Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  ‘Too seriously,’ laughed his friend as they went back down to the first floor. ‘Whoever heard of an avogadore going in person to search a victim’s apartment, or to question witnesses at home instead of summoning them to the palace?’

  ‘Well, you see,’ objected Marco, sitting down at the table and unfolding his napkin, ‘I enjoy my work. In fact, I still believe that law and justice can overlap, at least here in Venice, where we don’t have the absurd discriminations I came across while travelling. If you want to get to the truth in a case, you need to assess the context in which the characters in a particular drama performed. When I call witnesses to the ducal palace, they either clam up or are overcome by bravado. They’re quite prepared to lie, and, even if it’s only about minor things, they too can be essential. Instead, in their own surroundings, it’s more likely they’ll tell the truth. And I don’t mind moving around and going to see how people live rather than staying holed up in my office, as my colleagues do.’

  The administration of justice was one of the most complicated aspects of Venetian life. Over the centuries the Serenissima had established nearly one hundred and thirty courts and more often than not their jurisdictions overlapped. As well as the Quarantie, as the civil and criminal courts were known, there were six lesser courts that oversaw questions of inheritance, rents and the lease of ships. Then there were the courts of the Piovègo, which dealt with the waters and canals, and the six Signori di Notte, who judged nocturnal offences, both civil and criminal, and were responsible for patrolling the streets. The Giustizia Vecchia presided over work-related cases and those involving women and children, and the Giustizia Nova dealt with offences regarding foodstuffs, taverns and the wine trade. Lastly, the two powerful colleges of the Savi acted as the courts of last resort. It was a system that also helped the prudent Republic to carry out cross-checks on the activities of its own magistrates.

  The dinner was delicious. It was served by Giuseppe, who had worked at Palazzo Pisani before following Marco to his own house. Polished and chubby, he was forty, but looked younger. He served a meat broth first, followed by meatballs in sauce and a roast chicken. And finally, they were served with wafer-thin biscuits accompanied by sweet wine. When they had finished their meal, the two friends settled by the fire in Marco’s study to enjoy some ratafia. Plato had followed them and was curled up on the hearth, having calculated to a tee the distance between his fur and the flames, guaranteeing maximum warmth and no risk of singeing.

  Above the fireplace was a splendid portrait of a dark young woman wearing a black lace dress.

  ‘If she was still alive . . .’ – Marco wistfully looked up at the portrait – ‘perhaps things would be different and I’d not be so obsessed by my work. But then Virginia always encouraged me to work hard, and in her own home, in Padua, they lived simply, even though the family was well off.’

  ‘Poor Virginia,’ sighed Daniele.

  Marco had tears in his eyes. The thought of his young wife, who had died giving birth to their son, still upset him deeply, even after twelve years. It would have been a betrayal, he thought, to love another woman. Sweet Virginia; she had already been sufficiently betrayed by fate, who had carried her away, and also the baby for whom they had both cherished such hopes.

  There was silence in the room for a while.

  ‘Are the Foscarinis still after you for their daughter?’ asked Daniele, hoping to lighten the mood.

  ‘Constantly. And they’re not the only ones.’ Marco shook himself. ‘If I were to go to all the parties, concerts, balls and dinners to which I’m invited, I wouldn’t be able to work. They think of me as the golden widower.’

  ‘And now you’ve got a reputation for playing hard to get.’

  ‘Look who’s talking! You’re the same age as me and you’re still living at home, while young Maddalena Santelli flutters her eyelashes at you every time she sees you – and she’s got a handsome dowry.’

  ‘Sooner or later I’ll make up my mind,’ sighed Daniele with a frown. ‘I’ll have to marry just to keep my elderly parents happy. The Santelli girl is kind and I’m quite fond of her . . . it’s just that she doesn’t make my heart race.’

  ‘And you’re the one who wants to do away with passions?’ Marco teased. ‘But you’re right about love . . . love is everything! They say that it’s gone out of fashion, but that’s rubbish: love is worth any form of madness. I know, because I’ve experienced it, and I’ll never be in love again.’

