by Mary Hoffman
‘Two kings?’ asked Bonsignore.
‘Zarnikh and sandarach, as the Persians call them,’ said Simone. ‘Orpiment and realgar, as we know them. They are a brilliant yellow and red but no good for us mural painters because they turn black on walls. And they do contain arsenikon.’
‘That’s what killed Brother Landolfo,’ said Rufino. ‘Brother Fazio must have put some in his food. He sat next to him, remember.’
‘It is not outright dangerous unless consumed in a large quantity,’ said Simone. ‘Orpiment is even used as a physick for sparrowhawks, Silvano, when they are afflicted with an ailment. But Landolfo must have ingested a great deal in a short time for him to die so quickly.’
‘He did die quickly,’ said Silvano.
‘Then why didn’t Brother Fazio die from all these poisons?’ asked Chiara.
‘Because he ingested them over time, in quantities so small they did not kill him,’ explained Simone. ‘But it is as Brother Anselmo said, prolonged exposure to lead-white will bring about all sorts of ailments, even without the two kings of colour – fits and eventually paralysis.’
‘Brother Fazio did have fits,’ confirmed Rufino. ‘I have treated him myself – with mugwort.’
‘And he made all his lead-white himself,’ added Silvano. ‘He showed me the shed where he did it.’
‘He was well known for it,’ said the Abbot. ‘And he liked to show new brothers how it was made.’
‘Really?’ said Simone. ‘But it smells so bad.’
‘Fazio had no sense of smell,’ said Anselmo. ‘I think that was why he didn’t realise that he was being exposed to so much danger.’
‘I don’t understand why he went mad instead of just becoming ill,’ said Isabella.
‘Madness is an illness too,’ said Brother Rufino. ‘And with such a mixture of poisons, it is not surprising that it affected his brain.’
‘But I still don’t understand why he killed my husband,’ said Isabella. ‘Or any of the others.’
‘I think he was intensely jealous of me,’ said Anselmo, ‘because he considered himself to be an expert of all manner of colours, and then when I came to Giardinetto the Abbot decided to set up a colour room and appointed me Colour Master. I thought that Brother Fazio had come to terms with it, but his initial resentment must have been fuelled by the poisons he was ingesting.’
‘So he wanted suspicion to fall on you?’ asked Bonsignore. ‘But that means he knew of your past, er, association with Monna Isabella.’
‘It was only Fazio’s sense of smell that was impaired,’ said Anselmo grimly. ‘He had a very acute sense of hearing and I think it was his habit to listen at doors. That way he knew what I had told you when I first came here, about my secular life and the reason for my profession as a friar. And I think, as a bonus, he must have overheard you tell Brother Ranieri why Silvano was under our protection.’
‘Then why was Brother Landolfo his second victim?’ asked Silvano.
‘I think,’ said Anselmo, ‘that Fazio told Landolfo what he had heard. That was how the rumours about Silvano first circulated in the friary.’
‘I certainly heard it from Landolfo,’ said Rufino. ‘Though he didn’t tell me where he had picked it up.’
‘Then, when all the friars were suspicious of Silvano, Fazio killed Landolfo so that he wouldn’t reveal the rumours had started with him,’ said Anselmo. ‘I think he was quite mad by then. He didn’t care if it was Silvano or myself under suspicion.’
‘But how did he administer the poison?’ asked Rufino.
‘It would have been easy enough to conceal the poison in his sleeve,’ said Anselmo. ‘And he always sat next to Landolfo.’
‘This is terrible,’ said Silvano. ‘If I hadn’t come here, Brother Landolfo would still be alive!’
‘Don’t forget I said it was jealousy of me that prompted the first murder,’ said Anselmo. ‘And you know there was some suspicion of you, Silvano, after the first murder, because of the way it was done.
‘He was happy to make known the information about your past but he also spread around my history too. Very effectively, as it happened, because the Minister General and Umberto both believed I had killed Ubaldo – and possibly some of the brothers here too.’
