Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  Marco and Daniele exchanged rapid glances. The woman wiped away her tears, blew her nose, and continued.

  ‘Everyone I knew advised me to go to one of those . . . those goodwives who would have dealt with my problem, but I was too frightened, and I kept my Biagio. Believe me, I was a good mother. I worked hard to bring him up, even taking lowly jobs.’

  ‘You had a small drinking den . . .’ interrupted Daniele.

  ‘Yes, but it barely provided enough to cover my expenses, and Biagio was still a boy when he had to accept work from that Barbaro, who paid him a pittance. But he was a nobleman’s son, and I was happy because I thought he would learn how to behave like a patrician. Then he was lucky enough to find work in the Corner household, and things were much better.’ Signora Domenici took another mouthful of wine.

  ‘Why did Corner give you this place, which must be worth quite a lot – and it also includes this apartment, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I told you, Your Excellency. People grow fond of Biagio and his patron wanted to reward him.’

  ‘But he fired him . . .’ insisted Pisani.

  ‘No, who told you that? He left him to enjoy his reward in peace.’

  Marco resumed his questioning, making a final attempt. ‘If we take you at your word and accept that your son is away on business, you must at least know when he’s due back.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He only said he had to leave.’

  There was nothing more they could get from her. She had a deep-rooted distrust of anyone in authority, as so many of the poor did, and Marco knew she would tell him nothing more. The two men went back downstairs and headed back to the counter.

  Lele came towards them, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Can I offer you a glass of white on the house?’ He looked at them curiously.

  ‘No wine, thanks,’ replied Daniele. ‘But there’s something that the avogadore would like to ask you.’ And he turned to look at Marco.

  ‘You told us earlier,’ said Pisani, ‘that Biagio would usually come here to play cards and chat to the clients. Now, listen carefully and think about what you say: who did Biagio usually spend time with?’

  The innkeeper frowned, pulled out a large handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his neck and then cleared his throat. ‘Well, that wretch who was strangled, that barnabotto, he often came here to see him . . .’

  ‘Marino Barbaro.’

  ‘That’s the one. They’d play cards and drink, but above all I think Barbaro came to scrounge a free meal. Whenever the mistress saw him, she would grumble and tell us not to serve him, but in the end we always obeyed her son.’

  Marco fell silent for a while, before asking, ‘Did they ever quarrel?’

  ‘Now that you mention it,’ admitted Lele, widening his rather small eyes, ‘they did argue occasionally. Then, about a month ago, they had a real fallout . . . luckily, there was no one else here and the signora was asleep.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  Lele looked guilty. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t have listened to them normally, but on that occasion I was busy decanting the wine from the barrels. They were talking about money. Biagio said it was too little, that he could have asked for much more.’

  ‘And Barbaro?’

  ‘He was clutching a sheaf of papers in his hand and he kept slapping them on the table. “I haven’t a clue what they are,” he kept saying. “If I ask too much, I’ll end up getting nothing!”’

  Marco caught Daniele’s eye with a knowing look. Were these the plans that Barbaro had filched from the Arsenale? Was Biagio involved in espionage too? And who was interested in buying them? A Turkish spy, as Cappello had surmised?

  ‘And among the other clients,’ continued Daniele, ‘who did your master talk to most often?’

  The innkeeper turned to look around, as if visualising the scene. ‘There was a man from Albania who he played cards with, then he used to drink with a couple of Austrian merchants . . .’

  ‘What about Turks?’

  ‘Yes, there was one he would often spend time with, but I’ve not seen him around for a few months. He must have gone home.’

  Daniele leaned over the counter, determined to press on with the questions. ‘A Turk? What did they talk about? Was Barbaro around when they met?’

  Lele shook his head. ‘What they talked about, I really couldn’t say. They’d sit over there in the corner whispering to each other and Barbaro was often with them. But, as I said, I’ve not seen that Turk around for a while. He was clearly a well-to-do sort, with fine clothes—’

  ‘His name?’ interrupted Marco.

  ‘Why on earth would I remember that?’ said Lele. ‘No! Hold on a moment . . . he was called . . . Ibrahim, Ibrahim Derali. I know because a countryman once came here looking for him, and his name was written on the note.’

  ‘Now, listen carefully,’ warned Pisani in an authoritative tone. ‘If this Ibrahim shows up again, you’re to send someone immediately to tell me at the palace and try to keep him here. Serve him really slowly – do anything to delay him until I get here. But be careful he doesn’t grow suspicious!’

  The innkeeper stared at them in surprise, but Marco ignored the look and turned to leave. As they walked through the room, he felt a hand lightly touch his arm. He looked round to see the young maidservant. ‘The signora . . . she does know where her son is, you know,’ she whispered.

  ‘Were you eavesdropping?’

  ‘I . . . well, yes . . . but I didn’t hear everything. There’s a crack in the door and you can hear quite clearly through it.’

  ‘Do you know where Biagio is?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But a few evenings ago, I took a man upstairs to visit the signora, and I heard them talking about the master. She said, “If that’s the way things are, I’ll tell you where my son is.” But please, please don’t tell the signora that I told you, otherwise she’ll give me such a beating.’

