“Yes, yes. I was surprised to read about it in the papers.” He took a magnifying glass off the counter and held the gold band in a trembling hand. “It’s Venetian. There’s a mark inside identifying it as such. Mid-fifteenth century, I’d say. A popular sort of design, the kind of thing given by lovers to one another, though it was more common for the phrases to be written in French than Latin.”
“Is there any way to identify the owner?” I asked.
“Ordinarily not, but in this case, possibly,” he said, tipping the magnifying glass in my direction and motioning for me to come closer. “N.V.–B.B. Do you see it inside?”
“Yes,” I said. The tiny, worn letters set next to the goldsmith’s mark were almost imperceptible. I’d spotted no hint of them when I’d looked with my naked eye at Ca’ Barozzi.
“N.V. undoubtedly gave it to B.B,” Donata said, “but that’s not much help, is it?”
“A little, maybe,” I said. “This was found by the Barozzi family. B.B. might have been one of their ancestors, but I’ve got no idea who N.V. could be.”
“The Barozzis are an old, noble family,” Signor Caravello said. “I’d assume N.V. was of equal status, and probably a man.”
“Ladies can’t give jewelry?” Donata asked, her dark eyes flashing.
“They can and they did,” her father said, “and a ring of this style would have been worn either by a man or a woman. However, it’s unlikely a man could have fit his finger into a band that’s snug on Signora Hargreaves’s hand.” He winked at me as he said my name.
“You’re right,” I said. “I can comb the Barozzi family records for someone with the initials B.B., but have you any suggestions as to where I might start searching for N.V.?”
“Le Libro d’Oro,” Signor Caravello said. “It is the book that contains the names of all the noble families of Venice. You can find it in the city archives at the Doge’s Palace. You would have to pick a year, though.”
“Papà, don’t you think it would be too hard?” Donata asked. “To go through all those volumes?”
“I’m not easily daunted,” I said.
Donata let out a long breath and smiled. “I am impressed.”
“Mid-fifteenth century, you said, yes?” I asked, turning back to her father.
He nodded.
“I’ll start with 1450,” I said.
“You won’t be able to just barge in and demand the book,” Signor Caravello said. “Donata, go with her. I will write a letter instructing that you be admitted.”
“Papà can do whatever he wants in Venice,” Donata said.
“I’m most grateful,” I said.
“It is my pleasure to offer whatever meager assistance I can,” he said. “It is a sad thing for such a beautiful piece to wind up in the hand of a brutally murdered man. So unfortunate. Signor Barozzi was a good soul.”
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“Our paths crossed on occasion,” he said. “I helped him to study the illuminated manuscripts in his family’s collection. A magnificent lot. I do hope his son holds on to it.”
“I’m sure he will,” I said with a firm smile.
“I cannot have you start on illuminated manuscripts, Papà. The archives will close soon,” Donata said. “We must be off.” She kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him before pinning a once elegant but now out-of-fashion hat onto her head. A broad smile on her pretty face, she looped her arm through mine. “I take it that’s your gondola waiting at the dock?”
“It is,” I said.
“What a luxury,” she said. “To have a gondolier at your disposal. We have a small boat, but Papà is too old now to row it, so the task falls to me. It does not make for shoulders that look elegant in a ball gown.”
“I imagine not,” I said. Donata may have believed her shoulders to be less than elegant, but no one would have considered her anything short of stunningly attractive. She was not delicate, but her curvy figure, mesmerizing eyes, and plump red lips more than made up for that.
“There’s no easier way to get around the city,” she said. “It’s more than a hundred separate islands, and the canals make for smoother transit than bridges.”
“Worth rowing, then,” I said. “How long have you been back in Venice? I understand you were away for some years in Paris. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” she said. “My father was a professor at the Sorbonne. We returned six months ago.”
“I adore Paris. But it must have been hard to be away from your friends for so long.”
“Not really.” She fluffed the cushion on the seat and leaned back, smiling. “It’s always been the two of us, you see. My mother died when I was born, and Papà quite depends upon me. I’ve not had much time for friends, at least not friends of my own. Still, it’s not been much of a hardship. Papà is always surrounded by the most fascinating intellectuals, and I learned early on to prefer their company to that of fashionable ladies my own age.”
“It sounds like a fortunate upbringing.”
“It was,” she said. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
Our gondolier pushed against the wall of a building with his strong leg. “Ordinarily I prefer to walk when I come to a new city,” I said. “I find it’s the best way to get to know a place, but I like the idea of rowing myself.”
“Rowing is exhausting,” Donata said. “You’d be better off walking if you’re bent on self-navigation.”
“I fear I would get hopelessly lost in the tangle,” I said, “and one would have to be devoid of all romance to object to going anywhere by gondola. Even so, I would very much like to learn how to navigate this city on foot.”
“That, signora, would take a lifetime to accomplish.” She smiled. “How long do you plan to stay in Venice?”
Un Libro d’Amore
ii
“Dance with me?” Nicolò took Besina’s hand without giving her a chance to answer. She blushed and looked down but made no attempt to disguise her smile. The music was a padovana, its slow tempo suited for speaking to one’s partner, but Nicolò and Besina remained silent, lost in each other’s eyes, delighted to feel their hands together.
