by S. D. Sykes
Bernard bowed deeply. “Lord Somershill. What a pleasant surprise.” His face wore its usual expression, as if he were smiling at an amusing, but secret memory. “We miss you terribly at Ca’ Bearpark, but I hear you have found alternative accommodation?”
“I have,” and then quickly added, before he asked for our address, “It’s good to see that you and your sister are feeling well enough to venture out into the city again.” Margery stepped back and dropped her head in response to being mentioned.
“We needed to secure our passage to Jerusalem, my lord,” Bernard said. “Otherwise we would never have dared to leave the house.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The murderer has still not been uncovered, you know.”
“Shouldn’t you be farther along the Molo then?” I said, quickly changing the subject. “The Jaffa galleys are over there.” I pointed into the distance, where the boats with the red crosses emblazoned across their sails were moored.
Bernard stared at me, as my observation seemed to trickle through his head. “Ah yes,” he said at last. “Thank you, Lord Somershill. How kind. But we’ve already spoken to our favored padrone and booked our passage. I must say that his boat seems to be very seaworthy, and he has employed a good number of armed sailors for the journey, should we encounter any pirates. And Margery thought he was a lovely young man.” He suddenly laughed. “Though the captains of these pilgrim ships do have to be at least thirty years old, you know. It’s written in the ordinance.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because we visited the office of the Cattaveri, my lord. They explained all the laws concerning pilgrimages from Venice.” He smiled. “Do you know, they will also deal with complaints against unscrupulous captains. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“I meant how do you know that Margery liked this captain?” I said. “Has she broken her vow of silence?”
Bernard gasped. “Goodness me. My dear sister hasn’t said a word since we sailed from Dover.” He then fixed me with an intense stare. “Oh, we do miss your company at Ca’ Bearpark, my lord,” he said again. “I was so disappointed to hear that you and your dear mother moved out, but I do hope you’re comfortable in your new accommodation.”
“Yes, thank you. Very comfortable,” I said, quickly stepping away with a wave. “Farewell to you both.”
I strode back toward our lodgings, hoping not to meet any other unwelcome acquaintances, but as I left the Piazza and walked along a narrow passageway, I passed a tavern where I used to gamble. It might have been early in the morning, but men were already falling out of the door and twisting themselves into the street. Some were victorious, others defeated, but such is the nature of gambling—a volatile concoction of pleasure and pain. I should have walked straight past, but instead I stopped and felt at the single golden coin in my purse. I had retrieved it before leaving that morning, reaching inside the stolen purse without even opening my eyes, as if I had been putting my hand inside the mouth of a lion.
Now that the coin was in my hand, it felt solid and reassuringly sharp about the edges. What harm could there be in a quick game of dice? In fact, the more I thought about the idea, the more it made perfect sense. A win would increase our funds, and a good win would pay for Mother’s passage back to England from Marseilles, without the need for me to borrow more from our family friend. An even better win would allow me to stay away from England for as long as I wanted.
I turned to enter the tavern, but in doing so I caught his eye. At first I thought it was the monkey, but as his face came into focus, I realized that it was the boy who had been paid to watch me. My small and dedicated follower. He was looking straight into my eyes, almost as if he had read my mind. This encounter caused me to turn on my heel and walk quickly away, almost falling into a group of pilgrims who were making their way to the hospice at Orseolo—their clothes bearing the unmistakable reek of three months on the road. Now, as I fought my way through the early morning crowds, I felt my panic rising. If the boy had seen me outside the tavern, then perhaps he had also seen me speaking to the captain at the Molo? In which case, my whole plan to leave Venice would be reported back to the doge’s palace. I needed to corner the small irritant and discover what he had seen, but when I turned and looked for the boy, he had disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I returned to the Fondaco dei Tedeschi to find Mother dressed and seated by the open window, clutching her dog in her arms and looking down upon the Canal Grande with her head covered by a woolen blanket. With the shutters pulled back, the room was as cold as a crypt.
“You’re feeling better then?” I asked, laying my cloak upon the bed and pulling off my boots.
“Yes,” she snapped. “Why do you ask?”
“You were upset last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Oswald. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
And so the subject of her romance with John Bearpark was closed, and I knew we would never speak of it again. There was, however, another matter that we needed to discuss, and this would be another awkward conversation. “Mother. There’s something I should tell you,” I said airily.
Usually such a sentence would immediately pique her interest, but she continued to look out of the window, her voice distracted. “Yes, Oswald. What is it?”
“We’re going to be leaving Venice. On Saturday morning.”
She shrugged, a little wearily. “Very well then.”
“But we won’t be traveling to Jerusalem.”
She merely shrugged at this as well. “I didn’t want to go there anyway, Oswald. I’ve heard the place is crawling with flies.”
“So, you’re not disappointed?”
“No Oswald. I’m not,” she said with an unusual air of resignation. “I just want to return to Somershill. To be in England again.”
I looked away and could not answer. I did not want to be in Venice, but equally, I did not want to be in England.
