by S. D. Sykes
Mother gasped. “Lovers? Are you sure about that? They never had a kind word for each other. And as for all those conversations that I overheard . . .”
“What conversations?”
She began to reel the cloth of her turban into a roll. “They were always arguing, Oswald.” She wandered over to the pitcher and poured some water into a low basin. “Of course, they pretended that they were discussing the weather, or the price of flour, but he was always calling her a whore, and she was always calling him a bastard.”
“Oh yes?” I said, lifting my head a little. “And you could understand that, could you?”
“Yes,” she said, a little defensively.
“So, what are the Venetian words for ‘whore’ and ‘bastard’ then?”
Mother splashed some water onto her face. “Are you testing me, Oswald?” She turned to look at me. “Am I one of those witnesses you question at your manorial courts? Or perhaps you think me a foolish woman? An old crone who’s lost her mind and pretends to have mastered a foreign tongue?”
“You can’t have heard them correctly,” I said, falling back against the bed.
She wiped her eyes with the end of the turban. “I’m neither deaf nor stupid. I know what I heard, so you either believe me, or you don’t.”
I turned onto my side, but her words would not leave my mind. Had Filomena and Giovanni truly called each other such insulting names? Mother’s fluency in Venetian was much improved—but was it likely that she had understood such terms? And if she had heard them correctly, then these were not the names that lovers would utter to one another. The rain continued to lash against the shutters, and a cold breeze squeezed itself into the room and whistled under the door—loud enough to drown out even the deep, resounding voices of the German merchants in the next room. I knew enough of their tongue to know that they had been arguing about the bad weather, and whether it was safe to set sail for Candia the next day.
Mother presented me with a pair of muddy boots. “You should put these in the bottom of your chest, Oswald. Or they’ll cover your clean clothes in dirt.”
I grunted in response.
The wind blew the shutters open with a crash, and a bitterly cold wind invaded the room, so I had no choice but to raise myself from the bed and close them again. As I looked down onto the canal, I could see that the bottom steps of the water gate were now flooded. A few small boats bobbed about feverishly at their posts on the jetty, and the Rialto Bridge was barely a dark smudge.
Mother looked over my shoulder. “It’s a relief we’re not sailing from Venice, isn’t it Oswald,” she said. “This storm looks as if it will set in for days.” Then she rubbed her back and gave one of her groans. “Not that I’m looking forward to sitting in the back of that cart again. Last time the juddering was enough to sieve the flesh from my bones.”
I looked away guiltily, wondering whether I should use this opportunity to admit the truth—that we were, indeed, leaving this city by sea. On the other hand, an early admission of this truth would give her too much notice to object. Then again, if I left the announcement to the last minute, Mother might be like one of those sheep that stubbornly refuses to board a river barge. I almost imagined her bolting through the Molo and drawing all kinds of unwanted attention—and we could hardly afford to be noticed, not when we were fleeing Venice with only hours to spare.
My mind was made up. I would tell her now, but as I turned back, I found she was leaning over my chest and lifting a pair of socks into the air, exclaiming at their dirtiness. As she did this, something fell to the floor with a thud. It was the purse I had stolen from Burano.
“What’s this?” she said, picking up the small, leather pouch.
I rushed across the room and snatched the purse from her hand. “It’s nothing,” I said quickly.
“Really?” she said. “You seem rather concerned about it, seeing as it’s unimportant.”
“It’s just some money that I’ve had hidden,” I said. “For emergencies.”
She looked at me oddly. “So how much do you have in there then?”
“I’m not sure,” I said with an unconvincing shrug.
“Then let’s count it.”
I hesitated, for I had shied away, again and again, from looking at these coins, but why shouldn’t I count them? What did it matter now that I had stolen them—for how else would I pay for our passage to Marseilles? How else would I begin my journey back to England?
