Death in the Floating City Page 9

  I pulled out my notebook and jotted down my observations, starting at the door and moving clockwise through the room. Beneath the filth, the furniture wasn’t in bad condition. A pair of glass candlesticks, no doubt made on the nearby island of Murano, from whence all the famous glass came, stood in the center of a medium-sized table. Murano glass did not come cheap. Facio must have been careful with his money. This theory was confirmed as I moved through the rest of the house. The furnishings were modest, save a single object in each room. He and his wife must have saved everything they could to fund their occasional lavish purchases.

  An empty, deserted house is always a sad place, but most heartbreaking was what I found in the bedroom. In a corner near the bed stood an empty cradle, beautifully carved from the finest wood, its painted decorations visible beneath a layer of dust not quite so thick as that covering everything else in the apartment. Facio must have kept it, and only it, clean until he left. I wiped every bit of grime from it with my handkerchief and shook the tiny bed linens (made from exquisite fabrics) out the window before returning them to the cradle.

  Facio Trevisani had ample motive for murder.

  Before I left the building, I returned upstairs and asked if the young mother would be willing to tidy up her neighbor’s apartment. For her trouble, I gave her a sum that must have been worth more than I realized. Her face lit up and she reached out to embrace me.

  “Grazie, signora, grazie. You cannot understand what a difference this will make.”

  Back on the canal, I queried my gondolier as to who makes the city’s famous boats. He rattled off the names of several boatyards, but one in particular stuck in my mind: Domenico Tramontin e Figli, founded fewer than ten years ago. Perhaps its relative newness meant it would be more likely to take on a man wanting to learn the art. I would go there, but first I wanted to return to Ca’ Vendelino. If Facio wanted to kill the old conte, there might be others with equally strong motives, and I couldn’t think of anyone more willing to tell me every bad thing—founded or not—about the former head of the Barozzi family.

  * * *

  Zaneta Vendelino insisted we drink coffee and nibble on crisp, almond-filled biscuits before she would speak to me about anything of consequence.

  “A lady must always take pleasure in the things she does,” Zaneta said. “So we will have pleasure before we turn to the serious.”

  We discussed literature and art for a quarter of an hour before I felt I could change the subject.

  “Tell me, Zaneta,” I said. “Signor Barozzi could not have had a flawless reputation. Who hated him? Had he enemies? Were there stories about injustices he’d caused?”

  “You would trust me on such a topic?” Zaneta was incredulous.

  “Not entirely,” I said, “but I’m perfectly capable of verifying whatever you say. Lying would accomplish nothing but diminishing your character.”

  “You assume sending you on a fruitless chase wouldn’t amuse me.”

  “Indeed I do. You’re not that sort of lady.”

  She snorted. “You do have a keen eye for judgment. A Vendelino is always honorable. Unlike the Barozzis.”

  I could not help but smile. “So tell me the worst about your rival.”

  “He was a worthless businessman. You know the Barozzis once had a fortune that very nearly surpassed our own.” She leaned forward, her eyes serious. “You understand this was hundreds and hundreds of years ago. They squandered it from the moment they got it.”

  “Were they merchants?”

  “They were a noble family, in the Libro d’Oro from the beginning. You know this book?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They would have also conducted business, but I can’t imagine they earned much money given their complete lack of acumen for it. It must have come through marriages.”

  “How long ago did their financial difficulties start?”

  She shrugged and pushed behind her ear a strand of white hair that had fallen loose from her bun. “Who could say? By the time the old conte inherited, there was close to nothing left, and whatever he tried to do only made the situation worse. Which makes Florentina Polani’s attraction to him all the more unfathomable.”

  “Florentina Polani?” I asked. “Was Signor Barozzi having an affair?”

  She laughed. “He was far too staid and boring for that. No, in typical Barozzi fashion he all but ignored her advances until carnivale last year, when he humiliated her at a ball.”

  “How so?” Now I leaned forward.

  “He danced with her three times in a row, not knowing who she was. Everyone was in costume, of course, so he didn’t recognize her. Her voice was unfamiliar as well, as he’d never paid particular attention to anything she’d said to him in the past. But as they danced, she believed he had started to care for her. I know not why—something that was said while they were in the ballroom, I suppose. They went onto a loggia, for a bit of privacy and fresh air. She took off her mask and tried to kiss him. What do you think of that?”

  “I could hardly say. I know nothing of the lady’s situation. Certainly, it’s admirable that she took an active role in trying to secure her happiness—”

  “Enough.” She smiled—grinned, really—and continued. “That old fool saw it was Florentina and yelped as he stepped back from her. Can you imagine? A grown man yelping? Naturally the others who had removed themselves to the loggia for more successful romantic encounters all took notice. Florentina was mortified. She’s still teased about it. You must know how merciless women can be to the other members of their sex.”

  “Quite.” I was all too well acquainted with the subject. “Had the conte dallied with other ladies?”

  “No. He makes an indecent show of grieving his wife’s death. It is almost as if he attempts to emulate your Queen Victoria, the endless mourner. It’s in very bad taste.”

