Midnight Fire (A Jagiellon Mystery Book 2)

by P K Adams

  The significance of that name sprang from somewhere in the recesses of my mind—Kolanka was Barbara Radziwiłł and Mikołaj Rudy’s mother, and her daughter’s namesake.

  Zygmunt’s face blanched, and his gaze followed mine. He held out a hand to signal to the courtiers behind us to maintain their distance. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Safe but distraught.” Opaliński took a breath. “It was her parlor maid who met with an unfortunate end.”

  I saw a flicker of terror in the duke’s eyes, although he fought to contain it. “I must go there immediately,” he said.

  “With your permission, I’ll go with you, Your Grace,” I offered.

  Zygmunt bid his guard stay and dismissed the others, while I instructed Cecilia to take Giulio back to our chambers. Standing some distance away, he had not heard the news, but his wide eyes told me that he sensed something was wrong. I kissed him and told him all would be well, and that I would be back in time for supper.

  It was a promise I would not be able to keep.

  * * *

  Along with Duke Zygmunt, Chamberlain Opaliński, and the guard I walked to the back of the garden. There we found the small door installed to allow the duke to meet with Barbara before their affair had become known. It was an inconspicuous oakwood door bound in iron and half-obscured by overhanging vines. The guard, who stood nearly six feet tall, had to bend his head to pass under the rounded top.

  We stepped into the Radziwiłł palace garden. It was smaller than the duke’s, but just as immaculately maintained. On any other day, I would have stopped to admire the charming miniature fountains scattered among the flowerbeds that represented nymphs and sea creatures trickling water into marble basins. But we hurried through this ironically peaceful landscape and headed for the rear of the palace.

  None of us spoke until we reached the ornate doors that gave onto the terrace. There we were greeted by a man of dignified bearing, whose only sign of nervousness was the gesture with which he repeatedly smoothed his graying beard. He wore a light blue żupan, a long outer robe buttoned in the front and tied with a broad red sash around the waist, but no hat. A pair of bright yellow leather boots completed his outfit, which struck me as very Lithuanian, unlike most of the fashions worn at the court next door.

  He executed a deep bow in the duke’s direction, then Opaliński introduced him to me as the Radziwiłłs’ steward, Dimitr Siemaszko. Before we continued on to Barbara Kolanka’s apartments, Opaliński explained my role in the investigation of the murder of the kitchen maid. In response, the steward’s lips, partially hidden by a generous moustache, widened into an uncertain but polite smile, and he inclined his head slightly.

  The Radziwiłł palace was smaller than its neighbor, with fewer tapestries and none of the priceless artwork of the ducal residence. But it was a fine home, nonetheless, with airy corridors lined with gilded mirrors, ancestral portraits and armor, and doors framed by thick velvet curtains. What struck me most was the quiet. Perhaps it was the effect of today’s terrible event, or maybe with the duke and Barbara in residence next door, the entertainment and social functions had shifted there.

  As I examined the surroundings, Siemaszko filled us in on what to expect. “My lady fainted when Jovita was discovered dead in her dressing chamber, and it took us some time to restore her to consciousness. She shouldn’t be unduly upset.”

  We nodded with understanding. Then I asked, “Why would a parlor maid drink wine in her mistress’s dressing chamber?”

  Siemaszko stopped short, causing the rest of us to do the same. He turned. “Forgive me. I should have explained this first. Jovita didn’t die from a poisoned drink. She died from wearing a poisoned garment.”

  “What?” Opaliński’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Someone sent a ruff as a gift for Pani Barbara. Jovita found it in a box in the dressing chamber and put it around her neck, probably to admire herself in the looking glass. We can only guess what happened next, but at some point, she collapsed from the effects of the poison seeping through her skin and died while trying to tear the thing off her neck.”

  My heart sank, and not just in response to the gruesome scene painted for me. I took one look at the duke and knew what he was thinking. If poisoned drink was considered the Italian weapon of first choice, a poison-soaked object was a close second. Everyone had heard of sudden deaths at royal and princely courts after someone wore a pair of gloves or a nightdress received as a gift. The fact that such things happened in France and the Spanish lands—not just in Italy—was a nuance I doubted he would bother himself with.

