by Dave Duncan
Alina wasted no time on small talk. “So your master will do as I ask?”
“He is willing to try, madonna.”
“How generous of him.”
“He accepts no fees unless he succeeds, so he must be selective in the cases he accepts.” I offered the contract.
She ignored it. “How much?”
“Two hundred ducats if he can prove that your son Zorzi did not stab your husband.”
“And what else does it say?”
“He needs information, so he requires that all members of your household answer certain questions that he has instructed me to ask.”
She hissed and then sucked in her hollow cheeks. “Absurd! You will write it all down and require everyone to sign what you have written. Then the blackmail will start.”
“No blackmail, madonna. I will write nothing. I don’t need to. ‘Near Milan, twelfth January. My most beloved lady mother, it was with deepest sorrow that I added to your burdens by fleeing from the Republic, knowing that my actions will be taken as evidence of guilt and bring calumny upon you and everyone I hold dear. I was warned just in time that the Chiefs of the Ten had ordered my arrest. For reasons known to you—’ ”
“Impressive! Can you remember every word of a conversation also?”
“Most of them, madonna. You: ‘Why is a messenger boy claiming to be a patrician?’ Me: ‘I am a patrician, madonna, my birth is listed in the Golden Book. I carried only a letter of introduction and—’ ”
“Jacopo, read me that contract.”
Jacopo took the paper from me—with his left hand—and read it out. Once he inserted a mistake to see if I would correct him, which I did. I had been waiting for him to try that old trick. When he had done, donna Alina rose from her chair and strode over to the black escritoire. While Jacopo fussed around producing pen, ink, wax, and sand, she held up the second copy of the contract at arm’s length and read it through to make sure it said the same things.
“I will not accept this nonsense about the bocca di leone,” she said. “I am hiring your master, he should report to me alone.”
“If his search is unavailing, then of course his regrets come to you alone, madonna. But the law is clear that any citizen having evidence bearing on a major crime has a duty to report it to the proper authority, which in the case of murder is the Council of Ten. The Lion’s Mouth letter box for the Ten is in the palace, of course, but there are many other drops around the city, and if we choose ours carefully and time the drop, we can be sure it will not be read for several hours. This gives us ample time to report to you.”
She pouted, which added five years to her face and ten to her neck. “Who pays the cook eats first. Nostradamus will send his report to me and if it is acceptable, then I shall see that a copy goes to the Ten.”
Having had the same argument with clients before, I just shrugged. “If you insist.” The Maestro had never had a client turn out to be guilty of a major crime, but he has explained to me that all his contracts include standard wording that they are subject to the laws of Venice just in case this ever happens. Thus he cannot be sued for breach of contract if he turns his client in, although I don’t see why a headless corpse would care to argue.
“Then you must say so,” donna Alina announced. “Write it in, Jacopo, both copies.”
Jacopo wrote left-handed, of course; the trait sinister often runs in families. When he had amended both copies, she signed and sealed them—right-handed—and returned to her favored seat.
“What else do you need to know, sier Alfeo?” She pursed her lips tightly and narrowed her eyes.
“I understand that you were the only one to see the murderer?”
“I did not really see him. It was very dark after the brightness. The Basilica is not an especially large church, you understand, considering its importance, but it must be the most beautiful in the entire world. The whole of the inside, all the domes and the walls and arches, are decorated with gold mosaic displaying the history of the city, and Our Lord with the saints and apostles, his Holy Mother, a most incredible sight.”
I have seen the inside of the Basilica several times. What she was saying was not very relevant to her husband’s death, but she was talking so I let her ramble on.
“And the Christmas Mass is most special, you know, held just before midnight by an ancient special dispensation from the Pope, with the most beautiful music, and all the senior officers of the Republic come in procession, together with men from the great scuole, the friars, and priests. Truly, it was the most memorable experience of my entire life. And the church was very dim until four men, standing at the corners of a cross, lighted threads, like fine fuses, that spread the light out to hundreds of candles—one thousand five hundred candles, Gentile told me, and some dozens of very large, twelve-pound candles, and they all seemed to light by themselves, all at once, and the entire Basilica blazed up like the sun to greet the day of Our Lord’s birth!”
I sighed in wonder.
She sighed in nostalgia. “And then, oh horrors! The glorious Mass came to an end, as everything must come to an end. We had just gone out into the atrium, and it was so dark out there, but I had found Gentile and taken his arm, and suddenly someone pushed me roughly, and I cried out in complaint and clung tighter to my husband, but he made a strange noise . . . more like surprise than pain, really. He fell, dragging me down with him. And I realized that he was bleeding . . . So, no, I didn’t really see the murderer. Except that he did not seem very tall.” End of recitation.
“Thank you, madonna.”
“What else?”
“The reasons known to you why Zorzi could not prove his innocence.”
The letter she had shown me previously had been invented by Domenico and his wife and meant nothing, but the forgers had avoided mentioning the explanation Zorzi had given his mother for failing to clear his name, perhaps because they had not known exactly what that was. What he had said might or might not be whatever she was going to tell me after she stopped glaring at me like a Barbary corsair.
