Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  ‘We have spies everywhere!’ said Marco in a mysterious tone. He certainly did not want to involve the young maid. ‘Here in the palace we know about everything that’s going on in the city. So, who was he?’

  ‘Well . . .’ the woman started, ‘I met him, but I never really knew who he was. He came to see me a few days ago, and he said that he needed to talk to my son.’

  ‘And despite the fact that Biagio had insisted that you shouldn’t tell anyone where he was hiding, you told the first person who asked.’

  Signora Domenici blew her nose energetically. ‘It would be best . . . if I told you everything. This man came to see me quite late in the afternoon. He seemed to be in a terrible hurry. He told me he owed my son a large sum of money and wanted to pay him. He even showed me a bag full of coins.’

  ‘And couldn’t you have told him to come back another time?’

  ‘Of course not! He told me he was passing through Venice and wouldn’t return for another year. So I told him where Biagio was, I thought it was the right thing to do.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘Was he the murderer?’ she whispered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ admitted Pisani. ‘But what did he look like? Did he sound like a Venetian, and how did he dress? Was he Turkish? Did he tell you anything about himself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she stuttered. ‘It was dark in the room and I couldn’t see much. I can’t remember how he talked. But he had a commanding tone of voice, that’s true, almost menacing. He kept asking me questions, and my head started to spin . . .’

  Pisani could imagine the scene; the woman’s shining, greedy eyes, her lack of focus. He felt angry. ‘You must have had a glass too many, as usual,’ he said accusingly. ‘Go now, but if you remember anything else, come and tell me.’

  With a frustrated sigh, Marco flung himself into a chair and tried to gather his thoughts before the arrival of his foreign guest.

  The Ottoman merchant Derali was very different to how Pisani had imagined. He spotted him as he made his way through the secretaries’ chamber, just as the waiter from Caffè Florian was putting the finishing touches to the refreshments laid out on the table between the two armchairs.

  Ibrahim Derali was magnificently dressed, leaving no doubt as to his important status. Short and spry, he advanced at the head of a small procession. Jacopo Tiralli was jumping around ahead of him, pushing people aside to make way, and both were followed by Matteo Vitali, the merchant who stood guarantor for the Turks in Venice. Bringing up the rear of the procession were two Moorish servants, each bent under the weight of a rolled carpet.

  Having reached the avogadore, Derali made an elaborate bow. ‘I came as soon as I could, to obey your orders, Your Excellency,’ he said. His Italian was very good. ‘And I took the liberty of asking Signor Vitali to accompany me, in case you needed to talk business. But, before we start, please do me the honour of accepting this humble gift.’ He gestured to the servants, who started to unroll the carpets before Pisani.

  For a moment, Marco watched in silence. Derali was dressed extremely elegantly in a short, closely fitted black velvet jacket with gold embroidery. He wore ample, dark-coloured pantaloons tucked into the finest leather boots. Over one arm was a cloak made from the finest cloth, which was as white as his turban. His dark face had regular features and an aquiline nose typical of his people, and he boasted a neatly cut black beard.

  Marco reflected, with some disappointment, that he was undoubtedly shorter than he had imagined. From what the witnesses had told him, he had formed the idea of a much larger, heavily built man. To cap it all, he had himself seen the killer last night, and he could swear that he was considerably taller than Ibrahim Derali, and a good deal stouter. What was more, Derali was not limping.

  ‘I am most grateful for your kindness,’ he said at last as he invited his guest and the Venetian merchant to sit in the chairs. ‘But you must know that magistrates are unable to accept any gifts. However, I am delighted by the thought and please let me accept in principle, if not in practice.’ He indicated that the servants should carry the carpets away, while Jacopo Tiralli sat down in a corner to discreetly take notes. ‘Moreover, my note was not an order,’ he clarified diplomatically, ‘but an invitation.’

  Derali sat back in the chair and waited. He appeared relaxed, but his dark eyes were alert.

  Pisani cleared his throat. ‘I am told,’ he began, ‘that you are one of the most influential Ottoman merchants here in Venice.’

