by Alex Connor
“And naturally the authorities do not care about a maid! They will not seek out the man who did this.” Marina snapped, her face waxen. “So her killer is free?”
“Signora,” the artist said kindly, “I believe that Gabriella’s death was committed in a moment of madness. I do not think it was in any way planned.”
Her gaze turned on him fiercely. “How do you know? I think you’re wrong, signor. I think Gabriella’s murder was planned. Too many strange things, too many people have been involved for it to be random —” she stopped talking, her eyes averted.
“You already knew she was dead?”
“How could I? You’ve just told me.”
“But you said that there were ‘too many people involved.’”
Flustered, she blundered on. “I want you to leave my shop —”
“Who else has been involved in this?”
“I want you to leave —”
Tintoretto shook his head. “No, I am not leaving until you explain. Please, tell me who else has knowledge of her death.”
“No one knew of her death, we suspected it, that was all.”
“Who suspected it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Tintoretto replied. “So I’ll ask you again, who suspected that Gabriella was dead?”
“What is the point of this conversation?” she countered. “Do you even know Caterina Zucca or the Dutchman, Barent der Witt?”
Wrong footed, Tintoretto took a seat opposite hers. “Why is the Dutchman involved?”
“He is a customer of mine, he knew Gabriella and was naturally concerned when she was missing.”
“Was he a relative? A lover?”
“No!” she retorted impatiently. “The girl asked for his help and they were supposed to have a meeting but he missed it. His guilt is driving his concern, he’s tormented by it —”
“And he knows Caterina Zucca?”
“They are friends,” Marina admitted. “and Gabriella had confided in Caterina. Why don’t you ask her? Ask Caterina Zucca what she said. As for Barent der Witt, he warned me not speak to anyone about the girl.”
“But you spoke to Caterina Zucca?”
Marina nodded. “I went to see her. I was afraid because der Witt had mentioned Pietro Aretino and Adamo Baptista —”
“Baptista?” the painter repeated, concerned. “What about Adamo Baptista?”
“That I should not talk to him.”
“Wise advice. Did you obey him?”
“Yes.” She shuddered. “I want nothing to do with such a man.”
Tintoretto remembered his conversation with Dr Norillo, how he had forced the medic into admitting that Baptista had visited Gabriella’s body. And how he had insisted that his own visit should not be mentioned.
“Did Gabriella know Baptista?”
“I don’t know! But I doubt it, she was a respectable girl.” Marina said firmly. “Whilst she lived here she seldom had any visitors, and hardly left the shop. Why she would know someone like Adamo Baptista, I can’t imagine.” She looked at him. Suddenly suspicious. “How did you know Gabriella?”
“She sat for me... She was always patient, but rather sad... Forgive my being blunt, Signora Castilano, I do not mean to shock you, but artists study anatomy to learn how the body functions and how to recreate it in paintings. Although I have much experience, on occasion I still attend the autopsy rooms to further my knowledge or refine it,” he took a quick glance at her face. “And that was how I discovered Gabriella was dead. I saw her body in the morgue.”
It seemed to take a while for her to understand. “When was this?”
“Nearly four months ago.”
“Four months!” she snapped. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“Because I did not recognise her at first,” he said gently. “It was only when I found an old drawing of Gabriella and compared the details that I was certain. She had a certain shape to her upper jaw and a chip in her front tooth.”
Marina’s lips parted, her head bowed, a hand going over her mouth.
“And this killer, Gabriella’s killer, knows where she worked. Where she lived… he knows this place.”
“He might not have done. Her killer might have met Gabriella elsewhere.”
“No, Signor, he knows this place,” Marina said helplessly. “You see, he comes and goes as he pleases. He takes and returns what he wants, when he wants. He plays games, torments me. He could be here now and we would never know it.”
“I don’t understand.” Tintoretto replied, unsettled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, you do not understand.” she said, rising to her feet. “And neither do I. Nothing of this matter makes any sense and I am tired of it.”
“Signora, let me help you. I will go the authorities again and speak to them.”
She shook her head. “No, I am done with it! It is your problem now, talk to Caterina Zucca and the Dutchman if you wish, but I will say no more.”
“You cared about Gabriella —”
“I did, but not enough when she was alive and I cannot change that now she is dead. I will be leaving the city tomorrow. I am taking my sister and we are moving away from Venice. There is nothing in this world - or the next - that would make me stay here another day.”
Chapter Twenty Three
Beautiful colours can be bought in the shops on the Rialto, but good
drawing can only be bought from the cabinet of the artist and talent with
patient study and nights without sleep
Having just secured a portrait commission from a relation of the influential Graduccio family, Tintoretto was occupied in the back workshop, Marco watching him from the main studio. He could see that his master was preparing a batch of clay and knew that he would soon be busy making his models for the painting of the family group. Twisting the anonymous lumps of clay into presentations of his sitters, a major Crucifixion temporarily relegated to a back wall.
The family portrait was a commission that would usually have gone to Titian, but as Il Furioso’s star was on the rise he had secured the prize with all the glee of a fisherman finding a mermaid in his net.