  ‘You two never stop chatting; and then you complain about us women!’ Rosetta had come into the room with the usual bedtime chocolate. Venetian through and through, she was a chatterbox who did not know the meaning of servility, but where her master was concerned, nothing was too good. She set the tray with the steaming jug and cups on a lacquered table.

  ‘Don’t sit up late because there’ll be plenty to do in the morning,’ she warned. ‘And you, Plato,’ she said, turning to the cat, ‘if I catch you sleeping in his bed, you’ll be in real trouble.’

  The cat opened his eyes a fraction and then made himself more comfortable.

  ‘You see,’ said Marco. ‘She still treats me like a child.’

  Plato stretched and jumped on to his shoulder, purring.

  ‘And how do you plan to proceed with the inquiries?’ asked Zen, savouring the chocolate.

  Marco stroked the cat, who purred even louder. ‘In theory, I should start proceedings against the accused, but first we need to find him; it’s certainly not that wretch Tommaso Grassino. However, it’s not exactly clear cut. We’ve got a body and no witnesses so I can only make inquiries about the victim. And what have we discovered so far?’

  ‘That he was a poor wretch who lived off his wits.’ Zen started to list the known facts. ‘He kept suspicious documents that might link him to the world of espionage, he was strangled with a strange rope and a Turk might be involved.’

  ‘If there are any grounds to suspect spying, I should immediately inform the three inquisitors who are responsible for state security. But you’re right: better wait. I can’t explain it, but it seems too soon to pass this case on to them. I’d like to make more progress with the facts, but without sticking my neck out too far. I’ll follow your suggestion and go to the Arsenale.’

  Daniele looked thoughtful as he toyed with the lace on his cuff. ‘There’s another strange coincidence,’ he reflected. ‘Both Barbaro’s own maid and – according to what you’ve told me – his lover, Lucrezia, were both very reticent when it came to naming the victim’s friends. They may be high-ranking, even though I can’t imagine why young patricians would get involved with anyone like him.’

  ‘So, let’s hunt around for their names. I’ve already got a plan: tomorrow it will be Nani’s turn.’

  ‘Ah, your gondolier . . .’

  ‘He’s intelligent, he enjoys a bit of adventure and he’s a good-looking chap. I can’t ask the guards or soldiers from the Avogaria because no one would speak openly to them. Besides, when it comes to getting the whole story out of people, especially women, there’s no one better. No matter what I ask him to find out, he always manages to come back with invaluable information. The Lord alone knows how he does it. I’ll call him up now and give him his instructions, then he can take you home in the gondola.’

  ‘No, it’s too late now. Let him sleep and I’ll walk home. I’ve still got the lantern,’ replied Daniele, who lived not far away, in Campo Santa Margherita.

  Marco accompanied him down to the door on to the calle, and the two friends said goodnight.

  ‘Come on, Plato, we’re off to bed,’ said Marco to the cat, who’d followed them into the garden. And Plato, satisfied from the previous night’s adventures, obediently followed his master indoors.

  CHAPTER 5

  The triumphal Porta dei Leoni and the two watchtowers above the canal stood out in all their proud magnificence against the pale blue sky when Marco, followed by Nani, walked towards the Arsenale on Friday morning, having left t
heir gondola moored to a post.

  Marco stopped for a moment to look at the marble lions standing guard by the gate and remembered with a tinge of sadness that they had come originally from Greece, in the days when the Serenissima was at the height of its power and its ships ruled the seas.

  It was from the Arsenale that all the galleys and cargo ships had sailed to defend Venice from its enemies and, more importantly, to trade with the East and bring wealth to Venice. In 1571, on the eve of the Battle of Lepanto, when Christian Europe had been saved from the Turkish invasion thanks to Venetian ships, the boatyards, warehouses, offices and docks in the Arsenale covered over a sixth of the city and employed three thousand specialised workers, as well as countless labourers. In preparation for the likelihood of battle, one hundred galleys had been built in two months that year, complete with sails, stays, cannons, anchors and all the supplies for the crews.

