‘There is also talk of a young maid, a certain Lucietta Segati.’ Marco was irritated in turn by her evasive response and had no qualms in inflicting this additional blow. ‘It’s said that she attracted your son’s attention. Some say that he seduced her about three years ago. Then the girl vanished.’
Francesca Corner sat down again and, leaning towards Pisani, she whispered, ‘I am surprised, Your Excellency, that you waste your time listening to servants’ gossip.’ It was all Marco could do to remain silent. ‘Don’t you know what girls are like? When they see a young and handsome master, and especially a rich one, they’re willing to do anything to secure their futures.’ She stopped for a moment, her eyes filling with tears at the memory of her son. ‘That Lucietta was nothing but trouble, a slut. She obviously tried to snare him, but she didn’t succeed and so she packed up and left.’
‘She has disappeared . . .’
‘Disappeared? I think not. Girls pack up and go when they don’t find what they’re looking for. Today they’re looking for adventure, just like men. And no one hears any more about them. For example, some time ago a young woman, a seamstress who was very pretty and well educated, used to come to the house and bring me ready-made linen and other items. She was one of the family, in a sense, and knew both my sons. I always offered her pastries and chocolate. Then, one fine day, I never saw her again . . . I heard that she walked out of her home. Who knows why? Perhaps she followed a man she loved, perhaps she was in search of adventure? She was a sailor’s daughter, that might account for it. And what of Tiraboschi’s wife – you know who I mean, the glassmaker?’ Signora Corner broke into a bitter laugh. ‘All Venice is talking about her. She just got tired of living on Murano, even though she lacked for nothing. She went off with a company of travelling players performing commedia dell’arte. Now she plays the part of Columbine! And have you heard about the laundress who worked for the Mocenigo family? One day she abandoned everything and set up house in a well-to-do neighbourhood at the expense of an elderly notary. Now she entertains both her elderly lover and any young men she can find! How can you have the nerve to talk to me about Lucietta?’ Signora Corner shook her head. ‘She’ll have come to a bad end, like all the others.’
‘It seems that we’re back where we started,’ commented Daniele later. The two friends were sitting in Caffè Florian in Saint Mark’s Square, with two glasses of ratafia on the table. Under the portico, in the lamplight, the listòn was well underway and the two men idly watched the passers-by who emerged every evening to walk around the square, showing off their clothes and gossiping with friends. There were gentlemen wearing wigs and cloaks, a handful of religious figures, powdered ladies followed by gallants laden with packages, clerks in their dark gowns returning home from work, the usual blind or lame beggars – not all of them genuine. Every now and then a courtesan, recognisable because of her heavy cosmetics and flashy jewels, would saunter past and men would stop and stare quite openly, as they never would at a lady.
‘Having listened to what his mother told us,’ Marco reflected, ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether the culprit might actually be Dario.’
‘You could be right. The two crimes were committed at night and he could have left the palace without being seen. Moreover, he’s hot-tempered and well built.’
‘But . . . to kill his own brother in cold blood . . .’
‘He could have paid someone else to do it.’
‘True,’ replied Marco. ‘But then he’d risk being blackmailed for life. And if it was ever revealed, he would be executed. The Serenissima doesn’t pardon murderers, even if they’re patricians, and especially if they kill a relative for money.’
‘Anyway, the Corner family are rich enough to cover up his business disasters. To that extent, Signora Corner was right.’
Marco looked thoughtful. ‘Yet I feel we shouldn’t overlook Dario’s motive for killing his brother,’ he said in the end. ‘You know, I really don’t know where to start. I saw the inquisitors today, and they’re as anxious to solve the case as I am. I didn’t mention anything about the possible involvement of foreign spies. And anyway, if espionage were involved, how does Corner fit into that? So maybe it is all linked to the maidservant? Hopefully, I’ll find out soon. I’m off to Dolo tomorrow to look for the girl.’
‘Are you? All the way to Dolo? Can’t you send an agent?’
‘I could, but . . . I’ve decided to go in person and take a trip up the Brenta on the Burchiello.’