  The Turk smiled suavely. ‘Thanks be to Allah,’ he declared, ‘my business affairs are flourishing. As you have seen, I bring the most beautiful carpets from Anatolia to Venice. Our women weave them in the villages, using traditional designs, and I sell them all over Europe. What’s more,’ he added, ‘I also import spices. And I return to my country with the matchless Venetian silks and the magnificent glass made in Murano.’

  ‘Do you come from Constantinople?’

  ‘No, I am from Smyrna, and down by the port I own the largest warehouses in the entire city.’

  Matteo Vitali joined in as he served coffee. ‘Signor Derali is a man of impeccable standing and is well known throughout the Ottoman Empire for the value of his business dealings.’

  It was a warning to treat the guest with respect. Marco realised that the conversation would be one where much was left unsaid.

  However, he pressed on. ‘I imagine you have direct relations with ruling circles?’

  Ibrahim leaned back and crossed his legs. ‘You are asking whether the products I import from Venice are also purchased by the court? Of course they are. Our sultan, Allah protect him, and his dignitaries are highly appreciative of Venetian silks and glass.’

  He’s certainly sharp, thought Marco, noting how Derali had elegantly evaded the question. Marco could not now press him on his relations with the court without creating a diplomatic incident.

  He decided to try another tack. ‘I hear, Signor Derali, that you patronise the tavern owned by Signora Domenici on Fondamenta del Megio.’

  The merchant’s dark eyes flashed. ‘You can’t have invited me here,’ he remonstrated, ‘to discuss how I pass my free time? However, it’s true, I do often go there because it’s close to our warehouse here and I know I will find compatriots there. But I can’t imagine what use this information is to you.’

  Pisani was not put off. It was clear that Derali was on guard because he had something to hide and this whole set-up was intended to ward off awkward questions. ‘You were often seen talking,’ Pisani continued, ‘with the landlady’s son, Biagio Domenici, and his friend Barbaro. However, perhaps you may have heard that both were killed recently, along with their other friend, Piero Corner.’

  ‘I don’t see how this can possibly concern Signor Derali,’ intervened Matteo Vitali, clearly annoyed. He then proceeded to provide his client with a cast-iron alibi. ‘He only returned to Venice the day before yesterday, on the Fulminante, after being away for a couple of months. You can check.’

  Ibrahim shrugged and smiled as he sipped his coffee. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about the tragedy,’ he admitted quietly, accepting Pisani’s challenge. ‘The news in Venice travels quickly. Before I left earlier this autumn, I did chat to Barbaro and Domenici occasionally,’ he confessed. ‘But I never saw Piero Corner. What amazes me, however, is how such a ferocious killer is still at large and unpunished in a peaceful city like Venice.’

  It was clearly a provocation. Derali had understood that Pisani was trying to link him to the murders, but Vitali’s alibi had let him off the hook.

  ‘When investigating a crime,’ explained the avogadore, ‘every detail, however small, can prove useful. When you spoke to the two victims, what impression did they make on an acute man like yourself?’

  The Turk immediately grasped Pisani’s game. ‘I certainly didn’t admire them,’ he admitted, ‘but they were good company, especially Barbaro, and I enjoyed listening to their stories. They were always looking for ways to make money, and once or twice
they even suggested that I might like to join them. Can you imagine! Latterly they promised me valuable information, which they would share with me on my return. I think they hoped this would make their fortune. I understood immediately that this was some shady deal, and I kept my distance.’

  Was he telling the truth? Or had he encouraged them? Pisani would never know, but Derali’s message to him was unequivocal: he had never touched the stolen documents from the Arsenale. Pisani knew there would be little more to be gleaned from the man, so he diplomatically turned the conversation to more general topics, before thanking him for his time and rising to show the meeting was at an end.

  When they had gone and he was alone again, Marco sent a note to Cappello asking him to check the registers for a record of Ibrahim Derali’s presence on the inbound ship, the Fulminante. It was entirely unnecessary, because it was clear that the Turk had nothing to do with the deaths: he’d not even been in Venice on the crucial days, and had never received the documents, so even if he were involved in the organisation of the spy operation, it could never be proved. Lastly, and perhaps importantly, he was skinny, and the murderer – or the man Pisani himself had seen – was well built.

