Death in the Floating City Page 13

  I’d expected to find him—needed to find him—and should not have been surprised to succeed. Nonetheless, I gasped at the sight of him. While he was dressed by every technical definition of the word, he was not in a state to be viewed by the public. At least not the female public. He’d removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves to above his elbows, and unbuttoned his shirt almost to his waist, revealing that he had forgone putting on any sort of undershirt, an act I can only imagine stemmed from an effort to combat the warm summer weather.

  “Forgive me.” I averted my eyes and started to back out of the room. He put down the newspaper he had been reading, jumped from his seat, and came towards me.

  “No, no, it’s no problem,” he said, buttoning up his shirt without the slightest sign of fluster about him. I remembered Donata’s comment about him being a would-be Casanova. Perhaps he was used to ladies stumbling upon him in such a condition. “I am so pleased you have come. Beautiful ladies always manage to find me. It is my greatest blessing. You will sit?”

  “You … you were expecting me?” I asked, hesitating to accept the chair he’d pulled out from the table. “How is that possible?”

  “No, not expecting, of course, but I am delighted. Please, I insist you sit. Who are you? You are too delicious to have escaped my notice. You are new to Venice?”

  “Yes, I—no, sir, I was calling on your wife and took a wrong turn leaving the palazzo. My name is Lady Emily Hargreaves. I’m assisting my husband in the investigation of the murder of Conte Barozzi.”

  “Of course.” He smiled widely. “Florentina raved about you. And you have a friend—Donata Caravello, I believe? Pretty enough girl. Too smart for my taste, but there is someone for everyone, is there not?”

  I thought it best not to respond to any of this. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I didn’t realize you were at home.”

  “Florentina always tries to keep me away from her attractive friends,” he said, again flashing his captivating smile. “I can’t blame her.” His eyes were dark and liquid, his shoulders broad, his teeth white and even, and, dear me, I still had the image of his half-bare chest in my head. I was chagrined. “Please, now, you must sit, signora.”

  I obeyed him, quickly regaining my composure. There is no need, when one has a husband as handsome as my own, to take much notice of other attractive men. I acknowledged his exquisite beauty and moved on.

  “I apologize for having to be so direct,” I said, “but I’m very curious about what transpired between your wife and the conte.”

  “Ah.” He plopped onto the chair next to mine, leaned close, and took my hand. “Oh, you are beautiful, are you not?”

  “Signore.” My voice was firm.

  “Yes. Barozzi,” he said. “He was a fool. Nothing happened between them. I cannot imagine what the man was thinking. Florentina is not young anymore, but she is—”

  I pulled my hand away from his and interrupted him, not wanting to hear the rest of the sentence. “Does it not bother you that he trifled with your wife?”

  “Look, signora, I know how these things happen. Florentina will have her flirtations as I will have mine.” He paused and looked deep into my eyes. “I think I would like to have one now.”

  I admit I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be when faced with a man handsome and strong and in the prime of life? But tempted? Never. I stood up. “You must behave, signore. And you must tell me where you were the night the conte was murdered.” I closed my eyes, worried my tone sounded flirty.

  “You are most interested in everything I do, aren’t you?”

  He had a flair for looking at you in a way that made you think he’d never seen something quite so captivating before. The sort of flair mastered by politicians early in their careers.

  “No, sir, I can assure you I am not,” I said, crossing my arms firmly across my chest. “Where were you?”

  “I was at the casino rather late. Then I accompanied a friend home.”

  “Was your wife with you?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no, signora. What sort of man do you take me for?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant but could tell I should be horrified.

  “Can anyone corroborate your story?”

  “My friend.” He smiled. “You would not want to make her do that, would you?”

  “You don’t know me at all.” Now I smiled.

  “You would eventually break my heart if you let me love you,” he said, rising and stepping close to me.

  I admit my heart rate increased. Just a bit.

  “You’ll never find out.” I removed myself to the far side of the table, deciding that keeping a large object between us was a wise idea. “Who is your friend?”

  “You already break my heart. Come back here.”

  “No.” I was growing tired of his game. “Tell me her name.”

  “Margarita da Forli.” He must have recognized the change in my tone and grew more serious himself. “I apologize if I alarmed you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Both for the name and for the apology.”

  “You cannot fault me for wanting to try. You are a beautiful woman. I am a man who is not dead. Obviously we should be together.”

  “That’s quite enough, signore. I thank you for your time and shall leave you in peace now.”

  He crossed to me and kissed my hand. “We will meet again, and I promise, signora, I will do nothing to make you feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable. I am aware of my tendency to be, shall we say, overeager. I do hope you can forgive me.”

  As I was leaving the room, I paused at the globe that had caught my notice when I first entered. “This is an amazing piece,” I said, gently touching its smooth, round surface.

  “It’s been in the house since the sixteenth century,” he said. Now his tone was all business. Perhaps I should have shown interest in the globe earlier. His comment about Donata indicated a lack of attraction to women who showed signs of intelligence.