There was silence and Silvano saw that Brother Rufino looked a little embarrassed. Bonsignore thought he would have to hear many confessions in the coming weeks.
‘Then why did he kill Brother Valentino?’ the Abbot asked.
‘As to why, I don’t know,’ admitted Anselmo. ‘Fazio had been working with dragonsblood that day and I think he was becoming more and more deranged. Some quite small comment of Valentino’s might have incensed him and made him his next victim. But it was young Silvano here who realised how he did it.’
‘I was talking to Ser Simone about falconry,’ explained Silvano. ‘And about how you have to tie the bird to the glove one-handed. I remembered that Fazio was equally skilled with both hands. He could have rung the Vespers bell with one hand while stringing Valentino up by his belt with the other.’
‘Not if Valentino were conscious, surely?’ said Rufino.
‘I don’t think he was,’ said the Abbot. ‘You remember the bruise on his forehead? I think Brother Fazio was waiting for Valentino in the bell tower and knocked him out straightaway.’
‘So it was Fazio who rang the bell and then slipped into the chapel,’ said Rufino. ‘And Brother Valentino was already dead.’
‘He must have been enormously strong,’ said Simone doubtfully. ‘To string a man up single-handed and that man a dead weight.’
‘He was very strong,’ said the Abbot.
‘And he had to ring the bell at the same time,’ said Silvano. ‘Because the friars knew it was Valentino’s turn and might have seen him going towards the chapel. Any delay and they might have looked into the bell tower.’
‘He must have tied his own belt to the beam already and then, when Valentino was dead, taken his belt off him to put round his own waist,’ said Anselmo, with a shudder.
‘A madman can be very logical and ruthless,’ said the Abbot.
‘But what about Umberto?’ asked Isabella. ‘Do you know the how and the why of that murder?’
‘It was another attempt to incriminate me, I’m afraid,’ said Anselmo. ‘I didn’t see Umberto that night. I was unwilling to go into supper after the questioning the Minister General had given me. But I gather Umberto was drunk and openly seeking me. I expect Fazio thought if he hid the body in the casket, it would be found here and look bad for me. He didn’t know I was to be ordered to Assisi and that the casket would also go there unopened.’
‘But how did he kill him?’ insisted Isabella. She had got up and drawn near to the bed as the exposure of Fazio’s crimes had gone on.
‘He was hit on the head and then sealed in the coffin,’ said Simone. ‘Since Umberto was drunk, it must have been quick.’
‘And Fazio took Umberto’s dagger,’ said Silvano.
Rufino brought the weapon over from the table where it had been laid aside when taken from Fazio’s neck. It was clean now.
‘I never thought to have to handle this weapon again,’ he said. ‘Either it is Ubaldo’s or the brother’s dagger was identical. See the “U” and the family crest.’
Even Isabella couldn’t say which it was.
‘What will happen now?’ asked Chiara.
‘As soon as I have word from the Minister General, we shall bury Brother Fazio,’ said the Abbot.
‘What, in the cemetery next to the friars he killed?’ asked Simone.
‘Certainly,’ said Father Bonsignore. ‘He was a friar too. And, though it was not a case of possession by devils, Fazio was just as much changed from his true self by the poisons that inhabited his body.’
‘I agree,’ said Anselmo. ‘He was a good man, undermined by jealousy, whose mind was warped by the materials he worked with. The real Brother Fazio would never have committed murder.’
‘You friars amaze me,’ said Simone, shaking his head. ‘Your capacity for forgiveness is endless.’
‘What shall you do, Ser Simone?’ asked Silvano.
‘I shall go back to Assisi and finish my paintings,’ said Simone. ‘I have to be back in Siena for St Luke’s Day. Every member of the Artists’ Guild must carry his candle to the Cathedral on that day. Pietro and I must both be there but he will have to come back. His work in Assisi is barely begun.’
‘It will soon be October,’ said Rufino. ‘The nights are drawing in.’