  The inquiries would have to focus elsewhere.

  CHAPTER 22

  By midday it had started to rain, a heavy rain that penetrated one’s clothes and left one soaking, but Marco was not so easily discouraged. He had a quick bite of lunch at Menegazzo’s and then, without stopping to read the papers, he set off on foot towards Castello.

  Along Riva degli Schiavoni, icy squalls blew the rain straight at him and Marco had to wrap his cloak tighter and pull down his hat. Any passers-by he occasionally met were also walking head down and making straight for their destinations. Looking out towards the Lido, he could see how the grey sea had been whipped up by the wind into white-crested waves.

  Marco was sure that he would at long last learn more about poor Marianna’s disappearance when he reached the house where she had lived. He would talk to her aunt and to the neighbours, and perhaps her friend. Of course, he wouldn’t let them know about the manner of her death. Lucrezia Scalfi’s account still needed to be verified.

  The boatyards around Saint Mark’s Basin, where gondolas and small commercial vessels were built and repaired, were deserted. Marco walked past the Arsenale and the Marinarezza houses reserved for specialised workers and headed up the paved street of Rio Sant’Anna. The rain beat down on the canal, creating dark waves.

  It was not difficult to find Calle Grimana, a small alley preceded by a passage that ended on Rio Tana, beside the Arsenale. He was looking for a two-storey house with a pink plaster façade. Marco lifted the brass knocker and let it fall.

  ‘Who’s there?’ A window on the second floor opened a fraction and a woman’s face appeared briefly. ‘I’ll be down right away, signore.’

  Marco heard the respect in her voice. There was a sound of hurried steps on the stairs and then the door opened to reveal a good-looking and primly dressed woman, her copper-coloured hair gathered into a neat bun.

  A pair of inquisitive blue eyes peered at him for a moment, registered amazement, and then the woman backed into the hall, curtseying. ‘Your Excellency, to think you are here in my house, and on such a day! Please come upstairs, where the fire is lit.’ She held a hand to her heart. ‘Is there any news?’ She was frightened now. ‘Follow me, I’ll lead the way.’ And she headed back up the stairs.

  Marco had a glimpse of two neat bedrooms on the first floor, and then he entered a large, comfortable kitchen. ‘How do you know who I am?’ he asked, taking off his cloak and sitting down on a bench by the fire. Feeling at home, he stretched out his legs to dry his boots.

  ‘I doubt if there’s anyone in Venice who doesn’t recognise Avogadore Pisani. I’ve wondered so often about coming to see you after my niece’s disappearance . . . But have you found her? Is that why you’re here?’ Her words were rushed and she looked pale.

  ‘No news, I’m afraid, signora,’ lied Marco. ‘But we have started the inquiry afresh and I’m here to ask you a few questions. You must be Marianna’s aunt, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Momentarily the woman seemed a little calmer. ‘Yes, I am Giannina Biondini, Marianna’s aunt and her father’s sister. What can have happened to my poor little girl?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘But what can I be thinking of? You must still be chilled, so let me make you some coffee.’

  While she was busy at the stove, Pisani looked around. The room was welcoming, with two benches beside the hearth, each filled with embroidered cushions. To one side was a well-polished wooden table with a dresser behind it, and in another corner was a pair of comfortable armchairs. A couple of oil lamps added a warm glow on such a gloomy afternoon. Steaming on the stove was a large pan, which gave off a wholesome smell of broth. This was not a poor household.

  They drank the coffee at the table, accompanied by some delicious biscuits.

  ‘They were Marianna’s favourites,’ sighed her aunt. ‘I made them this morning because my brother came home a few days ago from one of his trips. But I’m wasting your time. I am honoured that you came to question me in person. I could have come to the ducal palace in order to save you time. Please tell me how I can help.’

  Marco instinctively felt a deep sense of respect for this woman, so he began, ‘Signora, I’ve come to ask you to go over, once again, the sequence of events on the day of your niece’s disappearance. Some details may come to light that might be useful to our search . . .’