  “Was society aware of his ongoing grief?” I asked.

  “He made it impossible not to be aware of it.”

  “So why did Florentina attempt to embroil him in an affair? Surely she knew her attentions would be rebuffed?”

  “We can’t choose where we love,” Zaneta said. “It’s the worst tragedy of the human condition.”

  Un Libro d’Amore

  viii

  Besina’s last day at home was one of the happiest she’d ever known. No longer fearing she’d be forced to marry where she didn’t want, her mood improved greatly, and she felt a deep affection for the members of her family. Although she carried some guilt at doing it, she gushed over the fabrics her mother had gathered for her to choose from for her wedding dress and helped her arrange flowers they’d picked together in the garden.

  Her mother had sighed in relief, glad that her daughter was no longer being difficult.

  Finished with the flowers, Besina went to her little sisters and told them stories, something she’d not done for weeks despite their incessant pleading. It was a bittersweet pleasure, as she knew it was unlikely she’d have the opportunity to do it again soon, if ever. The knowledge that she might never see them after she left with Nicolò tugged at her heart. It wasn’t something she wanted, but she would give them up for love if that were what love required.

  This thought brought with it a sliver of anger. She shouldn’t have to effectively renounce her family to marry the man she loved. This situation was not of her doing. She blamed her father, blamed the doge, even blamed Venice itself. Then she quickly buried the feeling and sought out her smallest brother.

  He was in the garden, playing with a set of wooden toy knights dressed for the Crusades. At his request, she flung pebbles at them, acting the part of the heretics defending Constantinople. The game brought to mind memories of those she’d played with Lorenzo, and a rush of love for him, her closest sibling, filled her. Her heretics soundly defeated by the righteous knights, she tousled her young brother’s hair and went in search of Lorenzo.

  For three hours before the family sat down to dinner, Bes
ina and Lorenzo read poetry together. She demanded Petrarch first, then Dante. Lorenzo told her about a new poet he’d heard recite at a party and promised that he would find her a copy of his work as soon as it had been printed.

  It pained her to know she wouldn’t be here for him to give it to her. Perhaps Lorenzo would not begrudge her this marriage. Perhaps he, among all the family, would be the one who would accept her decision and agree to see her.

  She tapped her feet and started to feel nervous. So much about her imminent adventure was unknown. She trusted Nicolò to take care of her and knew she had no need to concern herself with the details, but still she wondered where she would be living tomorrow. Perhaps they would go to Padua to be married and stay some days before returning to Venice. Perhaps his family would welcome them into their house.

  No, she knew that to be impossible.

  She made the decision to think about poetry instead.

  In the days and years that followed, she couldn’t remember what they ate that evening, or what was discussed at the table. She couldn’t remember what they all did before retiring to their beds. The only thing she held close was the memory of her mother kissing her good night.

  It would never happen again.

  Half an hour before she was to meet Nicolò, Besina slipped out of her bed and silently pulled on her simplest gown. She retrieved the small bundle that earlier in the day she had filled with her most precious possessions, and then she picked up her shoes. She wished she could kiss her sisters good-bye, the sisters with whom she shared her room, but feared she might wake them. In stocking feet, she made her way down the stairs to the ground floor of the house. Once in the garden, she slipped on her shoes but walked on her toes to avoid any chance of clicking heels revealing her presence.

  She wasn’t sure of the time. The bells in the nearest campanile would mark midnight. Nicolò was not yet there. She’d arrived early by design, knowing that rushing would likely lead to noise and mistakes. She couldn’t risk discovery. Her heart pounded and excitement brimmed in her.

  At last she heard footsteps.

  Deliberately quiet footsteps.

  She turned the key to the garden gate, praying it wouldn’t squeak. She started to push it open.

  But before she could slip through it, rough hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to the ground.

  This was not Nicolò.

  9

  I hadn’t expected Florentina Polani to be a married woman. There is no accounting for this fact other than my youth and a certain innocence that I can only hope, in retrospect, was charming rather than grating. Florentina and her husband, along with a brood of seven children, lived in Dorsoduro, near the mouth of the Grand Canal and the spectacular Santa Maria della Salute church. I regretted greatly not having time that day to see the Titians inside, but one must maintain one’s focus on work in times like these.

  Dorsoduro was a pleasant walk from the Danieli. I cut through St. Mark’s Square, past the sounds of the competing orchestras at the cafés and the swarming hoards of pigeons omnipresent in the piazza and continued on to the traghetto near Campo Santa Maria Zobenigo. Traghetti are gondolas that go back and forth across the Grand Canal, saving pedestrians from having to make their way to one of the few bridges spanning the waterway. I pressed a coin into the gondolier’s hand and took a seat on a bench that ran along the side of the boat. All the local men on board stood as we made the short journey, their arms folded, their faces stern and proud. I wondered if I had sufficient command of my balance to accomplish such a feat.

