Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

  ‘And what did you do?’ asked Zen.

  ‘I went home. I kept hoping that she would come back. I hoped that even if they had . . . hurt her, they would let her go. Her aunt Giannina came to ask me where she was a couple of hours later. She was worried and had hoped that Marianna was with me. I told her that we’d said goodbye in Campo San Zaccaria and that I’d not seen her since then, but the next day I knew already that she’d never come back. My conscience hasn’t known a moment’s peace since then.’

  There were still so many loose ends, but the girl was exhausted. Marco and Daniele left her with Rosetta, who tried to revive her with risotto and a glass of wine. When they came back to the study, Angela looked less pale.

  They sat down again around the desk while Plato, having enthusiastically cleaned his whiskers, curled up between them on a pile of papers.

  Marco came straight to the point. He hazarded a guess and asked, ‘Angela, have you told anyone else what you saw?’ There was one name, another person whom the girl hadn’t mentioned so far, but now she couldn’t avoid it.

  ‘I’ve never said anything to my father and mother, and not even to Giannina.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

  The girl blushed. ‘I was frightened. The captain called me into the interrogation room in the prison, but he only asked me where I had last seen Marianna. He seemed to be in a great hurry, and I think he might have been drinking.’

  Ah, Brusin! You’ll pay for this, thought Marco.

  ‘How could I tell him about the young men who’d followed us, let alone give him their names? They were such high-sounding names too. Important people. If the guards had questioned them, they’d have said I was making it all up, and they’d have made me pay for it. I wouldn’t have had the courage to show my face in the city, and Marianna was beyond my help.’

  This was all true, thought Marco, glancing at Daniele.

  ‘But then you did tell someone the truth, didn’t you . . .’ Daniele resumed.

  Angela couldn’t evade the question any longer. She drank a glass of water, hung her head and in a flat voice started to talk again. ‘You’ll have heard that my brother Giorgio was engaged to Marianna. When he heard that she’d disappeared, he went crazy. He walked all over Venice for two days, stopping people in the street, in the shops. At dawn he’d go and ask the fishermen landing at Rialto whether they’d found a body floating in the lagoon. Then he threatened to go to the head of police and make a scene.’

  ‘But why didn’t you come to me?’ asked Pisani.

  ‘We’re simple folk,’ said the girl. ‘None of us ever thought about disturbing an avogadore.’ Then she went on, ‘My parents were worried that Giorgio would get himself into trouble, and he’d even stopped going to work. A neighbour who worked at the Arsenale found a place for him as a baker on board a ship that was leaving for the East. We had to convince him to go, almost compel him.’

  ‘But before he left, you told him the truth.’

  ‘He made me. He threatened not to leave unless I told him everything. Giorgio’s not stupid and he’d realised that there was more to the story. So I made him swear that he’d keep my secret to himself and I explained that if anyone, even Marianna’s aunt, ever knew the truth and then told others, rumours would spread and I’d be in danger. He promised and he left with our secret.’

  ‘With the names too?’

  ‘The names too.’

  In the silence that followed only the crackle of the flames could be heard. Marco poured Vin Santo into the crystal glasses. The men drank, each deep in their own thoughts.

  Zen broke the silence. ‘But now he’s back . . .’ It was a guess.

  Angela was quick to understand the insinuation. ‘You don’t think he’s guilty of killing those three scoundrels?’ Like everyone in Venice, she’d also heard about the crimes and the thought had clearly crossed her mind as well. ‘My brother is not a murderer. He came back this summer, and he’s no longer angry about Marianna, just very sad.’

  ‘Where had he been all this time?’

  ‘He hasn’t said much about it. I know that he found work in Constantinople, as a port labourer, and then he found a job as a baker. He saved up quite a bit of money, and then he grew homesick and wanted to come home.’

  ‘But he doesn’t live with you,’ concluded Zen aloud.

  ‘No, he’s found lodgings in the Ghetto Nuovo, where he works. He only stayed a few hours with us. He says he couldn’t bear to pretend that life is still the same as it was when Marianna was alive. They grew up together, after all. They were so close.’

  ‘Does he come to visit often?’

  ‘No, we see very little of him.’

