by S. D. Sykes
Now free of Tamas’s grip, I grasped the ebony pole that Bearpark had left leaning against the wall, thrusting it at my three opponents. “Just go,” I said. “Get out of Venice before you kill anybody else.”
Bernard folded his arms at my words, and John Bearpark gave a scornful puff of laughter. “You’ve got yourself in a bit of a corner here, haven’t you?” he said.
I thrust the pole into his face. “Is this where you killed Enrico?” I asked. “In this stinking, flooding chamber?” I looked about me, and thought of the wetness on Enrico’s hose, and the way that Enrico’s calls for help would have been muffled in this hidden place. Any screams that escaped would have been drowned out by the celebrations of Giovedì Grasso. “You paid Bredani to get rid of his body, didn’t you?” I said. “A servant who you thought you could trust, because he was your wife’s brother. The only problem was that I disturbed him in the act, and he had to flee.”
Bearpark clenched his hands into hard fists. “The boy was a fool. He couldn’t carry out the simplest of instructions.”
“But what about Enrico? Was he a fool as well?”
Bearpark’s eyes flashed. “How could I trust him? Blabbing our business about the city. Provoking letters of denunciation. Sooner or later the Venetians would have worked it out. And do you know what they do to traitors in this city, de Lacy?”
“So you murdered him. Your own grandson.”
Bearpark suddenly lifted his hands to his face. “I didn’t mean to kill Enrico. It was a mistake. All he had to do was give me the name of his lover. That’s all I wanted.” He gritted his teeth again, and there was anguish written across his face. “Yet he kept it from me. Why?”
“Because he loved Gianni,” I said. “He knew what you’d do to him.”
Bearpark then let out a great mocking guffaw at my words. “Love?” He pointed at the pathetic man who lay crumpled against the wall. “Look at this great object of desire.” He turned to kick Gianni in the stomach. “Who could love that? Who could sacrifice themselves in order to save that?” Bearpark stopped and composed himself. “I just asked Enrico to find a man at the Arsenale. I didn’t tell him to fall in love with the fool.” Then he turned to me sharply, all the torment released from his face, and in its place a cruel smile. “So, it was a blessing that you turned up from nowhere.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Oh yes. It was a blessing indeed. I never would have found Ricci, if it hadn’t been for you. I know you wandered off the path of the investigation a few times, but we were able to steer you back in the right direction, weren’t we, Bernard?”
“What?” said Bernard, scratching his upper lip absentmindedly. “Oh yes. Margery’s testament was a fine piece of invention, wasn’t it? Though I say so myself.” Bernard wagged his finger at me. “You were getting a little too interested in Adolpho Bredani at that point, Lord Somershill, and we needed you to return to finding this man at the Arsenale.”
“So you see, de Lacy,” said Bearpark, before I could answer. “Your mother turned out to be right. You were a great investigator, after all. You brought us the man we’d been looking for.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I never told you Ricci’s name.”
“You didn’t,” said Bearpark, “but your little friend did.” He paused. “What is that small boy’s name now? That’s right. Sandro.” He gave a short snort. “You thought he was working for the doge’s palace didn’t you? So perhaps your skills of detection might need a little more honing, because the boy worked for me, all along.” He laughed. “I might say that you both did.”
I felt nauseated, for Bearpark spoke the truth. Had I not tenaciously returned to this inquiry again and again, then Ricci would not be crouching in the corner of this cesspit, waiting to be beaten to death. I had been used unwittingly, but this was no time for remorse. I had to get out of here. I had to live.
Bernard grasped Bearpark’s arm with impatience. “Come along. Enough of this great finale. We need to get rid of these men and leave.”
I quickly scrambled to my feet, knowing that my only chance of escape was to keep Bearpark talking. “And where do these two fit in?” I said quickly, pointing to Bernard and Tamas. “Old friends from your days as a mercenary? Did they seek you out, when they knew you were in Venice?”
Bernard snorted. “Let’s go, Bearpark.”
I raised my voice. “I assume it was this pair of pilgrims who rushed to the convent of Santa Lucia to find Marco? What was their plan? To torture a name from him?”
Bearpark smiled a little. “Another investigative success, de Lacy. You did well, finding that boy at the convent, but it was a shame he escaped before we reached him.”
Bernard grabbed at Bearpark’s sleeve again. This time he was aggressive. “I’m warning you, Bearpark. Kill them both now, or I’ll get Tamas to do it.”
My time was running out. “Why do you hate Venice so much, Bearpark?” I shouted. “You’ve been made a citizen, so why betray her to her enemies?”
Bearpark flung up his hands. “Citizen!” He then spat into the water. “What use is there in being a citizen in this city? I needed to be named in the Golden Book.”
“But you’re still a respected man, Bearpark. You’ve prospered in Venice. Look at this grand house you live in.” I was becoming so desperate that I resorted to flattery. “This is a beautiful palazzo. The best in the street.”
He laughed heartily, not taken in by these clumsy attempts to save my life. “But you’ve also noticed that I have no stock in my storerooms. Haven’t you, de Lacy?” he said. “That I’m no longer trading.”