‘Ah, now I understand!’ Daniele started to laugh. ‘You’re taking Chiara, aren’t you? So matters are progressing well on that front, at least.’
‘I’m not even sure what my feelings are,’ confessed Marco at last, tired of avoiding the subject. ‘I do like her a lot; in fact, she thrills me. But I don’t know if she feels the same. She’s so composed, and what’s more she’s always chaperoned. And what about you?’ He found he was reluctant to say more. ‘Are you getting engaged or not?’
‘I was looking at Maddalena today while she was singing,’ Zen said thoughtfully. ‘She’s certainly pretty, I grant you, even if she’s completely tone-deaf, but I kept thinking I was seeing a young version of her mother. She’ll turn plump, too, and become a gossip. And then I thought of myself, like her father, sitting on his gilded chair, with a smug smile on his face, counting his gold every evening. No, that’s not for me.’
‘You’ve got sophisticated tastes,’ Marco concluded with a smile.
That evening Marco felt restless and irritable. The investigation was at a standstill, he wasn’t clear where he stood with Chiara and he had been annoyed by Francesca Corner. He had no appetite for dinner and criticised the partridge and the stew.
‘Women!’ sighed Rosetta as she cleared his plates. ‘There’s not a single one who won’t cause you trouble!’
This infuriated Marco even more: Nani had been talking. He’d have to teach him a lesson, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d be sent packing back to the seminary to become yet another disgruntled priest! ‘What’s all this about, Rosetta?’ he asked.
‘It’s time for you to settle down, but with the right woman.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘That’s not for me to say, but it must be someone of your own rank . . . not a businesswoman.’ Rosetta’s words came tumbling out. ‘Not a woman who does a man’s job, and who knows what else.’
Marco’s fist slammed on to the table and the glasses shook. ‘Rosetta, I am a patient man, but I do not intend to listen to anyone preaching about my private life, even you who brought me up. And don’t talk about people you don’t know.’
He climbed the stairs to his study and stood looking at the portrait of his wife above the fireplace. When he was here, in this room, he sometimes fancied he could hear the rustle of her gown, as if she were still close by. All it took was the memory of a gesture and he could see her in his mind’s eye: how she used to offer him a coffee cup balanced like a gift on her palm or brush her hand over his papers as she tidied them. From the portrait, Virginia seemed to be smiling at him now.
He shook his head to chase the memories away before sitting down at his desk to look through his folder of notes on the case, but he couldn’t concentrate. The names danced in front of his eyes, the witness statements seemed insignificant.
He went back downstairs and picked up an old cloak, then, taking a lantern, he headed for Calle dei Preti, behind the Scuola of San Rocco, where Annetta lived.
The night was clear and cold, the city deserted. Somewhere in the distance a tenor voice was singing a boating song accompanied by a violin. The melody was pleasant, at times tender and sentimental, and it took him back to the years he had spent in Padua as a youth, when he, too, sang, under Virginia’s windows.
He walked past the church of San Barnaba and threw a few coins towards a beggar hunched by the wall. As he passed the building where Marino Barbaro had lived, he turned to look up at it, then remembered that he had left the rope at C
hiara’s. That young woman was a real puzzle: she seemed the sweetest of women, yet she argued a point of philosophy like a professor. She was serene and smiling, yet she practised mysteries in defiance of the Church’s laws. Was she really a clairvoyant, though? She had seen that he was a widower when she read his palm, and promptly grasped the dramatic events of his past. Or was the whole thing a sham based on her previous knowledge of the events?
And what about the strange scene he had witnessed as she held the rope? It’s true that he had felt a mysterious force. But what did her description of the blonde-haired girl, the gondolier and that scarlet cloak have to do with the death of first Barbaro, then Corner?