  “I can never, ever resist spinning them,” I said. I pushed against the surface but found it would not move. “Is it broken?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  I crouched down to check if the metal support that held the globe in place had become bent, feeling with my fingers to determine if there was too little space between it and the sphere. As I reached the bottom, I found something stuck in it, and I tugged to pull it out. “Here’s your problem,” I said. It was a slim roll of canvas, the kind an artist would use, and it felt stiff enough to be covered with paint.

  I unrolled it. It had been cut from a painting. Two hands, clasped, with a clear depiction of Besina Barozzi’s ruby ring on the first finger of the right hand.

  * * *

  “I swear I’ve never seen it before.” Signor Polani had lost all manner of a lover. “I have no idea how it got there.”

  His wife, whom I had summoned, was sitting in the chair I’d so recently occupied at the table. Donata stood behind her.

  “Why would we want such a thing?” Florentina asked. “Who would keep it? It’s trash.”

  “It’s a picture of the ring Signor Barozzi was holding when he was murdered,” I said. “The painting from which it comes was vandalized at the Villa di Tranquillità only a few days ago.”

  “Signora Morosini?” Signor Polani asked, a knowing glimmer of recognition visible in his eyes.

  Of course he knew her. She was of more than average beauty. I had no doubt he had found her even more captivating than he’d found me.

  “You are familiar with the place?” I asked.

  “I may have been once or twice for a party.”

  “Did you remove this piece of canvas from the house?” I asked.

  “Why on earth would I do that?” he asked.

  “To keep us from learning the identity of the woman who originally owned the ring,” I suggested.

  “Why would I care?”

  “He wouldn’t care,” Florentina said, resting her hand on hi
s arm and smiling. “We’ve no interest in history whatsoever.”

  I tried very hard not to lose my temper. “I don’t believe you really need me to explain this further.”

  “It’s irrelevant, Lady Emily,” Signor Polani said. “We were in Rome until the evening before you first called on my wife.”

  “Rome?” I asked.

  Donata sighed and rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, Rome.” Color brightened on Florentina’s cheeks as she nodded with great vigor. “We’d gone to shop.”

  “Did you buy anything?” I asked.

  “Sadly, no,” her husband said. “There was nothing beautiful enough for my darling girl.”

  “What a shame,” Donata said.

  “You traveled by train?” I asked. He nodded. “Do you have your tickets?”

  “I never keep such things.”

  “If I were to interview your staff, would they be able to confirm the details of your excursion?”

  “But of course.” Signor Polani oozed confidence. No doubt his servants were well trained to give just the right sort of answers to prying questions. His amorous habits would have required it. “We returned to Venice the evening after the incident occurred at the villa. It’s a long journey from Rome, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Yes,” Donata said. “Arduous, too.” The Polanis did not appear to take notice of her sarcasm.

  “We won’t trouble you any further at the moment,” I said. “I do apologize for any inconvenience we’ve caused, but I am certain you appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

  “We do indeed,” Signor Polani said, “and we are, of course, at your service should you require anything further. Anything.” He looked at me tellingly.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I was so pleased to leave a house.

  “Why did you let them off so easy?” Donata asked. “And shouldn’t we be speaking to the servants?”

  “The servants wouldn’t give us any information of use,” I said. “I’ll notify the police, and they will follow up. Do you really believe the Polanis were in Rome?”

  “No,” she said.

  “If the servants corroborate your belief, would it change how you think we should proceed?”

  “It would allow us to confront Polani again. I’m convinced he’s our killer.”

  “He very well may be,” I said, “but he would give us nothing but more denials if confronted again. We have to approach this from a different direction, Donata. We need to seek evidence that places either or both of the Polanis at the villa the night the fragment of painting was stolen.”

  “Or that puts them at Ca’ Barozzi the night of the murder,” Donata said.

  “That would be even better.”

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xiii

  Nicolò’s letters brought Besina great comfort and much joy. Nevertheless, as time marched ruthlessly on, she lost hope she would ever see her love again. She accepted this, content with his words and his promise that he would never marry so long as she could not be his.

  Was it wrong of her, then, to wish God would take her husband from her soon?

  Besina hated Uberto more each day, resenting what he had made her become. She wanted to be a devoted wife. She wanted children. But on those counts, nothing could go right. Three years had passed since she was forced to marry this odious man. Since then, she had three times been with child and twice given birth to infants who did not survive their first night. The first was a girl, with a thick crop of dark hair. The second, another girl, this one with the thinnest wisps of red-gold curls.

  If Uberto was disappointed, he did not register his opinion with his wife. It was only when his son was born that his manner changed.

