“What about the men?” I asked.
“They, too, relied primarily on gondolas,” she said, “but they would sometimes walk, I suppose. They could do what they wanted, just as men do now.”
We crossed bridges, traversed narrow passages, basked in the light in large campi, and eventually emerged onto the Riva degli Schiavoni, only a short distance from the apartment where Henry James had finished writing The Portrait of a Lady more than a decade ago. Donata and I parted at the door after I thanked her for her assistance and sent my regards to her father. She hesitated before leaving me, and I wondered if I should invite her to join us for dinner. But as soon as I opened my mouth, she smiled, waved, and disappeared into the crowd filling the pavement outside the hotel.
“Ah, Signora Hargreaves,” the concierge said as I stepped up to his desk. “You are not coming from the water entrance?”
“No,” I said, smiling. “I walked. But fear not—I had a most excellent guide. May I have my room key?”
He reached it down from its space on the wall behind the desk. “Your husband returned some time ago and is waiting for you upstairs.”
The Danieli was comprised of several palazzi, and our rooms were in the oldest of the group, built in the fourteenth century. I crossed through the ornate lobby with its gleaming terrazzo floors and huge floral arrangements and went up the marble staircase before turning into a corridor whose ancient wooden floors creaked in a most charming manner with nearly every step I took. Colin opened the door to our suite before I could place my key in the lock.
“You weren’t despairing, I hope?” I asked, kissing him on both cheeks. “Hadn’t begun to wonder if I’d never return?”
“Not in the least,” he said. “I was looking out the window and saw you approach. Have you turned Italian? Not that I object to the kisses. I’m only hoping there will be more.”
“Fear not,” I said. I kissed him firmly on the lips and stepped inside the room. “I’ve made a new friend and already adore her. You’ll have to meet her as soon as can be arranged.”
“Caravello was a help, then?” he asked.
“Yes, but it is his daughter, Donata, who will prove the more useful to us.”
Colin had flung open our windows and shutters and turned two pale blue silk-covered chairs to face outside. The noise from the wide promenade and the water below filled the room. Gondoliers called to each other, the beautiful tones of their voices evident even when they weren’t singing. Tourists prattled, bright with the thrill of being in Venice. The occasional whistle from a steamship blasted in the distance. I loved the bustle and the excitement but was happy to sink, exhausted, into a comfortable seat.
“So,” Colin said. “What did you learn since I saw you last?” He moved a small gilded rococo table between our chairs and sat down, a bottle of whisky and two glasses in his hands. He poured—a single finger for me, two for him—and passed me a glass.
“More than I expected to,” I said.
He nodded, listening carefully as I recounted for him the details of my afternoon, staying silent until I mentioned the illuminated manuscripts missing from Ca’ Barozzi.
“One of them has already been sold,” he said. “I wired a number of rare book dealers throughout the Continent to inform them of the theft. The police had alerted their colleagues in other cities to Paolo’s disappearance and gave them a description but did not get in touch with bookshops.”
“Perhaps because they don’t consider it a theft,” I suggested. “Doesn’t Paolo technically own the books?”
“One would assume so,” Colin said, “but I read his father’s will. It mentions the manuscript collection separately from the rest of the estate. The conte left it to Emma.”
“Emma?” This surprised me. “She doesn’t seem to have even the slightest interest in them. Regardless, she’s not going to accuse her husband of stealing them.”
“No, probably not,” he said. “Still, he had no legal right to take them without her permission. Although so far as I know, Emma isn’t yet aware of the bequest.”
“Which volume did he sell?”
“A small Book of Hours. In Florence, two days ago, which suggests he hasn’t traveled too far. The police have their counterparts there watching for anyone matching Paolo’s description but have turned up nothing.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to,” I said. “Surely he’s moved on by now.”
“A reasonable conclusion,” Colin said. “One other tidbit from the book dealer. Paolo wasn’t alone. There was a Benedictine monk with him.”
“A monk?”
Colin drained his glass and set it on the table as a large ferry passed in front of our window, dwarfing everything around it. “He didn’t enter the shop. Waited outside. The dealer saw them speaking before and after Paolo came in, and they left the street together. They make a striking pair, the monk in his robes and Paolo nearly a head taller than everyone else around him.”
