Death in the Floating City Read online

  “You said in your wire there was a ring found with the body,” I said.

  “Yes.” She pointed to a table on which sat a heavy gold band with a deep red corundum ruby set high in its center. “He was clutching it in his hand.”

  I took it from her. “It’s medieval,” I said. “Probably fourteenth or fifteenth century.” I moved closer to the window, where the light was brighter, to read the inscription on the band.

  Amor vincit omnia

  “Love conquers all,” I said. “A common phrase on poesy rings of the period. Is it a family piece?”

  “No,” Emma said. “I’m afraid there’s not much family jewelry left. The house is expensive to run, and old fortunes … well, they don’t often last. We don’t know where it came from. Paolo didn’t recognize it.”

  “Was anything tampered with in the rest of the house?” Colin asked.

  “Nothing was taken,” Emma said. “Nothing was disturbed. We all slept through without so much as noticing.” Blotchy red streaks colored her face, and I felt a surge of compassion for her.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” I said. “Whoever did this was careful not to wake any of you. We will do everything we can to identify the guilty party and bring him to justice.”

  “And Paolo?” she asked, her voice small. “He’ll come back to me once he’s exonerated. I know he will. He’s innocent, Emily. He would never have raised a hand to harm his father.”

  “I believe you.” I smiled in as reassuring a manner as possible. I hoped she was right. Her husband had disappeared mere hours after a maid had found his father’s body. Why had he fled, without so much as a word to his much-adored wife? Would an innocent man have assumed he’d be implicated in the murder? I surveyed the room and shuddered, feeling suddenly cold, as if an oppressive evil were closing in around me. What secrets did this once-beautiful house hold?

  Un Libro d’Amore

  1489

  i

  Besina Barozzi always knew she was not among the fortunate—or unfortunate, depending upon one’s perspective—who could rely on beauty. She didn’t possess it. It was her mind, not her too-long nose or thin lips, that would have to set her apart from the profusion of stunning girls for which Venice was famous. She might not be strictly any cleverer than her friends, the daughters of other noble families, but her brother, Lorenzo, had made her different, and for that she valued him above all others. He had taught her how to analyze art, how to paint, how to read poetry, and appreciate fine literature. And though she did not know it, he had also schooled her to have a wit as quick as the finest courtesan’s.

  The other girls around her had no interest in such things. They made lace and did needlework. They were pious. They did not aspire to be more than beautiful decorations that adorned their beloved city.

  Lorenzo had ruined his sister for such simple pursuits.

  As children, they were inseparable. Their indulgent nurse, half blind and generally good-natured, did not object when they pushed furniture together to form the walls of Constantinople and fought their way over with wooden swords, or when they donned carnivale masks to act out elaborate pantomimes. Even later, when Lorenzo fell under the tutelage of a series of stern scholars, he managed to furtively slip each book he studied to Besina when he’d finished. His mother nearly caught him once, but he offered her reassurance by telling her the book was not poetry but psalms. As she could not read, she could not argue.

  So, because of Lorenzo’s influence, Besina Barozzi was in possession of an intellect unlike that of any of her peers on the night Nicolò Vendelino first saw her, at the Palazzo Ducale, in the midst of a party the doge was throwing to mark the wedding of his favorite granddaughter.

  Besina was convinced she saw Nicolò first. He was dancing with a girl prettier than anyone else in the room, and Besina might have been jealous had she noticed, but she could see nothing but Nicolò’s eyes, their blue brighter than the sky and framed by impossibly long lashes. His eyes locked onto hers as he continued to dance, ignoring his partner. He never missed a step and bowed when the music finished, but he did not divert his gaze from Besina to so much as glance at the beauty before him.

  Besina did not know that Nicolò had already seen her, long before she had watched him dance. He had been standing nearby when she entered the room with her parents, and in that moment fell in love with her. It was her eyes, he said later, full of life and intelligence and curiosity, that won his heart, just as his eyes had won hers. As soon as she had passed from his line of vision, he had rushed from the glittering reception to the doge’s chapel of San Marco, where he fell to his knees in front of the altar built to house the sacred body of the saint, raised his eyes to the glittering mosaics on the ceiling, and prayed she would love him as fervently as he already loved her. He didn’t care that the Barozzis were his family’s enemies, the feud going so far back that no one bothered any longer to discuss its initial cause. All that mattered now was to know that Vendelinos hated Barozzis and always would, but Nicolò was young enough to think this wouldn’t matter. His parents had indulged him, their long-awaited son, almost from the moment of his birth. And Nicolò knew one other thing. The Barozzis were rich.

  Money, Nicolò believed, had the power to eradicate any feud.

  2

  It took Colin and me most of the afternoon to thoroughly search for clues in the rest of Ca’ Barozzi. The portego and the bedrooms currently in use by the family were in somewhat better shape than the rest of the palazzo, but their condition still confirmed what Emma had told us about the family finances. This was not the lap of luxury. The rest was sparsely, if at all, furnished, and many of the walls bore darker spots where paintings, now sold, had once hung. Current shabbiness aside, there was plenty of evidence to suggest the building must have once been spectacular. The terrazzo floors, when smooth and polished, would have glistened. The tapestries and silk that hung on the walls were of fine quality but couldn’t be expected to last forever without care and restoration. The bits of medieval frescoes remaining on the ceilings all but broke my heart. They once would have been spectacular. Now they were all but lost.