  “Is there any indication who the sender might be?” I asked.

  Siemaszko spread his arms. “The package was addressed to Barbara Kolanka at the Radziwiłł palace but had no sender’s name attached. My deputy interviewed all the servants—we don’t have that many—but nobody saw it delivered. It’s as if it appeared out of nowhere in the room off the side entrance, where incoming packages are stored before being distributed.”

  “Has anyone talked to the guards?” I looked around. I had not yet seen any.

  “We have only two serving at a time. They are posted at the front gates, facing the street. We don’t have any at the side door, though it’s always locked.” Then he added, almost apologetically, casting an anxious glance at Zygmunt whose brow furrowed when he heard that. “We don’t have the same level of security here as there is at His Grace’s palace.”

  Yet this killer was clever enough to have penetrated even the duke’s defenses, I thought. The Radziwiłł house must have presented no obstacle at all.

  We passed quickly through a small antechamber, where two terrified-looking maids dropped deep curtsies on seeing Zygmunt August, and entered what must have been Barbara Kolanka’s sitting chamber. The heavy velvet curtains were half-drawn, and the room was dim with shadows. I could discern three round tables with bowls of fruit and sweetmeats, and upholstered settles such as a gaggle of women might use to embroider together while trading gossip. Fire burned in the grate, but no candles dispelled the gloom.

  There were only two people in the room. A woman about my age slumped against the cushions of one of the settles, a lacy handkerchief pressed to her chest. Next to her, in a protective and solicitous pose, sat a younger man who rose upon our arrival, causing the woman’s other hand to fall limply on the seat next to her. When he stepped into a patch of diffused gray daylight, I recognized Mikołaj Radziwiłł.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed, his face tight. “I appreciate your prompt arrival.”

  “Of course.” The duke squeezed Rudy’s shoulder in a fraternal gesture. “I have brought with me Signora Konarska, who you may remember is investigating the poisoning at my palace.”

  Barbara’s brother looked at me from under his thick eyebrows, and it was clear he did not remember. When recognition dawned, his mouth twisted in a grimace that was hard to read—it may have been contempt or just annoyance. Without a word to me, he turned back to the duke. “We must find out who’s doing this!” His voice was forceful and full of controlled anger. “I won’t sit idly by while my family is targeted!”

  Zygmunt raised his hand, signaling calm. “We are looking at the evidence. Patience, my friend.”

  I regarded him with a newfound appreciation for his composure. Barbara’s mother, hearing the exchange, rose from the settle with more energy than I would have expected from her and ran toward Zygmunt, sobbing. “Your Grace! The villain who tried to kill my daughter has entered my home! None of us are safe! Protect us—I beg you!”

  For a moment, I feared she would throw herself at him, but she fell to her knees while still a step or two away and sank to the floor in a billow of blue silk and silver brocade. Mikołaj Radziwiłł rushed to her side and lifted her onto another settle, where he held her as her shoulders continued to shake for some time before her crying subsided.

  The duke sat opposite them and waited for her to calm down. Then he said, “Your daughter is well pr
otected at my palace, and I’ll send guards to boost your forces here. You need not fear any more attacks.”

  “What’s the evidence?” Rudy spoke through gritted teeth, looking from the duke to Opaliński, but ignoring me. “Poison then, poison now. The Italian methods. This is coming directly from the other court—” He broke off as the chamberlain cleared his throat loudly in warning.

  In Rudy’s arms, his mother burst into tears again. He patted her back as if she were a child. “There, mother, under His Grace’s guidance we will find who did this and bring him to justice. I promise you on my father’s grave.”

  She nodded into his collarbone but continued to weep.

  The vehemence in Mikołaj Rudy’s voice sounded authentic, even if his overbearing approach was doing little to soothe his distraught mother’s nerves. The duke remained silent even when Rudy all but accused Bona of being behind it. And the silence lingered after he made his vow, the only sound coming from the occasional crackling of logs in the hearth.

