Suicide Kings

by Christopher J. Ferguson

  Diana sat back in her cushioned chair. She had only moments to herself. If she didn’t appear at breakfast, her father might very well send for her, particularly after such an odd evening as last night. Getting a moment alone from then on would prove difficult. She needed some time to think. She had difficulty resolving her feelings for her mother with the secretive woman in the letter. Diana and her mother had always been close, far closer than she had been with her father. Isabella Savrano had been a vibrant, intelligent, cultured woman who treated her daughter with affection. True, now that she thought on it, her mother might have seemed distracted in the last weeks, but there was nothing that would lead Diana to suspect something so serious that could have ended in her murder.

  Thinking of her mother she realized once again she would never see her smile, receive a comforting word or piece of sage advice. Her most crucial human bond severed eternally. Diana shook her head to clear it. Weeping and moping were not going to be sufficient to reveal the circumstances of her mother’s assassination. Diana needed to summon her strength and her guile. Her mother deserved no less. Fortunately business matters would keep her father distracted, as always they did, so she could begin her investigation without hindrance.

  Diana soon dressed and made her way down to breakfast. Her father sat already at the table, but he was silent, looking over papers as he ate. Diana remained quiet as well. Their relationship had never been one of idle chatter and given the previous night’s events, she felt even greater distance between them.

  Suddenly, as if thinking of it for the first time, he said without meeting her eyes, “I’ve hired you a new handmaid.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “It’s been more than a month since Silvia left us to get married. The time had come to replace her.”

  Diana put down her fork. “Am I not to be consulted in the hiring of my own handmaid?”

  Her father sipped at some rare Indian coffee without looking at her or matching her raised voice. “An application came in with excellent letters of reference. She worked for the Orsini in Roma, but is eager to make a move to Firenze. I discussed the matter with Signore Orsini, while you were chasing after errant nuns. Besides, I am the master of this household, and employment decisions are mine alone. If you wish to hire your own handmaid, you have been given ample opportunities to start your own household.”

  So that was the matter at hand. At nineteen, Diana was well past the age most young women married. What was worse, in her father’s eyes, was that Diana had turned down several suitors who would have made good matches—one of the Orsini’s sons, the elder son of the Borgia pope, a minor count from France who had been quite smitten with her. None of these men interested her. In truth, she wasn’t sure the life of marriage and children interested her much at all, but if she was going to doom herself to that kind of servitude, she would be sure it was for a man she dearly loved. Her mother had understood that and intervened with her father on her behalf. The result had been for her father to turn down potentially advantageous marriage proposals to his own embarrassment. From his tone, she guessed he wasn’t going to push the issue too far now, but if another good proposal came, he might not refuse it, now that her mother’s influence was gone.

  Her father finally looked at her, meeting her gaze coolly and without emotion. “You should have married the Comte du Briere. I think he actually loved you.”

  She matched his gaze without fear or submission. “But I did not love him.”

  He sighed and put his papers down. “Marriage is not about love. A lucky few might find it, but most of us are content with a passing affection. I’ve never entertained a proposal from a man I knew to be of poor character or likely to take fists to a woman. You must consider what you are to do with your life. You can’t remain in my household forever.”

  “I could study medicine at Salerno. I’ve heard that they’ve taken a few women as students.”

  Her father drew back in shock, a rare display of emotion. “Certainly not! Even if what you say is true, it is not for women of good moral fiber to enter the trades. You’re a Savrano, for the sake of the Virgin Mary, not a common washerwoman.”

  “Medicine is a trade, true, but it is a trade held in some repute. In our own city, the physician’s guild is held in the highest standing. Was not Hippocrates a physician, and Galen—”

  “Enough,” her father said with a wave of his hand, having regained his composure. “Next you’ll say you wish to enter the profession of law.”

  “Will you at least think on it, Father?”