“You’re not alone in that, Bearpark,” I said. “The war with Hungary has caused problems for many merchants. But—”
He spoke over me. “Do you think I wanted to donate my cog ship to the city, so that they could fill it with the dead of the Plague and sink it at sea? No. I did not!” He wiped the spittle from his mouth. “I did it to win the favor of Venice. Their friendship even. So many of their number died during the Pestilence. Whole families of the nobility were wiped out completely, so there should have been an opportunity for me to join their ranks. To be treated as if I were named in the Golden Book. But, in spite of my sacrifice, they still hated me. They still conspired against me. They took everything that they could and gave nothing back. So I owe nothing to Venice!”
From the corner of my eye I could see that Bernard and Tamas were huddled together whispering while Bearpark gave this great oratory, and I knew that my only chance was to make a last, desperate appeal.
“Just let us go, Bearpark,” I pleaded. “Make your escape. Nobody will tell your story. I promise it.”
Bearpark laughed. “I’m not a fool, de Lacy. The moment we leave, you will run off to the doge’s palace and tell of my deceit.”
My heart began to thump like a drum. “Then just let Filomena go,” I begged. “If nobody else.”
He laughed scornfully. “Why on earth should she be spared? She’s the very worst type of Venetian. A silent schemer. A betrayer. Another Venetian who will do anything for money.”
“But she’s your wife, Bearpark. She’s gave birth to your child!”
He gave a long groan. “That child is not mine, de Lacy! Whether it is my clerk’s, or some other of my wife’s many devotees, I cannot say.” Then he cocked his head and laughed. “I might even have suspected you of being its father, de Lacy, had you been in Venice a little earlier. I know my wife stirs your loins. I only had to imprison the girl and accuse her of murder to know that you’d come running to her aid like some lovesick troubadour. That you’d return to the investigation and bring me my man.” He jabbed his finger into my face. “You’re too obvious, de Lacy. Too easy to read.”
I went to protest, but what was the point? No words would save my life now, for the man was as cruel as a lion. As hard-skinned and indestructible as a cockroach. In a different time, I might have admired his resilience, his desire to carry on living, even
though he was so very old. Now I hated him with a violent passion. He would take the youth of others in order to save the remaining sands of his life. My last memory is swinging the pole at his head. After that, I remember nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
There was a time when I desired death’s dark veil. The silent oblivion of nonexistence. In those times, I would have remained in the shadows and not reached for the light, but Venice had changed me. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my soul, this city had rekindled my desire to live. The flint sparked, and I woke from my stupor to find myself alone. The filthy water was no longer lapping about my ankles—instead it covered my knees and was quickly rising with the tide, and it would not be long until this whole chamber became my watery grave.
I managed to stand. Thankfully my captors had left me untied, assuming that I had been beaten hard enough about the head to ensure my lasting concussion, but they had not anticipated my will to live; my will to return to Hugh. Now upright, I soon sensed that there was something floating near me. My first reaction was to recoil, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized that it was a body, lying facedown in the water—the corpse of Gianni Ricci. I reached out and pulled the sodden thing toward me, but as I lifted his head, I could see that Bearpark had finished the job. The man was heavy with death. His cheeks were swollen and bloody. No breath came from his chest, and he was difficult to hold.
I let him slide back into the water, then waded toward the door, heaved it ajar, and managed to squeeze myself into the first chamber, to find Filomena and Giovanni still tied to the wall. “Where have you been, Oswald?” Giovanni said to me. “You should have released us first.” I went to respond, but he didn’t wait for an answer and soon he was shouting at me. “Untie our hands quickly. Or we will be drowned.”
I leaned down into the water and picked desperately at the knot that tied his hands to the ring on the wall. Once I had done the same for Filomena, she seemed revived, leaning her head against my chest and embracing me. As she broke away, I caught the expression upon Giovanni’s face. It was an ugly grimace, and for a moment the intensity of his stare frightened me. Then he quickly shook his head, and the expression dissolved. “We need to get out,” he said coldly, “before we drown.”
We tried the door that lead from the chamber back into the hall, but it seemed that Bearpark had had the foresight to lock this exit. I tried to kick it, and then pull at it, but we were trapped. The only other possible way out appeared to be a small grilled outlet high up on the wall. When I held Filomena up to put her hands through the bars of this grille, she said that she could feel cold, fresh air—so I knew that this flue must lead into the outside world. The hole was small, however, and even if we could remove the grille, it was doubtful that any of us would be able to squeeze into this void. But what choice did we have? The water was now at thigh level. And then I had another idea.
“You still have your keys, don’t you Giovanni?” I said.
The man frowned. “Yes. But I don’t have the key for this door. I told you that before.”
I grabbed the ring from his belt. There must have been more than twenty keys hanging from the circle of black iron. Some were long and heavy, while others were delicate and short, decorated with filigreed bows and bands about the shaft. “Just try each key in this lock. There can’t be that many variations in lock design, can there?”
“Each lock is unique,” he told me. “It will never work.”
I pushed Giovanni toward the door. “Try it anyway!” I told him. “What have we got to lose?”
