The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You are right, Baseggio. But who cares? We will both reap a tidy harvest from this business too.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘But the big man . . .’ He stuck out a finger to point at where Tron had gone. ‘. . . will get a whole lot more.’

  He passed a professional eye over the galley, which bobbed sluggishly on the lapping waves of the lagoon.

  ‘There’s more than meets the eye on that vessel.’

  Zuliani wasn’t sure what he meant, but assumed the old man was just jealous of the bigger slices he, Tron and Rosso were taking. As for himself, he could calculate what he stood to make, and was entirely content with the deal. He passed a few more words with the old man, and wandered back to Ca’ Dolfin and Cat’s company. The rest of his day was passed agreeably in drinking to his good luck, and the pleasures of the flesh.

  The election to the Council of Ten was only a few days away, so, the next morning, Zuliani was distracted from the more lucrative business of calculating his profits with considerations about whose palm he should grease. But before he could be on his way, there was a loud knocking at the Dolfin street door. Cat’s elderly steward, Donato, eventually answered the persistent hammering, and Zuliani heard loud voices in the hallway, as Donato tried his best to keep whoever it was from entering. Unsure why the old steward was being so obstructive, he poked his head out of the room.

  ‘What is the matter, Donato? Show our visitor in.’

  The steward appeared at the end of the passage, his face red and his arms waving.

  ‘It’s a mad woman, master. She wants to see you, but I don’t think you should.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  Before the old man could reply, a matronly woman came up behind him and pushed him peremptorily aside. She spoke up with a strident voice, edged with hysteria.

  ‘Because he thinks I am too common to see the inside of the Ca’ Dolfin, that’s why.’

  Indeed, the woman was shabbily dressed in a brown woollen dress that was tattered at the hem, and her headgear was worn and in holes in places. But she was more care-worn than careless of her appearance. She was poor but not ashamed of her status in life. Zuliani could see recent grief in her face, and was intrigued what had brought her to him.

  ‘It’s fine, Donato, I will see the lady.’ He took in her strained look. ‘And I think she would benefit from a little of the good Rhenish I know you still have stored away in the cellar.’

  The old steward looked scandalised that Zuliani should be offering his mistress’s best wine to the woman. But his sense of duty took over, and he bowed his head graciously and went about his task. Zuliani took the woman’s arm, feeling it trembling with shock now her anger had subsided, and guided her into the main room of Cat’s palatial residence. When she had sat down, and Donato had brought the two goblets of wine, he set about finding out what this incident was all about.

  ‘Now, tell me why you came to see me. I guess it is me you want, not anyone else, mistress . . .’ He paused. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  The woman took a deep gulp of the wine, and sighed as it slipped down her throat. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  ‘I am Francesca Este, Messer Zuliani, and, yes, it is you I want to see. It’s about my father.’

  Zuliani frowned, not recalling an Este as someone he knew, and guessing he would have nothing to do with the elections. The woman saw his puzzlement, and explained.

  ‘Este is my married name. Before that I was a Baseggio.’

  Zuliani knew that name. So, the old shipwright with the stick was her father.

  ‘Ahhh. How is old Baseggio?’

  The woman’s face crumpled, and a tear ran down her cheek.

  ‘He is . . . dead.’

  ‘Dead? Good Lord, I’m sorry. When? Tell me what happened.’

  After gulping back a few sobs, Francesca Este told her story. It turned out that the old man had been found that very morning floating face down in the Rio della Celestia close to the Arsenale. When his body had been fished out, there was not a mark on him to suggest foul play. So the authorities assumed he had fallen in accidentally, and informed his daughter accordingly.

  Zuliani frowned, and asked the obvious question. ‘So, why are you here, Domina Este? I am sorry for your father’s death, naturally, especially after the success of the colleganza we both invested in. It’s a pity he could not reap the rewards of his good judgement, but I will ensure you receive what was due to him.’ It was the least he could do. ‘Sometimes these things happen to old men, especially if they have been . . .’

  ‘Drinking?’