  He looked up at the ceiling as if seeking the hosts of angels painted in elaborate colors there for strength, “If I make you promises you will only get your hopes strengthened for nothing. Medicine is not a woman’s work.” He went back to his papers, evidently considering the matter closed.

  Diana groaned and made a big show of pushing away from the table and stomping out of the room, all of which her father ignored. She huffed her way up the carpeted stairs and threw open the door to her room. Slamming it behind her she let out a scream.

  “A poor start to the morning, lady?” inquired a voice from the corner.

  Diana spun around to find a young woman off to the side folding linens. Looking the woman over, Diana decided that she needed to improve her powers of observation, for the woman was hardly difficult to perceive. Her age must surely be near to Diana’s own, perhaps a year or two younger. She dressed in the formal attire of the household attendees. She would have blended in, had her hair not been a blazing orange-red, cascading down over her shoulders and back without the usual tie or bun the other household women used. Her face was freckled and her skin pale to the point of near transparency, nearly opposite in shade to Diana’s own healthy olive sheen. This must be the new handmaid her father had told her about. Clearly, she was not from Roma, as her father had led her to believe.

  “You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you,” Diana explained the obvious, catching her breath.

  “I am Siobhan Biern and I am at your service.” The girl curtseyed. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling though, a disarmingly informal expression that unnerved Diana. She already wasn’t sure how the Orsini had recommended her so highly. Perhaps they sought to fob her off on the Savrano family, although that admittedly was not characteristic of them. The girl must have some charms. “I’ve already seen to organizing your room, lady. I’ve only a bit more to do. Do you have any other instructions for me?”

  Diana edged closer to her, as if observing a potentially threatening and unfamiliar beast. “Where are you from, exactly?”

  The girl’s knowledge of the Toscana dialect was superb, although the accent grated, like listening to someone pluck the hairs out of a cat’s tail. “My father was a sailor from Ireland. When my mum died, he took me with him to Naples, where work could be had. Sadly he died some years back and left me on my own.” She shrugged, the silly smile never leaving her lips.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve just lost my mother.”

  Finally the smile vanished and the girl’s eyes hit the floor. “Yes, your father mentioned so. I’m very sorry to hear about your loss. I know how it is to lose a parent.” She touched Diana on the arm. More of that instantaneous familiarity. The girl had no boundaries.

  “You’ve got a very nice home,” Siobhan intoned, neck craned, staring at the ceiling.

  Although it was her own bedroom, Diana couldn’t help herself but to look up as well. On the ceiling was painted a scene from Greek antiquity, women and men gathered around a fountain with one of them apparently lecturing to the crowd on some highly emotional subject while the rest swooned. Both the men and women wore simple bolts of cloth in the Greek fashion although these were often minimal, revealing the grace of the human physique. The painting had been manifest overhead as long as Diana could recall. Some famous dead fellow painted it. Painting really wasn’t her thing.

  “Do you ever wonder,” Siobhan asked, batting her eyes, “how the Greeks
ever got anything done when they couldn’t keep their clothes fastened? They always have those little bits of cloth but they never stay secure, do they? I mean, the women have always got their breasts out. Don’t you think they’d feel silly, walking about like that, everyone staring? And the men, I always wonder how the Greek men had any success with the ladies at all, if they really had to make do with those little…”

  Diana cleared her throat.

  “What?” Siobhan asked innocently. “It’s your painting.”

  “Did you say you actually interviewed with my father before he hired you?”

  Siobhan nodded. “Oh we had a pleasant little chat, indeed.” She looked back up at the ceiling. “It’s a queer painting for a child’s bedroom, you have to admit.”

  Diana huffed. “All the ceilings are painted like that.”

  “So I’ve noticed. The Romans seemed to prefer more pious and lordly paintings such as popes slaying infidels and Jews, or sinners having their skins stripped away by demons in hell. I think I prefer the taste of you Firenzans to be honest. I thought Italians were supposed to be particularly Catholic folk, but here you are with nude paintings and statues every direction I turn. Why if ever I lack a spot to hang my hat, there’ll be some convenient swain with a fig leaf or what not in every corner.”

