by D. V. Bishop
‘You don’t mean that, do you, sir? Everyone deserves justice, don’t they?’
Cerchi stopped, shaking his head at the constable. ‘You want to find who killed that pervert? Fine. Go ahead. Waste your time. But I’m keeping the diary and that list.’ Before Strocchi could reply, Cerchi’s gaze was drawn to a man lurking by the gates. The officer dismissed Strocchi and stalked across the courtyard to confront the visitor.
Strocchi followed him part of the way, wanting to argue for the list’s return. But then he saw who was waiting to meet Cerchi – Agnolotti Landini. The wool importer was wearing a dark blue cap, the shadow covering much of his face, but several moles were still visible. Strocchi moved to the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, watching the two men.
Landini held out a purse that looked heavy with coin. Cerchi ignored it, reaching into his tunic for Corsini’s diary. Cerchi hissed at the merchant, but Strocchi could hear only a few words – interrogation, cells, the Otto. Landini paled, pulling out another, larger purse. Cerchi took that one, weighing it in his hand. The merchant’s fearful expression faded as Cerchi nodded his acceptance – he even smiled. Before the two men parted, Cerchi leaned close to whisper in Landini’s ear. ‘You can’t mean that,’ the merchant gasped, his shock making the words loud enough for Strocchi to hear.
‘Every month,’ Cerchi announced, strutting back into the courtyard. Strocchi sank back behind one of the thick stone cloister columns to avoid the officer’s gaze. Whatever had passed between the two men, it was not something Cerchi wanted others to know.
Once Cerchi had crossed the courtyard and gone into the officers’ room, Strocchi watched Landini. The merchant looked a broken man: shoulders slumped, head down, hands clasping at each other. Landini stumbled away, bumping into a peasant girl with a basket of frost-burnt brassica. He apologized to her before continuing his listless journey.
Either Cerchi was using the diary to extort money, or a suspect was paying Cerchi to look the other way. Guilt twisted Strocchi. Whatever the truth, it was his fault. He’d brought Cerchi the diary. There was only one way to stop this – find whoever killed Corsini.
Waking in a strange bed confused Rebecca at first. But the Forzoni family home was warm and full of life, so different from the house she shared with Father. Even the bed was more comfortable, the sheets perfumed with the delicate scent of quince apples. Rebecca heard Joshua’s sisters laughing as they prepared food in the kitchen, and she could smell bread baking. Even the light was different, beaming in through the window when she woke. Father expected her to be up before dawn, no matter how early that might be.
There was a distant knocking, followed by murmured, urgent voices. The words were hard to make out, but Rebecca heard her name mentioned. She splashed water on her face, tying back unruly brown curls before hurrying to the kitchen. Everyone fell silent as she went in, none of them able to meet her gaze. None but Joshua, and his face looked ashen.
‘Rebecca, I’m so sorry. It’s your father . . .’
Then she was running, sprinting along narrow dirt streets, as fast as her feet would allow. Round a corner and she would be home. Everything would be fine. Father would be . . .
An outsider was arguing with a line of Jewish men outside her home. No, please don’t let it be true. Every instinct told her to turn away but she had to know. She had to. Mournful faces watched from windows and doors on either side of the street. She could hear whispers, see fingers pointing. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Aldo saw the young woman hesitate. She was twenty at most, wearing a simple dress with flowers embroidered across its front and sleeves. She was slender and pretty, yet there was a resemblance to Samuele. Must be the daughter, what was her name? Rebecca, that was it.
She stopped in front of Aldo, her lips moving but making no sound.
‘It’s your father. I’m sorry – he’s dead.’
Rebecca crumpled, one hand clawing at a sleeve, fingers tightening round the material until her knuckles were white. She tore the sleeve open, her howl of anguish echoing in the narrow street. ‘Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam, dayan ha-emet!’
Aldo had heard the words before, a blessing Jews cried out in response to death and tragedy. Her words would get Yedaiah’s attention. Aldo gave her a few moments to recover before introducing himself. ‘I guarded your father on his way home. I was with Samuele.’
That got her attention. ‘You were with Father when he died?’