  Zuliani shrugged. ‘I was going to say celebrating his good fortune. I, too, had a drink or three last night. Now, if you will excuse me . . .’

  The woman grabbed his arm with a surprisingly firm hand.

  ‘I came to you because my father said you could be trusted, even though we have heard you are standing for the Council of Ten. He said to me that it didn’t matter what it looked like, that you would never switch sides.’

  ‘Switch sides?’

  Zuliani asked the question, already knowing what was coming. But he still needed to hear it for himself. Francesca Este explained in no uncertain terms.

  ‘He said, as a Zuliani, you would never kowtow to the old hierarchy. That you would stand up for the common people of Venice. Don’t let him down now.’

  Zuliani was embarrassed, and felt his face going red. Was this what everyone outside the charmed circle of the case vecchie thought of his standing for the Council? That he was betraying his origins? If so, he would have to reconsider. He grimaced, and looked the woman squarely in the eyes.

  ‘What makes you think it was more than an accident? I take it that that is what you want to tell me. That Baseggio didn’t die by accident.’

  She nodded her head, and sure of having gained his full attention, let go of his arm. He rubbed the spot where her grip had dug into his arm ruefully as she told him what she thought had happened.

  ‘We live off the Campo San Biagio, right by the entrance to the Arsenale.’

  She was describing the area round the great state-owned basin that formed the shipyards and armoury of Venice. Its naval power emanated from this dockyard, and Marco Baseggio had given his working life over to building ships in the great basin.

  ‘He had retired on a small pension,’ explained his daughter. ‘But he still went there every day, and checked on what was being built. Some of the younger men got annoyed at his interference, but the older ones – the ones who had known him at work – respected his opinions. They would drink with him, and swap stories of the old times. He could always make his way home afterwards, even though he had to use his stick. He never fell in any canal.’

  ‘So what made yesterday different?’

  ‘Because yesterday he saw Baglioni’s galley in the Arsenale, and he told me it was still riding low in the water. Even after all the silk and cotton bales had been removed.’

  Zuliani recalled that Baseggio had intimated something similar to him.

  ‘So it was in the Arsenale to be checked over, in case it had a leak. What is so unusual about that?’

  The woman prodded a stubby finger at Zuliani. ‘Because it was the early afternoon when he saw the galley low in the water. When my father came away from his usual drinking session with his old cronies some time later, he saw the ship again. He told me the ship was now as high in the water as it should have been in the first place.’

  Zuliani frowned, still not quite seeing where this was taking him. He could not fathom the meaning of this change that had meant so much to the old shipwright.

  ‘Could they have merely removed the ballast from the scuppers in order to check the boat out? That would explain its different position in the water.’

  ‘That’s what I said to my father, too. He didn’t think much of my suggestion, and told me so. He was always irritating people over what he saw as their lack of knowledge about ships. So it was then that I gave up t
rying to get him to tell me what was bothering him, and ignored him. He came over all sulky, and despite my asking him later what the problem was, he clammed up. All he would say was, if it was just ordinary ballast, why didn’t they offload it on the public quay?’

  Zuliani began to have an inkling about what had piqued the old man’s interest. It was starting to do the same for him.

  ‘He had a point there. But you say he said this to you after he had been to the Arsenale? After he had drunk with his fellow ship-builders and seen the changes in the ship?’

  ‘Yes. As he does . . . did every day.’

  ‘So how did he end up in the Rio della Celestia later that same night?’

  The woman smiled grimly, seeing that Zuliani was catching up with her.

  ‘He went out again. After dark. I wish I had known he was going, and that I had taken his worries seriously earlier. He might still be alive now.’

  ‘You think he saw something on his return to the Arsenale, and was murdered because of it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But he still could have fallen into the canal accidentally. Especially as it was dark.’

  As soon as Zuliani had said those words, he knew how foolish they were. Not only did every Venetian know very single calle and corte in La Serenissima, and could find his way around blindfold, Baseggio’s home was in the opposite direction from the Arsenale to the rio where his body had been found. Francesca Este looked on as the truth dawned on Zuliani. He put into words what she had guessed already.

