The Alchemist's Pursuit

by Dave Duncan

  “Do you know what messer Gradenigo wanted to tell my master?”

  Fedele shrugged. “I cannot say. He was babbling much of the time.”

  “He was elderly, I believe.”

  “He had passed his allotted span, yes.”

  “But a good man, from all accounts.” I believe in being charitable to the dead, lest they come back and haunt me.

  “He was a fine Christian, a devoted husband and father, and he served the Republic well. He went peacefully to his reward.” Fedele raised his hand to bless me.

  I doffed my bonnet. Then I stood up and watched him stride away with his habit swirling around his ankles, bare feet making no sound on the terrazzo. I cannot say. Fedele had not said that he did not know. It was an odds-on bet that he knew perfectly well but had been told under the seal of the confessional. I glanced around the hall and decided that now was definitely not the time to pry. Whatever the dead man’s problem had been, if anyone knew it, it would keep.

  I went back out to the bustling landing stage and had to wait a few minutes before Giorgio was able to slip his boat in close enough for me to board. His oar stroked the water and we were on our way. The Frari bell was still tolling.

  “Too late?”

  “Too late,” I agreed. “The dying man wanted to tell the Maestro something, but he’s never been a patient or a client. Why the Maestro? Odd.”

  “He was a good man, they say.” By “they” he meant the other boatmen, who often know more than most people know they know. “He did things for the poor.”

  Being one of those, I said a prayer for his soul.

  Back at Number 96, I disembarked. “The lady said she would be ready when we returned, but don’t count on it.”

  Giorgio grinned and rubbed his trim beard with the back of a hand. He is a small man for a gondolier, stronger than he looks. “It is you I distrust, Alfeo.”

  “Not today,” I said. “Or at least, not yet.” I unlocked the bawdy house door and went in. Violetta’s apartment is one floor up, and that part of the house is not bawdy, just voluptuous.

  3

  So where do we start?” she asked as we descended the stairs. She no longer teetered on ten-inch soles. Paint and silks had gone, and she was enveloped in the neck-to-shoe brown dress of a domestic servant. Her magnificent hair was hidden under a shawl that hung to about where her calves must be. Even so, she would catch every male eye within eyeshot.

  “With the puzzle, of course,” I said.

  “Which puzzle?”

  “Why her body was not looted of valuables. Which were?”

  “Pearl earrings, a gold ring, and a gold brooch with an amber pebble enclosing an insect. That’s not to my taste, but worth a lot as a curiosity. Her gown was . . .” She shuddered and tightened her grip on my hand. “I suppose the sea will have ruined it. And she wore a string of pearls worth at least a hundred ducats.”

  “You are joking!”

  “No, I am not! They once belonged to Dogaressa Zilia Dandolo, the wife of Doge Lorenzo Priuli.”

  I whistled. A murderer leaving such riches on a body made no sense at all.

  “She wore all that to go dancing in the Piazza?”

  “I wondered that,” my love admitted. “I spoke with her maids and the nuns, and they agreed that she seemed quite excited. An old friend was coming for her, she said, but she didn’t say who. I know the gown she wore, and it was one that was very special to her. Her client arrived at dusk in a gondola, and he stayed aboard, in the felze, so only one of the maids caught as much as a glimpse of him, and all she could say was that he was wearing a mask. Lucia boarded and off they went.”

  Never to be seen again. Everyone wears a mask at Carnival.

  I said, “Perhaps she was murdered on a fondamenta somewhere and fell into the canal before the murderer could strip her finery. Where was she found, and where did the finder take her? Or did he just inform the sbirri somewhere to go and collect her?”

  “The only answer I know is that the morticians were summoned to the sbirri office in Castello.”

  Castello is the eastern end of the city. It gets more than its fair share of floating bodies because they tend to be carried seaward by the tide and found by fishermen.

  We found Giorgio sitting in the gondola trading barbs with a group of Marciana lads unloading a boat outside Ca’ Barbolano. They were threatening to tell Mama that her husband was waiting for the brothel to open. He seemed to be holding his own quite well, but Giorgio has a prudish streak and would be happy to escape. We boarded and set off to Castello.