Filomena and I then turned our attention back to the grille. She removed her tunic and crawled again onto my shoulders. Putting her hands onto the bars, she pulled with all the strength a person can call upon when facing death. The grille groaned and creaked until it came loose. In our excitement at this small success, we had forgotten about Giovanni, until we turned to see that he had managed to unlock the door.
“You did it! Giovanni!” I shouted. “I told you that one of the keys might fit the lock.”
Filomena gave a squeal of delight, and I lifted her joyfully to the floor—but, as we waded across the room, Giovanni quickly slipped through the open door and then pulled it shut behind him. In a flash he had turned the key again, and we remained on the wrong side of a locked door.
I looked at Filomena, and she looked back at me in shock. What had happened? At first I thought Giovanni might be playing a trick, but this was no time for foolery, and anyway, Giovanni had no sense of humor. So we banged on the door, screaming for him to let us out. When we had finished screaming, we reverted to begging, and then Filomena began to wail. A wretched, heartbreaking sound that threatened to become a frenzied panic. I grasped her tightly to me, and, when her emotion had subsided a little, I suggested that we return to the grille, even though I knew this was an unlikely means of escape.
It was then that I sensed Giovanni’s fearful, stifled breathing from the other side of the door. He was still in the passageway, so I knew that we still had a chance. I banged heavily on the wood and spoke in my clearest English, hoping that I could persuade him to let us out. “Giovanni. Please let us out.” When this elicited no response, I made my tone softer. “Giovanni. Please listen to me. We are going to die in here. Do you want our murders on your conscience? Because it would be a mortal sin to let us die in this room. There is no indulgence, relic, or rosary that would cleanse your soul after such a crime.”
A voice came from the other side of the door. It was angry and full of indignation. “I don’t care if you die,” he said. “You are betrayalists! Both of you.”
“You do care,” I said, “otherwise, why are you still here? You want to open the door, don’t you?”
He said something in Venetian. I think it was a curse.
“Filomena has a daughter,” I said, hoping to appeal to his heart. “Imagine the life of that poor child, growing up without her mother. And I have a son, Giovanni. I never told you about him before, but he waits for me back in England.” I paused. “Yes, I have been a betrayalist, you’re right. I have stayed away from my son for too long, so please, please don’t let me die in here.”
“I don’t care about your son,” he declared.
“Of course you do. You’re a Christian.”
“No. And I don’t care about Filomena and her bastard child either. I loved her once, but she chose to marry my master instead. Why do you think that I nearly killed myself, Oswald? I was not grieving because my family died in the Plague, as you thought. I grieved for Filomena.” His voice was becoming more shrill. “Then I found my senses. For what is she? No better than those whores who wave their skirts to the sailors on the Mercaria. She threw away my love for the love of money. And now she has betrayed me again. With you. A rich Englishman. What a surprise! Do you think she loves you? Because she doesn’t. She cares only for your title and your money!”
His voice was beginning to fade, and I feared he had decided to abandon us. “Please, Giovanni! Just release Filomena. There is a chance for you both.”
He laughed. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want her!”
“And I don’t want you!” said Filomena. I tried to pull her away, fearing that her words would only make Giovanni more angry, but she shouldered past me and put her lips to the door. “Listen to me, Giovanni. You always pretend to be so pious. So devout. But you’ve locked me in a flooding room, because you want to punish me. That makes you a murderer, so how do you think I could ever love you?”
I pulled her away, but the damage was done.
“You are Satan’s whore!” he shouted. “Satan’s whore! You want death, then you shall have it!”
I could hear him thrashing through the rising water as he made his way along the passageway. “Come back, Giovanni,” I shouted. “Don’t do this! Please.” But my only answer was silence. A long, penetrating, and terrifying silence, punctuated only by the sound of the water that was now lapping with determination at my waist. T
he air in the room was now thick with the corrupting fumes of the cesspit and I feared that soon we would both be as dead as Gianni Ricci. So I tried, once again, to barge at the door with my shoulder. I pushed and beat my hands at the wooden frame, but it would not give. The evil vapors were constricting my throat, and I coughed continually until I was almost unable to breathe, but if I gave up now, then I would die, and I would never see Hugh again.
It was then that Filomena tapped me on the shoulder, pointing to two hooks that had been driven into the ceiling near the door. Who knows what uses they had been put to in the past, but they had given her an idea that she whispered into my ear. I gripped a hook in each hand, and was then able to pull myself above the water level, so that I could now swing my feet at the door. Without the resistance of the water to impede my movement, the force of my kick was much harder against the wood.
At first I made only a small dent, and it was very difficult to hold my weight and also swing my feet at a door, but the threat of death is the greatest of motivators, and so I kicked again and again, until I had pushed the paneling from the frame, making an opening that was just large enough to allow a draft of fresh air to filter into the room.
Now that the air was sweeter, I tried again, and with Filomena’s encouragement I was able to kick a larger hole in the door. At last there was a chance of freedom. Filomena climbed through the hole first, and then it was my turn to squeeze my way through. It was a good thing that I had lost my appetite in the last few months, for I might not have escaped if I had been any fatter.