5 - Her Deadly Mischief

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “I’ll send a man to look for it, Signore, but tell me this—before you went to meet Zulietta Giardino at the theater, you stopped by a nearby tavern. Who did you see and for what purpose?”

  Alessio dropped his hands. They looked very awkward, hanging about his flanks, twisting back and forth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Once I’d secured the boat, I went straight to the theater.”

  A strained silence followed. I was itching to ask a few questions of my own, but Messer Grande had ordered me to be silent, and I didn’t fancy risking his wrath.

  Eventually, Messer Grande addressed his prisoner in a tone of sorry reproof. “I’ve already made inquiries at the Pearl of the Waves.”

  “Yes?” The question was a whisper.

  “You were spotted the minute you stepped over the threshold.”

  Alessio clutched the bars again. A look of fear passed over his features, but he quickly collected himself. He cleared his throat. “You’re right, and I beg your pardon, Excellency. I mustn’t lie. It will just cause more trouble, won’t it?”

  “You may be sure of it. What was your business at the Pearl of the Waves?”

  “I was supposed to meet someone, but I was late. The man had already left.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “I…I can’t tell you.”

  “Your tongue seems to be working perfectly to me.”

  “All right. I refuse to tell you.”

  Messer Grande slapped his tricorne on his breeches. “This isn’t sport!” he cried. “Answer me, man! Who were you meeting before the opera?”

  Pale, serious, countenance as cold as the surrounding stones, Alessio shook his head. “It’s a matter of honor, involving innocent men. You must take my word that the business had nothing to do with Zulietta’s death.”

  Messer Grande drew himself up. His nostrils flared to twice their size. I shuddered for Alessio’s sake. Was the boy brave or foolish or merely stubborn?

  “An innocent man has nothing to hide,” Messer Grande said. “If you won’t answer my simple question, I’m forced to believe that you murdered the courtesan Zulietta Giardino.”

  Alessio went very still. He replied in exquisitely pronounced words, “I loved Zulietta. I would never hurt one hair on her head.”

  “Perhaps you did love her…until you discovered that she’d made a cynical, corrupt bargain for your heart.”

  “The wager? Is that what you mean?” Alessio ran a hand over his jaw. He looked to me as if I could offer help. Finding none, he turned back to his interrogator with a challenge writ large on his face. “I wouldn’t have killed Zulietta over that wager.”

  Messer Grande grunted his disbelief. “Are you made of granite, then? Your lady deceived you shamefully. If her plan had come to fruition, you would have been the butt of ridicule for years to come. Women have been murdered for far less. Just last month, a husband strangled his wife for trying to convince him that his cat-meat stew was really chicken. The magistrate went easy on him—only ten years in the galleys. Perhaps the court would find you worthy of equal leniency…” The chief constable lowered his voice. “If you start telling me the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth. Some of your questions I’m not at liberty to answer, but what I can tell will be the full truth. The women’s wager had no power to wound me. I could have put an end to it whenever I chose, but Zulietta was keen to proceed. She wanted to get one up on La Samsona—payment for past misdeeds, apparently. We laughed about the wager and about her rival’s obnoxious efforts to seduce me. Then we went on to discuss more serious things.”

  “That’s not how I heard it,” Messer Grande retorted.

  Alessio’s eyes flashed. “If you heard it from Pamarino, you can be sure it’s a lie.”

  Messer Grande raised his brows in silent question.

  “He’s a preposterous little man,” Alessio continued, “who makes himself difficult in a hundred ways. He took an extreme dislike to me on our first meeting. I don’t understand why Zulietta kept him around. She was too kind.”

  “By his own words, he served as cavaliere servente and majordomo rolled into one.”

  “Pamarino exaggerates his own importance, Excellency. And since I stand behind these bars, I can only assume the pitiful creature has also exaggerated a few things about me.”

  “You are here because you hid from the law. Why would an innocent man do that?”