  ‘My niece,’ she began, ‘was a simple girl, you know, but very beautiful and kind. I brought her up because her mother – God rest her soul – had been ill for years with a bad chest. She was very delicate, and after giving birth to Marianna, she went into a decline. She died when the child was just seven.’ Giannina wiped away a tear with her apron. ‘I was already living with them,’ she went on. ‘I was there when Marianna was born, so when her mother died the child became my entire life. She was the apple of her father’s eye too. My brother’s a good shipwright and he is often away on the ships for months at a time. But he’s well paid and we’ve never lacked for anything. As for Marianna, my brother was determined to bring her up like a signorina.’

  ‘I was told that she worked,’ interrupted Marco.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Her father didn’t want her to be lazy, or grow fanciful, so I introduced her to a refined trade. She was a linen seamstress in a workshop not far from here. And while she worked, she also set things aside for her own marriage coffer.’

  Marco remembered that the police folder had mentioned something about a fiancé. ‘Was she soon to be married?’ he asked.

  Giannina stood up to go and stir the fire. A stream of sparks lit up the dark interior of the fireplace. ‘Yes, certainly,’ she said, turning to face Pisani. The reflection from the flames served to highlight her copper hair. ‘It happened just a few months before the wedding.’ She turned back to the window to hide her tears. When she started to talk again, her voice sounded unsteady. ‘She was supposed to marry in September, when her father was due home. Even the dress was ready . . . look, Your Excellency.’

  She walked over to a cupboard and opened the door to take out an ornate silk dress, embroidered with tiny pearls. As she replaced it, her sobs were audible again.

  ‘I’ve not moved it since then, just in case she comes back . . . Without her, the house feels so empty, and so quiet!’

  ‘And what of her fiancé?’

  ‘The best sort of young man, and they’d known each other since childhood. We all knew that they’d end up marrying each other. His name was Giorgio Sporti, and he was Angela’s brother – Angela’s her best friend. Everyone called him Giorgione because he was so strong and large. It was wonderful to see them together: she so blonde and delicate, and he a strapping lad.’

  ‘Why talk about him as if he’s dead too?’

  Giannina sighed. ‘After Marianna disappeared, he vanished as well,’ she
said. ‘He worked as an apprentice baker for Mastro Luca in Campo San Zanipolo, but he had plans to open his own bakery soon and had started to look for a house where they could live together.’ She smiled as she remembered. ‘He used to work all night until dawn, but the family lives in this street opposite us, so every morning he’d stop for a moment and bring Marianna a freshly baked loaf, straight from the oven. The scent would fill the whole house. Marianna would make him coffee and they’d chat for a while, then she would go to work and he’d go off to bed.’ Giannina pulled a handkerchief out of her apron pocket to dry her eyes. ‘He’d already given her a ring, with a diamond. You know, one of those mementoes that are now fashionable when a couple becomes engaged. They were happy together.’

  ‘How did he disappear?’ Marco tried to hide his own emotion by pressing ahead with the questions, but the memory of Lucrezia’s revelations was making him increasingly angry.

  ‘The realisation that she wasn’t coming home didn’t dawn until a few days after Marianna disappeared.’ Giannina hid her face in her hands before summoning the courage to continue. ‘The police told us that she must have run away with a man . . . that girls always have secrets, and that we shouldn’t worry because she’d come home again, sooner or later, perhaps with a child in her arms.’

  Typical Brusin, thought Marco. Another telling-off was clearly in order.

  ‘Giorgione couldn’t bear it any longer. Even the stones reminded him of her,’ she went on, ‘so he boarded a ship whose crew needed a baker. We’ve not heard from him since.’

  ‘And the police?’

  ‘Oh, they were quite satisfied. A few weeks later, on a whim, they came back to question him, and when they heard that the ship had left, they came to the conclusion that the pair must have eloped and they could stop looking for Marianna. They said that she couldn’t be dead, because they’d not found a body, so she must have gone off with her fiancé. I kept telling them there was no reason for the young couple to leave, but they refused to listen. In fact, I was on my own at the time, because her father was still away at sea.’