  ‘Did he hear about the murders?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s been a month since I last saw him.’

  While he sat thinking, Daniele played with Plato’s tail, which annoyed the cat. After a while Marco said, ‘But in all these months, Angela, are you sure you’ve never mentioned the names of those four men to anyone else?’

  ‘Never. No one else knows.’

  ‘That’s why Marianna’s family still don’t know what happened to her.’

  ‘No, and if I’d said anything, I’d only have added to their pain.’

  CHAPTER 24

  In the servants’ dining room of Marco’s house, next to the kitchen and overlooking the garden, Marta and Rosetta were seated at a table laid for Sunday lunch. From the sidelong looks, it was clear they were sizing each other up.

  ‘I understand that Signorina Chiara is an orphan,’ broke in Rosetta. ‘Does she manage all right?’ Marco’s housekeeper was wearing a wide grey skirt and a lace shawl pinned with a cameo brooch.

  Marta smiled. ‘Her father – bless his soul – made sure that she was well prepared. He used to tell me, “She’ll be a single woman, with a double burden; she must know how to manage a household and a business.” He made sure that she learned all the techniques of weaving and how to design fabrics. This is one of hers. Isn’t it beautiful?’ She pointed to her gown, which was made from elegant crimson damask. ‘Chiara also learned mathematics and accounting, she speaks French and English, and with her father she used to travel throughout Europe.’

  ‘But Signor Renier didn’t make any plans for the most important thing,’ said Rosetta reprovingly. ‘He didn’t find her a husband, and it would seem that she is not that young any more.’

  Marta’s dainty features hardened, but she calmly picked up her fork to taste the steaming portion of rice and peas that had been served on a fine porcelain plate. Then she wiped her mouth with her napkin and sipped her wine. ‘How can I put this, Signora Rosetta,’ she started, in unruffled tones. ‘The only girls who need husbands are those without any initiative, whether they’re uneducated commoners or patricians who need someone to invest their dowry – if they have one, that is. You see, if she married, my Chiara would lose her independence, as her assets would be administered by her husband. She’s not the sort of woman to leave others to manage her affairs while she sits around doing nothing.’

  Just then Giuseppe came into the kitchen, looking even more elegant than usual in his livery and silk stockings, because on this special occasion he was serving at table. He was carrying a fragrant dish of fried fish and seafood, and hot on the butler’s heels came Plato, tail held erect as a flagstaff.

  Rosetta politely served her guest, and as soon as Giuseppe had left the room again, she commented, ‘But His Excellency appears to be to her liking.’

  Marta’s patience was wearing thin. ‘They’re young, they’re handsome and perhaps they’re in love. What’s wrong with that? If I’m not mistaken, both of them have experienced misfortune. If they’re happy together, why do you want to interfere? Are you insinuating that Chiara’s not good enough because she’s not a noblewoman? I can assure you that your master would never find anyone better, even in the most emblazoned families.’

  ‘Don’t be offended.’ Rosetta acknowledged that she h
ad gone too far. ‘The fact is that I’ve known the boy – I mean the avogadore – since he was born. I brought him up and he’s like a son to me. Anyway, I must admit that no one could be more beautiful than Signorina Chiara.’

  From the kitchen came the sound of energetic clapping. Nani and Gertrude the cook were having lunch around the table there, with old Martino and Zen’s gondolier, Bastiano. Maso was also with them, as he had brought his mistress and her housekeeper in the firm’s boat to Marco’s house and had immediately been invited to stay for lunch. Nani had firmly placed himself beside him.

  ‘What a magnificent woman your mistress is,’ said Martino, turning to Maso. ‘And with exquisite manners, a real lady. If you don’t mind me saying, in the many years I’ve been working here with the family, I’ve seen several people of quality, but there’s something special about her. I can’t put my finger on it . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Maso. ‘She’s also generous and kind-hearted. She’s always told me that I’m good at my job and now she’s teaching me how to weave the most complicated fabrics.’

  Bastiano looked up from his plate. He had a healthy appetite and had done justice to the food until that moment. ‘I hope my master, Avvocato Zen, will meet someone like her. But he doesn’t seem to be trying very hard – indeed, sometimes I have to take him to one of those houses . . . you know where I mean. Of course, they’re honourable women, the best in Venice, but I’m sorry all the same.’