  When the midwife sent a serving girl to tell him the news following the third confinement, Besina did not expect any response. He’d never bothered to come when the others had been born. He took no notice until they died, and even that did not appear to affect him much. He stood beside his wife at their funerals but offered her no comfort and showed no emotion, neither in private nor public. He never spoke to her more than necessary and apparently did not deem the death of a child a situation that required conversation. Having failed twice to provide him with an heir, Besina knew it unlikely that she would change in his estimation, but this brought her no pain. She had settled into a routine that required nothing from Uberto. The less notice he took of her, the happier she might be.

  This time, though, the third, he came storming into her room and ripped the baby from the arms of the nurse into whose care he had already been entrusted. He held the small, frail boy above his head and bellowed two words.

  At last.

  Besina fell asleep almost as soon as he’d left, but her slumber was not restful. She was afraid of what the morning would bring. Much though she hated her husband, much though she hated that her children were half his, she could not help but love them. She could not bear losing one again, could not bear the site of tiny fingers, stiff and blue, of a swaddled bundle placed in a tiny wooden coffin. The pain would be too great.

  To her relief, the following morning brought no bad news. She held the boy, stroking his soft cheeks with her finger, until the nurse insisted he needed to feed. Then she gave him up with great reluctance, wanting to keep him close to her. For sixty-three days she had him. She counted each one. On the morning of the sixty-fourth, he did not wake up, and the house, once again, fell into mourning for an innocent soul.

  This time, Uberto took notice.

  This time, Uberto cared.

  He came to Besina that night, smelling of wine as he staggered into her room.

  “Puttana.” He uttered only the single word, his voice a low growl.

  “I am no whore,” she said.

  He raised his hand and brought it down hard across her face. “You will not speak unless I tell you to.” He hit her again. And again. And then more times than she could count. And then he dragged her from the bed and flung her across the room and into the wall. Besina slunk to the ground, too afraid to call for help.

  Even after this, Besina did not cry. She knew then what had been true the day her father had dragged her from the garden and away from Nicolò. She would never cry again.

  Besina cowered on the floor, bracing herself for more blows. Uberto kicked her twice, then picked her up and shoved her back onto the bed. She didn’t feel his hands on her body as he ripped her nightclothes from her. She didn’t feel anything as he forced himself on her. His touch could no longer affect her. She kept her arms at her sides. And she prayed.

  14

  After we left the Polanis, I brought Donata back to the Danieli with me. With Colin in Padua, and Emma being Emma, I had no one with whom to dine. Donata balked at the invitation, insisting her dress was not fine enough for the hotel. I told her she could borrow one of mine and insisted that she join me. She drew a sharp breath when she entered our rooms, crossing at once to the window and admiring the view across the lagoon to the great church of San Giorgio Maggiore.

  “This is a nice life, no?” she asked.

  “I’m very fortunate,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Come, let’s find you a gown.”

  She was shy at first but relaxed after a few minutes, and soon had picked a stunning claret-colored creation of Charles Frederick Worth. Tiny beads of the same shade sewn onto the silk made the dress shimmer, especially in candlelight. As Donata’s fetching figure was far curvier than mine could ever hope to be, my maid had to loosen several seams before lacing her into the dress. Then she did Donata’s hair, taking it from a simple chignon to a low coiffure, artfully pulling a few loose, dark curls to hang down her neck. When Donata stepped into the restaurant, she was a vision. There was not a gentleman present who did not take notice of her.

  “This is a treat unlike any I have known, Emily,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “It is I who owe you thanks for all the assistance you’ve given me. I tru
ly appreciate it.”

  We dined on the most delicious fish I’ve ever eaten and drank prosecco until dessert, when we switched to limoncello. It was late when we finished, but before I put Donata in a gondola to go home, she insisted we walk through St. Mark’s Square.

  “It’s the most beautiful place on earth at night,” she said, “and the moon is almost full.”

  The campanile was striking midnight as we crossed in front of the basilica. The moon hung bright over the southwest corner of the piazza. Music from the orchestra at Caffè Florian washed over us. They were playing Mozart and then moved on to a Strauss waltz, and a rush of couples made their way to the space beyond the tables and into the center of the square to dance. Warm gaslight, golden compared to that of the silvery moon, illuminated the windows of the surrounding buildings, and in front of it all, the basilica rose, glorious, from this land stolen from the watery lagoon.

  It was magical.

  Yet it sent a sharp pang of sadness through me. I missed Colin.

  “How have I not come out here a single evening since I arrived?” I asked.

  “You’ve been too focused on work,” Donata said. “Well, not too focused. Just as focused as necessary, I mean. Venice will still be here when you’re done.”

  “And I shall have to take full advantage of it. For now, I cannot allow myself any distraction. There is too much at stake.”

  * * *

  It would have been easy to miss the very slight hesitation, mirrored by a very slight coloring of her cheeks, when I asked Signora Morosini the next morning at her villa if she was acquainted with Signor Polani. She acknowledged that she was fairly certain he’d been to a party or two at the estate. She smiled. The guest lists were often large, we were to understand, and she wasn’t always good at keeping track of her husband’s acquaintances.

  She was more forthcoming when it came to discussing her newest employee.