Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  ‘Tell me about the day itself,’ interrupted Pisani, standing up and walking back to the bench by the fire.

  The woman sat down opposite him and gathered her thoughts for a moment. ‘It was 23 May, a Sunday afternoon. The Sensa fair had just opened in Saint Mark’s Square, because that year, if you remember, Ascension was on the 28th. You know how keen girls are to go to the fair, with all the stands selling frippery, articles of clothing, glass decorations and things for the house. But Marianna had just one thing in mind: a cloak made from Venetian scarlet . . .’

  Chiara’s vision immediately came to mind . . . the cloak that had become a shroud.

  ‘She’d wanted one for some time,’ continued Giannina, now wholly immersed in memories. ‘It was very expensive, but her father, who couldn’t refuse her anything, had given her the money before he left, and so that day . . . that cursed day . . . she and her friend Angela went off in the middle of the afternoon. I never saw her again.’

  Heavy steps were coming up the stairs and Giannina broke off. Silhouetted on the threshold was the powerful figure of an older man. As he walked in, Marco noted that he wore the clothes of a shipwright from the Arsenale under the ample folds of a heavy cloak. His weather-beaten face was deeply lined, but his hands were protected by woollen gloves. When he saw the avogadore, he stood still for a moment.

  ‘Here is my brother, Your Excellency, Marianna’s father.’ Giannina introduced him as she helped the man take off his cloak. ‘Avogadore Pisani has taken the trouble to come here because he wants to reopen the case of Marianna’s disappearance. I pray to heaven that he may find her!’

  Biondini sketched a bow but could not help grimacing in pain. ‘Poor Marianna,’ he murmured, ‘she won’t come back. But at least let her rest in peace.’ He reached for a flask of wine from the dresser. ‘Can I offer you one, Your Excellency?’ When Pisani refused, he sat down at the table and poured himself a glass. ‘You must excuse me,’ he went on after he had drunk a mouthful of the golden liquid. ‘I’m numb with cold. I’m not a refined man, Avogadore Pisani, but I am honoured by your presence in my house and your interest in my daughter’s disappearance. But’ – tears welled into his eyes as he went on – ‘it’s been a year and a half.’ He hung his head. ‘I have no reason to hope that I’ll ever see her again. I just want to give her a Christian burial.’

  ‘Why do you think she’s dead?’

  The man’s voice was a monotone. ‘Marianna can’t have left of her own accord. She was content here, she loved Giorgione, she couldn’t wait to become his wife. I wasn’t here when she disappeared. I’d just left on a trip to Syria because we had cargo to deliver there. When the ship arrived in port, I found a letter from my sister which had got there before me. She wrote to tell me that Marianna was seriously ill.’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell him out of the blue, because he was so far away and couldn’t do anything,’ explained his sister. ‘Anyway, for the first few days, I hoped that she might still come back.’

  ‘And then a few months later, Giannina sent me another letter. By then she’d given up all hope, but to make things easier for me she told me that Marianna had died from her illness. You can imagine how I felt. As a result, all that time I knew nothing about her disappearance.’

  ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘Only two or three days ago, when I came back to Venice. Last autumn, when I received Giannina’s second letter, I was so shaken that I couldn’t face coming home and living here without my Marianna. I found myself a job in the Ottoman capital, where we Venetian shipwrights are always welcome, and I stayed there until late November, when I bought a berth on a passenger ship.’

  ‘And what did you do when you heard she’d disappeared?’

  ‘What could I do? I realised immediately that she hadn’t eloped, and nor had she been kidnapped, as my sister hoped. Marianna was clever, and she knew how to read and write. If she’d been kidnapped, she’d have found a way of letting us know. And why would anyone kidnap her anyway?’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ pressed Pisani.

  ‘I don’t know,’ sighed Biondini, hanging his head again. ‘But one thing I’m sure of is that Marianna won’t come back. My only hope now is to find her body . . .’

  These poor people! Her aunt couldn’t bear to think of it, but her father refused to countenance any illusions about her fate. Marco promised himself that he’d find the body at all costs, at least so it could be buried. It would hardly be a consolation, but it would be better than this uncertainty.

