The Wolves of Venice

by Alex Connor

  “You said she drowned.”

  “She was found in the water, but she had marks around her neck and a deep cut on her wrist.”

  “Perhaps she tried to kill herself?”

  “With marks around her neck?”

  “Maybe she tried to hang herself and then attempted to cut her wrist. It’s painful, perhaps she thought drowning might be easier.”

  Surprised at his unconcern, Caterina persisted. “I thought I would warn you —”

  “Of what?”

  “You told me that someone is trying to make you look like a murderer.” She explained hurriedly. “Now there has been another killing, I wanted to tell you what had happened so you could be prepared.”

  Her voice trailed off, her anxiety replaced by a feeling of unease. She had trusted the Dutchman, had developed a fondness for him, and had sympathised when he had told her about the loss of his daughter. They had become allies. But now she was seeing him differently, wondering if she had been duped: if his involving her with the deaths of his child and that of Gabriella Russo had worked on her sympathies and blunted her senses. She also realised that she was alone.

  “What am I supposed to be prepared for, Caterina?”

  “The… The Inquisition, the authorities. You said they were watching you.”

  “I was told they were watching me, I never said it.” He replied, leaning against his desk. “So why did you come here? To tell me about another girl’s death?”

  She lifted her head imperiously, refusing to show unease. The killer’s hairs were in her pocket, but although she had arrived willing to confide in Der Witt, she was now determined to keep the evidence to herself.

  “I came here because I was trying to help an old friend.”

  “But you have told me so little. Surely if you were really trying to help me, you would tell me all the details. Who was this girl?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was she mutilated?”

  “Not that I saw,” Caterina replied, her tone cool.

  “And she had all her limbs?”

  “Yes, Dutchman, the girl had all her limbs. Perhaps her killer was not the same person as the man who murdered your daughter, or Rosella, or the woman in France —”

  “Or perhaps he was disturbed.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps he was going to mutilate her and could not go through with his plans because he was about to be caught.”

  She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I do not know what happened, or who he was, or why he did it. As I say, I just wanted to inform you.”

  “Did you know the girl?”

  “No.”

  “Did I?”

  “How would I know?” Caterina replied, “She is in the morgue now, you could look yourself.”

  “And you say that they found her body an hour ago?”

  She nodded. “Yes, just as it was beginning to go dark.”

  “Which canal?”

  “The Merziere.”

  “The killer chose a public place. All the more reason to suppose that he was disturbed before he could complete his ritual.”

  “It is not busy the entire distance of the canal.” Caterina retorted. “Besides the girl’s body could have drifted from where she was originally left.”

  “Had she been in the water long?”

  “The boatmen said no, that she could not have been there for more than a matter of minutes because they had passed by earlier and there had been no body there then.”

  Faking an interest in the objects around her, Caterina moved around the studio, edging closer to the door. She could sense the Dutchman’s gaze on her as she pretended to be intrigued by a drawing on the wall, but in reality her attention was fixed on the exit. All she had to do was to get within a couple of feet of the door, she told herself, then she could make a run for it. Der Witt was a heavily built man in his fifties, she could be out of the house and away from the terrace before he could catch up with her.

  “You like the drawing?”

  Caterina was momentarily caught off guard, then glanced back to the picture. “Yes. It’s beautiful.”

  “Was she?”

  “What?”

  “The girl who was just killed,” he replied. “Was she beautiful?”

  Caterina nodded. “Yes, she was beautiful. Gabriella was beautiful too. Were your daughter and the woman in France also beauties?” He stared at her without answering. And then, for a reason could never explain, she asked. “Where were you an hour ago, Dutchman?”

  *

  Angelo pushed aside his plate of food, his brother staring at him. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” Angelo replied, glancing over to his mother. “Where’s Rosella?”