  ‘What sort of man was he? How did he manage to make her talk? And where did she say Biagio was?’ asked Pisani excitedly.

  The young girl frowned in concentration. ‘He was a big, tall man, wearing an old cloak,’ she remembered. ‘While he was talking to her, I could hear the chink of coins which he was shaking in a bag. Then, unfortunately, I also heard steps on the stairs and had to hide in the attic. Anyway, it’s not my business.’

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Daniele broke the silence once they were back on Fondamenta del Megio. ‘Shall we go back and make the old woman talk, using every means possible?’

  ‘No,’ Marco replied. ‘We’d get that young girl into trouble, and what’s more Signora Domenici is so cunning she’d pack us off to a false address while sending a warning to her son telling him to change hideouts. Nor is there any point getting the police to search all the inns in Venice: there’s over a hundred of them, without counting all the rooms you can hire. It would take the agents weeks. Anyway, who’s to say that Biagio’s still in Venice? I’ve thought of another idea.’

  They headed for the ducal palace in the gondola. The sunlight was trying hard to break through the fog, but for the moment all that could be seen was a yellowish halo around the buildings. Along the Grand Canal, Bastiano had his work cut out to avoid the other vessels which loomed out of nowhere.

  Daniele said abruptly, ‘Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time . . .’

  ‘These visits never are,’ replied Marco. ‘We now know for sure that it wasn’t Biagio who killed both men. Even though he wasn’t ever a real suspect. But it is odd, isn’t it, that his mother provided an alibi before we had a chance to ask? A cast-iron alibi, too: she said that, on both nights, several people had seen him at the tavern. We could certainly check it. Anyway, why would Biagio want to kill Corner, the goose who laid him golden eggs?’

  ‘Also, we’ve got a much clearer idea of how the group worked,’ continued Daniele. ‘Barbaro, the impoverished gentleman, ready to stoop to any level, even spying, in order to fund his bad habits and b
e part of the right social circles. Corner, the leader, accustomed to getting his own way, thanks to his mother’s influence, convinced of his superiority and rich enough to do anything he liked and to surround himself with fawning helpers.’

  ‘And then there’s Biagio,’ Marco said, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. ‘He can’t have had an easy life. A father who vanished as soon as he heard of his son’s existence and a drunken mother with social aspirations. You heard for yourself how that woman not only believes her own ridiculous fantasies but demands that others do too. Her son must have grown up thinking that truth, honesty and integrity were very flexible principles. The ideal servant for profligate masters. Then there’s the Turk the innkeeper mentioned. Could he be the same one who was seen below Barbaro’s house? Was he the intended recipient for the secret papers from the Arsenale? Is he the key to the whole affair? We now know that Barbaro and Biagio argued about what price to ask.’

  ‘Don’t forget, there’s still Paolo Labia. Like Biagio, no one seems to know where he’s got to,’ said Daniele pensively. ‘They both seem terrified by the possibility of revenge. I wonder if Ibrahim is the one who’s after them?’

  Marco suddenly thought of Chiara’s vision of the blonde girl in a bloody scarlet cloak, the groans, the gondolier who might have been Biagio. Was that the right path to follow? But for the moment he felt it was more prudent to remain silent. ‘This morning, before going out,’ he found himself saying instead, ‘I asked Nani to find a way inside the servants’ quarters in the Labia household. I’m sure he won’t come back empty-handed. At this very moment, he’s probably courting a pretty maid and persuading her to tell him where her master is hiding,’ he ended with a laugh.

  CHAPTER 19

  By midday the fog had lifted and the cold was less biting, but under the porticoes of the Procuratie, usually so crowded, there were few passers-by: a handful of women coming out of the church of San Geminiano, couriers working for the public offices, beggars huddled against the atrium of Saint Mark’s. Today was the first of the ten days before Christmas when it was forbidden to go out in public wearing a mask, to hold receptions or to gamble at cards, and the Ridotto was closed. It felt as though the city was holding its breath while it waited for the festivities to start.

  Pisani reached his office, and there, waiting for him in the secretary’s antechamber, was Maso, Chiara’s apprentice. He was standing with his back to the window, rocking uncomfortably on his long legs.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Marco quizzed him with a smile.

  Maso blushed violently. ‘I . . . well, er, Your Excellency . . .’ He remembered to bow awkwardly, before continuing, ‘I am delivering this letter from my mistress.’

  A letter from Chiara! A ray of light on a dull day. ‘Will you wait for a reply?’

  ‘No, that is to say . . . it would be better if I went back to the workshop.’

  Marco smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Off you go. You’re not at ease here, which is understandable. I’ll send someone with my reply.’

  Maso looked extraordinarily relieved as he hurried away, and Marco walked in. The letter was short. Act with prudence, it read. I woke feeling that something serious is about to happen. I’ve not had any visions, but I feel troubled. I beseech you, please go carefully.

  Chiara’s premonitions . . . Marco almost felt happy. Although brief and to the point, the letter revealed that she was most certainly interested in his well-being. What was more, the inquiries had been going around in circles and a turn of events would be welcome. But now there were things to be done. He called Tiralli and gave his secretary precise orders.

