The Alchemists pursuit aa-3 Page 2

  "Tell us about the victim, madonna."

  It was criminal to spoil a good meal with such a topic, but Aspasia would never be so crude as to reject her host's conversational lead.

  "Lucia was about forty. She retired two years ago and turned her house into a home for street girls anxious to reform. Nuns from Santa Spirito supervised, so that there could be no scandal. The last time she was seen was when she went off in a gondola with a masked man. She had said that they were going to the Piazza to dance."

  I decided that I agreed with my master; the case was impossible. It had probably been impossible right from the beginning and after three weeks the trail was ice-cold.

  "How did she die?" he asked.

  "The notary did not know. He hinted that she was probably a suicide but the sbirri were calling it murder so she could be buried in hallowed ground."

  Who could tell, after the body had spent a week in the lagoon?

  "Who found the corpse?" Nostradamus snapped. "Who identified it after so long in the water? Are you completely certain that the dead woman is who you think she was? If she was dragged under by the weight of her clothes she would surface when distension of the corpse buoyed it up, but putrefaction would be well along by then."

  Violetta understandably laid down her fork. "I recognized the jewelry when it was shown to me."

  "That it was returned at all makes me highly suspicious," the Maestro said angrily. "The first instinct of any Venetian recovering a body is to strip it of valuables. Fishermen, I assume? Bah! They're all rogues. Even the sbirri would not pass up such an opportunity. Who found the body, and where? Who delivered it to the authorities? How did they locate you to identify the jewels?"

  "I do not know, lustrissimo. These are things Alfeo could find out for you."

  "I have more important things for him to do. Your friend committed suicide. Or she was drunk and fell into a canal."

  "Not Lucia."

  Nostradamus snorted. "Alfeo, call Bruno. I am going to lie down. See your friend home and come right back. You have work to do." He had been sleeping so badly the last few nights, that he had started taking to his bed in the middle of the day, not his normal practice.

  Before I could rise, Violetta turned to look at me and I was startled to see a golden glint in her eyes.

  "I become so nervous when I think of this terrible act," she said. "Many ladies in my profession feel the need of a strong, full-time defender. I do believe I shall have to hire a reliable bodyguard."

  I said nothing. What she was hinting was the worst of nightmares for me, my greatest fear. I know how to use a sword and if my beloved ever decides that she needs a guardian, I shall be lost. Loving a courtesan is one thing, living off her earnings is another, but I can refuse Violetta nothing. If she wants me as her bravo, then her bravo I must become. Then the Grand Council will order my name struck from the Golden Book, a noble house that has endured for centuries will end, and scores of ancestral ghosts will wail in shame.

  The Maestro knew exactly what she meant and scowled at her furiously. Those gold serpent eyes had warned me that he was now dealing with Delilah, who is as deadly as a spiderweb, but he does not know her as well as I do. Delilah can lie like sand on a beach.

  "Rubbish. Alfeo, you can have the rest of the afternoon off. Investigate all you want, but be back by curfew."

  "I may borrow Giorgio?"

  "Yes, yes. Now get me Bruno."

  A murder so old, with the corpse half rotted and already buried, with no known motive or witnesses, was a totally impossible assignment, and a wonderful excuse to spend some hours with Violetta. It wasn't quite impossible enough for me to suggest that we just give up and go to her house for a glass or two of wine and a few cantos of the Divine Comedy.

  Giorgio Angeli is Mama's husband and our gondolier. Since the boat had not been used yet that day, we emerged from the apartment with Giorgio carrying his oar and Corrado, one of his sons, laden with the cushions. The surly boatman in the Gradenigo colors was plodding up the stairs toward us. The look he gave Violetta almost made me draw my rapier to start improving his face.

  He handed me another letter, this time addressed to sier Alfeo Zeno. I broke the seal.

  "Hey! That's for messer Zeno!" Surly barked.

  "That's me," I said, scanning the text. Normally I dress as an apprentice, which I am. I had changed into something a little fancier so I could wear my sword, but I was still leagues away from what a young noble should wear-a black, floor-length robe if he is already a member of the Grand Council. If he is not, then he is expected to deck himself out in illegal grandeur, far beyond what the sumptuary laws allow. Drab as I appear, I am of noble blood and born in wedlock, the equal of any nobleman in Venice. I just happen to be poor enough to beg alms off seagulls.

  "Yes he is," Corrado said, smirking.

  The note was brief and written in a very precise and disciplined hand.

  Sier Giovanni Gradenigo is not long for this world and urgently wishes to speak with you. Come at once to Palazzo Gradenigo.