“Jacopo, go and wait outside.”
The family by-blow’s face froze, but he spun on his heel and marched to the door. I expected him to slam it behind him, but he managed to close it quietly. Silence. I waited.
Finally: “Sier Alfeo, I do not deny that at times my late husband was very autocratic. He had strict standards, even by the standards of the Venetian patriarchy.”
I nodded understandingly.
“Nor do I deny that my son was a sinner, but he was a man of spirit also and knew that he had two half-sisters and a half-brother born out of wedlock. He regarded Gentile’s reprimands as sheer hypocrisy.” She paused, as if realizing that she was avoiding the issue. “Zorzi frequented courtesans, yes. But at the time of Gentile’s death, he was enamored of a woman of noble birth.”
Even after so long, telling me this was a strain for her. Her hands were knotted into fists and her cheeks blotched red under the paint. I helped her along.
“You are saying, madonna, that on the night your husband died, your son was clasped to the bosom of a married lady?”
She nodded. “That was why he could not defend himself from the charge of murder.”
Zorzi had an alibi? I was tempted to laugh aloud. Even a notorious libertine could have delusions of honor, apparently, but this might be the easiest two hundred ducats the Maestro had ever earned.
“If you, in strictest confidence, were to tell me the name of—”
“I do not know her name.”
I must have looked disbelieving, because she continued grimly.
“I know only that she was young and married to an older man. Zorzi told exaggerated fairy tales of his debauchery with courtesans just to annoy his father, but he was very discreet about the others. Other one, I mean. That was a true love affair!”
“Did you tell the inquisitors about her?”
“No. They asked me about the murder itself, because I was there, and I told th
em everything I knew. They never asked me where my sons were at the time, why should they?”
“Did they not question you again after he fled?”
“No. By then they had convinced themselves of his guilt.”
“You are certain that your son refused to tell the inquisitors the name of the witness who could give him an alibi? It was not that he did name her and she contradicted his story out of fear of her husband’s wrath?”
“No. I begged him to tell them, but he insisted he never would.”
That was the end of that path. Was she lying to me? Had Zorzi lied to her? Had the boy’s mistress lied to the Three? I was no nearer knowing why some maniac was going around murdering courtesans.
“Still more questions, messer Zeno? I find this conversation wearying and unnecessary. I engaged Maestro Nostradamus to clear my son’s name, not to inflict you and your eternal questioning upon myself.”
“Just one more, madonna, undoubtedly a painful one for you. When did you last see Zorzi?”
She sniffed as if I had committed a social gaffe. “The day of my husband’s funeral. We had no sooner returned to the house than he changed out of mourning and appeared in his usual finery. No long months of mourning for him, he said; he had paid his respects, and anything more would be hypocrisy.”
“Did he hint that he was heading to the mainland?”
“No. No, he certainly did not. He told me he had found the archangel of all courtesans, Venus in the flesh, and he was going off to, um, visit with her and see if she was as good as her reputation.” Donna Alina’s face hardened. “It must have been she who warned him that the Ten were going to arrest him.”
“I think not, madonna. I have spoken to the woman, and she claims that she was expecting him but he never arrived.”
“Indeed?” She raised her painted brows, corrugating her forehead. “And what is the name of this paramount beauty?”
“That I may not reveal. I am much indebted to you for your help.” I rose to take my leave. “My master gave me some questions to put to both sier Bernardo and sier Domenico; also some for a few senior servants. I may tell them that you wish them to cooperate?”
She pulled a face. “Let Jacopo back in.”
I went to the door and opened it slowly in case he had his ear to the keyhole and needed to skedaddle, but he was leaning against the wall on the far side of the corridor, arms folded and eyes hot with anger. I winked and stepped aside.
He marched in and bowed excessively low. “How may I serve, madonna?”
“Stop sulking,” she said. “It’s childish. Escort sier Alfeo around and tell everyone that he asks questions with my permission. If anyone refuses to answer, report them to me. Now go away, both of you. I am upset and need to lie down.”
“Frail as the Walls of Troy,” Jacopo remarked after the door had been safely closed and we were walking the corridor together.
“She is a tough lady,” I agreed.
“Where to, sier inquisitor?”
“Sier Bernardo is inspecting meat at this time of day?”
“Yes, but in a dignified, aristocratic way.”
“Is sier Domenico available?”
“He told me he would be in the library all morning. This way, then.”
Our path returned us to the big salone where the murder weapon was preserved in its glass mausoleum. In the window overlooking the riva and the shipping basin sat the plump little lady I had seen with donna Alina on Friday. At first I thought she was alone, the epitome of the sequestered Venetian nobleman’s wife dying of boredom as the world went by without her; but then I saw she had a child with her and was pointing out the sights. I knew who she was.
“Pray present me to donna Isabetta,” I asked my guide.
“Signora Isabetta,” he snapped, but he changed course.
Isabetta acknowledged me with a careful lack of expression, but she did invite me to be seated, which was both gratifying and unexpected. The child, aged about five, huddled close to her mother, alarmed by a stranger.
