He did not reply. I think he felt he had already exchanged enough banter with me. He gave another stiff bow and I was left alone with Sior Massaro.
“Well, that’s remarkable,” said Massaro.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Missier Grande is rarely as complimentary as that. He likes you.”
“Likes me?” I said with astonishment.
“Well, perhaps that’s a slight overstatement. Let’s say that he approves of what you’ve done.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” I said, rather warily. Still, since it would probably have its effect on the amount of my compensation I allowed myself to be gratified by the news.
“I expect we’ll be seeing more of you,” he said.
“Oh, wonderful,” I said. I did not try too hard to make it sound sincere.
29
I was rather more sincere in my gratitude when Massaro arranged my compensation. The amount he stipulated, after consultation of a ledger and some mental arithmetic, would certainly make up for all the incidental expenses, such as my broken windows and depleted wardrobe; it would even help me to pay for Fabrizio’s books. And I would certainly be able to compensate Bepi for any loss of earnings he had incurred (it would be difficult to persuade him to accept payment for saving my life).
I left the Doge’s palace thoroughly exhausted and not a little hungry. The post-Sensa celebrations were under way and the Piazza was full of masked revellers, dancing and prancing under the swinging lanterns strung between the various booths. I gazed blearily at the scene and decided I had to get away somewhere quiet. The easiest thing would have been to go home, I suppose, but I knew that the merry-making in the magazen beneath my apartment would be equally hearty; the fact that there would only be about fifty people perpetrating it rather than ten thousand would make little difference to the amount of noise that penetrated through the floorboards and broken windows.
I treated myself to some biscuits and a glass of malvasia from a stall near the clock tower. A masked lady with both breasts emerging from her tight bodice asked if she could have a nibble of the biscuit. I was too tired to do more than acquiesce to the literal meaning of this request, which seemed to disappoint her. She took one bite from one of the biscuits and then left me to enjoy the sensuous delights of the remaining ones by myself. After finishing the wine I found myself sufficiently revived to take a decision on my next move. I needed quiet and I needed thoughtful conversation.
So I made my way towards Fabrizio’s shop. It struck me that I could also deliver a first instalment of my reimbursement for his destroyed property. And both he and Lucia might still be concerned over my safety. Despite the Missier Grande I could always let fall a few modestly unassuming words that would give some hint of the perils I had faced and overcome.
When I reached the shop I saw that it was entirely dark. I was mildly surprised, since I thought that Fabrizio might have wanted to continue to profit from the influx of visitors from the mainland. But I suppose he was entitled to a holiday like everyone else.
I saw that there was a light in the apartment above the shop and so I knocked at the door. A few moments later Lucia’s head appeared at the window above me.
“Siora,” I said, “excuse the hour. I thought you might welcome some news.”
“Sior Alvise,” she said, “I will come down at once.”
Moments later she was opening the door; the lantern in her hand revealed her face to be pale and anxious.
“Siora,” I said, “is there trouble?”
“My father has been attacked.”
“No! How? Where?”
“Here in the shop. A couple of hours ago.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s resting. It’s not a serious injury – a blow to the head – but it was an unpleasant shock … but Sior Alvise, you too?” She raised the lantern to study my face. “And what are you wearing? Is this for Carnival?”
“No,” I said, “it’s a long story. But let me hear about your father first.”
“Come into the shop. I cannot invite you upstairs. Father needs rest.” She stood inside and I entered the shop.
“No, of course not. What happened?”
“He was alone in the shop. I had gone to the Piazza. A customer came in. A foreigner. English, I think.” She was talking in clipped sentences. It seemed to be the only way she could keep the panic out of her voice. She was able to maintain control over short groups of words. “Father asked if he wanted anything. He said he wanted to look around. So Father left him. The man went over to that bookcase there. A minute later Father was sure he saw him putting something into his pocket.” This slightly longer sentence came out in a single rush and she paused for a while before continuing. “And so Father asked him to put it back. The man denied it. Father insisted. And then he suddenly hit Father and ran out.”
“Hit him? How?”
“Just a punch. Perhaps more of a push. But Father fell over and banged his head. When I came back he was still groggy.”
My mind was racing. The malvasia had set little wheels in motion. “Did your father describe the man?”
“He was masked. But he was about thirty. English, as I said.”
“With a breathy voice – like this?”
“Yes.”
“This was Shackleford’s brother,” I said. “Retrieving his brother’s property.”
“His…?” She looked puzzled and then, with an expression that indicated sudden realisation, she said: “Oh, you mean…”
“The book was there all the time. Shackleford needed somewhere safe to hide it from his own pupil. Where better than among other books? Presumably on a high shelf at the back, among … among…”
“Among our stock in less frequent demand,” she said drily. The revelation seemed to have momentarily relieved her anxiety.
“When I was talking to him the other evening and I mentioned your brother’s visits here he must have suddenly realized. I can’t think why I never thought of it. Well, I suppose the book had come to seem of secondary importance and so I more or less forgot about it.”