  Diana couldn’t help herself, a little chuckle welling up in her chest.

  “We Irish are quite the opposite. Not a hint of obscenity, but we go about making new servants for the Lord every chance we get.”

  Diana blurted out a quick laugh, then remembering her dead mother, immediately felt horrible, new tears welling in her eyes. She considered that to enjoy herself was somehow to betray her mother’s memory.

  Siobhan looked crestfallen. “Oh, look what I’ve gone and done. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” She quickly moved to embrace Diana, and Diana, contrary to form and protocol, discovered the gesture comforting. Come to think of it, Siobhan was the first person to show her any real compassion since her mother died. Diana allowed herself a moment to regain her composure before pulling away.

  Diana dabbed away the moisture from her eyes. “Well if you’re going to be my handmaiden, you couldn’t have come at a worse time. My mother has just been murdered and I’m intent on finding out by whom and for what purpose.”

  Siobhan made a show of looking shocked. “Murder, how horrible!” Whatever else she might be Siobhan was no actress, and Diana could tell she’d heard about the incident last night.

  “I see my father already told you.”

  Siobhan frowned. “He mentioned the falling nun, yes. People tend to like to tell their own stories though; I figured I’d give you the chance.”

  Reasonable enough, Diana decided. “And my father expects you to report back to him on my activities I presume.”

  Siobhan shrugged and looked sheepish. “My understanding is that the occasional report is expected under the terms of my employment, yes.”

  Diana didn’t feel terribly bothered. If her father really wanted to impede her, he could have done so far more effectively than by merely assigning her a watch-maid. In an indirect way it seemed a sign at least her father noticed her and cared. Such signs could be rare.

  “If you intend to keep by my side at all times, you should know that investigating a murder will be quite dangerous.” Diana said this with a tone that implied she knew a thing or two about murder investigations, which she most assuredly did not.

  “By definition, most murder investigations are, I would wager.”

  Diana put her hands on her hips and considered. It took her only a moment to decide. If it would mollify her father, she’d allow this woman into her confidence, at least for now. Besides, it might be just as well to have another mind helping her, if even just to sound ideas. “Very well, then. I’ve been trying to decide the best place to begin my investigation. It seems that there are several key possibilities. First, there is the man Giuseppe Mancini di Milano whom the nun said may have murdered my mother. He is staying at the Romancier and I would most like to question him.”

  Siobhan nodded, listening intently.

  Diana felt more confident as she spoke, realizing she was not without good ideas about how to proceed. “I would like to find out more information about the nun herself. I never so much as got her name, and I would like to inquire of the Cardinal Lajolo or the local convent about her background. Then there is this note.” She passed along the parchment in her mother’s handwriting to Siobhan, who looked it over with interest. “We could go to the church mentioned in it, to see if the parish priest noticed anyone meeting with my mother there. And lastly, I should look through my mother’s things. My father wouldn’t like that, but there could be information there.”

  Siobhan nodded once more. She looked interested, even excited. “Those all sound like reasonable options. Where do you think that we should begin?”

  “I think with Giuseppe Mancini. If he came to Firenze to slay my mother and the job is now done, he could leave at any time. We might already have missed him; my mother has been killed several days prior.” Diana noted how she had seized upon the surety of her mother’s murder. She still had mainly the nun’s word to go by, but this inquiry gave her a sense of purpose. She would hunt the truth no matter how difficult.

  Siobhan narrowed one eye. “If this man is truly an assassin, you can’t simply walk up to him and ask.”

  “I realize that.” Diana rubbed her chin in thought. “If he is still staying at the Romancier, he might have some information in his room that would be of use. We should search it…that is, if you’re sure you wish to come with me?”

  “This is the most excitement I’ve known in years! But I wonder, how will we gain access to his private rooms? We don’t know which room is his, and I suspect the innkeeper wouldn’t simply let us in.”