“Maria, dear,” Isabetta whispered, “you go with Jacopo and find Nurse. Thank you, Jacopo.” Mousey she might be, but she had no hesitation about giving him orders. She watched the two of them depart, and then waited for me to speak, all bland and respectful, eyes demurely downcast. The huge salone was hardly a private space, but her behavior in meeting alone with a man would not meet with her mother-in-law’s approval. I wondered if she had planned this.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, madonna.”
She nodded agreement to my feet.
“Do you mind answering a few brief questions?”
“What do you wish to know, messer?”
“You married sier Domenico before his father’s death?”
Another nod.
“So you knew Zorzi. What sort of a man was he?”
“An icicle in a furnace.” She spoke softly, guardedly.
“You refer to his lifespan or his character?”
She did not return my smile, perhaps did not even see it. She was a very tightly controlled lady. “The latter. First, of course, he was the handsomest boy in Venice and possibly in all Christendom, truly beautiful. He knew it. Men stared at him in the streets. He was witty, talented, and cultured. He dressed like a peacock and danced like a butterfly.”
“The furnace?”
“The furnace was the way he looked at women. The moment I met him, his eyes were telling me that he had been waiting for me all his life, that I was indeed fortunate beyond all women, and if we could just slip away from all these other people he would demonstrate what men were for. He was still making the same offer the last time I saw him.” She hardly moved a muscle while whispering all this to me. An onlooker at a distance would not have known we were conversing at all.
“And the icicle?”
“Was what I saw when I looked into his eyes.”
I bowed my head in praise. “You are a wise and observant lady. Did he kill his father?”
“That is up to you to discover, is it not? She signed your contract?”
“She did.”
A tiny hint of a smile came and went, leaving a hint of contempt behind. “I knew she would. She has been obsessed with her lost son ever since he fled.”
“You bring Zorzi to life for me. Will you give me the benefit of your judgment of donna Alina?”
“No.”
Wise, observant, and careful. “Then was Zorzi capable of murdering his father?”
“Only if it was necessary.”
“Necessary for what?”
“For his own happiness. What else mattered?”
“Did you know that he was having an affair with a married woman?”
“Lots of them. You refer to that story that he could not explain his whereabouts without betraying a lover? Zorzi . . .” She paused, frowning very slightly. “It is hard to talk of such a libertine having any sort of honor, but he did have some standards. He was no puffball. He kept himself extremely fit—so he would never disappoint a friend, he said. And he resisted any sort of authority. I often wondered if he might have run away to protect a woman, just as a temporary measure. His mother might have put him up to it—going into hiding until they catch the real killer. If that were the case he would have had to be innocent, of course.”
“Then the Ten declared him guilty and gave up looking?”
“It’s possible.”
“Yes it is. So he was innocent?”
“I doubt if Zorzi remained innocent much beyond his twelfth birthday, but he may not have been guilty of patricide.”
“And his mother may know where he is? Quite apart from the letters you and your husband provide for her?”
“I doubt it, now. If he stayed in any one place for long, the bounty hunters would have caught him. She really believes the letters.”
I was inclined to believe that, but not ready to check it off as certain. Alina was a cunning and manipulative old woman, and I strongly suspected that Isabetta Scoro
zini detested her.
“I understand that you had a family conference yesterday?”
Isabetta’s face resumed its waxen inscrutability. “I will not betray confidences, messer. Nothing that was discussed yesterday can have any possible bearing on what happened in the Basilica eight years ago.”
While I was working out the politest way of contradicting that statement, I saw Jacopo striding toward us like a war galley preparing to ram. The chance of learning anything from Isabetta had just ended, so I rose and thanked her and spoke my farewells.
“Did you know that Zorzi was having an affair with a married woman?”
Jacopo gave me the answer I expected from the family snoop: “Of course I did.” He did not look at me as he said it.
“Even then you knew, or you have learned since?”
“Even then. More than one of them. He didn’t care what they were, as long as they were female—servants, whores, or senators’ granddaughters.”
“But apparently he was with a lady on the night your father died. You don’t happen to know her name, do you?”
“No.”
By then I trusted very little of what Jacopo Fauro told me, but that time he was probably telling the truth. I had trouble imagining the libertine Zorzi bragging of his conquests to a much younger half-brother. That seemed out of character. He boasted to anger his father, not to impress the cook’s bastard.
22
The Michiel library was not impressive as a book collection but as a room it was spectacular—large and bright and gloriously decorated. There we found Domenico with three artisan-class men, all standing around the central table, studying building plans. He looked up as we entered.
He beamed. “I did not think I should escape for long. Greetings to you, clarissimo!”
I responded. I thought for an instant that he was going to embrace me. If he thought of it he changed his mind quickly. We bowed.
“Jacopo,” he said, “you have a good eye for style. See if you can figure out why this chapel extension looks off balance. Let us take a breath of air, sier Alfeo.” He escorted me to a glass door leading to a small balcony overlooking the canal, thereby cutting out Jacopo much more graciously than his mother had. With the glass door closed, we were alone and could not be overheard.