Nodding to an apprentice who was winching an easel upright, Marco moved through the studio, two other painters priming a massive canvas for the master, another grinding paint with a pestle and mortar. The June day was nowhere near its ending, the light still intense at seven in the evening as Marco approached Rosella and tapped her on the shoulder.
She spun round, smiling when she saw him. “The master has a new commission —”
“I heard. He stole it from under Titian’s nose.”
“I’m glad” she replied, tying up her hair, the skin on her arms lightly tanned. Venetian women avoided the sun, their pale skin prized, but in the ghetto people escaped their crowded houses to eat in the square, even in the middle of summer, taking what shade they could from the mean planting of trees. “Did you see Ira today?”
Marco wavered, glancing over to Tintoretto. But his master was concentrating, certain to remain in the workshop for hours.
“No, not today... Are you ready to go home?” Marco asked. His voice sounded distorted in his ears, but she did not seem to notice, just gestured to the drawings on the table. “Tintoretto drew these today. Il Furioso imagines me far more beautiful than I am, but I do not tell him so.” She was in high spirits, “A muse, he called me. His Muse. He even said I could take one of the drawings! Can you imagine?... I was thinking to give to Angelo Fasculo.”
“Who?”
“Oh, just a friend,” she said lightly, but her eyes were brilliant. “A Muse. Have you ever heard anything so absurd?” she laughed.
“I was going to walk you home tonight,” Marco said quietly. “but I can’t —”
“Marco, how do you think I get home when you are not here?” she asked, the great dark eyes questioning. “I do not need a chaperone anymore.”
Her words took him unawares. “But tonight you do need a
chaperone, Rosella.” He insisted. “There has been some trouble in the streets. Some fighting —”
“So tell me where and I will avoid it.”
He was adamant. “I would feel better if you were accompanied home.” Marco continued, staring at the mass of dark hair tied back, fine strands sticking to the damp nape of her neck. He could also catch a scent of ripe tomatoes clinging to her skin. A wholesome smell of high summer. “I have asked someone to accompany you. He will be here very soon.”
She sighed, amused. “If you insist, but it isn’t necessary.”
“I must go now.” Marco said, unable to stay and witness what he had done. “Until tomorrow.”
As he moved off she caught his arm, then smiled. “You are so kind to me, Marco. Always so kind.”
*
Angelo Fasculo waited at the doorway for his mother, watching as she drew up a contract with one of her customers, the dancing master, Hyman Golletz. He signed first, then her hand moved over the paper in a confident sweep, the F of Fasculo elongated. Dapper in his pleated doublet and slashed breeches, the old man fingered his groomed beard and nodded at Angelo.
“Rosella Tabat is looking very well lately.” He teased him, Angelo flushing. “Such a lovely girl and with a beautiful singing voice. I could have found her work but now I hear she prefers sitting for Il Furioso. Such a waste of talent.”
Folding the contract, Gilda passed a copy over to him.
“Thank you, signora.” He said, turning back to Angelo. “You should engage Rosella Tabat’s affections, my boy. And I would do it soon, before someone else does.”
When the old man left, Gilda turned to her son. “So, what have you found out?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” she replied, “There must be something to discover about Nikolas Volt.”
“No one has any information.”
She pushed back her seat, irritated. “Nothing at all?”
“Only that he is a friend of Adamo Baptista —”
“I know that already! Two weeks, and this is all you discover! If I had hired a fish in the Lagoon it would have uncovered more.”
“There is nothing to uncover!” Angelo retorted, stung.
“You are very sullen today.”
“I have every right to be.” He retorted, “I have just seen something I did not expect.”
She paused. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Adamo Baptista was accompanying Rosella home.” His mouth made an angry dismissive noise. “Rosella! With Adamo Baptista! Rosella —”
His mother cut him off, leaning over the table towards him. “As you say, this is unexpected. Why would Rosella Tabat go with him? She knows his reputation, I can’t believe she would be seen with him by choice.”
“She certainly didn’t seem at ease.”
“Were they talking?”
“He was.” Angelo said bitterly. “Rosella kept her head bowed, looking at the ground.”
“Was he familiar with her?”
“What?”
“ – did he touch her, take her arm? —”
“No, he didn’t. And if he had, I’d have struck him.”
Gilda waved the words aside. “How many times do I have to tell you that violence is pointless? Guile is all that matters, especially when dealing with the likes of Adamo Baptista. Guile and patience.” She thought for a long moment. “You are fond of Rosella Tabat, aren’t you?”
“She’s a neighbour.”
“People fall in love with their neighbours all the time, it’s not against the law, Angelo... I’m old, but I remember being in love...” Her tone softened. “Are you in love with her?”
“I think so... Yes.”
“And you talk? I know you do, I have seen you, and others have commented on your friendship. It’s no secret in the ghetto. Nothing is.” Gilda smiled and tapped the back of her son’s hand. “She’s a beautiful girl, she observes the faith, cares for her mother and her brother and works hard...But if you are serious about her we should find out why she is walking with the likes of Adamo Baptista.”
