Death in the Floating City Page 11

  “Surely you’re not so superstitious?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think I was until now,” she said. “But consider the evidence. The ring reappears in the hand of a dead man. It didn’t bring him light and happiness. It certainly didn’t bring it to Besina, either.”

  “We don’t know that,” I said. “We don’t have a clear picture of the rest of her life. Maybe she did find love after she went to the convent. Maybe she was happy. All we have is bits of her husband’s account, which may be miles from her own experience. As for Conte Barozzi, my guess is that he would have been delighted to get the ring. If nothing else, it’s a valuable piece he could have sold to stave off bankruptcy for another few months. The ring didn’t kill him. His murderer did.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wear it if I were you.”

  “Caterina has done a masterful job on us,” I said. “She had us so distracted we didn’t even ask where she was the night of the murder. She’s planted seeds about our personal lives designed to make us lose focus, and she’s got us talking about the theoretical evil powers of an inanimate object. When all the while she has clear motive for wanting to kill Barozzi.”

  “You are right,” Donata said as we approached our waiting gondola. “Should we go back and question her further?”

  “Not at the moment. I want to think about her some more. She’s canny. Canny enough to have broken into the Morosinis’ villa and defaced the portrait, and canny enough to have seen the value in the act. Not only did it give additional significance to the ring, it also plays into her story that, in effect, it’s cursed.”

  “True,” Donata said, “but that doesn’t mean she’s not right.”

  “Florentina Polani’s motives are not quite as strong as Caterina’s,” I said. “Something’s nagging at me about her, though. Doesn’t it seem too neat that her husband so quickly forgave her interest in Barozzi?”

  Donata considered my question for a moment before answering. “Maybe not. He has a reputation for being something of a would-be Casanova. It’s possible he has no objections to his wife seeking affection elsewhere.”

  “Possible, yes,” I said. “It’s also possible he was furious and that he killed the man who humiliated his wife.”

  “Why didn’t he kill his wife instead?”

  “Because he blamed Barozzi. What if Florentina had always been devoted before her encounter with the conte in La Fenice? What if her husband believed Barozzi had tried to seduce her, not because he wanted to have an affair but to toy with her and reject her in some sort of twisted game?”

  “Also possible, but less likely.”

  “Even if he didn’t believe that, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say a man whose wife has transferred her affections to another man would want to lash out.”

  “Very true,” Donata said.

  “Or even want to kill his wife’s lover,” I said. “If he acted on this urge, and Florentina knows it, she could decide to protect him. Which would explain her trying to laugh off the affair.”

  “But it wasn’t really an affair.”

  “That’s what we’ve been led to believe,” I said. “That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  Un Libro d’Amore

  x

  For two months, Besina lived with not a single word from Nicolò. She was able to ascertain from Lorenzo that her love had come to no harm that night in the garden, but she knew nothing more of him. An older and wiser woman might have wondered if he had stayed true to his word and come for her, but Besina never doubted him. Not her Nicolò.

  Her faith in him was justified. Nicolò had arrived soon after Besina’s father had forced her back into the house. He had missed the confrontation entirely. It is impossible to know whether he might have doubted her, whether he might have believed she had lost the courage to run away with him. There was no moment in which he was forced to entertain the notion of doubt. He had found the small bundle abandoned in the garden and opened it. Inside were a single change of clothes and a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. He knew Besina had tried to keep their appointment.

  Nicolò had fingered the knife on his belt, wondering if he should force his way into the house. Whatever had transpired before his arrival, nothing good could have happened to Besina. Yet he knew he could not take on the whole Barozzi family by himself, and surely they were now armed and waiting for him. He would have to devise another plan. Somehow, he would find a way to be with her.

  He remained full of hope for three days. On the fourth, he heard that the daughter of his family’s enemy had married the wealthy and powerful Uberto Rosso. Rumors flew through the city about the rushed nature of the ceremony and the stony countenance of the bride, but no one took particular notice of either. They were all too used to marriages of duty and were inured to the emotional effects of them. Their attention was soon diverted by the next quasi-sensational bit of news circulated for their amusement.

  Six more days passed before Nicolò’s father came to him with an announcement of his own. He’d begun marriage negotiations for his son. The exchange between the two began similarly to the one had by Besina and her father. This one ended quite differently, though. Growing more and more agitated by his belligerent son, Signor Vendelino rose from his desk, demanding obedience.

  “I will never do it, Father,” Nicolò said. “I will never marry.”

  Nicolò misunderstood his father’s motivation for standing. It was neither for emphasis nor for purposes of intimidation. It was a vain attempt to counter the pain shooting up his arm and through his chest. He turned a dark shade of red, clutched at the air in front of him, and collapsed. Nicolò fell to his knees next to his father, feeling his cheeks and his forehead and trying to rouse him.

  And then Nicolò called for help.

  But not even the best physician in Venice could bring the dead back to life.

  Which left Nicolò the head of his family and master of his fortune. He was a man in charge of his own destiny—and he knew exactly what he was going to do.