‘No, before that – on the road from Bologna.’ Voices were arguing in Hebrew behind Aldo. He kept talking to Rebecca. ‘I saved his life. I offered to protect him here in Florence too, but Samuele insisted he was safe.’
She nodded. ‘He’s stubborn. Always has been. Always will—’ Grief stopped her words. Aldo risked a glance over his shoulder. Yedaiah was coming.
‘I couldn’t save your father, but I can find out who did this to him.’
‘Leave her be,’ Yedaiah called. ‘She needs to be with her grief, not with outsiders.’
‘Rebecca, help me find the truth about what happened to Samuele.’
‘I said, leave her be.’ Yedaiah stepped between Aldo and Rebecca, his face stern.
‘Rebecca, please.’
‘No.’ Yedaiah bristled. ‘We will deal with this. Please go, before—’
‘Let him stay,’ a quiet voice said.
Yedaiah swung round to face Rebecca. ‘My child, you cannot—’
‘I’m not your child,’ she said, her voice growing stronger. ‘I am no man’s child, not now Father is dead. This man says he can find whoever killed Father. Let him try.’ Rebecca’s expression hardened. ‘Or would you deny the wishes of a grieving daughter?’
Yedaiah inhaled, his back straightening. ‘Very well.’ He narrowed his eyes at Aldo. ‘But you will not touch anything inside, and you will do nothing to desecrate the body.’
‘I understand.’ Aldo glanced at Rebecca. She was firm and implacable as Samuele had been. Like father, like daughter. ‘Did Samuele work here, or elsewhere?’
‘Here. He hated the other moneylenders at Mercato Nuovo.’ She grimaced. ‘His clients were always coming into our home, pleading for money or more time to repay him.’
Aldo went to the door. It stood ajar but there was no splintering to the wood, and no damage to the bolt. That suggested Levi had let his attacker in – a debtor, maybe, or a rival? Or had it been someone closer to home? Killings in Florence were not infrequent and were usually personal, fuelled by family, love, hate or greed.
Aldo pushed the door further open and inhaled a faint smell of metal – blood had been spilled here. It was dark inside, a single lamp offering little light or warmth. However Levi spent his money, it wasn’t here. There were a few pieces of simple furniture, but no ornaments and no art on the walls. The sole visible extravagance was a rug on the floor. Samuele’s body was sprawled across it, fully clothed and face up.
Aldo went inside, making a slow circle of the chamber. A black cloth was covering a mirror near the front door – put there by Yedaiah, no doubt, as was Jewish tradition. Nothing was tipped over, nothing looked out of place. No ransacking or obvious signs of robbery. The rug under Levi was flat to the floor, its edges undisturbed. The room was unremarkable – aside from the dead body. Dried blood stained his robes below the left breast. Aldo resisted the urge to close Levi’s staring eyes, all too aware of Yedaiah watching from the doorway.
‘A single stab wound between the ribs,’ Aldo observed. ‘That takes skill. Angry attackers with a knife are never content with one strike. They want to be sure. They want the victim to suffer.’ Aldo crouched for a closer look, his bad knee protesting at the strain.
‘You believe this was planned,’ Yedaiah said.
‘The killer took the blade away, and left no trace of themselves behind.’ Or had they? Samuele’s blood had seeped into the rug, spreading outwards. A crescent shape was visible in the pooled blood. Someone wearing a boot or shoe ha
d come too close to the body – a clumsy mistake. Aldo peered at the floor. Yes, there were more crimson crescents, moving away from the body, heading outside, each one fainter than the last. Should have seen those earlier, but the murky interior had hidden them at first.
Aldo touched a finger to the nearest crescent – it was dry, so several hours old. The clumsy footstep was at the edge of the blood. That meant it happened some time after Levi was stabbed, when he was already dead, or close to it. Had the killer returned to be sure of their handiwork, perhaps to retrieve their knife? Or had a late-night visitor stumbled on the murder and fled in panic? And where was Rebecca while her father was bleeding to death?
Strocchi went to via tra’ Pellicciai, revisiting the alley where Corsini had been attacked. It looked different in daylight, a narrow passage of packed dirt with nothing to show a man had been brutally kicked, beaten and left for dead there. No windows overlooked the alley, but the constable knocked on all the nearby doors, hoping someone might have seen or heard what happened there on Sunday night. Nothing. Nobody remembered anything or, if they did, none of them wanted to admit it, let alone make a denunzia.