  As unpleasant as he was, I discerned no signs of Rudy’s involvement. I saw nothing but a son’s concern for his mother’s well-being and an eagerness to take revenge on whoever had tried to kill her. I watched my theory collapse because I could think of no reason why he would have organized a mock attempt on his mother’s life. For one thing, the plot was too risky: while he could count on his sister’s taster falling victim to any poison in food or drink, he could not predict that the maid would try on the poisoned ruff before her mistress did. This murderer wanted Barbara dead and, when his first attempt failed—seeing no other way to get to her, sequestered under guard as she was—decided to kill her mother. But why?

  Barbara Kolanka stopped weeping and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Despite the redness and puffiness of her face, I could see where Barbara Radziwiłł got her looks. Kolanka was still an attractive woman, her slim figure with its generous bust and small waist much like her daughter’s. The skin of her neck and cleavage, framed by a flattering rim of delicate lace, had lost some of the suppleness of youth, but it did not yet show the wrinkles and blemishes that come with aging.

  “Is your maid still as she was found?” Zygmunt asked gently.

  She nodded, then squeezed Rudy’s hand. “My son told me not to have anything cleared before Doctor Nascimbene arrives”—her voice was soft and melodic like Barbara’s—“and before Your Grace’s men have had a chance to have a look at her.” Her gaze shifted to me with a touch of uncertainty.

  “Signora Konarska is helping us,” the duke explained again.

  I inclined my head, and Kolanka returned the gesture, although the puzzled look did not completely leave her face.

  “We would like to see the poor girl now,” the duke said, steeling himself. He rose when Barbara’s mother pointed toward one corner of the chamber.

  Steward Siemaszko moved in the direction indicated, and the three of us followed, leaving Kolanka and Rudy Radziwiłł behind. Siemaszko opened a door covered with the same brocade wallpaper as the rest of the chamber and therefore invisible to anyone unfamiliar with the apartment.

  We entered a chamber that was quite unlike the one we had just left, mainly because it had no curtains at the windows and was bathed in light. The ambience of the elder Barbara’s dressing chamber was very feminine, filled with vases of white and pink late-summer roses and autumnal chrysanthemums, yellow and orange. They were scattered on windowsills and tables, including the dressing table topped by a gilded mirror and covered with bottles of perfumes and jars of creams in amounts that could rival those of Queen Bona in the old days. A sweet fragrance hung in the air—scents of jasmine and orange blossom mixing with that of the fresh flowers.

  Another death scene, even more incongruous than Milda’s because of its luxurious surroundings, provided a sharp contrast to this finery. Jovita lay on her back in the middle of the floor, limbs splayed, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, her mouth twisted in a grimace of pain. Her left hand was extended, as if, in her final moments, she had flung something as far away from her as possible. Following the line of her fingers, I saw a small ruff resting under the chair of the dressing table. It was made of delicate, nearly translucent lace gathered in petal-like shapes, designed to fit snugly around the neck. It was a fine piece.

  And it was deadly. The uneven ends suggested that the girl had taken no time to undo the buttons that secured it in the back; instead, under the force of what must have been searing pain, she had torn it roughly from her neck. She had not acted fast enough, however, for an angry red ring the same width as the ruff, a little more than an inch, encircled her neck. Pustules dotted the ring, and some had broken even before she died, oozing a yellowish fluid that had dried and crusted on her skin.

  It was as terrible a way to die as Milda’s poisoned wine, but it probably took longer. I shivered at the thought of what they must have suffered in their final moments.

  A round box on the dressing table caught my eye. It resembled the one in which Zaremba kept the headdress he had bought for his wife, except in its color: a dark shade of blue, like the sky at midnight, instead of pale pink. A nod from Siemaszko confirmed that that was indeed the box in which the ruff had arrived. Holding it gingerly between my fingers and careful not to touch the rim, I looked it over for any letters or signs that would indicate its origin but found nothing. The box still contained several white silk wrappings; I took a bone-handled comb from the table and poked around but saw nothing underneath them.