  11

  I left Donata off in front of her father’s shop before returning to the Danieli, so immersed in thoughts about what I’d learned that I didn’t notice the handsome figure standing in the lobby until he took me by the arm and pulled me to him.

  “Is this any way to greet your husband?” Colin asked, a wicked smile on his face. He kissed me quickly on the lips. “I do love to see you so deep in thought that you lose all sense of your surroundings.”

  “Would that I were lost in the study of Greek rather than that of murder,” I said.

  “I have much to tell you,” he said. “And we are expected at Ca’ Barozzi. I sent a message to Emma saying we’d come the second you returned.”

  I looped my arm through his, retraced the steps I’d just taken from the hotel’s water entrance, and within seconds was comfortably settled in a gondola.

  “Have you found Paolo?” I asked as we pushed away from the hotel.

  “No,” he said, “but I found the monk. He’s an expert on the restoration of medieval manuscripts.”

  “Restoration? That’s interesting. Does he know where Paolo is?”

  “He claims not to.”

  “You don’t believe him?” I asked.

  “I think he is a devout man of God and stays true to the literal facts,” Colin said. “I asked him if he knew how to contact Paolo. His answer was no, but he did admit that he expects to hear from him soon.”

  “Where is this monk now?”

  “Secured in our suite at the Danieli.”

  “Why, then, are we leaving?”

  “Because at the moment, speaking with Emma is more important than continuing a less than satisfactory conversation with him.”

  Once he’d briefed me on the situation, I couldn’t have agreed more.

  Emma received us on the loggia, where she was sprawled out on a bench paging through Godey’s Lady’s Book. Personally, I didn’t find that American fashion measured up to Parisian, but to each h
is own. We refused her offer of refreshment. We refused even to take a seat.

  “Do you care to explain these?” Colin asked, dropping a bundle of letters on the table next to Emma’s seat.

  “All of your correspondence with a private investigator from Padua,” I said. “Apparently, you suspected Paolo of having an affair?”

  Emma sighed. “You don’t understand. Everyone here has affairs. It’s almost as if they are French.”

  “If it’s so commonplace and socially acceptable, why were you so worried?” I asked.

  “Because.” She stopped. “Because. Oh, I don’t know. Is it really so difficult to comprehend?”

  “It’s not difficult in the least when considering ordinary circumstances,” Colin said. “This doesn’t fall into that category. You were pressuring Paolo’s father to leave his estate to you.”

  “That’s a ridiculous claim,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. Her voice turned to sugar. “Colin, you must help me. It’s been so hard, living like this. I had no idea what I’d got myself into when I left London. I thought I was joining one of the most prestigious families in Venice. Instead, all I got was a moldering old house and a husband who doesn’t care for me in the way I thought he did. Have you no compassion?”

  Emma had a full stock of feminine wiles and knew well how to use them when she wanted to. The fact that she was neither conventionally beautiful nor particularly charming never deterred her. Unfortunately for her, Colin was utterly immune to all such maneuvers.

  “I don’t believe for an instant you got anything less than you both expected and demanded,” he said. “Explain yourself, Contessa. Explain why your husband thought you were trying to steal his inheritance.”

  “Paolo never thought that,” she said.

  “Is that so?” I asked. “The thing is, Emma, we have not only your letters but his as well. He had hired a lawyer so that he might discuss the ramifications of divorcing you. The fact that his father had already altered his will in your favor was of great concern to him.”

  My words clearly stung. Emma swallowed hard and looked up and to the side, a technique I was all too familiar with for trying to stop tears. Perhaps her selfish machinations had finally caught up with her.

  “Where were you when Conte Barozzi died, Emma?” Colin asked. His tone was soft and gentle now as he crouched next to her chair and took her hand. “I cannot help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

  “I was here,” she said, tears flowing down her face. “I swear it. But Paolo wasn’t, and there’s no one who can corroborate my story. I was alone in bed while someone snuffed out the life of the only person who could have saved this sorry situation.”

  “How could the conte have saved it, Emma?” Colin asked. It was as if he were speaking to a child.

  “I don’t know exactly.” She sniffed. Colin handed her a handkerchief. “But he promised me he could. He’d discovered something that would make all the difference.”

  “What had he discovered?” I asked, my tone sharper than I had intended. I was not so skilled at feigning calm as my husband.

  “I don’t know!” She pushed Colin away from her, stood up, and stormed away from us. “He wouldn’t tell me. I thought if the finances were better worked out, things between Paolo and me could improve. And I knew that if my husband were in charge of the money, we’d be in more trouble than we already were. That’s why I turned to his father. I wasn’t trying to take anything away from my husband. You must believe that. I was trying to secure his future.”

  “That’s why he wanted to divorce you?” I asked.

  “No, Emily.” She spat the words. “He wanted to divorce me because I cannot give him a child. Are you satisfied now? Have you humiliated me enough?” She closed her eyes, her face a mask of boiling rage. “I should never have asked you to come here.”