  ‘He was murdered and his body thrown in the canal to make it look like an accident. But they made the mistake of dumping his body in a canal that was not on his route home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman said the simple word with a great sigh of relief. She had finally convinced someone else of the truth of her father’s death. Now something could be done about the injustice. Zuliani’s mind was racing, and a plan began to form.

  ‘I need to check for myself what they were taking off the galley that required such secrecy. Tell me, did you ever learn from your father if there were any private entrances and exits to the Arsenale? I cannot simply turn up at the gate and demand entry.’

  She smiled broadly. ‘Oh, yes. Father took me to the ship-yards often when I was a child. I played there a lot.’

  The woman paused in her story, and noted with satisfaction that the pilgrims and travellers who made up her audience were entirely engrossed in her tale. The fire was burning low, but no one moved in order to feed it. If anything, they were greedy for more of her story. She smiled quietly and went on.

  ‘Nick appeared not to know that his conversation with Francesca Este had been overheard.’

  As it was still daylight, and he couldn’t sneak into the Arsenale undetected until after dark, Zuliani decided to reconnoitre the area around the great basin immediately. He would need to be sure of his access and escape routes in case of trouble. He strolled down from Ca’ Dolfin to the great square facing the Basilica San Marco and the fortified castle that was the Doge’s Palace. The four gilded horses, stolen from Byzantium over a century earlier, glinted in the watery sun. They were a powerful symbol of Venice’s long reach and history, but Zuliani hardly noticed them. He made his way along the quayside where Baglioni’s ship had originally docked, and towards the Campo San Biagio. Poor dead Baseggio had lived his entire life there and inside the walls of the Arsenale, his days measured by the tread of his feet between the two. Zuliani followed the old man’s daily journey towards the massive gates of the Arsenale, crossing the rickety wooden bridge that spanned the rio that led to the basin.

  He stopped on the bridge and peered through the gateway like an old man with nothing else to do in his life but gawp at the business of others. He could see Baglioni’s ship, still docked to the left of the basin. It was true that it now rode high and proud in the water, but Zuliani noticed something else. There was an unusual amount of activity both on the deck of the ship and on the quayside adjoining it and it was not the normal bustle of loading or unloading. Zuliani could hear sharp cries carrying over the still water of the basin, alarm sounding in their tones. The men running backwards and forwards across the gangplank between ship and quay were empty-handed, not like dock workers. Until, that is, a limp and heavy shape draped between two men came across the gangplank. A burden that looked suspiciously like a body was being transferred from ship to shore, but Zuliani was too far away to tell who it was. Or even if it really was a body. The two men carrying the burden shuffled into the building on the edge of the quay, and the door was swiftly closed behind them.

  Zuliani hung around on the bridge for a while longer, listening to the soft thud of adze on wood as workers across the other side of the basin shaped planks for a new hull. But no one emerged from the Arsenale and he was unable to ask about what had happened on Baglioni’s galley. Instead, he gave up his surveillance, and followed the alleys around the outside of the great basin, checking on the ways to get in and out of the Arsenale that Baseggio’s daughter had told him about. The best option seemed to be to the north where an old water gate, half hanging off its hinges, would allow an agile person to swing round the gatepost out over the water and on to a narrow ledge inside the great basin. Zuliani wondered if his seventy-year-old body would be up to it. Maybe he couldn’t do it by himself, but someone younger could do it with ease and, once inside, help him perform the acrobatic feat without falling in. He knew who he could ask – it was just a matter of making sure Cat Dolfin didn’t find out.

  Later that afternoon, Zuliani found Katie in her room still reading Dante Alighieri’s book. He asked her if she was busy that evening. Of course she didn’t tell him she had overheard his whole conversation with Francesca Este, and already knew it was a case of murder he was investigating. So she was surprised when he seemed to hesitate over asking her assistance.

  ‘It is nothing very much, and you may be unwilling to give up your nice warm bed.’

  ‘Oh, Grandpa, now you are intriguing me. Is it something really . . . exciting?’