“Is it significant that he’s Benedictine?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s possible. The Barozzi manuscripts are all fifteenth and sixteenth century, and there was an important scriptorium in Florence at that time run by Benedictines.”
“Perhaps Paolo wanted to know more about the books,” I said. “But what? Anything concerning their value he would have learned from the dealer.”
“Precisely,” Colin said.
“Between the books and the ring, I’m convinced this murder is as rooted in the past as in the present.”
“Have you evidence or is this intuition?”
“It’s primarily intuition at the moment,” I said, “but the fact that I was so readily able to identify the owner of the ring seems to me to be a sign.”
“You can’t be certain the ring belonged to Besina Barozzi,” Colin said. “All you know is that someone who shared her initials owned it at some point in time. It’s entirely possible the ring came from someplace far from Venice and was sold to a jeweler who resold it to someone who gave it to a girl whose initials had nothing to do with those engraved inside.”
“Possible,” I said, “but that would be a rich coincidence. I do, however, take your point and will alert you the instant I have something more solid.”
“I would expect nothing less from a lady of your skill.”
Un Libro d’Amore
iii
Things became considerably more difficult for Besina and Nicolò after their magical encounter in the Piazza San Marco. Because of the vendetta between their families, they did not often attend the same social functions, so they could not see each other with the accidental ease so often relied upon by those newly in love. Although the feud was not at the forefront of either family’s thoughts—it had been going on too long for that—it was prevalent enough to mean that none of the normal routines of courtship were open to Nicolò. He could not implore Lorenzo to help him press his suit. He could not call at Ca’ Barozzi. Most significantly, he could not ask his father to begin marriage negotiations with Signor Barozzi.
Not again, at least.
At twenty, Nicolò was young enough to possess just a lingering modicum of the sort of naïveté that would have been utterly charming in a small boy. He believed his father would listen to reason, would respect love, and would agree that the significant dowry sure to be offered by a family of the Barozzis’ wealth would go a long way toward ending any lingering feelings of ill-will harbored by the Vendelinos. He stood, full of hope, before the heavy desk in his father’s office on the ground floor of their house, the room from which Signor Vendelino conducted business, where he met with merchants from the East and negotiated prices for their exotic goods. Where Nicolò used to come as a child, watching quietly and hoping to be given a sweet or a trinket from some far-flung land.
At first, it seemed his father wasn’t even listening. He didn’t look up from his papers until Nicolò revealed the name of his intended bride.
“That’s quite enough,” his father sai
d, rising from his chair so quickly it toppled over behind him. “If you have an interest in pursuing a career in diplomacy—an avenue I would not recommend for a variety of reasons—trying to forge an alliance between warring families through an undesirable marriage is not the way to begin. We will discuss the subject no further.”
“Warring? How are we warring with the Barozzis? I’ve seen no evidence of enmity beyond the occasional insult shot at them from within the walls of our own house.”
“You know nothing about this.” His father’s voice was low and serious. “Speak about it to no one else, especially your mother. You will not marry a Barozzi. You will not speak to a Barozzi. And you will never, ever mention this again.”
4
Colin and I were breakfasting on the Danieli’s stunning rooftop terrace. The sweeping views of the lagoon below us and San Giorgio Maggiore with its imposing Palladian church across the water were breathtaking. My husband’s coffee smelled delicious, but I had never acquired a taste for the bitter libation and was instead drinking a tall, cool glass of peach nectar.
“I would have preferred a full English breakfast,” Colin said.
“What has come over you?” I asked. “This persistent jingoism does not become you.”
“You know I’m an excellent tourist,” he said, “and I have a great appreciation for other cultures. Nevertheless, when I am working, I like the comforts of home. They ground me and help my mind stay focused.”
“So you seek out all things English wherever you go?”
“Precisely.”
“I require the opposite,” I said. “Immersing myself in another world helps me stay open to new ideas and keeps me from searching for the familiar.”
“Buongiorno!”
I recognized Donata’s bright voice as she stood at the entrance to the terrace and waved for her to join us. I had asked her to meet us here, thinking it always a good idea to have a partner-in-sleuthing when one is working in a new city and unable to depend upon one’s most capable spouse to always be on hand. Happy though I was to work on my own, I realized it was not always the safest of decisions: A solitary lady can be a target for unwanted attention. Before arriving in Venice, I had assumed Emma would want to accompany me, but she had proven disinterested on that count.