  ‘Young men, eh, what can you do?’ sighed Martino, who all his life had dreamed of what it might be like to be in a courtesan’s house. Instead he could only conjure up a rather unsatisfactory image of the temptations that he would now never experience.

  ‘Stop making so much noise!’ It was Giuseppe, bringing the plates back to the kitchen again. ‘Those two can hear you next door, and I bet they can hear you in the dining room upstairs as well. You wouldn’t be this loud if we were at Palazzo Pisani. The major-domo used to keep everyone under strict control there, and he still does.’

  Everyone fell silent, but it was short-lived, for as soon as Giuseppe left the room Nani raised his glass to Maso in a friendly toast.

  ‘What does your father do?’ the gondolier asked him.

  ‘My father?’ repeated Maso, blushing furiously. There was really nothing to be ashamed of, but Maso couldn’t help it. ‘He has a fruit stall at Rialto. Mamma often helps him. I’ve also got two sisters, but they’re young and still at school with the nuns. When Mamma heard that I’d been arrested – and what’s more, arrested for murder – she fainted. The doctor came and wanted to use his leeches to bleed her. My father objected and, luckily, Signorina Chiara then arrived. She gave Mamma one of her remedies and she soon recovered. I must say, if your master hadn’t done what he did . . .’ He stopped, amazed at having spoken for so long.

  ‘Yes, he’s a good man,’ commented Nani. ‘Look at me: the Scolopi wanted to turn me into a priest. Imagine that! He took me under his protection, and here I am.’

  ‘Remedies?’ interrupted Gertrude. ‘What remedies does this Chiara have?’

  ‘Signorina Renier,’ said Maso emphatically, ‘was taught by her grandmother how to prepare syrups, poultices, medicines, for all sorts of illnesses. So many people come to her to be cured, and all for free, because she won’t accept payment. She says that leeches and purgatives don’t work, in fact they often do more harm than good.’

  Gertrude was thoughtful for a moment, her low forehead deeply furrowed. ‘That means she’s a witch,’ she burst out after a while. ‘Your mistress is a witch.’

  Maso turned an even deeper shade of red. ‘A witch! How dare you!’ he shouted. ‘If anything, she’s an apothecary. She knows all the herbs and their properties better than any of those high-sounding academics!’

  It was old Martino who changed the subject. ‘Tell me, Nani, given that you’re always with him, what’s the latest on the investigations into those three men who were murdered? At the market yesterday, the talk was all about this killer who’s on the loose and goes around strangling people, and the authorities aren’t doing a thing to stop him.’

  ‘Just idle gossip,’ said Nani loftily. ‘I can’t comment, you know, because of confidentiality, but I can tell you that my master’s hot on the trail. I can say one thing for certain, though: the three who died were certainly not saints.’

  ‘What, even Piero Corner?’ interrupted Bastiano, who had stopped eating to listen.

  ‘I can’t say any more.’ Nani made a gesture of biting his tongue. ‘Yes, him too . . . Perhaps not now, but in the past . . .’

  ‘To our good health! And to lifelong friendship!’ In the airy dining room on the first floor, overlooking Rio San Vio, Daniele Zen raised his glass to Chiara, while Marco joined in the toast.

  The lawyer had been bewitched by Chiara Renier from the moment he’d watched her disembark on the small jetty by Marco’s house. Enveloped in her fur-lined cloak, and pink-cheeked from the cold after the boat trip, she looked like a creature from another world, with her tumbling curls and sky-blue eyes.

  ‘You must be the famous Daniele,’ she had said with a sudden smile.

  ‘And you’re the girl who has cast her spell over a magistrate,’ Daniele had replied as he offered her his arm.

  Then they had walked together towards the house, chatting like old friends.

  ‘To lifelong friendship,’ Marco repeated, beaming at his guests, delighted to see how well they were getting on. ‘Now let’s enjoy lunch, and then we’ll move into my study and see where we are on the investigations.’