  Yet the discovery of America had shifted the barycentre of trade towards the Atlantic, benefiting the westward-facing seafaring nations and sending a shiver of foreboding through Venice. Now, more than two centuries later, the peace of 1718 had meant the loss of the Morea to the Ottomans, while in the Adriatic Venice’s leadership was contested by Austria, the emerging power, which competed with Venetian trade from its port in Trieste.

  As a result, new ships were very rarely built now, but the Arsenale, which was responsible for the upkeep of the merchant and military fleet and its provisioning, was still at the heart of the Republic and employed fourteen hundred workers, so access to the docks was strictly surveilled.

  Indeed, an arsenal guard was now walking towards the visitors but, when he recognised Avogadore Pisani, he hastened to open the gate.

  ‘Nani, you know what to do; ask the guards how to get to the ropeworks. As for me’ – Marco turned to the guard – ‘I need to talk to the Patrono.’ The Master of the Arsenale was always a patrician and he, together with the Procurators and the Admiral, formed the Collegio dell’Arsenale, the high council that controlled the shipyard and the navy.

  Nani turned left and disappeared around the flank of the sails warehouse. In the meantime, Marco stopped to admire the Darsena Vecchia, the old dock that was flanked by a row of covered shipyards, where a number of vessels were currently undergoing repair. At the end of the dock was a drawbridge which led into the much larger Darsena delle Galeazze, where the warships were moored.

  Marco knew the way and he turned to enter the building where the council sat. No one dared to stop him as he crossed the arms room on the ground floor and he then went straight upstairs to the offices without being challenged. There in front of him was his friend’s office.

  ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise!’ Patrono Cappello stood up and walked round his large desk to welcome Marco with an embrace. Of middling height and a little overweight, he had a penetrating gaze and an ironic smile. ‘We’ve not seen each other for a while. What fair wind blows you in our direction to visit us humble workers of the sea?’

  ‘You’ll have heard of the murder of poor Marino Barbaro . . .’ explained Marco, leaving aside the usual pleasantries.

  ‘Indeed. Yesterday morning. Here the news travels fast: even if Barbaro wasn’t a person of great worth, he was still a patrician of the Great Council. But what has the Arsenale to do with it?’ Cappello asked with interest.

  Marco took off his cloak and opened a case from which he took the sheaf of papers that had been found in the victim’s house. ‘Unfortunately, I need to consult you about a very delicate matter. Absolutely nothing of what I’m going to tell you must leave this room before I finish my inquiries.’

  ‘Does it concern state security?’ Cappello’s voice was now deadly serious.

  ‘It might . . . I’m going to show you something.’ Marco unfolded the drawings and laid the papers on the table. ‘Have a look at these. My first impression was that they’re secret documents, and this would mean that Barbaro was involved in some spy ring. Yet something doesn’t quite fit, and I’d like to know what it’s all about before I raise the alarm with the inquisitors.’

  Alvise Cappello balanced a thick pair of lenses on his long nose and bent over the table to look carefully at the drawings. First, he focused on the sheet with the dates. ‘This,’ he started, ‘is certainly a document of no value. It seems to be a list of ships’ sailing dates, their arrivals and departures; similar lists are sold to spies employed by pirates in the Adriatic. But I can’t understand how it can include the return date to Venice, which is never certain. The other papers contain drawings of ships, as I’m sure you’ll have realised. I’ve no idea why they might be useful, or to whom. It looks like they’re old designs. But . . . wait a moment.’ Cappello stopped short when he saw the sketch of the dredger. ‘Did you find this one with the others?’ he asked Marco.

  ‘Of course. It seems to have been copied in a hurry, and it struck me as rather strange, too.’

  Cappello painstakingly polished his glasses with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and put them back on his nose. Then he leaned over the sheet again. ‘You’ll have understood that this is a mud dredger, then. But not one of the usual ones. The dredgers we normally use have a single hull and they’re modelled on an old design by Francesco di Giorgio Martini. But I happen to know that here in the Arsenale, they’re now working on one of Leonardo’s projects – you might remember that he was an expert on hydraulics and engineering. One of his projects is now being developed, and it would be an undoubted improvement, but it’s still a secret. So, the question is, who copied this sketch? And what was it doing in the hands of that barnabotto?’