They looked instinctively towards the window, where the sky was beginning to darken.
‘I cannot get back to Assisi tonight though,’ said Simone, frowning. ‘I came in Monna Isabella’s carriage in the heat of the moment, with no thought of how I would return.’
‘Please lodge with us tonight,’ said the Abbot. ‘I’m sure that the Minister General will come in his carriage tomorrow and you can travel back with him.’
‘At least we can all sleep peacefully in our beds tonight,’ said Brother Rufino. ‘It will be the first such night for a long time.’
‘It is too late for me to set out for Perugia tonight too,’ said Silvano. ‘May I spend one last night on my straw mattress in the dormitory, Father?’
‘Of course,’ said Bonsignore.
‘We, on the other hand,’ said Isabella, ‘shall go back to Gubbio. You know that Chiara is coming to live with me?’ she asked the company in general. ‘Please feel free to visit us, if your work ever brings you to Gubbio, Ser Simone.’ But her eyes went to Anselmo and Silvano. ‘I expect to see you as soon as life has returned to normal here, Father Bonsignore. I am sure that there will be papers for you to witness.’
Silvano walked the two women to the stables.
‘May I come and see you in Gubbio?’ he asked Chiara. ‘I have so much to tell you.’
She looked towards Isabella, her new protector and chaperone. The older woman smiled at her.
‘I should like that,’ said Chiara. She suddenly felt shy of this young nobleman with whom she had spent so many easy hours when they were both dressed as novices.
‘The true murderer has been found in Perugia, as well as in Giardinetto,’ said Silvano. ‘And it was my best friend Gervasio,’ he added bitterly.
In the infirmary Brother Anselmo was protesting that he was well enough to come to supper in the refectory.
‘And what will you do, friend?’ asked Simone. ‘Will you return to the colour room when your arm is healed?’
‘You are worried about your supplies?’ said Anselmo. ‘I don’t know what is going to happen. I shall have to wait and see what the Minister General says to me. All I know now is that I should like to retire to bed and sleep for a hundred hours.’
.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Merlin for a Lady
The Baronessa Margarethe da Montacuto was in her little parlour when the sound of running feet and excited barking reached her ears. Perhaps it is another message from Silvano, she thought, jumping up and dropping her grospoint. But it was better than a message. Her son himself burst in, dishevelled and dirty but sound and full of life, followed by his deliriously happy hound.
‘Madre,’ he said, lifting the Baronessa off her feet and swinging her round.
‘Silvano!’ she said, breathless. ‘Oh my darling boy! Are you all right? Your hair needs cutting. And whatever has happened to your shirt?’
‘I used it to bind a man’s wounds, mother,’ he said truthfully, putting her down and looking at her soberly.
The Baronessa clutched at her throat. ‘Mon Dieu!’ she said. ‘Where have you been that such dangerous things happen?’
‘I left Perugia because of such a danger, remember? But don’t worry, mother. I have been safe,’ said Silvano. ‘Though others have died.’
‘You are different,’ said Margarethe, with a mother’s perceptions. ‘I think you have come back a man from wherever you have been.’
Just then Silvano’s two sisters came running in. They threw themselves on his back, screamed at the state of his clothes and protested that he was growing a rough beard.
‘I must change my clothes and brush my hair before presenting myself to my father,’ said Silvano, laughing.
‘And put on some cologne,’ said Margherita. ‘You smell of horse.’
‘And shave your face,’ added Vittoria.
‘Too late,’ said the Baron, easing his bulk into the little parlour. ‘I’ll take him as he is.’
And he clasped Silvano in his arms.
It was difficult to persuade the Council of Perugia to show clemency towards Gervasio. Only the Baron’s and Silvano’s pleas, joined with those of the victim’s widow could have done it. The evidence that Tommaso had been acting illegally as a moneylender was also seen as mitigation. After many anxious hours for the de’ Oddini family and Angelica, the sentence was commuted to exile and a huge fine. The fine was to be paid jointly to Tommaso’s widow and the state but the money for both fines had of course to come from Angelica herself, since Gervasio had none of his own.