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xi

  A girl of Besina’s age and experience could hardly have been adequately prepared for marriage, especially marriage to a man like Uberto Rosso. He had no interest in cajoling her or humoring her or even making her think he cared for her. She was a means to an end. She brought him money and power and she would give him an heir. He came to her nearly every night, taking her with rough hands and no regard for her own pleasure. He drank too much and said terrible things to her. She couldn’t stand the stench of him on top of her and was thankful she could hold her breath almost as long as it took him to finish and roll off her.

  Then he would take his leave without uttering so much as a word to her.

  Besina hated him.

  For two months she did nothing but wonder about Nicolò. Dream about him. Pray that God would release her from this hell—either into the arms of the man she loved or by bringing her a swift death. She did not think she could bear much more. Until the letter came.

  It wasn’t written in Nicolò’s hand. She imagined he thought that might be too dangerous. If it were intercepted, someone might be able to identify him as the sender. It was a single page, lavishly illuminated by the Benedictine monks in the scriptorium at Santa Maria degli Angeli in Florence. Besina didn’t know that. She only knew that the sheet of vellum contained the most beautiful poem she’d ever read and that it had been sent by her love. She knew this because she found the small N.V. hidden in the illustration, hardly noticeable in the sea of flowers surrounding a young maiden listening to her love playing the lute.

  She welcomed him out of love;

  But if she had strong love for him,

  He felt a hundred thousand times for her.

  For love in others hearts was as nothing

  Compared to the love he felt in his.

  Love took root in his heart,

  And was so entirely there

  That little was left for other hearts.

  Besina did not recognize the poet’s name. It did not matter. Nicolò still loved her, and that meant life was once again worthwhile. From that moment, everything changed. No longer did she mope around the house, scurrying away at the slightest hint of her husband’s presence. She kept out of his way with a flurry of productive activity. She ordered and oversaw extensive renovations to the palazzo. She became a conscientious maker of exquisite lace and excelled at needlework. She studied the Bible. She put the fear of God into the servants, of whom almost nothing had been expected before her arrival in the house.

  She made every appearance of being a good wife.

  But at night, after Uberto had left her, though she was still repulsed by his touch, Besina no longer closed her eyes and prayed for salvation. She locked her door, lit a small lamp, crouched over her desk, and composed joyous letters filled with love to Nicolò. Each day the pile she hid in the wall behind her bed grew larger. And each day she wondered how she could get them delivered. She could not risk trusting any of her husband’s servants, even the gondolier.

  So deep was the connection between Besina and him that Nicolò anticipated her difficulty. In the midst of a set of needlepoint threads recently delivered that she had no recollection of ordering, Besina found instructions from him. She read them, then burned them and, with no hesitation, gathered the letters from her room, concealed them in her voluminous skirts, and marched to the water entrance of her marital home.

  “I want to go to church.”

  The gondolier nodded. This was not an unusual request. His mistress was known to be devout. She had never returned to Santa Maria Formosa since the day of her wedding, always requesting instead to be taken to Santa Maria dei Miracoli. She had chosen that among the many churches of Venice because she had been in desperate need of a miracle of her own.

  Now she knew it was coming to her.

  12

  Emma was a bit of a mess when we left her. I was truly sorry for her, but she didn’t pull me all the way into her web. I knew we could not entirely trust her. Much of what she said may have been true, but until Colin had verified each and every bit of it, I would take it no more at face value than I had
Caterina Brexiano’s supposed conversation with my deceased husband.

  Which is to say I almost believed some of it.

  Without so much as pausing for breath, Colin and I returned to the Danieli, where my husband introduced me to Brother Giovanni, who looked a little the worse for wear after having been lashed to a chair in our suite. I admit to being somewhat mortified by this. He was a holy man, after all. My husband, though not a bit religious, had at least managed to show our guest some compassion. He placed the chair so that its occupant might look out the window across the room. The view, it could not be argued, was spectacular.

  “Am I under arrest, sir?”

  I winced at Brother Giovanni’s politeness, feeling we might be unworthy of the implied respect. A monk! Tied to a chair.

  Colin crossed his arms. “As I have already explained, you are not under arrest. You are being detained by me, an agent of the British Crown. Would you care to see my credentials again?”

  “No.”

  “I would have preferred not to tie you up,” Colin said. “However, you made it clear you had no intention of waiting for my return, and I have not finished interrogating you.”

  “I was only being honest,” the man said. “I could not lie and let you think I would stay of my own volition.”

  “Nor could I let you walk out when you have information critical to a murder investigation.”

  “I do understand, sir.”

  “You restore manuscripts, is that right?” I asked, pulling a chair close to his and sitting in it.

  “I do, madam.”

  “That must be fascinating work. I’m a scholar of the ancient world and wish more than anything that I could hold and read the original scrolls of Homer’s epics.”

  “The stories were told orally, madam,” he said. “Homer never wrote anything down.”