  “What time was she discovered?” I asked, turning back to Siemaszko. The wind had picked up again, moaning in the eaves somewhere above us.

  “A half hour past eleven this morning,” he replied. Almost four hours ago.

  “By your mistress?”

  He shook his head. “By me.” Then he added, seeing my look of surprise, “Pani Barbara never rises from her bed before noon. Jovita comes—used to come—at eleven to prepare her attire for the day. This morning, my lady was awakened by muffled sounds that she attributed to a mewling cat somewhere in the garden. She called Jovita, but when she received no response and the crying continued, she rang for another maid. I was in the servants’ quarters at the time and saw that the summons came from her bedchamber, so I decided to check on the problem myself since Jovita should have been with her.” He paused for a moment, glancing at the body at our feet, the muscles of his throat working. “When I arrived, Pani Barbara told me about the noise and that it had stopped moments before, but she still hadn’t seen Jovita. I went to the dressing chamber and found her”—he exhaled forcefully—“like this.”

  The wind rattled the window panes. The silence that followed the steward’s words magnified the sound and gave it an eerie quality. I imagined something invisible trying to break into the chamber. Or maybe—I shuddered—something trying to break out. In some cultures, people open the windows of a room where someone has died to let their soul fly free. But the windows were closed tightly, and the cloying scent of the flowers mixed with that of death rendered the air heavy and oppressive.

  I tried to concentrate on the present. I had no idea why the murderer had targeted Barbara’s mother, but at least it shortened the list of suspects. Like it or not, I had to remove Rudy Radziwiłł from that list. Two possibilities remained: the Habsburg rulers of the vast territories in Central and Western Europe, who would like nothing better than to add the crown of Poland-Lithuania to their domains; or Queen Bona, who would spare no effort to prevent that from happening. And although either would benefit from Barbara’s death, I could not say the same for her mother’s.

  Nor could I understand why they—whoever “they” were—thought they could murder the duke’s inconvenient mistress with poison. It may not have been common knowledge that she used tasters, but one could find that out with a bit of work and a few coins. In fact, their agent had gotten to, and bribed, Milda—the very person hired to taste Barbara’s food. The whole plot made no sense.

  While contemplating the scene
without drawing any conclusions, we heard voices in the sitting chamber. A moment later, Doctor Nascimbene walked in, his black robe billowing behind him. I felt a welcome breeze on my cheeks—an open window somewhere else in the apartment, no doubt. The old physician bowed to the duke, cast one glance at the body, and shook his head sadly but without much surprise—the expression of a man who had seen everything in his long life.

  We watched as he checked Jovita’s pulse at the wrist and the neck, pressing his fingers against the redness on her skin. Then he examined the eruptions, his unhurried manner telling us what we already knew—that she was beyond help. He rose slowly, gripping the back of the dressing table chair for support, and raised his other hand to forestall Opaliński who had moved to help him up.

  “Poisoned clothing,” he said when he finally straightened, panting a little. “I have seen this before, but not in many years.”

  The duke and I exchanged a look. Among the desolation in his eyes I saw a flicker of triumph: before Bona employed him at the court in Kraków, Nascimbene had worked as a medic at the court in Ferrara. The duchess at the time, Lucrezia Borgia, was Bona’s aunt and had her own reputation as a poisoner.

  “The ruff is so small,” I said, marveling at the dainty object. How innocuous it appeared, to have done so much damage! “Is it possible it killed her so fast?”

  “It is,” the doctor affirmed. “To make a garment suited for the purpose, the fabric is dipped in a vat of poison and dried. This is repeated several times to increase its deadliness. The skin around the neck is thin so the poison seeps in quickly and kills by paralyzing the breathing muscles, leading to suffocation.”

  Opaliński and Siemaszko looked queasy. I felt the same way. The duke, true to his reputation for piety—another contradictory trait—crossed himself.

  “What are we to do with this … item?” the steward asked, eyeing the ruff as if it might transform into some mythical creature and attack him.