by S. D. Sykes
As I walked, the wind blew my hair wildly about my face and inflated my cloak until I looked as if I were myself a boat under sail. My approach to the simple square chapel would not easily be disguised, so I chose instead to walk with the steady intent of a man striding into battle. I kept my focus upon my destination, and if the monkey were trying to catch my eye, then I would not pay it an ounce of attention.
At this pace, I soon reached the outskirts of the small colony of lepers, where the reeds gave way to bare patches of earth, dotted with fig and apple trees, and lines of mounded soil, waiting to be planted up in the Spring with beans and peas. A donkey leaned over a broken fence and brayed aggressively at my passing, and some chickens ran in my path, clucking and flapping their wings with the usual, squawking terror at anything that wasn’t another chicken.
This small patch of cultivated land seemed more organized than I had expected—in fact, I would say it was as ordered and as well-kept as many of the virgates farmed by my own villeins back in Kent. This gave me some heart, until I caught sight of the lepers themselves, loitering in doorways or hiding behind trees. Some seemed human enough, with only the slightest disfigurements to their faces and limbs, but others had become as warped and decayed as a fallen tree—the swellings on their skin as clustered as the blisters of a jelly fungus.
The lepers watched me with cautious eyes, but they would not approach. Only an old and blinded man hobbled into my path, with his stunted, fingerless hand outstretched to me, and his voice still capable of begging for a soldino. As he neared me, however, the others called out to him, warning him to keep his distance. They said that a shadow trailed me.
I kept my eyes facing forward and tried to concentrate, as a man hobbled toward me from the direction of the chapel. He was a monk, a Benedictine, and though his black robes were dusty and torn, I could see immediately that he did not suffer from leprosy. “What do you want?” he said, stopping only a few feet away from me and waving his stick in my face. “Are you a leper?” He spoke in Venetian, but his accent had the exactitude of German pronunciation—a style of speech I knew well from our stay at the Fondaco.
I bowed my head. “I wish to speak with a young man named Marco. I believe he’s recently arrived.”
The old priest attempted a shrug, but he was a poor liar. “I don’t know anybody with that name.”
I looked toward the chapel door, to see a figure quickly dart out of sight. “So I wouldn’t find him hiding over there then?” I said.
“Go back to your boat and get off this island,” he told me. “You’re not welcome here.”
“I mean Marco no harm,” I said, stepping toward the man. “I just need to speak to him.”
The stick was raised again. “There is no Marco here. This is the island of lepers. Leave now. This is no place for you.”
I reached to my belt and untied the purse that Giovanni had given me, then I made a point of jingling the coins within. “Are you sure I can’t speak to Marco?” I looked about the settlement, at the worn-out hovels, with rags at their windows and holes in their roofs. If ever there was a place in need of charity, then this was it—but the old priest turned his back on my coins and hobbled back toward his church. “Take your money and leave!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We don’t yield to bribery here.”
I ran after him, but stopped short of touching the man. “I must speak to Marco,” I said. “I didn’t send the Signori di Notte to find him. That story is wrong. They must have followed me to the convent.” I paused to catch my breath. “I’m just an Englishman, investigating the murder of a friend.” He turned his head the smallest fraction at this remark. “The dead man was also a friend of Marco’s,” I said, as desperation crept into my voice. “Marco can help me to find the killer. That’s all I care about. No more, and no less.”
The priest paused for a moment, and I thought I had convinced him with my plea, but then he changed his mind. “There’s no Marco here,” he said, hobbling away again. “I told you that before.”
I caught up with him and this time I stretched out a hand to clasp his arm. “Please. Let me speak to Marco,” I said. “A person’s life depends upon it. I need only a few moments of his time.”
The old priest went to beat me away with his stick, when Marco ran out of the chapel and stood between us. He was also wearing the black habit of the Benedictines, and his head had been tonsured—his curls cut away to give him an older, less angelic appearance. “Let me speak to him, Father, and then he will leave us alone.”
“Do you know this man, Marco?” said the priest.
Marco nodded. “I do, Father. He’s the Englishman I told you of before.”
“So he’s not to be trusted?”
Marco hesitated at this question. “No. But I will answer his questions, if he promises to leave.”
The priest regarded me suspiciously, slowly rolling his head from side to side, as if this might improve the quality of his assessment. “Let’s take him into the chapel then,” he said at length. “A man will not bear false witness in the House of God.”
Marco bristled. “No, no. Father. I would rather speak to him out here.”
“But—”
“I insist,” said Marco. “This man comes from my old life. You must let me speak to him alone.”
The priest heaved a long sigh. “Very well. But your visitor can pay for the interview, at least.”
“So you do yield to bribery then?” I remarked.