‘So you are not to have any punishment at all?’ Silvano said to Gervasio when he had been released. He had come to the gaol to confront his old friend and was waiting for him outside. ‘Even the money you pay is given by your wife-to-be and half of it comes back to you.’
‘I don’t blame you for being angry,’ said Gervasio, biting his lip.
‘Angry?’ said Silvano. ‘I am not angry. I am just relieved to be back home.’ And he surprised himself by realising that this was true.
‘I didn’t mean them to think it was you, you know,’ said Gervasio.
‘Then why did you steal my dagger?’ asked Silvano.
‘It all happened so quickly,’ said Gervasio. ‘I took it the night before when we walked back from the tavern. I’d always envied you that dagger of yours. I don’t think I really meant to kill him, you know. But I was desperate about the money and the dagger made me feel I had some control. I meant only to threaten Tommaso but when I saw him in the street the next day, I had a moment of madness. The dagger was in my belt and I just knew I could rid myself of my problems with one blow.’
‘But you left my dagger in the body,’ said Silvano. ‘You must have known I would be suspected of the murder.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said Gervasio. ‘But you came along the street! I couldn’t believe it. I had only seconds before you saw me and, to my shame, I took Tommaso’s list, which would have implicated me, and left the dagger . . .’
‘Which implicated me,’ Silvano finished for him.
‘You must hate me,’ said Gervasio.
‘I should do,’ admitted Silvano. ‘But I have seen enough of hatred and killing.’
They were silent for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
‘It isn’t true that I go unpunished, though,’ said Gervasio. ‘You know that Angelica is pregnant? Well, the child is not mine, even though my father thinks it is. I have never lain with her. I shall have to bring up the sheep farmer’s sprog as my son and heir.’
‘Perhaps it will be a daughter and she will favour the mother?’ suggested Silvano.
‘You are not even angry that I am going to marry your . . . the woman you admire?’
Silvano laughed. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘All respect to your betrothed, but I do not admire her any more. My heart is given to another.’
Gervasio looked at him curiously. He owed his life to Silvano and the younger man had changed. He could no longer patronise him.
‘I shall miss the city,’
Gervasio said, as they walked together towards the Platea Magna where their adventure had begun months before. Again they walked past the Franciscan church. ‘But at least I don’t have to fear being sent to join the grey brothers any more.’
‘It wouldn’t have been that bad you know,’ said Silvano seriously. ‘There are worse things than living in a friary.’
Chiara had settled into Isabella’s home as if she had been born there. She was soon a great favourite with the children. The boys were unthreatened by their mother’s affection for her and Francesca was thrilled to have an older girl in the house – and such a pretty one.
The two women threw themselves into Isabella’s new business as a merchant. There was one awkward moment when Bernardo came to get some orders from the house and met his sister again for the first time since he had left her in Giardinetto.
He scarcely recognised her in her fine light green velvet gown but she saw his glance fly to the ruby and pearl cross and she knew he was thinking: so she did take it with her!
But he was nothing but polite and Isabella said he was proving to be a good manager. The greatest challenge was the competition from Angelica’s new business, which was thriving. But then one day the widow of Perugia was again announced and shown this time into Isabella’s office.
Chiara was there too as the women had been working over the accounts. They were both wearing long aprons and had ink-stains on their fingers.
They look happy, thought Angelica wistfully. She had come on an errand that made her heartsore in spite of the prospect of her married life with Gervasio. She had enjoyed being a businesswoman for the short time it had lasted.
‘Monna Angelica,’ said Isabella. ‘Welcome. Come and sit down.’
Her sharp eyes had taken in that her rival was a lot plumper than on her last visit.
Chiara saw only a voluptuous fair-haired woman, dressed elegantly in black mourning.
‘Chiara, dear,’ said Isabella. ‘Will you ring for some tisane for our visitor? Something suitable for her delicate condition.’