  “She went home,” Gilda replied, her tone brusque. “She had it in mind that she wanted to talk to her brother, although what good it will do remains to be seen.” Reaching for some bread she tore off a hunk and then rolled it around in her fingers absent-mindedly. “I tried to convince her to stay, but Rosella was determined. She wants to make things right with Ira. I understand —”

  “I don’t.” Angelo said flatly. “He’s made it clear what he thinks. And he’s made Rosella feel guilty, even a burden. She told me that Ira thinks she’s ruining his career —”

  “Really? How can he believe that?” Gilda replied.

  “ — Rosella being pregnant with Mario Gianetti’s child is a disgrace. Ira wants to send her away and marry her to some Jewish widower in another city.”

  “Maybe that would be for the best —”

  “For the best!”

  “Angelo, you are in love with Rosella,” his mother said indulgently. “Of course you want her to stay here, but what is there for the girl in Venice now?”

  Marco hesitated. He knew what Rosella had told him had been in confidence, but the secret burned on his tongue and would not stay hidden. Leaning across the table he dropped his voice. “You must tell no one - and that means you too, Federico.” he warned his brother. “I was told this in confidence by Rosella – the Contessa wants Marco to marry her.”

  “Nonsense!” Gilda snapped, tossing her bread to one side. “She was teasing you.”

  “Rosella was not teasing me!”

  “You think the heir to the Gianetti fortune would marry some Jewess from the ghetto? Be sensible, Marco, this is nonsense. The old Contessa must be losing her mind.” She tapped her forehead. “You cannot mix Jew with Catholic —”

  “Unless Rosella converts.” Gilda stared at her son incredulously as he continued. “It’s true, the old lady wants her to become a Catholic, then she will see to it that her grandson owns up to being the child’s father, and marries Rosella to secure the baby’s inheritance.”

  “She believes this?”

  Marco hesitated. “Rosella has some doubts —”

  “Some doubts! She should do more than doubt.”

  “ — she wondered if the family might want the marriage so they could get rid of her later and bring up the baby themselves.”

  “What did she mean – get rid of her?”

  Angelo shrugged. “I don’t know. Send her away from Venice, get her away from the city to marry someone else or have her baby in some convent.”

  “And where does Marco Gianetti come in all of this?” Gilda asked curtly. “Does he want the marriage?”

  Angelo shrugged. “I don’t know – I’ve told you everything Rosella said.”

  “I don’t imagine that she told you – or maybe she didn’t know herself – that Marco Gianetti’s father was married twice. Both of his wives died.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know what you mean —”

  “I don’t mean anything, Angelo, I’m just thinking aloud. It would be strange if his son followed in his father’s footsteps.” Gilda stared at her sons. “Both of you have to keep quiet about this, you hear me? You in particular, Lorenzo, you have a big mouth —”

  “So has Marco!” he replied, aggrieved. “W
hy pick on me, when it was him who broke Rosella’s confidence?”

  “None of us must mention this,” Gilda said firmly. “We are not to get involved —”

  “Rosella is living here!”

  “Rosella was living here!” his mother countered. “She has now returned home. Only Rosella and Ira can work out what they are going to do about the child and about the future. It is none of our business and we can’t interfere – or mention it outside this room.” She looked from one son to the other. “Agreed?”

  “She shouldn’t have gone home,” Angelo persisted. “Ira is barely there, he’s always away. Here she has us, she had company —”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want company, Angelo! Rosella needs to think. She has a decision to make which will set the course of not only her life, but that of her child. We must leave her in peace.” Gilda rose to her feet and began to clear away the plates.

  But Angelo persisted. “Can’t you talk to her?” he pleaded. “She might listen to you —”

  “If Rosella had wanted to talk to me, she would have come to me already.” Gilda replied. “When Rosella Tabat needs me – or you - she will come back.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Angelo countered.

  “Then that is her choice. And one you will have to live with.”