Frustrated by his failure, Strocchi crossed the Arno to revisit the dead man’s home. The door was open; the landlady must have stepped out. But when Strocchi went upstairs he found only furniture. Someone had stripped the attic room bare.
Footsteps clumped up the stairs. Signorina Mula appeared in the doorway, her face souring when she recognized the constable. ‘I was hoping for a new tenant.’
‘What happened to Corsini’s things?’
‘Sold what I could, burnt the rest. What was I supposed to do?’
‘His killers might have left something behind.’
‘You didn’t tell me that. Besides, he owed rent.’ She stomped away, leaving Strocchi to continue his search. But all it proved was how thorough she’d been in emptying the attic. Despairing, Strocchi went downstairs and found Mula sweeping the dust from her home onto the dirt path outside the front door. She paused to let him by.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve remembered anything about those intruders you disturbed?’ Strocchi asked. Mula stopped sweeping long enough to offer a shrug. Of course she hadn’t. Did nobody care that a young man had been murdered? What kind of city was this?
Rebecca Levi was lying. She kept evading Aldo’s gaze, one hand picking at the torn fabric of her sleeve. Yedaiah still hadn’t let Rebecca inside the house, so Aldo was questioning her out on via dei Giudei. The death of a parent was all too often life-changing, he knew that from bitter experience. The shock of what had happened could explain some of her behaviour, but not all of it. Not the lie she was struggling to conceal.
‘I was with my cousin Ruth last night,’ she repeated, watching Yedaiah’s men come and go from her home. ‘Father and I argued after he returned from Bologna. I spent the night at Ruth’s house, hoping that would make him see sense.’ She stopped, tears near brimming over in her eyes. ‘I said such terrible things to him, things I can never take back.’
Aldo watched her weep for a while, offering no kind words, no show of sympathy. Patience was a powerful tool when talking with a witness – or a potential suspect.
‘I said Mother made me promise to look after him, and that was the only reason I’d stayed,’ Rebecca continued, getting control over her grief for a moment. ‘I said I wished he had died instead of her.’ She broke down. ‘N-now they’re both gone!’
Her grief was compelling. Somewhere within it was a lie, but asking a direct question would not uncover the truth. Instead Aldo pointed at her plain shoes.
‘Were you wearing those yesterday? Could I see underneath them?’
‘I . . . yes, of course.’ Rebecca lifted her feet in turn. Neither sole bore any blood. She did not ask for an explanation, but her gaze slid towards the front door of her home. A sign of guilt, or was she realizing why he had asked?
‘Another moneylender was here,’ Aldo said, ‘a quarrelsome man called Sciarra.’
Anger flushed Rebecca’s face. ‘Father hates him. They hate each other.’ Realization stilled her voice for a moment. ‘You don’t think he . . .?’
‘It’s too early to make a denunzia like that, not without proof. But business rivalries can drive men to desperation. Sciarra mentioned another man, called Dante?’
‘Malachi Dante – he was Father’s partner for years.’ She shook her head. ‘But Dante could never wish us harm. Yes, their partnership ended on bad terms, but Malachi was like an uncle to me when Mother died. He’s the gentlest man you’ll meet.’ Yedaiah emerged from the house, gesturing for Rebecca to come inside. But one last question had to be asked.
‘Samuele paid to have me guard him on his journey home from Bologna.’ Aldo watched Rebecca closely. ‘Do you know why your father thought he was in danger?’
She did not hesitate. ‘No, but it was one of the things we argued about. I knew he was afraid of something, but he wouldn’t say who or what it was.’ Rebecca was telling the truth – about that, at least. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I knew more.’ The young woman went to the front door of her home, Yedaiah moving aside. She took a deep breath before going in.
Aldo could hear her howls of grief as he strode away.
Chapter Seven
‘We cared for Luca Corsini while he was breathing,’ the abbess at Santa Maria Nuovo said, a careworn scratch in her voice. ‘If a patient dies, their family or friends choose what happens next. Should no one come forward, the body is given a pauper’s burial. This ospedale only looks after the living – God takes care of the soul.’