  ‘Whoever it was, and whatever he was doing, it was clearly important enough to justify murder.’

  ‘It wasn’t robbery, then. The youngster you’ve arrested isn’t your man.’

  ‘Quite so. But before freeing him, I need to understand what I’m dealing with here.’

  ‘Give me a day or two, Marco, and I’ll tell you all you need to know. I could summon a meeting of the heads of all the workshops – by which I mean munition, sails and anchors, and the shipwrights – but I don’t want to create too much of a stir. Instead, I’ll ask a few discreet questions myself, here and there. This is a project that any number of foreign powers would find particularly interesting: all those with ports and channels that need to be kept open,’ Cappello concluded, pointing at the sketch of the dredger.

  ‘I agree,’ replied Marco, getting ready to take his leave. ‘And the next time, we’ll go out and eat something together at the Poste Vecie at Rialto, where we can talk.’

  ‘Perhaps about women.’ Alvise grinned, giving him a wink. ‘And we’ll order polenta and cod. They do a magnificent dish at the Poste Vecie.’

  When Marco returned to the gondola, he found that Nani had not yet returned, so he waited nearby.

  The young man had not been in a rush because it wasn’t every day that he was able to take a look around the heavily guarded area containing prized military secrets. Following the guards’ directions, he had walked past the sails warehouse and was about to turn right, when he’d noticed a group of young women on the quay stretching out sails to dry on long ropes. ‘What’s the best way to the ropeworks?’ he asked, hoping it would serve as an acceptable chat-up line.

  Two of them looked at him with interest; he clearly didn’t work in the Arsenale, and if he was an outsider, then he must be someone important to be allowed to stroll around like this.

  ‘From the other side,’ one of them answered. ‘It’s at the end of the calle. You need to turn left between the metal and the tarring workshops, then you’ll find the ropeworks in front of you.’

  ‘Perhaps you could take me . . .’ Nani brashly asked the blonde who had spoken. She had fine ankles and was generously proportioned.

  ‘I’m busy now.’

  ‘What about this evening, then? I’ll wait for you at the gate,’ replied Nani, with one of his irresistible smiles. ‘We’ll have a drink together. A glass of wine to thank
you for the information. Then I’ll give you a lift home in the gondola.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ sighed the blonde, ‘but you’d find my husband and two children waiting for me there too.’

  Nani shrugged philosophically and followed the woman’s directions, finding the ropeworks without trouble. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the enormous space under the trussed roof, which was supported by a double row of large columns. There was a bustle of workers everywhere: men and, above all, women were twisting the fibres into strands on pedal-powered turning machines. Other workers laid and twisted the yarns along the full length of the rope-walks, before tarring them, or plaited two or four strands together around a central core to form ropes of differing thicknesses. The hemp workers wound the ropes around tall cylinders or piled them in coils near the door. There were coils of fine lines, thicker ropes for sheets, and anchor hawsers, all waiting to be stored in the adjacent warehouses. The atmosphere was redolent with hemp, which made his head spin, and the suffocating dust seemed to hang in the air.

  The foreman, Micheli, came forward and Nani introduced himself and showed him the rope that had been found around Barbaro’s neck. ‘My master, Avogadore Pisani,’ he explained, ‘would like to know where this rope comes from, because he thinks it’s an unusual make.’

  Micheli turned the rope in his hands, smelled it, tested its strength and unspliced one of the ends. ‘Well, it’s not one of ours . . . Where was it found?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to say,’ apologised Nani, who was well aware of the rules of judicial investigations.

  ‘Of course. Well, at first sight, I think the rope must be North African, and it seems to be made of those tough grasses that grow in some areas of Libya, close to the sea. The coarse twist reminds me of the shipyards in the Levant where the Turks use Greek slaves, who are some of the least skilled at building and fitting out ships. See how it unravels? It’s also quite a thick rope, and not as easy to handle as the ones we make here.’