  Beyond observations about the house, however, our search turned up nothing of obvious use to the case.

  “Divide and conquer the work before us?” Colin asked after we’d returned to the portego. Emma had abandoned us to lean out the open window and wave at a group of English tourists who were passing below, strewing colorful flowers into the canal and shouting wine-fueled greetings as they floated along the water. Her reaction to both her father-in-law’s death and her husband’s disappearance was increasingly difficult to gauge. She had seemed rattled by the murder and upset that Paolo was gone, but now she was laughing and gay.

  “You speak to the police,” I said. “I’ll start digging for information about the ring. We can meet back at the Danieli.”

  He tilted his head to mine, our foreheads almost bumping. “What about Emma? Will she assist you?”

  “Unless you’re keen on taking her with you to the police,” I said. “I can keep her with me, although suggesting she’ll assist might be wildly optimistic.”

  He glanced at our hostess and, seeing her attention was still firmly focused outside, brought his hand gently to the back of my neck, sending a most delicious sensation through my body. “Not keen in the least. It’s funny that two ladies with such similar names should have such wholly different characters. No one would ever mistake Emma for Emily or vice versa. I shall leave her to you,” he said. He shot a quick good-bye to Emma, who pulled herself in from the window in time to have him kiss her hand before he exited the room.

  “You’re not interested in talking to the police?” Emma asked me once he’d gone.

  “I’m more interested in the ring,” I said. “You’re quite sure no one in the house has seen it before?”

  “Absolutely certain,” she said.

  “All the portraits in the portego are of men,” I said. “They must have had wive
s. Surely Titian would have wanted to paint them. I noticed more paintings in another room when we were en route to your mother-in-law’s bedchamber. Could you take me there?”

  “The ladies are in the camera d’oro,” Emma said. “It was the old conte’s favorite place in the house. Why didn’t you look when you were there before?”

  “Before, Emma, we were doing a general search, wanting to keep our minds open to find anything that might be pertinent. Now I’m focusing on something specific.”

  Without further comment, she led me to a room off the portego, a chamber smaller than the one we’d just left but still of decent proportions, its walls covered in leather paneling that had once been decorated with gold leaf. Only remnants of it remained, but enough to give the room an opulence distinctly Venetian.

  “The room was originally full of mirrors,” Emma said, “and the most ghastly furniture you’ve ever seen. I’ll never understand the Venetians. They’re prone to such excess.”

  “They seem a delightful people to me,” I said. “I’ve never been so immediately taken with a city.”

  “You don’t have to live here. They all despise me.”

  She hadn’t learned the language and, so far as I could tell, had made no attempt to embrace the culture. Had she done anything to endear herself to her new neighbors? Now was not the time to criticize her for any perceived failings. I studied the room. Instead of mirrors, portraits of varying size now hung at regular intervals, four high, throughout the room. I studied the ring, then held it out to Emma. “Look at each painting and see if you can find it.”

  We started next to each other at the back of the room and moved portrait by portrait, Emma going clockwise and I anticlockwise, so we would meet at the opposite end. The Barozzi women, at least the thirty-three I studied, were not a particularly attractive lot. The only ones whose faces weren’t dominated by extremely long noses were those who had married into the family. The opulence of their jewels and the sumptuous fabrics of their gowns were indicative of the family’s former wealth: crimson silk, gold trim, elaborate embroidery, heavy pearls, enormous rubies, and deep sapphires.

  None of them was wearing the ring in question.

  “She was the wife of a doge,” Emma said, motioning to the portrait in front of her. “The Barozzis were quite an influential family in their day. Pity the money’s gone now.”

  “You have the house.”

  Emma shrugged. “I don’t know that it would be possible to find a buyer brave enough to take on the repairs needed to keep Ca’ Barozzi from crumbling.”

  “You have the paintings.”

  “The good ones were sold years ago. There’s neither Titian nor Bellini among them now,” she said. “So what do we do next? Search more portraits?”

  “No. It’s time to speak to a historian.”

  * * *

  I did not expect Emma would be able to direct me to anyone useful. Historians, I imagined, would be even less likely to win the acquaintance of a lady of her status than are investigators of murders. However, I didn’t need Emma’s help in the matter. A letter from a well-respected historian of Renaissance Venice who had recently retired from the Sorbonne had been waiting for us when we arrived at the Danieli. The man, Signor Caravello, had read about the case in the paper and was especially interested in the ring that had been found on Signor Barozzi’s body—a detail Colin wished the police had kept from the public but that now could prove to benefit us. Shortly thereafter, a second article ran, one in which Emma bragged that one of Queen Victoria’s favorite agents (she mentioned Colin by name but neglected to include me) was coming to Venice to assist in the investigation. Signor Caravello found out where we were staying and left a note offering to help us in any way he could.