  Fr. Fedele

  I do not swear in the presence of ladies, women, or even courtesans. I was tempted to. The first note had not meant what I thought.

  "Go," I told the boatman, "and tell Friar Fedele that I am on my way. Giorgio, please hurry."

  As men and boy ran off down the stairs, I followed, holding Violetta's arm to steady her.

  "Change of plan?" she inquired sweetly.

  "Unless you believe in extraordinary coincidences it is," I said. "This must take precedence." I explained about the other note, giving her the wording verbatim.

  "Then that wasn't your fault!" she declared. "It was ambiguous and perhaps Battista himself did not understand that his master just wanted to tell Nostradamus something, not consult him as a doctor. The wonder is that a servant can write at all, not that he is unskilled at writing letters."

  We passed the great doors to the piano nobile and started down the next flight.

  "It shouldn't take long," I said. "We can start work on the murder right after."

  She smiled-oh, how she can smile! "I must change, anyway. I can't go exploring with you in these clothes. Drop me at my door and pick me up as soon as you have paid your respects to sier Giovanni."

  By the time we reached the watergate, Giorgio was ready for us and the Gradenigo boat had already gone. I handed Violetta out through the arches and then joined her aboard. It may seem strange to take a boat to go to the house next door, but there is no pedestrian fondamenta on our side of the Rio San Remo. There is a narrow ledge, though, along which an agile young man can work his way to the calle dividing the two buildings and then on to 96's watergate. Corrado was already well on his way along it, so that he could hand Violetta ashore when she arrived. At his age even a touch of such a woman's fingers is enough to remember, and in his case to brag about to his twin.

  It took us only a few minutes to arrive at the Gradenigo palace, which is so large and sumptuous as to make even Ca' Barbolano look so-so. There were at least a dozen gondolas outside the watergate, and about twice as many gondoliers waiting in the loggia, gossiping in threes and fours. Only the rich use two boatmen to a boat, so I did not need the livery and insignia to tell me that a widespread family was gathering for the deathwatch. I noted a couple of boats pulling away, though, and assumed that they were now carrying the news to more distant, or less wealthy, relations.

  I was too late.

  At the exact moment I stepped ashore, the bell of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari began to toll a few streets away. The bored boatmen made the sign of the cross and then carried on with their talk. They had already been informed of the death.

  Had the dying man shared his urgent message with someone else? I had no need to knock, for the door stood open, and an elderly manservant waited there holding a piece of paper. I thought of San Pietro at the Gates greeting Giovanni Gradenigo.

  "I am Alfeo Zeno. Friar Fedele sent for me. I have come too late?"
>
  He bowed a smallish bow, frowning at my garb, then glanced down at his list. "Indeed you have, clarissimo." He looked behind him, into the grandiose hall. "The friar is coming now."

  I walked into the great hall and wished I had time to admire the enormous splendor of marble, glass, and gilt-about a week would do. It all seemed like a monument to human folly in the presence of death, but Gradenigo would have seen it as evidence that he had preserved, and doubtless expanded, the family fortune. They would be reluctant to admit it, but the Venetian aristocracy admires rapacity above all.

  Several people were standing around or moving about their business with suitable gravity, but I went straight for the priest, who was obviously leaving. We met halfway between door and staircase; I bowed.

  Bareheaded and barefoot, Friar Fedele wore the gray habit of the Order of Friars Minor, with the belt cord dangling at his side tied in the required three knots, representing his vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity. Obedience is an old Venetian virtue that the Great Council enthusiastically preaches to the commonality, but poverty and chastity are rarely popular at any level.

  The fringe around his tonsure was brown but his beard was closer to red. He seemed about thirty or so, with a weather-beaten ascetic face, humorless and arrogant, a face chiseled out of granite, more suited to a Dominican than a Franciscan. Personally I like my clergy to be New Testament, warm and forgiving. One glance at Friar Fedele told you right away that he was straight out of the Book of Judges, all blood, blame, and brimstone. He looked me over, his gaze lingering for a moment on my rapier and dagger.

  I held up the letter with his name on it. "I am Zeno, Brother. I fear I have arrived too late."

  He nodded. "Do not grieve unduly, Alfeo. He was much confused at the end. I wrote that letter because he insisted and we must humor the dying, but I don't think you would have heard anything of importance. He might not have known you."

  "I am sure he would not, because we never met. I assume that he wanted to confide something to my master, Doctor Nostradamus, and asked for me because I am the doctor's aide?"

  He gave me the same answer any other slab of granite would-silence.

  "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 mercy 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.