  Alessio shook his head as if that vigorous motion could dispel a horrifying memory. “I beseech you, put yourself in my place. I was coming up the steps to the opera house when a crowd burst through the doors cawing and chattering like magpies—a woman had jumped from a box and broken her neck—no, someone pushed her—no, a terrible accident. I plunged on, intent on finding Zulietta. But then I spotted an acquaintance who told me Zulietta lay dead—and all of Venice saw her fall from my box.” He beat his palm with his fist. “God forgive me, all I could think about was…my father.”

  I spoke for the first time, words flying unchecked from my tongue. “You ran away because you were afraid of your father?”

  As Messer Grande shot me a withering glance, Alessio raised his chin and puffed out his chest. The lace on his shirt front was limp and disheveled, and one jacket pocket had been partially torn away. Even so, he rivaled the noblest prince I had ever played on the stage. He said, “I may be a coward where my father is concerned, but I loved Zulietta. And she returned my love. I had already dissolved the engagement my father arranged and meant to make Zulietta my wife. I was ready to give up everything for her, and yet you have the effrontery to blame me for her murder. It’s…intolerable.”

  Alessio couldn’t sustain the pose. I don’t know whether grief or guilt or simple fatigue brought him down, but he crumpled before our eyes. We left him huddled on the floor of his cell, sobbing softly, head in his hands.

  ***

  I followed Messer Grande out of the guardhouse, and we walked side by side in silence for several minutes. He led us through the markets, skirting the Pescheria, where noisy gulls contested for fishmongers’ scraps, then straight through the fruit and vegetable stalls, where he stopped here and there to pinch an apple or a winter melon. He finally came to a halt on the crest of the Rialto Bridge and motioned for me to join him as he shouldered in among the gawking foreigners along the parapet.

  It took very little to amuse our visitors. The endless serenades of the gondoliers were a source of wonder, as well as our watery landscape. Men and women alike loved leaning over the wide, flat balustrade of the bridge, following the progress of heavily laden barges, pointing and exclaiming as if they had never seen a boat in their lives. When a barge bumped a gondola and a wild outburst of invective ensued, I heard one ruddy Englishman exclaim, “By Jove,” and suddenly I was missing Gussie with every fiber of my being.

  “Well?” Messer Grande jerked me back to the business at hand. “Is Alessio the man you saw struggling with Zulietta?”

  I pondered for a moment. “I can’t say. Truly. Alessio is the proper height, but he’s very slender.”

  “His shoulders add some width.”

  I nodded. “They do. Working the kiln must be good for the muscles. The man in the box had wide shoulders.”

  “So…you’re saying Alessio might be the man?”

  “Might be—yes, that’s the best I can do.”

  Messer Grande turned to frown at the gaily sparkling waters of the canal with outright antagonism. In a moment, he jerked round again.

  “What about his chin?”

  “Alessio’s chin?”

  “Yes, you said the murderer’s mask left the lower part of his face bare. Did it resemble Alessio’s?”

  I took time to think but had to shake my head. “One man’s chin is very like another.”

  “Of course. It
was a faint hope.” He again turned his gaze to the water and mused in a milder tone of voice. “This case makes me think of an old fairy tale.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Beauty and the Beast.”

  “Oh, yes. A beast captures a beautiful maiden and her love restores him to his true self—a handsome prince.” I shook my head. “But the story doesn’t fit. The only beast in this matter is Pamarino, and handsome he’ll never be.”

  “That’s true.” Messer Grande turned and propped an elbow on the smooth marble railing. The crowd of foreigners was drifting away. “But,” he continued, fastening on me with eyes of deepest brown, “I’d bet my last soldo that our little beast was hopelessly in love with Zulietta.”

  “Pamarino?” I stared back incredulously.

  “That misshapen body holds a heart as tender as any other man’s, does it not?” My companion’s voice again turned silky, a tone I was beginning to realize served him for both suspicion and reproof.