  Emma had no interest in coming along but directed a servant to hail a gondola for me. I gave the gondolier the address, wishing I could have simply walked to it. But the labyrinth pavements that cut through the city in seemingly random directions would require better navigational abilities than I currently possessed, and I had no time for getting lost.

  It took nearly half an hour by boat to reach Signor Caravello. I had expected to be let off at a house, but the boat stopped in front of a small set of steps rising to meet the pavement next to the canal. The gondolier pointed me to a shop a short walk from where we stood. I thanked him and asked him to wait for me.

  The canal was narrow, no more than six feet across. On one side, the buildings plunged straight down into it. On the other, where I had disembarked, a calle ran along a row of tidy-looking shops. Pleasant smells of fresh bread wafted from the door of a bakery, next to which stood a butcher. Farther along were a cobbler and a greengrocer, and just past them was Signor Caravello’s bookshop. The front window was loaded with pile upon pile of leather-bound volumes, some new, some antique. The display was not quite so neat as those in neighboring windows, but it did suggest an admirable passion for reading. I opened the door. A bell tinkled, and I walked into the store, almost tripping over an enormous globe near the entrance.

  “What a spectacular piece!” I said to no one in particular, unable to contain my enthusiasm.

  “The globe?” A young woman was sitting on a tall stool behind a well-worn wooden counter. “Everyone loves it. It’s ridiculously old. Fifteenth century.”

  “I’ve always loved antique globes,” I said, bending over to examine the maps drawn on its surface. “I find them desperately romantic. They conjure up visions of explorers setting off in search of exotic riches in the New World. Can you imagine undertaking such a voyage?” I traced the lines marking latitude and longitude on the perfect sphere and pushed gently, feeling the surface brush beneath my fingertips. “I simply have to spin them. They lure me in and I’m incapable of resisting.”

  “I’ve never given that globe much thought beyond having to dust it. Perhaps I should reconsider. In the meantime, as I’m not working today, I’ll fetch my father for you. Papà! Customer!” she called, turning her head to the back of the shop and raising her voice. “She’s taken with your globe, so you’re bound to like her.” She returned her attention to the novel she held. Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s The Venetians.

  “I adored that book,” I said in what could generously be described as passable Italian. “Braddon is my ultimate guilty pleasure. Although perhaps I shouldn’t admit that before you give me your opinion of the story.”

  “It’s not her best,” the girl answered in flawless English. “Lady Audley’s Secret was much better.”

  “My absolute favorite.” I extended a hand to her. “I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves. It’s a delight to make your acquaintance.”

  “Donata Caravello,” she said, an elegant smile escaping her full lips as she raised her voice. “I’m always pleased to meet someone else who appreciates Braddon.”

  “I’ve come in search of Signor Caravello,” I said. “I presume he’s your father? He sent a note to my husband offering to help us learn more about a medieval ring currently in our possession.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I remember him writing to you. His English isn’t quite so good as mine, and he asked me to check the letter for him.”

  “Rot, total rot.” An elderly, slightly stooped man popped his head through a doorway in the back of the store, just in view of us. He had started shaking his head the moment he spotted the book in his daughter’s hand. “I won’t have anything by that Braddon woman in my shop.”

  “Papà, don’t be an old bore,” Donata said. “This is Lady Emily, who’s come about the ring. You remember the ring?”

  “Ring? Oh yes, quite right.” He shook my hand by way of introduction. “You don’t approve of what my daughter is reading, do you? I thought I overheard some very unwelcome words coming from your mouth as I entered the room.” There was too much jovial warmth in his voice for me to take even the slightest offense at his words.

  “I do hope you’ll overlook my fondness for sensational literature long enough to help me,” I s
aid.

  “So long as you stop calling it literature I’ll give you temporary respite.” His accent was heavier than the girl’s. “But you must promise not to encourage my daughter in her pursuit of mediocrity.”

  Donata rolled her eyes and closed the book. “No more criticism, Papà.”

  He threw back his head and winced in mock horror. “You see how she treats me? The disrespect? I fear for the future of my beloved city. How can it survive when our young people have no respect for anyone, even their parents?”

  “He’s still mourning the end of the Most Serene Republic,” Donata said. “Please don’t ask his opinion of the unified Italy.”

  “I shall do all in my power to resist,” I said, suppressing a grin. “And you should know, Signor Caravello, I spend much more of my time studying Homer than I do reading sensational novels.”

  “A fellow scholar? That is more like it,” Signor Caravello said. “You know the most ancient Venetians, the Veneti, claimed to be descended from Antenor, who they said brought them from the ruins of Troy. The citizens of Padua try to make similar claims, but we Venetians have never been put off by accusations that we are stealing from someone else’s heritage.”

  “I find I like Venice more and more,” I said, grinning.

  “So what can I do to assist you, signora?”

  “It’s Lady Hargreaves, Papà.”

  The old man shrugged. “Forgive me.”

  “That’s entirely unnecessary, I assure you. I’m Lady Emily but also Mrs. Hargreaves, and I think signora sounds much nicer than either,” I said. I pulled the ruby ring off my hand (wearing it had seemed the safest method of carrying it while in a boat) and handed it to him. “I’m interested in what you can tell me about this. It’s the ring in question.”