  ‘You were telling me about the day of her disappearance,’ Marco went on, turning back to Giannina.

  ‘Everything that happened after Marianna left home I only know from what her friend, Angela Sporti, told me later. Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to her directly.’ She walked over to the window. ‘If you look over there, you can see where she lives: in that house at the end of the calle, overlooking Rio Tana. And she can tell you more about Giorgione.’

  As he made his way to the Sportis’ house, Marco felt a twinge of remorse because he’d not told them his reasons for knowing that the girl was dead. But first he needed to know what had happened to her corpse.

  CHAPTER 23

  The kitchen in the Sporti house was a large, dark room on the first floor of the building at the end of Calle Grimana.

  Marco had knocked on the front door and after a short wait it had been opened by a pretty girl with masses of brown, curly hair that hung down over a simple pale blue dress. It was Angela. To start with, she stared with indifference at the distinguished figure standing outside the door, but then, on hearing his name, her indifference turned into plain embarrassment. She was alone in the house, and on the long table in the kitchen were rows of bowls filled with Murano glass beads which she was threading on to long strings.

  As Marco explained the purpose of his visit, Angela’s large black eyes widened in wonder, then concern and, finally, outright terror.

  ‘Your Excellency,’ she stuttered, ‘you want to know what happened that day when Marianna went missing. But I’ve already told the guards.’

  Marco turned his most piercing gaze on her. ‘I have reason to believe that you know much more than has been reported in the minutes.’

  Angela sighed as she backed towards the table. ‘I answered all of their questions.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you, Angela. But I would like to question you myself. Because you know something that you didn’t tell the guards, don’t you?’ he pressed, remembering Lucrezia’s story. ‘I don’t want to subject you to a formal interrogation. But you must remember that poor Marianna has disappeared, and may be dead, yet no one has paid for this crime. You want to see justice done, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I . . . yes, of course . . . but I’m afraid. It’s a story that’s much bigger than me.’ She looked over her shoulder apprehensively. A man’s jacket was draped over a chair. ‘I can’t talk here,’ she concluded. ‘My parents will be home soon. I’ll come to the ducal palace tomorrow and ask to see you.’

  ‘Time is precious, Angela.’ Marco smiled. ‘Let’s do it this way: come to my house now and you can make your statement in secret in the presence of a lawyer. Then I’ll arrange for you to be brought back here.’

  ‘Yes, I could come, but it’s late and if my parents don’t find me at home they will worry.’ It had stopped raining, but it was pitch-dark and the fog again hung densely over the canal. Angela took a moment to reconsider, then she announced, ‘But I could leave a note for my mother, explaining that I’m out for work. That would be all right.’

  As the girl hastily scribbled a short note, raked the burning embers of the fire together to keep them safe, tidied away the bowls of beads and wrapped herself in a heavy shawl, Marco noticed that the Sportis were clearly poorer than the Biondinis. Although it was clean, the kitchen seemed bare, without any trace of food, and the atmosphere was sad, as if life for its occupants had at some point come to an end. It was strange, h
e thought, how a crime never affects the victim alone but triggers a chain of broken lives. There were always so many people whose lives would never be the same again.

  They walked down Rio Sant’Anna, turned right on the street running beside the basin and soon reached the Arsenale Bridge. Notwithstanding the bad weather, a few gondoliers were waiting for customers. Pisani instructed one of them to go to Zen’s office and collect the lawyer, and then he and the girl boarded another and headed for Marco’s house.

  Angela greedily drank the chocolate that Rosetta served in Marco’s study. After the cold and the darkness, the warm, well-lit room calmed her fears.

  ‘Did you know Marianna well?’ asked Daniele Zen, setting down his cup and picking up his notebook.