Strocchi frowned. In his home village, how you were treated in death mattered as much as how you were treated in life. If you had nobody to see you to your rest, people came forward to do it for you, without having to be asked. The village nestled in a bend on the Arno, downriver from Florence. Spring and autumn floods often left debris behind, and more than once a body had washed up nearby, unfortunate souls who had drowned in the Arno. The villagers considered it their duty to give those remains a proper burial. But here in the city, you could die in the street and most Florentines would step over your corpse.
His dismay must have been obvious. The abbess’s manner softened.
‘I have the dead man’s clothes, if you care to see them.’ She led Strocchi through the ospedale corridors and cloisters to a small chamber. He recognized the courtesan dress Corsini had been wearing, folded on a wooden bench beside a delicate pair of shoes.
‘There was nothing else?’
The abbess shook her head. ‘No purse, no coins, and nothing worn beneath the dress.’ The chiming of distant bells caught her attention. ‘Excuse me, I have patients to tend.’
‘Of course,’ Strocchi said. ‘And a thousand graces for helping.’
Once she was gone, he unfolded Corsini’s dress. Muddy boot prints remained where the victim had been kicked, and blood flecked the bodice, mute evidence of the attackers’ brutality. Strocchi closed his eyes, picturing the hooded men as they fled that night, willing himself to recall some telling detail that might help find them. But nothing came.
Turning to leave, Strocchi saw a small fresco painted on the wall facing the abbess’s desk. It showed the Holy Madonna, her hands clasped in prayer, eyes looking up to Heaven. There was a golden halo round her beatific face, and her dress was a vibrant blue. The abbess was fortunate to have such a beautiful fresco opposite her desk, to enjoy and inspire.
Staring at the Madonna’s dress, a fresh notion occurred to the constable. There could not be many gowns with such a distinctive pattern to the fabric or with such exquisite stitching. Strocchi was no expert in women’s clothing, but this dress was almost certainly unique. That meant someone must be able to recognize it.
He went back to the bench and tore out a piece of fabric the size of his hand, slipping it inside his tunic. After folding the dress and putting it back, Strocchi paused at the fresco to offer thanks to the Madonna, and make a prayer of supplic
ation. ‘Let me find the men who did this,’ he whispered, ‘so they may face justice.’
Another door closed in Aldo’s face. He’d spent much of the day visiting homes on and near via dei Giudei, without success. Had they seen anyone outside Levi’s home the previous night? Had strangers been coming to the moneylender more often? But the responses were the same: a slammed door, or an earful of rapid Hebrew followed by a slammed door. Little surprise after what had happened, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.
Bells announced mid-afternoon mass, a sign of the fervour that gripped Florence between Christmas and Epiphany. But people living on via dei Giudei ignored it – they answered to a different faith. The chimes made Aldo realize he hadn’t eaten since the previous night. No wonder his temper was fraying.
‘Sir! Sir!’ Benedetto ran towards him, waving a piece of paper.
‘No need to shout.’
The constable slid to a halt, proffering the sealed document, too breathless to explain.
‘This is for me?’
A nod.
Aldo took it, breaking a red wax seal bearing the Otto’s emblem. Inside, Segretario Bindi had spattered black ink across the page. The more ragged his writing, the worse his mood. This was near illegible.
Benedetto recovered enough to gasp a question. ‘What does it say?’
‘It seems Duke Alessandro himself has taken an interest in Samuele Levi’s murder. The segretario is ordering me to give the Duke a progress report before curfew.’ Bindi would never volunteer that, the Duke must have demanded it. Getting caught between them was dangerous ground. Bindi could make life a misery for any man under his command, while the Duke could have almost anyone in the city summarily executed if he so chose.
Benedetto frowned. ‘The Duke cares about Jews?’
‘Probably not, but moneylending is important for banks and all the guilds. There were two attacks on Jews last summer at the Mercato Nuovo, where many of the moneylenders do business. Nothing serious, idle threats from drunken debtors, but Alessandro gave orders that the Jewish community be protected. Now one of them is dead, murdered in his own home. The Duke will want to know why.’ That was going to be a problem. Men of privilege and power did not grasp the potential complexities of a murder. They expected results, delivered at their whim. But killers were not always easy to catch.