“And what does he want it for?” she said.
“I think I know,” I said slowly. “He’s going to try to complete his brother’s plan.”
“But his brother got killed.”
“Well, I think he thinks … No, I’m not sure that I do know. But I think I can guess where he’s gone.”
“Well, I’m going to go too,” she said.
“But Siora Lucia,” I said, “your father…”
“Father is being looked after. My aunt has come over. She’s a – well, it doesn’t matter; she’s a very good nurse.” I suspected her first description had been going to be of a less flattering nature. “I want to see this man and I want to speak to him.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I said. “Not if I’m right about why he’s gone there.”
“Sior Alvise, I am going to speak to this man. And I will go there alone, if you won’t take me.”
“You don’t know where,” I said.
“No, but you are going to tell me. Or you are going to take me.”
So of course I took her.
After she had let her father and aunt know that she was just slipping out for some medicine she joined me at the door and we set off, each holding a lantern.
I told her where we were going and gave her my reasons for thinking it was the most likely place to find the younger Mr Shackleford. She gave a sigh and said, “Everyone’s a performer in this city. Even the visitors. Either the city infects them or it invites visitors of a certain kind.”
“Probably both,” I said.
“Of course, you too,” she said. “You’re no minor performer yourself. And you haven’t even told me of your adventures today. Were you right? About nobleman Garzoni? Planning something for the Sensa? I only heard wild rumours and then my father’s accident put everything out of my head.”
“I was right,” I said.
; “Tell me all,” she said, after I had allowed an intriguing pause to create suspense.
I had been intending to drop no more than a few laconically enigmatic remarks, but pressed in this insistent fashion what could I do? My account of the events of the night and day took us all the way to Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo.
“So that was what the fire was,” she said. “I saw it and wondered if it was just a new part of the celebrations.”
“Well, that’s what it became in the end,” I said. “I think that’s the destiny of everything in this city.”
There were a few booths set up in the square, and the smell of fried fish and cheap wine hung over them. Masked revellers were dancing the furlana around the statue of Colleoni to the music of a few violins. We paused to watch for a few moments and she said: “We may be frivolous pleasure-seekers but no one can deny we do it with great style.”
“Siora Lucia,” I said, turning to look at her.
“Sior Alvise,” she said, “if you are going to ask me to dance, let me remind you that we have urgent business.”
“Let me just ask if you will dance with me afterwards,” I said, in some confusion. Dancing had not actually been the first thing on my mind.
“Afterwards I wish to return to my father,” she said. Her face was serious.
There was silence between us for a few seconds. The violins continued their insistent tune. Then I said: “I think I’ve bungled it.” I made no attempt to hide my disappointment. The carnivalesque atmosphere, together with weariness and slight inebriation, all combined to make me say quite openly what I was thinking, something I had never done in her presence. “I suppose a cicerone should not aspire so high –”
“Sior Alvise, I have the utmost respect –”
“I don’t want respect,” I said. “I want –” And then I halted. I realised I was about to go too far.
She obviously realized it too and simply said: “Let’s go.”
We walked the length of the Barbaria delle Tole in silence. The music died away behind us so I could meditate on my clumsiness in relative tranquillity.
We reached the Teatro Santa Giustina. It was as quiet as it had been the other evening when the count and I had broken in. I was about to direct her to the alley alongside the building when I noticed that the main entrance door was slightly ajar.
“I hope we’re not too late,” I said, in sudden alarm.
“You mean…”
“I don’t know who else could open the door,” I said. My intention had been simply to warn Shackleford of his danger.
I ran up the stairs and pulled the door open. We entered the foyer, our lamps casting flickering light on the dusty stucco and dim frescoes. We stood still and heard surreptitious movements from the direction of the auditorium.
“Shackleford!” I called. “Is that you?”
There was a moment’s silence and then a breathy voice from within the auditorium said uncertainly: “Who’s that?”
Lucia and I moved towards the grand colonnaded doorway that led into the auditorium. The vast space was lit by a single lantern balanced on the edge of the stage. A cloaked figure was standing above it, next to the wings of the stage, as if wondering whether to take a last bow or not. He wore a tricorn hat and the face beneath it was masked.
“Come down from there,” I said.
“Why should I? And what are you doing here?”
Lucia spoke up: “I want the book that you stole from our shop.” She strode down the central aisle and I followed her until we were beneath the stage.
“It wasn’t your book,” he said, clearly rather disconcerted by her demand.
“That did not give you the right to attack an elderly man.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said. “I – I panicked.”
“Did you come in here by the front entrance?” I said.
“No, of course not. How could I?”
“It’s open now. That means your … your potential client has arrived.” I spoke quietly.
“Zanotto? So where is he?” He looked around, making it clear that he had not been lying about his tendency to panic.