Passing a narrow calle, the air filled with a stomach-curdling stench and the sound of rough voices: a few barrel men were emptying the sewer of a palace. Marco walked past a tavern, peered through the windows of the crowded room and decided to go in. He pushed his way between the card tables, where some of the players seemed drunk already. At the counter he ordered a glass of wine and downed it in one before going back out into the street, his mind still full of memories of his evening with Chiara, and this time he smiled. He knew so little about her, yet she already felt part of his soul. If she truly could see things, then that was a bonus, and he shouldn’t worry about it. Chiara had nothing in common with witches and other charlatans; she made no money from her gift and instead simply used it to do good, in the same way that she gave away her potions to make people better.
In Campo San Pantalòn, he was approached by a heavily made-up prostitute who was most certainly older than she looked. ‘On your own, fine fellow? D’you fancy a bit of company? I’m the best Venice can offer.’ Marco held out a coin and continued on his way, leaving her bewildered.
When he reached Calle dei Preti, he stood for a while looking up at the window, deep in thought. In the small second-floor apartment, a light was visible through the drapes in the salon. Annetta was still awake, waiting. She would be pleased to see him, he knew.
Then, with a sigh, he turned and headed back the way he had come. Poor Annetta. He was her only lover.
CHAPTER 16
The lagoon was still shrouded in darkness when Marco’s gondola came alongside Fusina, the small port at the start of the Brenta canal, and its passengers stepped on to the landing place where the Burchiello was waiting. Chiara was enveloped in fur, complete with a muff for her hands, while her elderly housekeeper, Marta, was barely visible under a grey cloak and hood. For once, the avogadore was wearing gloves.
‘It’s seven now, Nani,’ said Marco, turning to the young gondolier, ‘and I plan to be back in twelve hours’ time. But you’ve got a job to do during the day: look for the tavern that belongs to Biagio, Corner’s servant. All I know is that it’s somewhere near the Fondaco dei Turchi. Then tell Avvocato Zen from me that he should make discreet enquiries in a few coffee houses to find out what sort of man this Labia is and where I could meet him without raising any suspicions. He’ll be on edge now that the other two are dead. I’m sure he’s got some interesting things to say.’
‘Yes, master,’ agreed Nani in a serious tone. He was still chastened by the telling-off Marco had given him for gossiping about Chiara with the other servants.
‘Come back to collect us this evening at seven and then you can give me your report after dinner.’
‘Oh!’ said Nani sadly. ‘I’d planned to go to Palazzo Priuli this evening. They’re celebrating Caterina’s birthday. She’s a delightful blonde who laughs a lot.’
‘You mean you’re invited to the kitchens . . .’
‘Well, Caterina’s Signora Priuli’s maid and it’s still Palazzo Priuli. Would it be all right if I told you what I’ve found out when I come to collect you and take you home?’
What could he say? Marco had heard tales of these celebrations in the servants’ quarters, which involved much eating, singing and dancing and no shortage of wine. ‘All right, Nani, we’ll meet here at seven, and then you can go off.’
‘Hurray for the paròn,’ cheered the young man. ‘He’s the best in the world!’ And after raising his hat in Chiara’s direction, he rowed away.
All three were still laughing when they boarded the canal boat. Marta indicated that she would prefer to sit in the servants’ cabin, but Marco would not hear of it. Instead they all took seats in one of the small cabins, which had silk-covered walls and a glass pane that allowed them to see outside. The housekeeper was carrying a basket covered with a chequered cloth. ‘It’s our lunch,’ she explained. ‘In the countryside you never know what you might find to eat.’
‘That’s Marta for you,’ said Chiara, smiling at the avogadore. ‘She’s like a mother hen.’ Her fur coat was now open and in the flickering lantern light her cheeks were pink with cold, while her eyes danced and smiled.
Marco felt his heart tighten. He longed to kiss her and hold her tightly in his arms. He had no clue as to how she felt . . . It’s for the best that Marta is here, he thought. Chiara had her reputation to maintain and Marta filled the place of Chiara’s long-dead mother. He smiled back, one of his half-smiles with a bitter edge.