And so, for the first time, I shook the golden coins from the purse, let them fall onto the bed, and then took the time to study each one of them properly. They no longer prompted shame, only hope and joy. The joy of seeing Hugh’s face again. I let Mother admire the golden coins, before I dropped them, one by one, back into the purse, but it was then that I saw it. Small, dull, and snagged onto the silk lining of the purse. I heaved a sigh, as I examined it more closely, for I could not leave this city yet. Venice held one last claw in my heart.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I didn’t knock at the door of Ca’ Bearpark. Instead I climbed over the high wall from the street into the courtyard, and then dropped down onto the stones below. Thankfully my ascent went unnoticed, as nobody was venturing out of doors now that the storm was raging, and all the shutters of the neighboring houses were firmly shut. Even the rats and stray dogs of Venice had forsaken the driving rain, finding some sheltered crevice in which to hide.
The courtyard was empty, so I quickly ascended the external staircase and then crept through the piano nobile. None of the doors was locked, and everywhere I met only darkness and silence—no sign even of the old maid who usually attended Bearpark. There were no lanterns or fires, and Ca’ Bearpark felt as abandoned as a plague house after the Pestilence.
My thoughts turned immediately to John Bearpark, so I headed up his personal staircase, making sure to tread as softly as possible on each step, though when I reached his room I found it to be as deserted as the rest of the house. There was no sign of Bearpark at all, apart from his spectacles, which lay on the floor, next to his broken hourglass—the sands of time having spilled out into a small, conical heap.
I hesitated, deciding now to check upon Bernard and Margery’s bedchamber. Once I had scurried back down the stairs to the piano nobile, I discerned a thin light from the crack beneath their closed door. I knocked gently, but heard nothing, so I pushed my way in to find another empty chamber. I noticed immediately that Bernard’s cloak was hung upon a peg. Of more interest was the white habit of a Dominican priest, slung across the bed. As I lifted this garment for farther inspection, a pilgrim’s badge fell to the floor. It bore an image of the five geese of Saint Werburga and had once been sewn upon the sleeve of this same habit, alongside a whole collection of other badges.
I dropped the habit back onto the bed when I heard a low scream from somewhere below me in the bowels of Ca’ Bearpark. I raced down the stairs to the courtyard, holding my cloak above my head to shield my face from the storm, for now the rain fell in angry batons, bouncing from the flooded courtyard in bursting crowns of water. Reaching the water gate, I could see the canal had risen so rapidly that the second step was already submerged, but then again we were only hours away from the high tide now, when this whole floor risked flooding. The gates were open, and outside in the canal, a wide cargo boat was moored against the side of the house—the type of boat that usually transported stones and timber about the lagoon or into the River Po. It caught my eye, not only because it was an unusual sight in this side canal, but also because I recognized the wide bow, and the red, square sail tied to its single mast. As the wind inflated and then deflated a heavy oiled sheet that covered the hull, I knew where I had seen this vessel before. It had been at the Molo, only the previous day.
The screaming came again—weaker this time, but not drowned out completely by the ferocity of the storm. The light was poor, and I didn’t have a lantern, but I proceeded without much difficulty since I knew my way about this house without
the need for a candle. Creeping along the passageway, I passed the servants’ quarters, Giovanni’s bureau, and the room where I had inspected Enrico’s body, until I felt the cool, unpleasant sensation of water in my boots. I was heading for the passageway that was hidden behind the hanging carpet. Giovanni had told me that the small door at the end of this passageway only led to a cesspit. He had told me that it was a forgotten door, an unimportant, redundant access to the neighboring house, but now I suspected it had found a different use completely.
I located the carpet quickly enough, lifted it from the wall, and then crept along this short passage to reach the door at the other end. This time it was not locked. Instead, it gave way at my push, opening far enough for me to look past into a dark chamber, across which I could see the shape of two people against the far wall. The air down here was poisonous and suffocating, caused by the waste matter that floated about in the water—Giovanni hadn’t lied when he said it was a cesspit. I wanted to cough—but I held my breath, as the screaming came again, emanating from a second chamber that led from this first one. The door to this room was shut, but lines of light crept out between the gaps about the door frame.