  Having set the wheels of justice in motion, it was now time to take a fresh look at all the witness statements that had been gathered. Zen had arrived in the office and they had a couple of hours at their disposal.

  Lucrezia Scalfi had been waiting for an hour before she was led into the interrogation chamber in the ducal palace. She had still been asleep when she was woken just after midday by violent knocks on the door. Her maid flew into her bedchamber in a panic. ‘The police, signora! The police are here! They’re looking for you!’

  The woman had gone down to find the salon invaded by ten or more armed men. From his uniform, she recognised Ignazio Beltrami, the notorious clerk of the Inquisitors’ Court.

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’ she had demanded, but her voice shook.

  ‘Dress yourself and come with us.’ The order was abrupt and peremptory.

  A boat had then brought her to the prisons. Lucrezia understood that she wasn’t under arrest, but she knew that Beltrami would not have been involved unless the matter was serious.

  Her heart was in her throat as she was escorted up a long flight of stairs and through several corridors, until they reached the covered bridge over the small canal flanking the palace. She was taken along a gallery and through some rooms, before being left in an antechamber, alone with her thoughts.

  This had given her plenty of time to search her conscience. In general, Lucrezia was a good person. In her youth she had plied her trade honestly, cajoling her moneyed lovers to pay her large sums but never leading them to ruin. At the time, she had had a plush apartment close to Saint Mark’s Square, copious food and drink and sumptuous dresses and jewellery.

  She had imagined her beauty would be eternal and she had made no provision for the onset of middle age. This was why, now that she was past her prime, she couldn’t afford to pick and choose the company she kept. Barbaro and his friends were scoundrels, she knew that full well, but they paid her bills and shared her amongst themselves. She was in no position to judge them, and the tacit agreement was that she would cause no trouble and allow them into her apartment at any time of night or day.

  She knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, so if she had been brought to the palace under a guarded escort it could only be linked to the deaths of Barbaro and Corner. She was well aware that, eight days ago, she had not been forthcoming with Avogadore Pisani. Now she had to decide whether to continue with that line or to give away their secret.

  Because there was a dark secret. Those four were not just scoundrels; she was all too aware that they had committed a crime, one that had never been noticed. Indeed, she suspected that the deaths of the two men were linked to a vendetta, or a late settling of scores.

  She sighed and stood up from the bench in order to look out of the window; not that it brought much comfort, because the antechamber faced the New Prisons on the far side of the small canal. She smoothed her hair because she’d not even had time to comb it before leaving.

  What could she actually be accused of, after all? Would they blame her, perhaps, for not having reported the men at the time? But if she hadn’t been believed, who would have protected her from them? She herself wasn’t guilty – or was she? Could she be blamed for having turned a blind eye to an act that could not be put right? But now that two of them were dead, and the others seemed to have disappeared, she was in a position to talk. It was quite some time since she’d received any money from the four men, and her first consideration now was to look to the future.

  But what if she was accused of being complicit? On reflection, perhaps it would be better to keep quiet. Wasn’t silence always the better option before the law? In any case, she’d already done her duty as a good citizen by offering an important clue to put the investigators on the right track. But was it really the right one?

  The door opened just as she was adjusting a stocking over an ankle that still looked slim. Two of the Avogadaria’s soldiers led her into the interrogation chamber. It was gloomy and lined with oak; the ceiling light did little to illuminate the space and a pair of torches flamed in the corners. In the half-light she could make out the shape of the wheel used for torture. True, it hadn’t been used for decades, but the sight of it was still terrifying. Ropes, too, hung from the beams, implicit in their menace.

  A number of people were waiting there: sitting i
n the centre, in a large chair placed on a dais, Lucrezia recognised Avogadore Pisani, a handsome presence in his magistrate’s robes. Could he become her protector? But one glance at his expression was enough to confirm that nothing good would be forthcoming from that quarter. To his right was his friend, the lawyer who was always in his company, and to the left Messer Grando, dressed in a black gown. The side benches were lined with clerks, secretaries and guard officers. Such a show, she thought, might imply trial for high treason, but that was surely not the case.

  Messer Grando started. ‘Can you confirm that you are Lucrezia Scalfi, residing in Salizàda San Lio, parish of Santa Maria Formosa, prostitute by trade?’ The clerk started to write.

  Shocked by the setting, Lucrezia lost her voice and had to swallow twice. ‘I confirm that I am, but I am not a prostitute; I’ve never been on the street, I make my own living.’

  ‘What were your relations with the deceased Marino Barbaro and Piero Corner, and with Paolo Labia and Biagio Domenici?’ Messer Grando had been informed of the latest developments.

  ‘They were my friends,’ admitted Lucrezia. She looked up, and in the dim light her wrinkled face suddenly looked aged. ‘I already told Avogadore Pisani when he first questioned me.’ The woman expressed herself with a certain propriety, a habit learned from years spent in drawing rooms around the city. ‘They would visit me after dinner, usually to play solitaire and talk.’

  Messer Grando smiled. ‘But you haven’t told us their names. Did they pay you?’

  ‘Yes, they helped me, of course, but then my house was at their disposal.’