The priest only gave a grunt of indignation at this, before waving his staff at the lepers who had crept forward in order to enjoy a rare moment of drama. “Look about you, Englishman,” he said. “How do you think these people are fed? We grow a few vines in the courtyard, and there are a handful of goats on the grass, but do you think we go to the market when we don’t have enough food?” I tried to answer, but he shouted over me. “No! We do not. The market must come to us. And do you think we get the best food and the lowest prices for this privilege?” Once again I tried to answer without success. “No!” he shouted. “We do not. I call out my orders to their boats, and they tell me what money to leave on the jetty. Then they deliver the foulest cheese and the wettest grain. You might think there would be mercy for these poor, miserable people? But no, not at all. The merchants of Venice would profit from the misery of an island of lepers. Lepers! The most wretched creatures in the kingdom of God.” He held out a limp hand, exhausted after his tirade. “So, I ask you to be very generous, my friend. Do not stint.”
How could I refuse such an oratory? So I gave the whole purse to the priest. I would tell you that the man appeared grateful for my donation, but he moved the coins about with his finger and then gave a derisory sniff. “Go on then, you may speak to Marco.” He waved his stick at me. “But be quick about it. Marco has his work and prayers to attend to.”
We sat on a bench beneath a tree that was growing through a crumbling wall, its roots clinging to the stone like leeches. The lepers kept their distance—only a solitary woman daring to creep nearer to spy at me from behind a makeshift fence. Her face was ruined by a great gaping hole where her nose had once lived, and suddenly I felt the full weight of despair bear down upon me. I knew exactly why the abbess had crowed that I would never dare to follow Marco here, for this was a hopeless, living Hell. It was death in the midst of life. Who would come to this place, unless afflicted with leprosy, or desperate to escape something worse? And yet, this misery and bleakness had not deterred my monkey from choosing this island as its home. In fact, it was this very wretchedness that had drawn it here.
“Why did you come to this place, Marco?” I asked.
“Better to die on the Lazaretto, than to be burned on the pyre,” he said. “The Signori will not seek me out here.”
“I didn’t give them your name, you know.”
He rubbed his face with his hands. “Just tell me what you want to know, Englishman, and then go away.”
“Very well,” I said. “You wrote the l
etter denouncing Enrico, didn’t you?” He stiffened. “I know that it was you, Marco, so don’t lie to me.”
“I wanted only to frighten Enrico,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
I stifled a laugh at this answer. “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you posted the letter into the lion’s mouth.”
He wrung his hands together nervously. “I was angry with Enrico. I wanted to punish him for his betrayal.”
“But this was more than mischief, wasn’t it, Marco? There was truth in your accusation.”
“What do you mean by that?” he said, looking up at me warily.
“When you said that Enrico was meddling where he shouldn’t, you meant that he was spying on work of the Arsenale, didn’t you?”
Marco looked away nervously. “I had nothing to do with it. I’m not a spy.”
“I know that.”
“It was Enrico, and that Gianni I told you about,” he said with a huff. “Gianni told Enrico secrets about the Arsenale, and then Enrico sold them.”
“To whom?”
Marco paused. “The Hungarians, I think. But Enrico wouldn’t tell me for certain.”
“Why not?”
“I think he wanted to protect me.” Marco smiled momentarily at this memory before starting to pick nervously at his nails. “The spying wasn’t Enrico’s idea. He was forced to take a lover at the Arsenale, or so he said.”
“Forced? Who forced him?”
The picking became more frenetic. “I didn’t ask, did I?”
“Why not?”
“Because I thought it was another lie.” He imitated Enrico’s voice. “I took Gianni as a lover only because somebody made me do it, Marco. I don’t love him really.”
“Do you still think that was a lie?”
Marco looked away. “No. I don’t.”
The light was fading quickly now, as a velvety darkness settled across the island. “Did Gianni know that Enrico was using him to obtain secrets?”
Marco smiled spitefully at this question. “He did. After I told him.”
“You told Gianni?” Marco nodded proudly. “And this revelation drove him to murder Enrico in a rage?” I said. “Is that what you’re going to tell me?”
Marco turned his back on me. “As I said before, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“And yet it seems that you did. Over and over again.”
Marco spun around and regarded me with accusing eyes. “Have you ever been in love, Englishman? Do you know the pain of betrayal?” Now it was my turn to look away. “Their affair might have started under false pretences, but then it changed. Suddenly Enrico didn’t want to see me anymore. He told me that he loved Gianni. More than he could ever love me. Can you imagine how that felt? So I went to find this Gianni. I only wanted to see why Enrico thought he was so special. Is that such a crime?” He paused for a moment. “But when I saw them together, I couldn’t bear it.” Another pause. “So I did something that I regret.”
“What did you do, Marco?”
“I waited until Gianni was alone, and then I approached him. I told him a lie.”
“What lie?”
Marco wiped a tear from his eye. “I told him that Enrico still loved me, and that he still visited me at the convent. I told him that their love was a sham, because Enrico only wanted secrets about the Arsenale and nothing else.”
“Did he believe you?”
Marco’s voice was faltering. “Yes, he did. It made him angry.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Angry enough to kill Enrico?”
“Yes! He flew into a violent rage at my words. He frightened me.” Marco turned his face away. “I didn’t know he would behave in such a way, did I? I meant only to cause Gianni the same pain that I felt. I wanted him to know what it was like to be deceived by Enrico. I didn’t know he would commit murder.” Marco wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“And when did this conversation take place?”
Marco sighed. “The morning of Giovedì Grasso.”