Holding my nose against the fumes, I waded across the room to reach the two people on the other side, pushing my way past a soup of floating filth. When I reached them, I found that their mouths were gagged with linen rags and their hands were tied with a rope that was then fastened to a metal ring on the wall. Now that I was closer I could see that it was Giovanni and Filomena. Giovanni was conscious, but Filomena seemed dazed, making only the lowest murmur when I shook her.
I had untied their gags, when the screaming came again from the next room. This time it sounded like the panicked, high-pitched squeal of an animal about to be slaughtered, and I could not ignore it. It was pity for this person that moved me to act without thinking of the consequences—but it was a mistake. Another blunder.
I forced the door open and was met by a sight that I will never forget. This was not the person I had expected to see on the other side of this door. It was John Bearpark, no longer the weakened invalid lying upon his deathbed. Instead, his sleeves were rolled up and he was beating a man with a long ebony pole. His victim’s face was bloodied and torn—just as Enrico’s had been, but I could still make out a bald head, covered with a large purple birthmark. This was Gianni Ricci.
In those few moments, I imagined that this whole tableau was a horrific vision. The flooding chamber was another twisted creation of my ailing mind, and if I concentrated hard enough, then the whole illusion would dissolve. I even tried to pinch myself, but the sight before me was horribly real, and suddenly the whole sordid story of my investigation into Enrico’s murder made perfect sense.
The old man stood back—shocked to see me. “What are you doing here, de Lacy?” he said. “This is none of your business.”
“Let this man go,” I told him.
Bearpark growled, as the weak glow of the candlelight illuminated his face and lent him the air of a madman. “Keep out of this. It’s between me and the man who killed my grandson.”
I waded through the water and tried to grab the pole, but Bearpark was surprisingly strong and resisted me. “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you? Well, I’m still as strong as an ox,” he said. “Once a soldier, always a soldier!” To prove this point, he then shoved me away, causing me to fall onto my knees. “Did you think I was going to wait until dawn for you to bring him here?” He laughed. “A Bearpark seeks his own revenge.”
I struggled back to my feet. “But this man didn’t kill Enrico, did he?” I said.
“Of course he did. You found him for me.”
“No, Bearpark. It was you. You are the murderer.”
Bearpark let Ricci go at my words, allowing the man to scamper away into a corner, where he crouched with his arms over his head. “Have you lost your mind, de Lacy?” Bearpark managed to squeeze out another laugh. “Again.”
“You don’t fool me,” I said. “I know what happened. It was you who forced Enrico to take a lover at the Arsenale, wasn’t it?”
Bearpark’s face darkened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I pointed to Ricci’s cringing form. “You wanted Enrico to use this man to discover secrets about the shipyard. Secrets that you could then sell to the enemies of Venice.”
“I think you’d better shut your mouth,” he said.
“I thought it was just Bernard and Margery behind this. But now I see that it was you as well. All along. The three of you are spies.”
Bearpark let out a great laugh at this. “Do you hear that, Bernard?” He shouted into the darkness. “Lord Somershill thinks that we are spies.”
At these words, two men crept forward from the gloom. One was indeed Bernard, though he looked very different from his usual self. Gone was the foolish distant smile. Instead he looked at me with a sly malice. His companion’s face was familiar, but this was not Margery.
Bernard raised his eyebrows in a pretence at being offended by my accusation. “Spies, eh? And why would Lord Somershill think that? I’m just a pilgrim, waiting for a galley to the Holy Land.”
“A pilgrim remembers which English port he set sail from,” I said. “Is it Felixstowe, or is it Dover?” My accusation only seemed to amuse Bernard. “And a pilgrim doesn’t pay a servant to dispose of a murder victim,” I added.
“Dear me,” said Bernard. “What are you talking about?”
“I found a purse of golden coins hidden at Adolpho Bredani’s house on Burano.”
“And what has this purse to do with me?” he asked.
“It belonged to you.”
“How could you tell?”
“One of your pilgrim’s badges was snagged to the lining.”
Bernard shook his head dismissively at my words, his amusement now turned to annoyance. “We haven’t got time for all this nonsense, Bearpark,” he said tersely. “Our boat is waiting outside.”