  I was instantly ashamed. Who was I to disapprove of a dwarf’s longings? For every bouquet tossed at the opera house, I received as many gawking stares or whispered crudities on the streets. My tall height, longer than average limbs, and beardless face marked me as a castrato for anyone who cared to observe these peculiarities, and many a half-wit felt compelled to make a remark about me or the women who found me attractive. For consolation, I had my work and Liya, the love of my life. With his more obvious disfigurement, how much worse must it be for Pamarino?

  I asked, “Do you think that’s why Zulietta’s dwarf is throwing blame on Alessio? Sheer jealousy?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Only if Zulietta had truly fallen in love with Alessio as he claims.” I shut my mouth and let the sun warm my cheeks. I was surprised that Messer Grande was discussing the crime in such an open manner, but he regarded me with a frank, friendly expression, so I continued cautiously, “Do you believe Alessio’s story?”

  “What story? So far, that young man has told me very little and absolutely refuses to account for his movements last night.”

  We both wrinkled our noses as a fisherman climbed the bridge steps with a shallow basket on his head. He was hawking sole and mackerel, but he’d left it too late. His wares were beginning to smell.

  Messer Grande removed his snuffbox from his waistcoat and took a delicate pinch. After his sneeze, he said, “I don’t like it when cases are this complicated. Usually when a whore is murdered I have only two men to consider—her pimp or the last man who warmed her bed. This affair of the wager is a tricky business—if only you had gotten a better look at the fellow that stabbed Zulietta.” He proffered the snuffbox, but I shook my head. Tobacco wrecks havoc on the vocal cords.

  “Have you spoken to Signor Albergati? He could at least confirm whether Alessio had called off the marriage.”

  “Indeed,” he replied dryly. “If Signor Albergati would condescend to receive me.”

  “He won’t see you?”

  “I was turned away from his door like a humble turnip seller.”

  “Surely you can insist. You are…Messer Grande.”

  A grimace twisted his pleasant face. “The citizens of our Republic take my measure with different rods. I hold authority that can frighten a porter or a poor ship caulker out of his wits, but let me present my card at one of the palaces that line this waterway and I hear, ‘Perhaps his Excellency will receive you tomorrow.’”

  I nodded. In the old days, there had been no official peace keepers. The great families provided for their own security with squads of liveried bravos while the common folk settled their differences as best they could. I wasn’t surprised that Messer Grande often ran up against the lingering traces of that lawless era. But there was something else. “It could be that Signor Albergati’s reluctance stems from the fact that he and his sons also had a motive to dispense with Zulietta.”

  “Yes, that has occurred to me. Once those curtains parted, the spectators would have talked of nothing but Alessio flaunting his new mistress.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Even your fine talents might have failed to recapture their attention.”

  “The Albergatis’ humiliation would have known no bounds.”

  My companion nodded his agreement. “All true, but the old father is infirm and hobbled by a chronic case of gout. If any of them is our murderer, it would have been one of Maria’s brothers or a loyal bravo from the household. I would bet on the brothers—the one named Umberto is known as a hothead. I’ve taken steps to obtain a magistrate’s writ to force Signor Albergati’s hand, but it will be several days before my request is acted on.”

  “Well, while you’re waiting, I did learn one thing that might be of help.” I went on to recount the tale of old Biagio’s sailor.

  “I see,” Messer Grande said slowly, studying me with an expression that landed somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “So, you’ve been asking questions on your own. I suppose that means you’re every bit the sleuth they say you are.”

  “‘They say?’ Who are they?”

  He gave me a broad grin. “I think I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

  I felt my own lips twitch in return. Several clever replies popped into my head, but instead I merely asked, “Have you investigated this sailor?”

  “Yes, a man of his description inquired about Alessio Pino at the Pearl of the Waves. He waited nearly half an hour, then left the tavern.”

  “Alessio was late because of the drunken gondolier.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “The sailor must have gone to seek Alessio at the opera house then.”