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Weary, his footsteps dragging, Ira made his way to the ghetto, ringing for admittance. It was three in the morning, the moon incandescent, casting its silk white ribbons on the water of the canals and the rounded roof tiles. He had walked without carrying a lamp, the moonlight enough to illuminate his way, the night stripping the stonework of colour, the bridges and alleyways silent as a graveyard.

  He had decided that he would talk to his sister in the morning and allow Rosella to make the choice as to whether she wanted to marry Marco Gianetti or a Jewish man from another city. Ira’s own instinct was against any involvement with the Gianetti family; his mistrust of Marco increasing rather than decreasing. Their fight had served no purpose; Ira had hoped it might absolve some of the shame and betrayal he felt, but it had done the opposite. Rosella had been right; he had chosen to see Marco as the scapegoat and, to his shame, the destruction of their friendship mattered more to him that his estrangement from Rosella.

  Sometimes Ira even wondered if – in the early hours when he found sleep absent – he had struck his sister deliberately. His conscious mind denied it, but his subconscious wondered if the misaimed blow had been intended. Having admitted the truth to himself, Ira was eager to make amends with his sister and as he rang the ghetto bell for the second time he was keen to be admitted. His plan was simple: in the morning he would ask Rosella for forgiveness. They were family, two people alone in the world: she needed his support and blessing and he – reluctant as he was to admit it - needed the same from her.

  “Ira.” The gatekeeper came to the entrance, unlocking the gates and stepping back to allow him to enter. He said nothing, but kept his gaze averted, his head bowed.

  “Did I wake you, Samuel?”

  “No, you did not wake me.” He looked up, eyes moist. “I am sorry, so sorry...”

  What are you sorry for? Why are you crying? If not at this moment, you have been weeping because your eyes are swollen. And you will not look at me... Ira stared at the man, his mouth opening, but not speaking... I know, I know what you will not tell me. I know. But I will ask anyway, because it is not real until I hear the words

  “What is it?”

  “Rosella...”

  Tell me, go on. Go on, tell me. Say it, form your lips into the words and speak them. You will remember them all your life - but not as I will. I will never stop hearing them and know I was too late. That there will never be a morning, there will never be that conversation, that offered choice, my reluctant, arrogant, unfeeling, uncaring surrender.

  Suddenly Ira’s hand lost its grip and he dropped his medical bag, leaning against the wall for support. Besides him, the gatekeeper was talking gently, holding his arm.

  “Your sister was found a little while ago... she is dead, Ira...”

  “Dead? How?”

  And the gatekeeper paused, scrabbling to make the phrase.

  “She was … she was...found in the Merziere canal.”

  “Drowned?”

  Sliding his arm under Ira’s, the man leaned forward, preparing for the weight he would have to bear. “No, she was murdered... Rosella was strangled.”

  Ira’s legs buckled, the gatekeeper taking his weight as he struggled to keep Ira upright. As he did so, two other men came running towards them to help, Ira pushing them away.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted, heaving himself upright. “Let me be.”

  In unison, the men stepped back, watching as Ira Tabat inched his way home. They could see he was struggling to walk, weaving slightly from side to side, one of the men following after him with his medical bag. Agonisingly slowly Ira covered the fifteen yards to the home he had shared with his sister. Finally, his hand shaking, he lifted the latch.

  “Ira, take your bag...”

  He turned, nodded to the man and took his case, then walked in and closed the door behind him.

  Outside the men waited in silence. They saw a candle lighted in an upstairs window and glanced at each other, wondering if they should stay or leave. But Ira Tabat did not make a sound that could be heard outside. There was no wailing, no crying, instead he sat motionless at the window and watched as the moon died away and the dawn came in.

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Making a gesture for his apprenticeships to be quiet, Tintoretto dismissed two of the men and scolded the third, berating him for under priming the canvas he had wanted to work on that morning.