We sat in silence for a few moments. “How will we return then?” she said suddenly. “Have you found some other pilgrims for us to travel with? I hope they are a better quality of person than those fools we came here with. I know they were my own family, but what a miserable bunch!”
How was I to tell her that we had money enough only to reach Marseilles in the hull of a merchant ship, and thereafter we must rely upon borrowing some money from an old family friend? “I’ll tell you more later,” I said quickly. “But first we need to pack our chest and buy a few provisions.” Before she was able to answer, I said, “I have a list of foodstuffs. Perhaps you might go to the market and buy what’s needed?”
“Or I can ask a servant to do it,” she said.
“No. I’d rather you went yourself, Mother. We don’t want poor-quality provisions for our journey, do we?” I said, as she tried to object. “You’re so much more discerning than a servant.” I managed to deliver this piece of flattery with an encouraging smile. “And perhaps it would be best if you did not mention it to anyone.”
“Mention what?”
“That we’re leaving Venice.”
She looked at me suspiciously and might have asked more questions, when thankfully we were interrupted by a knock at the door. I asked Mother to answer, while I withdrew quickly into the corner behind the tall cupboard, telling her to say that I was out. So far, I had not received a visit from Vittore—but it could not be long before he sniffed out our new address and came to call.
The person at the door was only delivering a letter, however. From my position behind the cupboard, I could hear that Mother spoke to this man in Venetian, and I must say that I was surprised at her competency in this tongue.
She closed the door and then passed me the letter with some distaste, holding it between the ends of her fingers, as if it had been steeped in piss. “It’s from Bearpark,” she said. Her eye twitched at his name. “His messenger is waiting outside. Apparently he will not leave until you answer this letter.”
&nb
sp; I broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The letter was indeed from Bearpark himself, though I could see it had been written by Giovanni, as the words bore the steady flow of a younger man’s writing and not the spidery scrawl of an old man’s hand. The message itself was short—containing a halfhearted apology for his behavior toward Filomena, followed by a request, nay a demand, that I return to his service and resume my investigation into Enrico’s murder.
“What does it say?” asked Mother, pouring herself a bowl of wine from the pitcher and trying not to sound particularly interested.
“It’s an entreaty from Bearpark,” I said. “He wants me to return to the investigation.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And will you?”
“No.”
She allowed herself a satisfied huff. “Good. Let the old toad look for the murderer himself.” Then she laughed. “That’s if he lives long enough.”
I opened the door to find that the messenger who had been waiting for my response was the servant with the lopsided face. He was pleased to see me, but his oddly angled smile soon disappeared when I gave him his answer. “Please tell John Bearpark that I will not return to the investigation,” I said. The man grimaced, for this was not the answer that he had been told to collect, and no doubt he feared the response he would receive when conveying it to his master. “Tell Bearpark not to contact me again,” I said. “Nothing will induce me to return to his house.” The man sighed, bowed to me, and then withdrew into the darkness of the passageway.
I was tempted to throw the letter into the meager fire that was failing to warm the room, but the parchment was of good quality, and might be washed down for farther use. With our funds so limited, I had no choice but to make such economies, but as I stored this roll of parchment in my chest, I found another letter hidden beneath the folded chemises and leather tunics. It was the letter that Enrico Bearpark had written to me, all those months before. His letter of friendship, warning me to take care with my disposition and inviting me to spend time with his friends in order to enjoy the delights of Venice. The letter looked back at me like an accusing child, so I stuffed it beneath my clothes and tried to forget about Enrico. My investigation into his murder had failed, and yet I knew that I could have found his killer—if only I had spoken to Marco one last time.
I closed my chest quickly as Mother addressed me, calling for me to join her on the balcony. “Look,” she said, pointing toward the Rialto Bridge. “That boy is out there again.”
“Which boy?”
“The one I gave some money to, on the night of Enrico’s murder. He’s been following you around Venice for days.” She turned to me with a look of amusement in her eyes. “Don’t say you haven’t noticed him? Sometimes I do wonder why you call yourself a great investigator.”
“That was your name for me, Mother. I never gave myself such a ridiculous title.” I looked where Mother was pointing and could see the boy, leaning his head between the wooden struts of the bridge—a small, static soul in a sea of movement.
“What does he want?” Mother asked.
I went back inside the room and pulled on my boots again. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”
When I reached the bridge, the boy had predictably disappeared from sight, but this didn’t mean he wasn’t close at hand. The whole of Venice seemed to be at the market this afternoon, before the threatened storm unleashed its torrents of rain upon the city, so I wandered from stall to stall, pausing to buy some pressed dates and the small zaletti biscuits that fall apart so deliciously in the mouth. Now I sensed that the boy was only a few steps behind me, but also knew that I should not act in haste, for he would be as difficult to catch as an eel. When a man fishes, he needs bait—so I stopped a girl with a basket of freshly baked bread, pulled the small loaf in half, and held it behind me as I walked, knowing that the boy was now close enough to lick the crust.
After a while, I turned the corner into an alley, where the stallholders kept their baskets and wooden crates. The ground was littered with rotting fruit and leaves, so I picked my way carefully through the debris, making sure to hold out the bread so that the boy continued to follow. After turning another corner, I pressed myself against the wall, and as the boy crept forward, I grabbed him firmly, feeling his bones through his thin shirt.