  Our way led along the little Rio San Remo and then out into the Grand Canal, which was magnificent that fine afternoon, with just enough of a wind to ruffle the blue water. The trading fleets were due to leave soon, so many lighters were heading to the basin to load them, sweeping past us, borne onward by sails or many oars. The scene was lovely, but Violetta was lovelier. I rolled down the blinds on the felze so we could do a little preliminary cuddling. Regrettably, her mind was still elsewhere. I wanted Helen and she was hazel-eyed Niobe, the one who mourns.

  “He was a good man,” she said, “Gradenigo, I mean.”

  “Not a client?”

  “You know I never discuss my patrons. Besides, he was before my time. It will be a huge funeral.” Her finger idly drew patterns on my knee. “You didn’t discover what he wanted to tell the Maestro?”

  “No, but I can try to find out later. Good man how?”

  “He gave much to charity. He was a member of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, and he paid to rebuild one of the chapels in the Frari.”

  “I don’t recall him ever holding office.” No one can keep track of all the noblemen in the Great Council, but I try to stay up to date on the inner circle, the fifty or sixty old men who actually run the Republic, rotating the senior offices among themselves.

  “He did,” my love said sadly. “He was a senator—maybe even one of the Ten—but he withdrew from politics years ago. As I recall, he suffered some bad health and never returned to the broglio.”

  I had never seen her be so morose before, but having a close friend murdered will upset anyone. Like the Maestro, I found it hard to believe that Lucia had been murdered if her finery had not been stolen.

  Investigating a mystery with Violetta was almost absurdly easy. Sbirri are mostly ignorant, rough men, and if they have ever heard of Nostradamus, they at once suspect black magic. They hassle apprentices on principle. Another reason I stay away from sbirri as much as I can is that their offices tend to be dark and smelly places, reeking of centuries of prisoners. Castello’s was no different, but we strolled in and I presented my servant, the dead woman’s niece, who was seeking more information about her aunt’s sad end.

  Violetta-Delilah was emphatically not a male apprentice. She was spring sunshine and very soon had the duty captain almost drooling, with his pupils dilated like water buckets. He was a hulking lunk who kept scratching; the vermin inhabiting jails may have any number of legs.

  He insisted on taking down Violetta’s name and address, although I noted that the paper went into a pocket in his cloak, which didn’t matter because the information she had given did not refer to anyone in particular. He would be happy to tell madonna what he knew, he murmured, leering. He did not need to look up the records, he sighed. He had not been there himself, he whispered, but he had heard it from the other constables. Besides, how could anyone forget a murder victim being delivered by a senator?

  Violetta clasped her hands to her mouth. “A senator?”

  “Senator Marco Avonal. A fine nobleman, to trouble himself with a body.”

  “And what happened then? She was buried right away?”

  He shrugged with an oily don’t-trouble-your-pretty-head smile. “The Board of Health insists, madonna. If the body is not recognizable, then we note anything that might help it be identified and call in the morticians. She was laid to rest on the Isola before sunset, and may the Lord have merc
y on her soul.”

  Isola di San Michele is the cemetery island. It would have taken me an hour and an extortionate bribe to have learned as much as Delilah had discovered already.

  She stifled a sob. “Amen! So you kept her jewelry to identify her?”

  The captain shook his head regretfully. “His Excellency took them and gave us a receipt. You will have to ask him for them.”

  “They have already been returned to the lady’s estate,” I said. “Could your comrades tell how she had died?”

  He looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there, his pupils contracting sharply. In his opinion, I was exceedingly redundant. “It was very gruesome, because the crabs and the fish had been busy. But, just between us, Captain di Comin is a very clever man, and he noticed that the gristle of the dead woman’s windpipe had been crushed. Some of the remaining flesh around her throat—”

  Violetta cried out and faked a dizzy spell, so I could whisk her out into the fresh sea breeze. I had assumed she was pretending, but even out on the fondamenta she was unusually subdued. That was Niobe showing; as Medea she could have torn the captain apart with a smile on her face.