  “How many times do I have to teach you?” he asked, tapping the young man’s temple. ‘Is it solid in there? Like one of Michelangelo’s marble statues?” he picked up a large priming brush and waved it in front of the apprenticeship’s face. “Two coats! How many times do I have to tell you – lay on two thick coats.”

  But the apprentice’s gaze had moved from Tintoretto’s face. Instead he was looking over the artist’s shoulder, his expression curious.

  Turning to follow his gaze, Tintoretto stared at the figure in the studio doorway. It took him a moment to recognise the man, then he beckoned urgently to him.

  “Ira, come, come in.”

  “Shall I do the second coat now?” the apprentice asked, Tintoretto waving a dismissive hand in his direction. “No, tomorrow. Tomorrow will do.”

  “I could do —”

  “Tomorrow!” Tintoretto repeated, hustling the lad out of the studio and locking the door behind him. When he turned Ira was standing with his hands extended towards the stove for warmth. Colourless, his face drawn, his eyes shadowed, the lips bloodless.

  “My friend, are you ill?”

  “Do you think she is cold?”

  Tintoretto pulled out a seat and gestured for Ira to sit down. “Who?”

  “Rosella.”

  “I don’t know, the temperature is falling, that’s true.” He continued, puzzled. “Where is Rosella?”

  “Not at home.” Ira replied, staring intently into the artist’s face. “You know where she is, you know the place, you have been there often.”

  “I don’t understand —”

  Ira looked around him blindly. “I did not know where else to go, but here. Marco was my friend, but I couldn’t go to him. Not now... Did he do it, do you think?”

  Confused, Tintoretto took Ira’s arm. “You have to explain, tell me what you are talking about.”

  “Rosella. She’s dead.”

  Tintoretto blinked, re-running the words in his head before replying. “She’s dead? How?”

  “Murdered. She was strangled and left in the Merziere canal yesterday. Some boatmen found her and they took her to the morgue. I’ve been talking to the authorities, they’ve been questioning me, asking me strange things – ‘Did I love my sister? Had
we fought?’” his hands reached out towards the stove again. “It will be cold in the morgue. I should take a blanket to cover her...”

  “Ira, look at me,” Tintoretto said calmly, “and concentrate. You said that the authorities had been asking you questions. Why?”

  He ignored his words. “…They don’t know she was pregnant, that she was carrying Marco Gianetti’s child and that we had argued about it. When they do, it will change everything... He wouldn’t have killed her, would he?”

  “Marco?” Tintoretto replied, incredulously, “No, he wouldn’t kill anyone!”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?” Ira asked, his eyes unreadable, “the authorities thought I was capable.”

  “Did they say so?”

  `“No, but I could tell —”

  “How do you know what they thought?” the artist replied shortly. He was trying to remain composed, but the conversation was a struggle for him. Rosella was dead; he could hardly believe it. Rosella, murdered. His attention turned back to Ira. “You loved your sister, you provided for her and for your mother for years, everyone knows you were a close family. And besides, you are a respected doctor —”

  “I was ashamed of her.”

  “Tell me that, Ira, but no one else!” Tintoretto snapped. “There are things that should remain private, or they will be misconstrued.”

  “But it’s true,” Ira persisted, “I was ashamed of her being pregnant. And now it seems unforgivable —”

  Tintoretto’s grip on his arm tightened. “You must mind what you say, Ira, the inquisitors will trap you otherwise, make your words seem as though they mean other than what you intended...” He pulled a bench over to the stove and sat down, encouraging Ira to take a seat beside him. The light from the stove illuminated his features and threw umber shadows around his eyes. “Why would anyone want to kill Rosella?” Tintoretto asked, his voice wavering. “She never hurt anyone, who would want her dead?”

  “The Gianetti family?”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps the Contessa’s idea that Marco should marry Rosella did not find favour with everyone. Maybe someone did not want a Jewess in the family, or the scandal which would be sure to follow. They have the money, power, either Marco or the old woman could have arranged my sister’s death.”