  Some things are best not tried, and as I did not think showing up on the Polanis’ doorstep soaking wet would endear me to Florentina, I remained in my seat until we’d reached the far side of the canal. I followed one calle to the next, admiring, as I walked, the many hanging baskets of flowers suspended from window frames. I own I was a bit nervous. Calling on a stranger to discuss her attempt at adultery is unlikely ever to be free from a certain degree of awkwardness. I didn’t want to make it worse than necessary and braced myself for a broad range of emotions from my hostess: embarrassment, anger, even calm acceptance.

  Jocularity, however, had escaped me as a possibility.

  Florentina’s laughter erupted the moment I mentioned the old conte. Not a little laughter. Not a modest giggle. A guffaw.

  It seemed entirely appropriate coming from her.

  I’d never much subscribed to the theory of physiognomy. A person’s appearance might, on occasion, serve as a mirror into his character, but I considered that coincidence, not science. My views on the subject might have been different if I’d considered them only in reference to Florentina Polani.

  She was no longer a young woman, though a gentleman at her age would be described as being in the prime of life. Her figure was pleasantly rounded, no hard angles to be found, and her face, with wide-set eyes, rosy cheeks, and full lips parted in what seemed to be a perpetual smile, seemed indicative of a happy soul.

  “The poor man,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Forgive me if I seem callous. It’s all so ridiculous.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” I said. “Ridiculous?”

  “The idea that someone would bother to murder such a useless, base, incompetent fool.”

  So much for physiognomy.

  “Clearly someone thought it worth the bother.”

  “I won’t go so far as to say he got what he deserved, but I also can’t say I didn’t take satisfaction in his demise.”

  “Can you tell me what happened between you?” I asked.

  “I fancied him,” she said, as casually as one might admit to liking lemon ice or scones with cream. “Can’t imagine why, now, but I did. He appeared a respectable man, from a good family—which meant he’d be discreet—and I found his devotion to his late wife rather romantic.”

  “Romantic?” I can’t say I quite understood how anyone would find such a thing romantic in a way that would draw her to the person in question.

  “It showed him capable of deep love. It also ensured he wouldn’t become too attached.”

  “I see.”

  “Understand that I speak freely on this subject only because it is already publicly known. I am not the sort of woman who ordinarily puts herself on view in such a way. But given what transpired, I feel the need to defend myself whenever possible.”

  “Of course,” I said. “His behavior towards you was—” I hoped she would interrupt me.

  “Outrageous. Nothing short of it. We’d become friendly over the years. Not in an intimate way—we never so much as flirted—just from moving in the same circles. A few months ago we found ourselves sitting next to each other at La Fenice during a performance of Verdi’s Rigoletto. Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It is a powerful story. Moving and scandalous and romantic. I adored it. As did Signor Barozzi. My husband had fallen ill earlier that evening after eating a bad oyster. When the conte realized I was on my own, he offered to escort me home. We stopped at Florian for a coffee on the way. It was all extremely chaste.”

  “Did you have feelings for him at the time?”

  “Not before then, but that night changed everything. Have you been in San Marco at midnight, Lady Emily? Have you found yourself swept up by the music and the beauty of the piazza? Have you looked up to see a moon rising above the marble buildings, casting the whole city in a new, bright light?”

  Florentina could certainly warm to a subject.

  “I have not been so fortunate,” I said. “As I explained when I arrived, I’m here to investigate a murder. The delights of the city will, alas, have to wait.”

  “More’s the pity, then,” she said. “Regardless, in those circumstances, it is impossible—impossible—not to fall in love with your companion. I had no choice. So I accepted it, and I loved him.”

  “And your husband?” I asked. “Forgive me, but I must ask. Did he become aware of your feelings?”

 
; “Not until that cur Barozzi disparaged me during carnivale. His rejection was so public. He pushed me away and made a most hideous noise. It drew everyone’s attention.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I threw myself on the mercy of my husband. What else was there to be done? It’s not as if he hasn’t had dalliances of his own—he was extremely understanding. It no doubt helped that Barozzi’s behavior made it obvious my indiscretion had never been consummated.”

  “How did you learn of the conte’s death?” I asked.

  “By reading the paper, like everyone else.”

  “Forgive me, but I must ask. Do you remember where you were the night he was killed?”

  “There’s nothing to remember,” she said. “We spent an ordinary evening at home. You aren’t suggesting I could have murdered him?”

  I smiled at her warmly. “Of course not. The question is a matter of simple procedure. Seeing as how you’d taken such an interest in Signor Barozzi, you might have the best insight of anyone when it comes to identifying his enemies. Does anyone spring to mind?”

  “I admit I’ve thought about this long and hard. What else is one to do when a former love comes to such an ignominious end?”

  Who could argue with such logic?

  “And your conclusion?” I asked.

  “There were rumors that he had unpaid gambling debts and had been threatened on account of them, but I think these claims were baseless. He never went to the casino. His son, Paolo, is a more likely suspect, I’d say. He’s inherited everything, hasn’t he? And isn’t the person who benefits most likely to be the murderer?”

  I wondered if she really had so little knowledge of the Barozzi family’s financial situation. “So you think Paolo did it?”

  “Well, he did run off, didn’t he?” she asked. “Not the act of an innocent man. Still, I’m not sure it was he.”