“I haven’t finished with Ricci yet,” said Bearpark in response to this order. “I need to know if he said anything to anybody else.”
“Oh, just kill the man,” said Bernard with a wave of his hand. “It’s too late for all this. We need to get back to Fusina while the tide is with us.” When Bearpark did not react to this suggestion, Bernard added, “Hurry up, or I’ll get Tamas here to do it for you.” Bernard then turned back to me, presenting his companion with a mocking bow of his head. “You remember Tamas, my lord. I’m afraid he’s not really a pilgrim either.”
I looked again at the man who had appeared with Bernard from the darkness, and suddenly realized how completely I had been gulled by a long habit, a wimple, and a vow of silence. No wonder Mother complained about Margery’s heavy feet on the staircase and the way she liked to sit with her legs parted. For Margery was a man. With his hood down, and his wimple removed, I questioned how I could ever have thought this person was female—for Tamas’s hair receded to the crown of his head, and his jaw was square and masculine.
“So, you are spies then,” I said.
“I prefer to think of us as merchants,” said Bernard rather proudly, “trading in information.”
“Who are you selling to? Hungary?”
“I have contacts in many courts across Europe,” he boasted. “There is always a strong market for information. Especially if it concerns the Venetian fleet. But you’re right. In this instance, we found that Hungary paid the best prices.” He smiled. “War can be such a profitable business.” His smile then faded instantly. “Unfortunately that unpleasant letter of denunciation ruined trade. In fact, Tamas received quite a beating when the Hungarians heard about it. But there you are,” he said with a small sigh, “no business is without its risks.” He turned back to Bearpark. “Now come along, John. Let’s clear this all up quickly, shall we?” He pointed to me and then to Ricci, who remained slumped in the corner. “Are you sure you don’t need Tamas’s help here? There are two of them. And you’re not a
s strong as you used to be.”
“No, of course not,” said Bearpark with some umbrage. “I’ll deal with this myself.”
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “Just as you dealt with Enrico, I suppose?” he said caustically.
“Enrico was my grandson,” said Bearpark. “He was my problem to solve.”
“Indeed,” said Bernard, “but you didn’t do a very good job, did you? A very messy affair, if you ask me. We don’t want a repeat of that disaster, do we?”
Bearpark now rose up like an angered bull. “How dare you speak to me like that?” he roared.
“I’ll speak to you however I like,” said Bernard, not in the least bit intimidated by Bearpark’s ferocity. “You work for me, remember.” When Bearpark continued to glower, he added. ‘“You are too proud John, too proud. You should have asked for some assistance from Tamas, rather than engaging that useless servant to remove the body.” Then he gave a short laugh. “And really, you might have used your own purse of coins to pay the fellow, rather than taking one of mine. Or at least you should have checked first that it was free of any clues which might give away our identity.” Bernard turned back to me. “That was good work, Lord Somershill. I commend you on a rigorous piece of investigation. And I might say that you also did an excellent job in tracking down the Bredani fellow for us. We had had a hard time trying to find him after Bearpark’s foolish mistake in engaging the man. But then you had the excellent idea of setting up a search party.”
I thought back to the evening when Giovanni had sought me out in the piano nobile, to inform me that Adolpho Bredani had been found in Dorsoduro. Bernard must have been listening to our conversation, and then passed this information onto Tamas. I felt enraged at this revelation and went to throw a punch at Bernard, but Tamas intervened, pushing my face so violently against the wall that my lips could taste the damp tang of the bricks. As Tamas held me there, Bearpark returned to his assault upon Gianni Ricci with greater savagery. Behind me, the poor man wailed—his thin calls of pain were interrupted only by the cold, smacking thud of Bearpark’s fist against his face. When I could stand this no longer, I took a deep breath and then kicked the heel of my boot against Tamas’s shin, causing the man to jump back and curse me loudly. He was not speaking Venetian or English. Instead, his words sounded Uralic, and I guessed at Hungarian. It was no wonder that he had sworn a vow of silence to hide his true identity.