“Who are you?” I demanded, when he had stopped squirming and kicking at me. “Why are you spying on me?”
He squinted, pretending that he could not understand my Venetian.
I held on to his wrist with one hand and held the loaf above his nose with the other. “Do you want to eat this?” He nodded, understanding that much. “Then tell me who’s paying you.” He tensed at this question, but didn’t take his eyes from the bread. A line of spittle descended from one side of his mouth, as his stomach rumbled loudly. The boy was starving. As bony as a bat. But I could not let sympathy overrule sense, so I squeezed his tiny wrist a little harder. “Tell me who’s paying you, and then you get the bread.”
I held the bread a little higher above his nose, and he raised himself onto his tiptoes, as if he could eat its perfume.
“Is it the Consiglio dei Dieci?” He gave no reaction. “Signor Ballio?”
The boy’s eyes were fixed upon the bread, but at Ballio’s name, he gave the slightest of nods.
“What do you tell them?” I said, holding the loaf nearer his mouth, but not so close that he could bite it.
The boy hesitated, but the lure of the freshly baked bread was too strong. “I tell them where you go and what you do,” he said uneasily.
“Have you told them where I went this morning? To the Molo?”
He shook his head. “No. Not yet. I see them at night.”
Now I grasped him by his collar, feeling the thin inadequacy of his tunic. In this weather a boy needed a thick cloak. “Are you telling me the truth?”
He nodded desperately, then made a grab for the bread, so I gave him the whole loaf, keeping my hand on the back of his tunic as he tore away at the soft dough like a crow at a carcass.
“They don’t pay you too well, do they?” I said in the end.
He nodded to this, but would not waste eating time by speaking to me. Looking down upon his small head, I could see that patches of his hair were as thin as an old woman’s.
“What’s your name?” I asked him, when he had finally stopped chewing.
“Sandro.”
“How old are you, Sandro?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Would you like to earn some money?” I asked. The boy drew back at this suggestion. “I just want you not to tell anybody at the doge’s palace what I’m doing,” I said quickly. “That’s all I ask.” The boy still seemed suspicious. “I’ll pay you well, Sandro,” I said. “Much better than they do. But you must stay with me at all times. Just so that I can trust you.”
Sandro thought about my offer for a while, studying my face for signs of treachery. In the end I seemed to pass the examination, especially when I gave him a zaletti biscuit, for then he smiled at me. A toothy, wide grin that thrust an unexpected spike of pain into my heart.
Sandro walked beside me as we neared the Fondaco, but we held back on the bridge when realizing that there was a disturbance at the water gate of our inn. A group of soldiers in the uniform of the doge’s palace had disembarked from a long sàndolo. Some were standing about on the jetty, while others were shouting up to a man who was leaning over a first-floor balcony. When I looked more closely, I realized that this was the balcony to my own bedchamber, and the man to whom they spoke was Ballio. I froze as another figure appeared alongside this man. It was my mother, and she was haranguing Ballio with waving arms and loud words. The tactic was working, since he began to hang back from her as if she were a rabid dog.
Sandro looked to me, then to the soldiers, and I wondered if he would give me away. I think the idea had occurred to him as well, but the loaf of bread and the zaletti biscuit had been enough to win his allegiance. For t
he time being anyway. We watched for a while, until the soldiers finally jumped into their boat and left the Fondaco, presumably since they could not find me—though I noted that Ballio made sure to leave a couple of guards at the water gate to wait for my return. I needed to get back to my room without passing these men, and Sandro seemed to read my mind, for he whispered to me that he knew another entrance to the inn, one that was only used by the servants.
Was it wise to trust the boy so quickly? I wasn’t sure, but then again I was short of options, so I let him take me by his skinny hand and pull me into one of the very thinnest passageways I had ever walked along. No light pierced the warren of tunnels that we then followed through San Marco, though Sandro seemed to know his way intimately about this network of dark corridors, and soon we were at the back door to the kitchens of the Fondaco, where the scent of frying olive oil and fish filled the confined air with its strong perfume. The cook shouted at Sandro as the boy pushed the door to the kitchens open, but it was with a certain good humor, and the boy’s retort was cheeky enough to make the woman smile. She even threw him a small piece of cheese rind, which he popped into his mouth, but did not chew upon.
Following the boy, I then ascended a narrow back staircase only used by the servants, until we emerged onto a passageway that led to my bedchamber. Sandro wouldn’t leave the stairwell, knowing that his dirty face would not be welcome in the guests’ quarters of this establishment, so in order to reward his loyalty and make sure that he didn’t disappear, I pressed a soldino into his hand and told him to wait for me. If he did as I asked, then there would be another coin on my return.
Opening the door to my bedchamber with caution, I peeped into the room to check that it was indeed empty of soldiers. Mother was seated in a corner, with a bowl in her hands and the foam of ale across her top lip, while Hector slept at her feet. The dog did not even bother to raise an eyelid at my entrance.