  “You want to know any more?” I asked.

  She shivered. “No. It’s too horrible to think about. You?”

  “No. Now we know how her jewels survived, and that’s progress. Let’s go and call on the noble gentleman.”

  “Where to?” Giorgio asked as we boarded.

  “We need to locate a Senator Marco Avonal.”

  “Rio di San Nicolò,” Violetta said. “I’ll direct you when we get there.”

  Aha! When we had made ourselves comfortable in the felze, I said, “You are acquainted with His Excellency?”

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  If Avonal was rich enough to be a friend of Violetta’s he might also have known an ex-courtesan who had been worth 1,470 ducats. I decided to wait a while before asking questions. We were passing through the Basino di San Marco, but I lowered the curtains, sacrificing the view of the fleet at anchor in the hope of a cuddle with Helen. Alas, my companion was currently Minerva.

  “Discovering a body is easier if you know where you left it?”

  Minerva is the clever one, but even I had seen that much.

  I said, “I always find it so.”

  “But why would a murderer turn in the body himself, whether he found it by chance or simply fetched it from where he put it?”

  “I don’t know.” I was fairly sure I could think of a reason or two when I did not have to meet the withering gaze of those brilliant gray eyes. “Will you come in with me to see Avonal, if he’s home?”

  “No.”

  Chilly silence.

  “Dearest, if you want the Maestro’s help, or even mine, you will have to be open with us.”

  She pouted. Aspasia or Medea would still have refused, but Minerva could understand. “Very well. We met when a patron took me to a musical soirée at Avonal’s house. I was asked to play the lute, and did. Evidently I impressed him, because a couple of days later he sent a note, asking me for an evening . . . oh, it must be about two years ago. He was not a senator then, just an official in the Salt Office. He took me to a dance in the Palazzo Corner Spinelli. He left early and took me home.”

  “And stayed the night.”

  “Of course. He was a skilled and considerate lover. He asked me again, about a month later . . . That time he just wanted sex. I agreed, although lovemaking should be the crowning episode of an enchanting evening, not a scheduled commercial transaction like a haircut. There are plenty of prostitutes for that. He was quite different!”

  “Different how?” I asked. I was finding the conversation stressful. The woman I love was telling me about other men in her bed.

  “Weird! He was rough and aggressive, almost a different person.” She, who is all women by turns, did not seem to notice the irony. “I had to ring the bell.”

  “What bell?”

  She smiled sphinxly. “I have a hidden bellpull by the bed. Antonio came. Avonal drew on him. Antonio disarmed him, snapped his sword over his knee, and threw him out. No, not into the canal. But I shall not come in with you to see His Excellency.”

  Antonio is the senior bouncer at 96. He is nowhere near as big as Bruno, the Maestro’s porter, but a sight more blood-curdling, with a forked beard and the scarred face of a lifelong fighter.

  “Was Avonal one of Lucia’s patrons also?”

  “I don’t know. He could have been. She had retired, but that doesn’t mean . . . Maybe not completely retired. If she was asked nicely.” At that point, Minerva inexplicably yielded place to Helen, threw her arms around me, and kissed me until my hair smoked.

  “Mm . . .” I said when I was allowed a chance to breathe. “I do think this case is insoluble. The best thing we can do is go home and discuss it.”

  “Later.” She smiled a promise and cuddled a little closer.

  “I love you,” I said. “You rule my heart as la Serenissima rules the seas.”

  “Oh, really? That would have been a much better compliment a hundred years ago.”

  And so on. Banter was very enjoyable but did not help me plan a strategy for calling on Senator Avonal. I knew nothing about him except that his name was uncommon and nobles from small clans rarely win election to senior offices. He must be personally impressive or extremely rich or both. Violetta was not much better informed, unable to tell me what other posts he had held, or what allies had helped him win his seat in the Senate.