“That’s what we need to know,” I said, still speaking quietly. “He clearly came in as quietly and discreetly as possible.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” he said. “I made it clear this was to be a discreet transaction. That’s why I chose this place.”
“How did you communicate with him?”
“I sent a boy to his house with a message. I didn’t expect him to get here so quickly.”
“He is as keen to get his hands on that book as you are to sell it to him. Only I don’t think he intends to buy it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He intends to kill you just as he killed your brother.”
“What?” This was said in a high-pitched screech. “I thought that was – I thought…”
“You suspected the Grimani family,” I said.
“Well, yes.”
“Because they’re big, they’re powerful, they can probably hire any number of bravi.”
“Yes.”
“The point is,” I said, “they are so big that the accusation that one of their members, however prestigious his present position, wrote an absurd poem in an absurd history book thirty years ago is of no significance whatsoever. The mistakes of youth; look at all the positions of responsibility the foolish young man has held since that time. He would probably be more embarrassed by the bad rhymes than by the contents of the book that contains them.” Among other things, Doge Pietro Grimani was known to write poetry.
“But Zanotto … it wasn’t even he who wrote it, it was his brother.”
“So he has told us all. Have you checked that fact? There was a brother that went to England, it seems. But it is quite possible that our Zanotto visited him while he was there. Remember, it was this Zanotto that Garzoni contacted about the book, when you told him about it. Of course, it was ingenious of Zanotto to accuse himself of blackmail. That apparently shameful confession prevented us from thinking of anything worse. But think about it: would he really dare to blackmail the Grimani family? And we know he couldn’t blackmail Garzoni, since Garzoni was actually proud of the book. So there had to be another reason he wanted to get hold of it. The point is that Zanotto is a man of almost no accomplishments, a man who has lost most of his family fortune and who, towards the end of his life, has finally managed to obtain a minor post in the customs office … a post that guarantees a modest but certain income, just enough to buy a new cloak and a veneer of respectability. But his hold on that office is precarious enough to mean that should a whiff of scandal about unorthodox political positions emerge he could lose everything. This is the kind of man who would kill to suppress that book. Who has killed to suppress it. And who means to do so again.”
Shackleford let out a kind of whimpering sound and started looking around again; more than ever I was reminded of Zosimos.
I went on: “Your brother made the mistake of agreeing to meet him alone. He probably thought that if he went there without the book, which he had hidden in the bookshop, he would hold the whip hand. Perhaps he took a dummy copy and Zanotto killed him for it – and only then discovered his mistake. But Zanotto had gone there quite clearly with the intention of killing; that’s why he set up the whole secret meeting, using his undeniable acting skills with the woman who rented out the casino, and then taking along the gnaga costume, so that he could disguise the nature of the murder. After all, he certainly couldn’t afford to pay for the book.”
Lucia moved a little closer to me. She whispered: “Do you think he’s listening to us?”
“I’m sure he is,” I said.
“And do you think he’s armed?” Her voice did not quaver but it had a note of fiercely controlled urgency.
“I don’t think he’ll have a pistol,” I said.
“Where is he?” said Shackleford. “Where is he?” He was staring about in a hunted fashion.
“Come down from there,” I said. “We had better stay together.”
“You come up here,” he said.
“You only make a better target –” I began to say.
Shackleford gave a sudden yelp and disappeared. One moment he was standing above us and the next there was just the vanishing flick of his black cloak. His yelp ended in a sickening crunch as his body hit the ground beneath the stage.
“Trapdoor,” I said, staring stupidly.
“My God!” screamed Lucia. “Save him!”
I remembered the zany’s sudden effortless leap on to the stage but realised I could never manage anything similar. Instead I ran up the stairs at the side of the stage, and scrambled towards the square black hole that was the open trapdoor, holding my lantern over it.
I could just see a large shifting dark form below; there was a last whimper from Shackleford and then a gurgling sound. The dark shape separated into two, one lying inert and the other moving swiftly away. I thought I could see a dark sheen of blood around the neck of the motionless body.
I was about to drop down in pursuit when Lucia called out: “What can you see?”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“Alvise, don’t go down there.”
It was absurd, but somewhere in my mind I registered the fact that she had called me, for the first time, just Alvise.
She went on: “That would be to take part in his performance. Come back here. Quickly.” Her voice was urgent but firm.
I realised she was right. Zanotto would undoubtedly be waiting with the same bloody knife. And that would then leave Lucia out in the auditorium on her own.
I darted back across the stage and jumped down, which was not as light a feat as I had imagined. The jar to my body set all my aches and pains jangling again.
She said: “Remember he knows this theatre. He’s desperate but he’s also determined to put on a last performance. We have to refuse to take part in it.” She sounded remarkably calm. “First we had better put out the lanterns. They are just making targets of us.”
She extinguished her own. With some trepidation I did the same to mine. As we stood there, waiting for our eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness, her hand brushed against mine and then held it.
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