The dance finished, and Nicolò led Besina from the floor.
“Do you intend to talk to me?” she asked. “To tell me your name? To ask mine?”
“I know yours already,” he said and suddenly found himself without words to continue.
“But I, kind sir, do not know yours.”
“I am Nicolò Vendelino, and from this moment I pledge to love you for eternity.” He half expected her to laugh or send him away.
Besina did neither of the things he feared.
“I was aware of that the instant I looked in your eyes,” she said, “and I knew my heart would forever be yours.”
Lorenzo watched from across the room, uneasy to see his sister flirting with a family enemy. He frowned, his eyebrows twitching, and wondered if he should interfere. Family honor required that he stop any Vendelino from trifling with any Barozzi lady. But nothing in Nicolò’s face suggested anything but emotions of the gravest nature. He appeared to have no motive beyond earnest sincerity, which concerned Lorenzo all the more.
He looked around for his father, unsure of what he should do, but could not locate him in the crowded room. When he turned back to his sister, she was gone. Along with Nicolò Vendelino.
Nicolò had taken Besina’s hand and pulled her into the loggia overlooking the lagoon, but the space was already crowded with others looking for privacy. There were many couples hoping to steal a romantic moment, but even more groups of men engaged in grave discussions of business.
“Come,” he whispered to Besina. “This is not private enough.” With swift and elegant speed, they descended a staircase, left the palace, and crossed in front of San Marco, the doge’s chapel.
“It’s as if we’ve escaped some unimaginable but dreadful fate,” Besina said, laughing as she struggled to catch her breath. “Silly, don’t you
think? But I feel invigorated.”
The bells of the clock of St. Alipio rang, marking the quarter hour. The sound seemed to vibrate from the walls of the buildings that lined the long square, and it startled Besina. For an instant, she wondered about the path on which she was about to embark. It wasn’t yet too late to stop, but it would be soon. She imagined her parents, her brother, and the rest of her family standing before her. And then she looked back into Nicolò’s eyes and laughed more.
She never again considered stopping.
She took his hand and pulled him to stand with her under the arch nearest to them. She leaned against its pillar, inside the passageway that ran the length of the square, hiding herself from the view of anyone who’d come to stand in front of San Marco. She raised her hand to Nicolò’s cheek but did not touch it.
“Love in whom I hope and desire,/Has given me lovely you as my prize,” she recited, quoting the poet Pier delle Vigne.
Nicolò could feel warmth emanating from her palm onto his face. His breathing quickened. “You woo me with the poetry of the damned?”
“You’re a student of Dante?” she asked.
“You know the Inferno?”
“Love, which quickly arrests the gentle heart,/Seized him with my beautiful form/That was taken from me, in a manner which still grieves me./Love, which pardons no beloved from loving,/Took me so strongly with delight in him/That, as you see, it still abandons me not.” She did not take her eyes from his as she spoke.
“I loved you when first I saw you,” Nicolò said. “Now I know you will be the companion not only of my heart but of my soul. From you I must never be parted.”
With that, he clasped his fingers around her hand, guiding her arm around his neck as he brought his lips to hers.
Never was there a kiss more ripe with innocence.
3
The instant I opened the enormous and dusty volume of the Libro d’Oro handed to me by a clerk in the city archives, I realized I’d taken on a task of only somewhat less than Herculean proportion. Donata’s warning had not been for nothing, and the amusement with which the clerk met my request should perhaps have given me pause. The Libro d’Oro had profound significance in Renaissance Venice. Only those whose family names were listed in it could serve in the republic’s government. It had started, in the early days, with a manageable group of families, the equivalent, I suppose, of the English aristocracy. Like the English aristocracy, it had expanded over the years as the number of influential and wealthy families in the city ballooned. Eventually, the Libro d’Oro had been closed to further additions.
The volumes through those we planned to search contained hundreds of names of every child born to every noble family. Donata threw up her hands and shook her head, a wide grin across her face. “All these children! Our work is before us, eh?” She barked something in Italian spoken too quickly for me to understand, and the clerk scurried off, returning with another volume that he placed on the table in front of her. “I’m taking December 1450. You have April, no?”
I nodded. “These are noble families, correct?” I asked her.
“Sì,” she said.
“But they don’t have titles.”
“No. The Venetian republic had no interest in such things. If you did come across a titled person in this period, he would no doubt have been a foreigner. Even now, no one goes by titles.”
Three hours later, we’d come up with six potential families. None of the entries showed a son whose given name began with N being born in the volumes we’d perused, but we were taking a wild stab at guessing dates. That did not concern me. I hadn’t expected the identity of N.V. to leap out at us. All I’d hoped was to put together a list of the families whose name began with V present in the city during the time.
“We should turn to marriage records next,” Donata said. “Find a couple with the right initials.”