  “Very likely, but that avenue of inquiry is also at a standstill. All we know is that he appeared to be a seafaring man…” Messer Grande frowned as he swept his arm in a wide arc that took in a flotilla of boats on the canal and a host of foreigners crossing the bridge, all of whom had arrived aboard ship.

  I sighed in frustration. “This entire situation is fraught with such difficulties. The murderer wore an ordinary disguise, wielded a common dagger. I suppose the bonds that restrained the dwarf were fashioned of cord you could find just about anywhere.”

  My companion nodded, and I continued. “What luck this killer has enjoyed. Besides all that, he somehow escaped the notice of everyone in the opera house except me.”

  “At least I have you,” Messer Grande murmured with that amused, appraising look in his eyes.

  “Yes, but I bring precious little to your investigation. How do you proceed on such scanty proofs?”

  Messer Grande didn’t seem near as dissatisfied as I. He smiled broadly. “I have my ways. Continue to assist me and you may learn some of them.”

  ***

  Later that evening, I stretched out on the comfortable sofa in my dressing room at the Teatro San Marco and closed my eyes. Benito was moving through his customary preparations: hanging my costumes in proper order, mixing cold-creams and powders, laying out puffs, fine-pointed brushes, and crimson paste for my lips. Next door, Vittoria’s agile gullet was moving through scales, and somewhere below, a violin sounded a mournful tune. Immersed in this familiar routine, I felt truly at peace for the first time since Zulietta’s murder had thrown the theater into chaos.

  I had taken leave from Messer Grande with difficulty. He insisted that we cross to Murano immediately. The dogged chief constable harbored grave suspicions concerning Alessio but would not turn his case over to the Avogaria for trial until he had exhausted all possible avenues of investigation. Something about the formidable Cesare Pino must have aroused Messer Grande’s suspicions, because he wanted my assessment on the glassmaker’s resemblance to the murderous masked figure. I had escaped a windy trip across the lagoon only by pleading that I must coddle my throat for the night’s performance and giving my word that I would accompany him to
Murano early tomorrow. He promised to call at my house with a boat.

  My blessed calm was short-lived. A knock sounded on my door, and before Benito could cross the room to open it, Liya swept in, looking all the world like Titolino when he was trying—very hard—not to tell a secret. My head left the pillow. My feet hit the floor. As my wife enfolded me in a prolonged embrace, I could feel her heart hammering out a staccato beat.

  Pushing me away to arm’s length, Liya stammered, “I can’t stay…I must get home…but I wanted to tell you…I saw Papa.”

  “And?” When my wife had fled Venice so many years ago, her mother vowed to have no more to do with Liya or the child she carried. Her father was not so hasty to disown his daughter—Pincas stored more loving kindness in his little finger than most people displayed in a lifetime—but Liya’s rejection of her heritage and her devotion to Italy’s ancient pagan religion tested even Pincas’ loyalty.

  “Papa was happy…actually happy to see me. He came running out of the back of the shop as soon as he heard my voice.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “He embraced me. He wanted to know all about Titolino. And how you are doing, of course.”

  “He must not be very happy with me.” Over Liya’s shoulder, I saw Benito nodding as he applied a curling iron to my third-act wig.

  “Not very, mio caro. Papa admits he would rather see me married to a man from the ghetto, but he’s indebted to you for rescuing Fortunata and me from the fire before I left home. He thinks a great deal of you…though he’ll never understand why I want to live with an evirato who can never become his grandson’s legal father.”

  I nodded as I squeezed Liya’s arms. Pincas wasn’t the only one. Most of the respectable Cannaregio housewives shunned our unorthodox household. These stern sentinels of virtue had little use for the opera. To them and their hardworking husbands, Liya would always be an apostate Jew with a bastard son and I an odd piece of theatrical riffraff. This was of little importance to me. I spent my days at the opera house, in a close-knit community that often ran counter to the established order. But I worried for Liya and Titolino’s sake. The boy would soon be going to school. How would he be treated there?