  ‘Noooo. I just need your help with a small matter that needs more than one pair of hands. But maybe I should not bother you with such a trifle.’

  By now, Katie was getting nervous about him withdrawing his request for assistance. Perhaps he was afraid to put her in danger. But then, hadn’t he already involved her in more than one murder investigation? And hadn’t she seen some gruesome bodies already? She insisted she would not be inconvenienced even if it was a very minor business. Whatever his thinking was over being so uncertain, he began to tell her his plan.

  ‘We will wait until it is dark, and make our entry when the sentries are at their lowest ebb physically and mentally. Some time between matins and lauds will be best.’

  Katie laughed. ‘What do you know of those monkish hours? You’re usually snoring then after a late night of drinking.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I am well acquainted with those night offices. The damned chanting in the Church of San Zulian used to wake me up often enough when I was a child. So, if we are to get up then, we should emulate our religious brethren and retire at compline.’

  Katie pulled a face at going to bed at such an early hour, but Zuliani insisted. He got up to leave, but had one more word of advice.

  ‘It would be well done if we were to dress in dark clothes, and in your case in the apparel of a boy, like you so much seem to enjoy doing.’

  He was making reference to the fact that before they had actually got to know each other, Katie had stalked him dressed as a youth in order to be inconspicuous. And on another occasion, she had done the same thing when called upon to pretend to be his page. But it was true – she did like the freedom of wearing leggings, and not having her limbs encumbered by a heavy dress, and she took every opportunity to do so. She grinned broadly, for she had already thought to dig her boy’s clothes out of the chest at the foot of her bed. Zuliani grunted and left her to her change of wardrobe.


  After a few hours, when neither of them slept well, they were both sneaking through the dark towards the Arsenale. Katie was in the top and leggings of a boy, and Zuliani in his best black jaqueta, which Cat had had made for him. It had been intended to make him a sober-looking individual for the Council of Ten campaign, and Katie was astonished he was intending to wear it for the secret assault on the walls of the Arsenale. So she told him so, but he waved away her objections with a disdainful hand.

  ‘It is the only garment I possess that is black, and besides, it will come to no harm.’

  But then, standing as he was at the rusty, half-open gate round the back of the great basin, he began to doubt his certainty. To gain access to the gate, they had first to edge along a narrow stone ledge set above the dank, smelly canal. The waterway ran from the basin, and was in every sense – including that of smell – a back passage out of the Arsenale. While Zuliani paused, Katie skipped nimbly on to the ledge.

  ‘Here, let me go first.’

  He didn’t make a move to stop her, and watched as she inched along and came up the old, iron gate that hung half off its hinge. Grasping one of the round eyelets that formed the top part of the hinge set into the wall, she swung easily round the obstruction and got her feet on the continuation of the ledge on the other side of the gate. She settled her feet in place, and beckoned Zuliani.

  ‘Come on. It’s easy.’

  Zuliani expressed a lack of belief in her encouragement with a groan. Katie held out her hand, and waved him on. He stepped on to the ledge and began to inch closer to her. Grasping the same rusty eyelet, he paused and then swung round as Katie had done. Unfortunately, Zuliani’s weight was greater than that of a seventeen-year-old girl and the fixture began to pull out. He groaned, and scrabbled for the ledge with his leading foot. Placing it on the stonework, he grabbed his granddaughter’s offered hand and, as the eyelet wrenched free, concentrated on transferring his weight from the unreliable metal peg to her. For a long moment, they both almost overbalanced into the murky waters, then with a lurch they were safe on the ledge. The rusty gate, freed from its moorings, fell into the water with a splash. They tried to still their fast and heavy breathing, and stared into each other’s eyes. But no cries of alarm came from deeper inside the Arsenale, where the guards were located, and they breathed more easily. The clumsy break-in had so far gone undetected. They finished their traverse along the ledge to gain the easier ground of the quayside proper where Baglioni’s ship still rode proudly at its moorings. Zuliani brushed the rust off his hands, and indicated silently that they should proceed to the tall building next to where it was moored.