Chiara, too, was thinking how much she liked this man, and how she was growing used to his company. She wondered what his intentions were and hoped he didn’t spoil things by making advances. She realised that she had been wrong to invite him into her room the other evening and couldn’t imagine what he must think of her. Thank goodness Marta was in the house, she thought. He’s a Pisani and an avogadore, and even if he lives very simply, he’s still one of the most famous men in the city. What would he do with a tradeswoman like me? She could tell that he was interested in her, but she knew that, as a commoner, she was far beneath him. It’s best I keep my feet on the ground, she decided.
In the meantime, the Burchiello had filled up. A group of very talkative priests had occupied one of the other cabins, together with an elegant lady and her maid. Three students from Padua were lounging in the armchairs, still half asleep. A small troupe of jugglers were putting on their make-up and costumes in a corner and preparing to entertain the travellers.
Outside on the towpath, two large dray horses had appeared and were harnessed to the vessel. The Burchiello started to move as the sun rose.
As on every other occasion when he had travelled along the Brenta, Marco admired the huge endeavours made by his Venetian forebears to build up the embankments with thousands and thousands of wooden stakes, brought down from the forests further inland. They had successfully brought the annual flooding cycle under control and the swamps on either side were now fertile fields.
The countryside in winter had its own harsh beauty. The skeletal outlines of poplars and acacias were reflected in the water, and willows bent over to brush the canal surface while the red hawthorn berries provided a flash of colour in this sleeping world.
‘Here’s the Moranzani Lock,’ observed Chiara, when the large wooden lock gates were pulled shut behind the vessel using thick ropes. Marta had only made this trip once before, using the night-time boat reserved for the locals and their goods, and she watched in astonishment as the water level rose quickly.
The Burchiello resumed its slow journey and soon the villas started to appear. These magnificent buildings had been built on the banks of the Brenta two hundred years earlier by the Venetian nobility, who had developed these estates for profit and pleasure.
‘There’s Villa Foscari, which people call La Malcontenta,’ observed Marco. ‘It’s not large but it has beautiful proportions and some think of it as architecturally the most striking of the forty or so residences that line the river. The Pisani family has a villa, too. I’ll point it out.’
‘It’s a shame that these residences are closed at this time of year,’ replied Chiara. ‘I’ve heard they’re magnificent inside, and I imagine they must be beautiful and cool in the summer compared to Venice, so I don’t blame the nobility for spending their summers here.’
Marta coughed. She was watching the
jugglers, who’d each started to throw five red balls into the air and then catch them one by one. Then it was the turn of a singer, who sang an old Venetian song while accompanying herself on a guitar.
At Oriago, the boat stopped at Osteria Sabbioni, which was right on the bank, and Marco and Chiara got off to warm themselves with a glass of wine. The inn was large and dark, with wooden beams on the ceiling. A fire crackled cheerfully in the fireplace and some large cauldrons hung under the hood, giving off an inviting smell.
‘I’m enjoying our trip,’ Marco said, touching Chiara’s hand. She did not draw back. ‘But you know,’ he continued, ‘once we get there, I’m relying on you to make Lucietta Segati talk. I’m not going to say who I am, of course. I’ll introduce myself as the head of police.’
Chiara smiled. ‘You, a policeman? No one will believe that! Anyway, who am I supposed to be?’
‘A friend . . . or maybe my fiancée?’ He looked at her intently. Chiara blushed and Marco again felt his heart flutter. ‘The important thing is that you encourage the girl to tell me what happened while she was working at Palazzo Corner. Although she might be the young woman you saw in your vision.’ It was the first time Marco had mentioned the events of that evening at Chiara’s.
‘So, you do believe what I saw,’ she said. ‘And, on that note, you know that you left the murder weapon behind?’
‘The rope, yes. I’ll come and collect it later.’
The boat left soon afterwards and immediately after Oriago they came to the newly built Villa Mocenigo, and then the large Villa Gradenigo, with its frescoes by Benedetto Caliari, brother of the more renowned Veronese. Then Villa Widmann and Villa Valmarana, with its splendid boathouse and park, a setting for many festivities. A gaggle of four geese appeared on the towpath, waddling pompously in front of the horses.
Murder in Venice Page 13