  Diana’s brow furrowed. “We need to figure out some way for the innkeeper to show us which room is his. If a package were to be delivered to the room, the innkeeper might very well let us take it up. Once we find out the correct room, we can sneak back in.”

  Siobhan pulled the edges of her mouth in a gesture of uncertainty. “I’m not sure. He might use a different name.”

  “I bet he’d use the same first name, perhaps change the last,” Diana proclaimed with more confidence than she actually felt. “Otherwise he might be seen not to respond to his own professed name, which certainly would be suspicious.”

  Siobhan nodded, appearing to think about Diana’s rationale. “I have a feeling this is going to prove to be a most unusual position of employment for me.”

  Diana realized her plans put Siobhan in a difficult position. If they were caught, Diana’s father would almost certainly be able to get them out of any legal trouble. Whether he would be inclined to save an employee in the same manner as his own daughter was frankly doubtful. “I should probably do this on my own. You’re only a handmaid after all.” Indeed it wasn’t Siobhan’s mother who’d been murdered.

  Siobhan shrugged one shoulder. “I’d be in no worse trouble than if I let you face danger alone. Besides, I’m hardly a stranger to adventure, I can tell you that.”

  Diana felt satisfied and turned, walking crisply from the room without explanation. Siobhan followed quietly. Diana led down a hallway, up one floor to a study with an excellent view of a public plaza below.

  Siobhan commented quietly, “Oh look, more naked Greeks on the ceiling. Looks like they’re up to something important though, doesn’t it?”

  Diana ignored her, and from a carved wooden desk, produced a gilded box. She snapped open several clasps and raised the lid. From within she pulled a wooden object, perhaps a foot in length, with a metal tube imbedded across the top, and a thick knob at the back. On top, a complex wheel held a piece of pyrite ready to strike against a metal pan. The body of the device was carved to look like intertwining vines of ivy. It weighted heavy in Diana’s hands. To try to lift it and point it with one hand would be very difficult
for her. Keeping it in both hands, she held it for Siobhan to see.

  Siobhan squinted. “What is it, exactly?”

  Diana frowned, disappointed. “It’s a wheellock pistol. It was a gift to my father from some painter and inventor. It’s one of the first of its kind. My father took me to Milano a few years ago in hopes I might marry one of the cousins of the Sforza family. The painter worked on a consignment for them there. Leonardo showed me how to use it. I think I remember.” She looked back into the box and found the small ivory horn with gunpowder, and a dozen or so metal balls.

  “Do you think you really could dispatch someone with that?” Siobhan looked skeptical.

  “At least I’ll have the option, won’t I? Is there anything that we’re forgetting?”

  “A small measure of good sense, I’m beginning to think,” Siobhan murmured.

  Diana felt her blood rise at the insubordination. “You’re welcome to stay here and do laundry if you prefer.”

  “Forgive me, lady. I just hope we are up to the task.”

  Diana regarded Siobhan for a moment. “Me too. I don’t feel like I have much choice. You do, however. You could very well be killed. Already my mother and the nun were killed. I won’t hold it against you if you stay behind.”

  “I couldn’t have that. I’m with you, lady.”

  Diana nodded, feeling relieved and mildly guilty at the same time. “We should go before my father realizes that we’re up to something and tries to stop us.” She moved for the door. “I’d hate to see good sense get in the way of our plan.”

  ****

  For the delivery, they made up a package sealed with wax and containing several long bricks. These gave the parcel a realistic weight, yet also made carting it across Firenze an unforeseen annoyance. Naturally once this was discovered, the labor largely fell to Siobhan. Diana carried the pistol and a length of good silk rope in her pack.

  Once they were outside the Romancier, their final deliberations revealed the weaknesses of their plan. “You can hardly deliver the package.” Siobhan pointed at Diana’s clothing. “You’re dressed for mourning. Mourners don’t deliver packages.”