter de Caburn, cared as much for them as he cared for his dogs, and not nearly as much as he cared for his horses.
Mary might have been only a child at our first meeting, but there was something in her spirit that I had admired immediately. I was eighteen, and as green as the first leaves of spring, but even so, I had stepped in to prevent de Caburn from dangling the girl over the moat to the cast
le. His reason for doing this was to punish her, but it felt more as if it were for his own amusement. The man was certainly cruel enough to find this supposed lesson funny. In return for my small favor, Mary had saved my life, showing me a way to escape from her father’s castle when the brute had imprisoned me later that same day, with the intention of putting me to death.
Not long after this incident, when Mary was eleven, she and her sister, Rebecca, came under my guardianship at Somershill. My sister, Clemence, had married de Caburn—but the marriage had been short-lived. De Caburn had been murdered within days of their union, surviving only long enough to father a child—a boy named Henry, who was now seven years old and heir to the Versey estate. Clemence curbed her tongue and tamed her temper over the years, but at first she was a poor mother to the girls, particularly after her beloved son was born. Equally, they were poor stepdaughters, always causing mischief and discord within Versey Castle. In the end, Mary and Becky came to live with me at Somershill, to alleviate the bad temper on all sides.
At first the girls were difficult. Wild, even. They refused to wear dresses, and they refused to attend their lessons. Once they even ran away to their aunt in London, in order to spite me, but this woman was no kinder to them than their own father or stepmother had been, and in time they came to trust me as the person who most cared for them in this world. I allowed them some freedom, as long as they behaved themselves within the house at Somershill, and didn’t vex the servants or tease Mother’s dog. As much as it might have amused me, and delighted them to grow up like a pair of savages, they had to comply with the rules of society. I had to think of their marriage prospects, which were already harmed, considering that they had lost their chances of inheriting Versey at the birth of Clemence’s son. I found the wearing of dresses and the combing of hair was the minimum expected of a noblewoman in society. If I could foster this much adherence to manners, then I had been a successful influence in their lives.