“And what was Adolpho Bredani’s involvement in all this?” I said.
He frowned at this question. “I told you this before, Englishman. I’ve never heard of anybody called Adolpho Bredani. I don’t know why you keep asking me about him.” Tears now gathered in the corners of his eyes, and when he could no longer hide this from me, he covered his face with his hands.
To begin with I felt the impulse to comfort the man, but I resisted, for it was Marco’s spite and jealousy that had caused both Enrico’s murder and Filomena’s imprisonment, even if these outcomes had never been his intention. “I need to speak to Gianni,” I said. “I want his full name and address.”
Marco slowly removed his hands and turned his head to look at me. “Why are you doing this, Englishman? Do you understand the trouble you will bring upon yourself?”
“I’m trying to save John Bearpark’s wife,” I said. “Bearpark has accused her of Enrico’s murder.”
Marco frowned. “Monna Filomena? Why would she have anything to do with this? The old man is mad.”
“Bearpark might be mad, but he has imprisoned his wife in a cell, and wants to see her hanged for this crime. So, if you don’t tell me where to find Gianni, then you will have another death on your conscience.”
He turned away and I could see that his hands were trembling. “And if I tell you, will you leave me alone?”
I nodded. “As long as you tell me the truth, Marco.” Then I pressed my hand into his arm. “So don’t lie to me.”
“His name is Gianni Ricci,” he told me with a sigh.
“Are you sure?
“Yes!” Then he gave a short and unexpected laugh. “Do you know what his family name means in our language?” He asked. “Curly hair. But the man has no hair at all. Just a bald, shiny skull with a birthmark across his scalp.” Marco wiped his hand contemptuously across his head as if to demonstrate the spread of this blemish. “A great ugly purple stain.”
Across the courtyard, the old priest appeared at the chapel door with his hands folded, and I knew that my time was running out. “And where does he live?” I asked.
“In Castello.”
“It is a big sestiere, Marco. Be more specific.”
“He lives in a small campo, next to the church of Sant’Antonio.”
I tramped back across the island, taking care to walk upon the spongy mounds of grass and avoiding the deeper channels and clumps of bulrushes. The rain was now falling in long rods from a darkening sky, but I was not disheartened—for I was close to catching my killer. His name was Gianni Ricci, and his motive had been jealous rage. I was not quite sure where Adolpho Bredani and the coins fitted into this—and perhaps they didn’t fit in at all? Perhaps Bredani had just stumbled back to Ca’ Bearpark on the night of Giovedì Grasso and discovered Enrico’s body just moments before I did, before running away in guilt at having abandoned his post. After all, this had always been Bearpark and Giovanni’s explanation for his disappearance.
I had assumed the coins were payment for his involvement in Enrico’s murder, but I had no actual evidence of this—they could equally have come from a gambling win or even an unrelated theft. The case against Ricci was much stronger. I had a witness who had seen Gianni Ricci fighting with Enrico in the storeroom at Ca’ Bearpark, and now I knew that he had been provoked into a furious rage on the morning of Giovedì Grasso. With this evidence, I could arrest the man. Filomena would be saved, and then I could make her mine.
I stopped for a moment and laughed at my own stupidity. Filomena was not a chattel to be handed between owners. Even if she would agree to leaving Venice with me, then what did I have to offer her and her newborn child? A hastily arranged escape in a dirty merchant ship. I could not even promise to take her to England, because I had no intention of ever returning there. But then again, we could hardly settle in Marseilles—a port that I had never visited, and where I had no way of earnin
g any money, other than raising a loan from an old family friend—a man who might not even still be alive.
I was lost in these thoughts when I felt something brush against my fingers. Because my mind was elsewhere, I did not react at first—so when a small hand slipped into mine, I imagined it was Sandro’s for some reason. Only when this hand squeezed my own with its long, claw-like fingers did I recoil, pulling away as if my skin had been burned. And there it was, on the path before me, crouching on the ground and looking up into my face.
I wanted to run, and yet my feet were fixed like dowels into the mud. I tried to close my eyes, but the lids were sewn into their sockets. Its eyes peered into mine—just as they had when I had looked into its cage, all those years ago in Cheapside. On that day it had rejected my interest and turned its back to me, content to sit in its own wretched filth, but now it wanted my attention. It craved my love.
The clouds moved across the sun and the rain beat against my face with its icy fists. Now the monkey reached out again. Beseechingly. It tried to take my hand, but I could not touch its skin. It wanted something from me—something that I could not give. Despite everything, it still disgusted me.
For a fleeting moment, a ray of sun breached the clouds and warmed my face, and suddenly I felt ashamed of myself, of my cowardice and my intransigence. This creature had not chased me here without reason. It was lonely and wretched, and yet I ignored it with a willful, determined resolve. Filomena had been right. I had been running away from it for too long.
And so, very slowly I held out my hand to touch its cold, hard-skinned fingers. My heart was in my mouth, and I felt my stomach twist, but as I held its hand, I did not feel the paw of a monkey. When I looked down, there was no leathery face, hunched back, nor fringe of dirty white fur. Instead, a small boy was looking back at me. He was my son—the boy I had pulled from Mary’s womb.