  With Gertrude’s help, Rosetta had excelled herself. The seafood antipasti were so delicate that they melted in the mouth; the rice blended perfectly with the peas, which had been brought specially from the mainland and must have cost a fortune. The huge platter of fried fish included tiny sole, tender octopus and red mullet small enough to eat in a mouthful. It was accompanied by grilled polenta with a side dish of pale pink prawns, anchovies and small flatfish called zanchette. Marco also noted that Rosetta had set the table with the best silverware and crystal especially for the occasion.

  Daniele turned to Chiara to ask her a question. ‘Tell me, how do you organise everything on your own? You create the designs for the fabrics, you train the workers, you correspond with your suppliers and customers, you keep the books, you attend the various guild meetings. Where do you find the time?’

  Chiara smiled. ‘My father was a wonderful teacher. He taught me how use my time wisely. My weaving shop focuses on quality, and so the volumes are not huge. The secret is to keep the accounts in good order and train the workers.’

  Marco listened to them and felt happy. How long was it since he had had an ordinary moment of domestic serenity like this? This woman had the ability to put anyone at ease and to talk frankly. Perhaps not everyone, he admitted, because Rosetta still seemed to be on the defensive, but every time the austere Giuseppe came into the room bearing new dishes, Marco noted that he had a smile of approval on his lips. Nani, too, had been won over right from the first day, and here was Daniele, who seemed perfectly comfortable in her company.

  ‘Marco tells me,’ Chiara continued, looking at Daniele with a degree of curiosity, ‘that you’re not married, or even engaged, even though Venice is full of girls who’d be more than happy to oblige.’

  Zen looked embarrassed. ‘Well, yes, I’ve never really thought about it, although I now realise that I’m at the age when I should be thinking of having a family. Who knows what fate has in store for me . . .?’

  ‘Would you like to know?’ asked Chiara. She looked questioningly at Marco, who immediately understood.

  ‘Watch out, Daniele,’ he said. ‘She can read your fortune. Do you want to, Chiara?’ He smiled at her.

  ‘Now that you’ve given my secret away . . .’

  In the servants’ dining room, Marta and Rosetta were eating dessert. They had made peace over Chiara. ‘My master,’ observed Rosetta, daintily sampling a
sweet fritter, ‘is a very rare sort of man. Do you know, Signora Marta, that he finances an orphanage entirely at his own expense? As for the amount of work he does! I often find him working late into the night over his papers. When he’s dealing with a case he won’t rest until he’s got to the bottom of it. Of course, when his wife was alive, it was all very different!’

  ‘Was he married?’ Marta asked, curious to know more. Chiara had not told her anything.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Rosetta poured some sweet Cypriot wine into her guest’s delicate crystal glass. ‘Poor Signora Virginia. May the Lord bless her and keep her! She left us twelve years ago, together with the young son to whom she had just given birth.’

  Both women sighed. There was a stirring of friendship and the beginnings of a bond forming between them.

  Rosetta broke the silence. ‘But do you think they are really in love?’

  ‘I’ve never seen Chiara smile so often,’ remarked Marta, sipping her wine. ‘In the evening she goes over to the window and looks at the sky, and every now and then I hear her singing.’

  ‘My master doesn’t even smile at the angels, but he’s calmer and in a much better mood, that’s certain. Tell me, has Signorina Chiara never been engaged?’

  ‘No, never. She’s very naïve in these matters, like a young girl. I don’t want to see her hurt.’

  Rosetta made a move to stand up so she could check how things were going in the kitchen and order coffee. But she sat down again quickly, with a grimace of pain. ‘Oh, my back!’ she exclaimed. ‘When the weather’s bad, these aches never go away. There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.’

  ‘My dear Signora Rosetta, let me see what I can do.’ When Rosetta looked at her with an enquiring glance, Marta added, ‘For generations, the women of the Renier family have handed down secret recipes that can cure all sorts of illnesses. Every now and then, Chiara gets up at dawn and goes into the fields on the mainland to pick herbs, berries and bark, which she then uses to prepare the remedies her grandmother taught her. Chiara’s mother died when she was very little, you know . . . I think she uses a tincture made from willow bark to treat these seasonal aches and pains. Apparently it’s extremely old – Egyptian, even. It’s quite miraculous. Tomorrow, I’ll send Maso over with a phial for you.’