  The Senate meets three or four afternoons a week, but I had not heard the dei Pregadi bell in the Piazza ring to summon it, so he might be home. Or not. Having no official standing, I cannot command an audience with anyone, and Avonal was neither a patient of Nostradamus’s nor a client for astrological counsel. If he were not home I should have to leave my name; if he were home he might refuse to see me, and either way I might never get a chance to speak with him at all. Proper procedure would be for me to go home and pen an effusive letter begging a few moments of His Excellency’s valuable time at some date and hour he would select, for some reason I must invent. Normally I would have played safe and done so, but that day I was making inquiries on Violetta’s behalf, not my master’s, and tomorrow he might remind me that my time is his time and tell me to stop wasting it. I would have to risk the direct approach.

  Violetta directed us to a watergate opening directly onto the Rio di San Nicolò—no grandiose frontage or loggia, just an unprepossessing doorway in a plain brick wall.

  “Announce me,” I told Giorgio.

  He crooked his eyebrows. “To call upon Senator Avonal?”

  “The villain himself.”

  “One floor up,” Violetta said. “The door to your left.”

  Giorgio brought the boat in and moored it with the stern nearest the steps, so he could disembark. Then he adjusted his bonnet, stepped ashore, and vanished into the dark corridor.

  I had to ask, “You are absolutely convinced that Lucia did not commit suicide or just fall into a canal in her party clothes?”

  “Absolutely.” But her eyes gleamed gold.

  “Not you, Delilah. I want to hear it from Aspasia.”

  “Oh, Alfeo, you idiot! I wish you would stop this silly game of giving me different names.” But then she spoke in Aspasia’s voice. “Lucia was a very hardheaded and sensible woman. A merely pretty woman can amass a fortune, but only a very clever one can hang on to it.”

  “Thank you.” I kissed her.

  At last Giorgio reappeared and nodded to me—His Excellency would be graciously pleased to receive me. Now it was my turn to climb the stairs. The relevant door was closed and I was left to enjoy the customary urinal fragrance of a communal corridor for several minutes before it opened. A manservant confirmed my name and bowed me in.

  The hallway was tiny by Ca’ Barbolano standards, and niggardly for a senator, even one setting an example of frugality in the ever-cramped city. Four doors led off it, al
l closed, and several works of art cried out to be inspected, if not necessarily admired, but I had no time to study them or the furniture because my host was standing in the center of the room, arms akimbo, studying me. He had the windows at his back.

  I bowed very low, as nobles do to one another. The minimum age for election to the Senate is forty and I would have judged Avonal at less than that, still a giovane in political terms. He was big, but broad more than tall, with a heavy face supporting a thick sandy beard and a grim expression. Part of his size came from the scarlet robes of a senator, but the nobility do not wear their robes at home, so he had put his on especially for me, either to honor me or impress me.

  My first thought was that this man had bedded Violetta once and frightened her another time and I had a sword and he did not. I suppressed bloodthirsty instincts.

  “I am more honored, Your Excellency—”

  “Just state your business.” Avonal had an oddly squeaky voice for such a monolith. I had expected a boom.

  “I am doing a favor for my servant Maria da Bergamo,” I said. “Two weeks ago you retrieved the body of a woman from the lagoon and delivered it to the authorities, a most Christian act. The unfortunate woman has since been identified as Maria’s aunt. She wishes me to convey her deepest thanks and appreciation. Of course I add my own, clarissimo. Now she has recovered from her initial shock, she is dearly anxious to know more about this terrible affair. So far I have learned no more than your name, Excellency, and I presume to inquire what other details you can supply to put the child’s mind at rest?”

  He paused, as if debating whether to throw me out at once or bid me buona sera first and then throw me out.

  “I was on my way to the Lido to ride my horse, which I stable there. Riding is an uncommon pastime in Venice, but not an illegal one. We saw the body floating, so I had my boatmen lift it aboard and we delivered it to the sbirri in Castello for Christian burial. I took possession of the valuables still visible on the corpse, because I knew what would happen to them otherwise. The next day I handed them to my attorney and told him to have them identified and see that they were returned to the dead woman’s family.”