“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing —”
“Angelo, listen to me. This may well be of importance.” Her tone hardened. “Baptista is our enemy, it would be unfortunate if your romance was hindered by such a rival.”
“I should confront him —”
“No. You will confront her.” Gilda advised. “See what she says and then we will know where we stand.” Her hand rested on her son’s. “And whilst you are talking to Rosella about that wolf Baptista, see if she knows anything about his lap dog, Volt.”
“Why should she?” Angelo asked, taken aback. “She was just walking with Baptista, nothing more.”
“Nothing that we know of. Don’t be foolish, Angelo, you know that in this city reputation is all. A single woman seen with that black crow will incite interest. People will gossip, and when they gossip we may learn something valuable.”
Abruptly he withdrew his hand. “You are asking me to use her.”
“Only to safeguard us!” Gilda hurled back. “If Rosella is innocent, she has nothing to fear. She might have simply been accompanied by the man and unable to refuse his companionship. But if she is involved with Adamo Baptista, then we have something to fear. As you said, Rosella is a neighbour of ours, and if someone – who is not Jewish – wants access to the secrets of the ghetto he requires a spy in the ghetto.”
“That’s ridiculous! Rosella is not a spy. She would never betray us.”
“You may well be right. It may all amount to nothing, but I must be sure.” Gilda replied, “Remember the situation we are in. Are we to be blackmailed until we are bled white? Until I’ve been forced to cheat and thieve from everyone in the ghetto? And then what is to follow for me, the galleys? Your scruples do you justice, Angelo, but perhaps your first duty should be to your mother and your family before Rosella Tabat.”
He shook his head. “But I know Rosella, she is honourable. She would never betray us —”
“All to the good,” Gilda replied. “If you are right then perhaps if she will not betray us – but she might be willing to betray her new friends.”
Chapter Twenty Four
His breathing steadying, Barent der Witt opened the door to her urgent knocking.
“Thank God it’s you.” he said, standing back to let Marina Castilano enter. “Are you alone?”
“Quite alone.”
“Why are you here?”
“To say goodbye and to tell you something,” Marina replied. “I’m leaving Venice with my sister this afternoon and I wanted to tell you that Gabriella’s body was found and identified. The painter found her —”
`“Who?”
“Tintoretto, Il Furioso.”
“What has he to do with Gabriella?”
“It was a fluke,” Marina explained, “he saw her corpse when it was brought to the morgue. He recognised her and came to tell me because she had been my maid and disappeared from my shop and he thought – quite rightly – that I would want to know...” She shrugged. “I thought you would too.”
He pushed the door closed with his foot. “Why are you leaving Venice?”
“You know why.” She chastised him. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m not safe if I stay in that shop —”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
“I can be certain enough to leave.”
“But what of your business?”
“I’m closing it. When I return to Spain I will send for my things and start again in Madrid. My losses will be great, as you may well imagine, but I will be alive and will have kept my sister safe.” She paused, then spoke again. “There’s more I have to tell you and I’m sorry but it is not pleasant…”
“You have started, you cannot draw back now.”
“Gabriella was murdered. Tintoretto said that her body and face were destroyed.”
Der Witt leaned against the desk for support. “It’s my fault.”
“It’s my fault,” he repeated. “If I had met her that night, I could have prevented her death.”
“You don’t know that, no one does.” Marina replied, “You could just as easily say that Caterina Zucca failed her, that she should have insisted Gabriella stay at her house. Or you could accuse me. Why did I not notice she was afraid? You did, but I didn’t. I saw Gabriella every day, I talked to her, gave her instructions, ate the food she prepared and lay in the bed she made for me, but I didn’t really care about her. I didn’t see her.” Her voice wavered. “If you have a cross to bear, I have one also.”
“You are leaving Venice, but I am not.” Der Witt replied. “Nor will I, until I have found Gabriella’s killer.”
“May I ask why her death means so much to you?”
“You have asked me before, Signora Castilano, and again I decline to answer. Let me just reassure you that my motives are sincere.” He hurried on. “However there is something I would like to ask you - did Caterina Zucca tell you what Gabriella said to her?”
Marina nodded. “About the four ? The Wolves of Venice. Yes, she told me.”
“Did it mean anything to you?”
“No, nothing.” Marina admitted. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“Nothing.”
“It has no code, no magic in it?”
“None that I have found.”
“What a shame,” she said almost bitterly, “I had hoped that it was something a man like you could solve.” She studied the sombre figure in black, the heavy featured face. “I imagine Caterina Zucca told you that I had kept Gabriella’s shoes? That I brought them back to the shop and hid them in another place. And yet they are gone.”
“Yes, she told me. I found it hard to believe. I thought you might have been mistaken. That being so afraid you had put them somewhere and forgotten where.” He shrugged his shoulders. “How else could they be gone?”
“Some people say that you are not merely an apothecary. That you also practice black magic, sorcery,” she looked around the study, her gaze coming to rest on the Ouija board half hidden under the desk. Gingerly she nudged it with the toe of her shoe. “You should be careful, Signor der Witt, the Inquisition will root you out. Perhaps you, like myself, should leave this city.”