  The question seemed to set her further at ease and she exclaimed, ‘Oh, yes! We were like sisters, practically inseparable, in our free time at least.’ Then she went on, ‘She was a seamstress during the day. It was a good job, one that I would have liked, too, but my family didn’t have the money to pay for an apprenticeship. That’s why I thread glass beads. I don’t earn much, but it’s better than nothing. My father’s a knife grinder and he goes from house to house. But in the evening Marianna and I would meet at her house, and on Sundays we would always go out for a walk together.’

  ‘So it was quite normal for you to be together that Sunday,’ commented Marco, ‘on 23 May, and go to the fair.’

  ‘We’d been planning it for weeks and we couldn’t wait to go.’

  Marco nodded. The fair, known in Venice as the Sensa, was always hugely anticipated by everyone throughout the city. It started a few days before the feast of Ascension and offered the city’s artisans and retailers, and even its artists, a chance to present their wares and products. People came from all over Europe to visit the stalls which filled Saint Mark’s Square. One could buy chandeliers, necklaces and mirrors from Murano, leather belts and gloves embossed with gold, jewellery, wigs, the finest linen trimmed with bobbin lace, handbags embroidered in petit-point, telescopes . . . the list was endless. Renowned weavers exhibited satins, wool and silk velvets, damasks and lampas in a rainbow of colours. The leading wholesale merchants of corn, salt, spices, oil, cured meats and rare Cypriot and Malmsey wines were also there.

  Every day the stalls were thronged by crowds from all social backgrounds: scholars and intellectuals were drawn to admire paintings by the leading artists and the latest books published by the city’s printers. Noblewomen and the wealthier merchants’ wives sought rare perfumes and jars of scented creams, powders and beauty spots, while commoners were content to choose from the ribbons and veils or copper dishes to embellish their kitchens.

  The square resounded with the cries and shouts from all sides: women selling sweet, spiced fritters, filling the air with enticing scent; water bearers; fortune tellers who told all the girls that they were about to meet the love of their life; alchemists who praised the miraculous effects of their cures.

  The high point came on Ascension Day itself when, from the Piazzetta, the doge boarded the magnificently decked-out vessel known as the bucintoro, to shouts and applause from the crowds and gunfire from the canons. Preceded by flagships from the naval fleet and followed by hundreds of gondolas and bissóne, also festively decked, the procession headed for the Lido fortress, where the ceremony of the Marriage to the Sea was celebrated.

  After that, the fair stayed open for a few more days to give the retailers who’d travelled from afar time to wind up their business deals.

  ‘Marianna,’ Angela continued, ‘was happy because her father had finally given in and made her a present of the money to buy herself a cloak of scarlet wool. She’d been longing for one for ages. She was pleased, and I remember her singing as we walked along.’

  ‘Was it very crowded?’ asked Marco.

  ‘It was Sunday – Sunday 23 May 1751. I’ll remember the date for the rest of my life. There were crowds everywhere, so we agreed that if we lost one another, we’d wait under the campanile. But we tried to hold hands so that wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘And what did happen?’

  Angela sighed, twisting her hands. ‘Everything went well to start with. Marianna chose her cloak and bought it, then we joined a group of people who were watching the acrobats. I remember then we bought some fritters and stood eating them in front of the lion’s cage. Then Marianna saw the fortune teller and wanted to have her palm read.’

  ‘And then?’ urged Marco. Zen wrote down every word.

  ‘It’s strange, I’d forgotten about that episode . . . We started to queue and then, when it was her turn, Marianna showed the woman her hand. She must have been middle-aged, but she was made-up and was wearing a purple silk turban. She took Marianna’s palm, examined it and then her eyes widened as she looked up at Marianna’s face.’

  The silence that followed was broken by a thud. They all turned to look at the bookcase. Plato had been asleep on one of the shelves and had suddenly jumped off, his tail on end, as if he’d seen a ghost. Crouching low, the cat crept across the floor to the fireplace and curled up in front of it.

  ‘Go on,’ murmured Marco, turning to the girl.

  ‘The fortune teller looked at Marianna’s palm once more, then she let go as if it was red hot and shouted – I can remember it as if it were now – “Take care, child, take care! The raven’s wing is around you! If you see tomorrow’s dawn, you’ll be safe!”’