“That might be too difficult,” I said. “Looking up marriage records would be good, but we don’t know what year we need, and I imagine not knowing the groom’s surname would be a considerable obstacle. I think we should focus on two things now. First, figuring out who B.B. is. Second, if that doesn’t immediately reveal the identity of N.V., we can turn to the families whose surnames we’ve identified.”
“So where to now?” she asked.
“Ca’ Barozzi.”
* * *
Emma knew almost nothing about her husband’s family history but directed us to follow her to the library. Its windows overlooked a small courtyard, the only sort of garden one might have in Venice. This one was not the haven of cool greens and bright petals one would hope to find in such a space. It was a shambles. Weeds choked the flowerbeds, climbing vines had lost all sense of direction, and the potted orange trees looked in dire need of water.
Donata sighed. “Beautiful.” I wasn’t sure if she was being facetious about the view outside or genuinely complimenting the lengths of shelves lining the walls of the room.
“What used to be in here?” I asked Emma, pointing to an almost empty glass display case. Emma had been leaning against it when Colin and I had searched the room earlier. I had glanced at it and seen the handful of glass animals it contained, but now closer examination revealed its velvet lining had faded around shapes distinctly like those of books.
“A collection of illuminated manuscripts,” Emma said. “They’re quite valuable.”
They must have been the ones to which Signor Caravello had referred. “Why are they gone?” I asked.
“Mmmmm?” she replied, playing with the clasp of the elaborately engraved gold bracelet that hung around her wrist.
I wanted to shake her and force her to pay attention. “What happened to them?”
“It appears Paolo thought it best to keep them close, so he took them when he left,” she said. “They’ve been handed down in the family since the fifteenth or sixteenth century or something. I’m not sure. Very rare, of course, and worth a small fortune because of the quality of the drawings. His father refused to sell them at any price. They’re quite lovely. All of them done in Venice at a time when printers were taking over from copyists. I gather we’re to think printing changed the world. Gutenberg and his press and all that.”
“You’re certain your husband took them, not the murderer?”
“Yes. One of the maids saw him removing them moments before he disappeared from the house.”
“Are the police aware of this?” I asked.
“Yes,” Emma said.
“Why did you not see fit to tell me this earlier?” I asked. “Colin and I were in this room only a few hours ago.”
“I suppose it didn’t occur to me,” she said. “I’m not the one who’s supposed to have the mind of a detective.”
It had been a mistake not to ask about it before. I should have known better than to rely on her to point out pertinent information. “Do you know specifically what books they were?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “They were all done by the same man. Can’t say I remember his name. Some Venetian monk. There’s a Bible, of course, two Books of Hours, some extremely tedious Latin poetry—I assume it’s tedious. It’s Latin, after all. Dante’s Divine Comedy and a collection of psalms. The drawings in all of them are beautiful.”
“Why would Paolo have thought there was a pressing need right now to keep them safe?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Emma said, “but I can’t think of any other reason he would have wanted to tote them around.”
“You don’t think he would have sold them?” Donata asked.
“Never,” Emma said. “He respected his father too much to do that. He knew how much the old man loved them.”
“We shall discuss this further after I’ve spoken to my husband,” I said, hoping Colin would have learned more from the police. I told Emma about the initials on the ring. “I chose to go to the city archives before returning here, as I knew they were closing soon, and I have identified several possibilities as to the fami
ly name of N.V. Now we need to see if we can figure out who B.B. was. I’m hoping that may prove easier. She may, after all, be a Barozzi.”
“Whatever you think,” Emma said. Donata looked at her with hard eyes. “There’s a large book on that table.” She nodded in its general direction. “It’s a record of family births and deaths.”
Although its dimensions were larger than those of the Libro d’Oro, this volume was considerably less daunting. It took me little more than a quarter of an hour to page through the records of the fifteenth century. The handwriting was difficult, but not impossible, to decipher. When I was finished, I considered myself fortunate the Barozzis hadn’t had more of a penchant for alliteration. Only one entry had the initials B.B., that for a baby girl who had been born in 1474 and was called Besina.
* * *
It troubled me that Emma had failed to mention the missing books to us when Colin and I had been in the library earlier. It troubled me, too, that I had not taken better care at that time. Colin couldn’t be held accountable. He wasn’t the one who had inspected the case.
Donata, perhaps sensing my tense mood, suggested that we walk back to the Danieli. “You want to learn the city, yes?” she asked. “We should walk. I can show you the way.”
The air had turned cooler, but it still had the heavy feeling of a hot summer day, and I welcomed the shade of the narrow passages Donata guided me through. I quickly agreed with my friend that it would take a lifetime to become competent navigating the labyrinthine calli of Venice, but I also knew it was a skill I wanted to master. I’d fallen in love with the ethereal beauty of the city. We were still hours from twilight, and yet the light around us seemed to have changed entirely from when we’d entered Ca’ Barozzi. The shadows were darker, and the sun had traded its white hotness for a more tempered gold. Venice, like Paris, had a light all of its own.
“In Besina’s day, noble ladies would never have walked anywhere,” Donata said. “They took private gondolas and usually those with covered cabins so they would not be seen. They wouldn’t have had any familiarity with these back streets.”
Death in the Floating City Page 3