  Marco shivered. Daniele sat rigid.

  ‘And Marianna?’

  ‘We were both puzzled and we didn’t understand what the woman meant. There were no ravens. It was a beautiful day. But I remember that Marianna forced a laugh. “She must be mad,” she said, and we walked away. But the fun had gone out of the afternoon, and it was shortly afterwards that we bumped into—’ Angela stopped abruptly.

  ‘Be strong.’ Marco guessed that this was the crucial moment.

  ‘Yes.’ Angela hesitated, her eyes filled with tears. ‘We met a group of young men who started to bother us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They started following us, making comments about our clothes, our looks, even making insolent jokes out loud. One of them in particular was fixated on Marianna. He said to her, “Isn’t it about time you came along with me, you blonde beauty? I know you fancy me.”’ Angela put her hands up to her mouth, which was trembling. ‘He even said, “Come with me and I’ll help to unlace that pretty bodice. Together we’ll discover what’s under your skirt.”’

  ‘What did Marianna do?’

  ‘She blushed furiously and tried to run away, but we couldn’t make any headway because of the crowds. I did my best to keep up with her . . . By then it was late and the sun had set. We tried to head for the narrow streets behind Saint Mark’s in order to go home. We found an open doorway and hid in the passage. It was there that I asked her, “But who are they? Do you know them?”’

  ‘Did she tell you?’ A log fell, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. Plato jumped up and shot off.

  ‘Yes. She told me that the most insolent was Piero Corner, a member of the patrician family that lives in Ca’ Grande. She occasionally went there to deliver linen for his mother, and he had been bothering her for some time. He would follow her upstairs, try and touch her and invite her into his room. The others were often with him.’

  ‘And who were they?’

  ‘Marianna had heard their names from a maidservant who she was friendly with, a certain Elvira. One was Marino Barbaro, the other was Corner’s gondolier, Biagio, and the third man – a short, ugly man – was called Labia.’

  Angela gave a long sigh as if she had freed herself from a great weight. Marco and Daniele exchanged glances.

  ‘Then what happened?’ Daniele encouraged her this time.

  ‘What happened next was the worst . . .’ Angela drank a glass of water and seemed to regain some strength. ‘We left the doorway, and there was no sign of the men. There was hardly anyone around, and it was now com
pletely dark in the calle. There was a new moon at the time. Marianna wore her scarlet cloak and wrapped it tightly, as if she were cold. We headed towards Campo San Zaccaria, where the darkness was lit by a single lamp. Here – and I’ll never stop blaming myself for this – I remembered that I had to go and see my godmother, who lived close to Campo Santa Maria Formosa. I didn’t want to leave Marianna, but she didn’t seem worried. “Go,” she said. “It’s only a short distance between here and Riva degli Schiavoni, which is full of people; there’s no danger any more. The four of them have tired of following us. Nothing could possibly happen to me.”’

  ‘And you left her . . .?’

  ‘You can imagine how often I think about that moment!’ Angela broke down and cried. The others were silent. ‘I’d only just left her and was heading up the narrow street leading to Santa Maria Formosa,’ she went on, her words interrupted by sobs, ‘when I heard the shouting. They were male voices, probably men who’d been drinking. I was scared and I froze in the dark. I could hear them laughing and cracking jokes. Then I heard Marianna’s voice shouting, “No! Help!” And the men laughed even more. But I just couldn’t summon up the courage to run towards her. I left her alone with them. She cried out twice more before her voice became indistinct. Then I heard heavy steps again, running, and the men calling to each other, but now quietly. I realised they were coming into the side street where I was hiding . . .’ Angela burst into fresh tears. ‘I can’t bear it any longer,’ she sobbed.

  It took a while before she was calm enough to talk. Marco gave her a handkerchief which he’d dipped into a bowl of water so she could wipe her face.

  ‘Right beside me there was an alleyway and I hid there, behind a column. They passed so close to me. Two of them were holding Marianna, who was struggling, but I think she’d been gagged and I could see she was wrapped in the cloak. Then they vanished into the darkness.’