“I was so pleased to get your note. You are kind to invite my help,” Donata said, taking a seat as soon as I’d introduced her to Colin. I’d stayed up much of the night going through books about Venetian art and guides to all the museums and galleries in the city, doing what little I could in the hotel to trace possible paths for information about Besina. “My father confirmed your suspicion. He believes there is a portrait of Besina Barozzi in the small museum you mentioned to me.” She was eyeing the platter of pastries on our table. I lifted it to her, and she took a jam-filled cornetto.
“I’m as keen as the rest of you to see what she looked like,” Colin said, “but is it the best use of our time at the moment?”
“Have you a more pressing plan for the day?” I asked. “I don’t mean that to be glib. Learning more about Besina may be our best way forward. The ring may be an old family piece that’s been out of the Barozzis’ possession for so long they didn’t recognize it as theirs. Why is this what the conte was clutching when he died?”
“Because the murderer gave it to him,” Colin said.
“But why that specific ring?” Donata asked.
“It had to signify something,” I said. I gave my husband a pointed look. “Before you ask, I have no idea what. It could have something to do with the family finances and why the Barozzis were forced to sell off valuable possessions, but it also could be something particular to Besina.”
“It’s possible,” Colin said.
“Which is why you should begin by speaking with whoever handles the Barozzi finances and why I should find out more about Besina.”
“Darling.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand as he flashed a wry smile. “I know how difficult it is for you to leave the enticing world of banks and accountants and ledger books to me. Are you sure you don’t mind? As the finances are something into which we must look, I’ve already made an appointment with the director of the Bank of Venice. I’d so hate to miss it.”
“Don’t tease,” I said. “Your extremely rational nature makes you the perfect choice for analyzing such things. I do better where creativity is required. Besides, I manage all our household accounts. I deserve a break from the tedium.”
“You are a most competent manager. If you require a break, you shall have one.” He smiled. “I’ve no doubt you will excel at constructing a full picture of the life of Besina Barozzi. I know I can count on you to abandon the effort if you begin to sense it’s not relevant.”
“Of course,” I said. “I am well aware of the gravity of what we are doing. Our only goal is to discover who killed Emma’s father-in-law.”
“And making it safe for Paolo to return to his wife,” Donata said, her smile almost hesitant. “I’m a romantic.”
“I just hope that’s a viable end to the story,” Colin said. “Do not think me cynical, Donata. I am at least as romantic as you. At this point, though, we have no reason to think Paolo has the slightest interest in returning to his wife.”
He rose from the table, kissed me, and took his leave from us, heading for the bank.
* * *
Donata and I stopped at Ca’ Barozzi to see if Emma would like to accompany us to view Besina’s portrait, but she declined our invitation, explaining her morning was already fully booked.
Booked how? I wondered. With something more important than trying to clear her husband’s name? Of course, I was not being fair. Emma had sent for me because she did not know how else to help her husband. That she did not want to include herself in the work at hand ought not to be held against her. I certainly hadn’t expected we would become fast friends, brought together by a mutual goal.
Perhaps, though, I had hoped.
I wished I could shake all lingering naïveté from myself.
Our gondola slowed, depositing us at the small building that housed the pet project of an Englishwoman who had left the sceptered isle to take up permanent residence in Venice. She’d founded and abandoned theater companies, acted as patron for any number of artists of modest talent, and, at last, found what she hoped would be her lasting legacy: a museum dedicated to the ladies of her adopted city.
The gallery encompassed the entire ground floor, which would have originally served as warehouse space and offices for the family who lived above. The low beamed ceilings and lack of natural light in the space did little to enhance the displays. Now, paintings covered the walls. They weren’t Titians, Carpaccios, or Bellinis, but they were solid, credible works: some portraits, some depictions of the, shall we say, extravagant lifestyles of courtesans, and a handful of canvases that had been painted by women. Below them, display cases lined the perimeter of the room. I peered into the one nearest to me and saw a pair of shoes with staggeringly high heels.
“I can’t imagine anyone actually wearing them,” I said. I’d read about them, the chopines that had been popular with both courtesans and patrician ladies during the Renaissance, but had only seen drawings of the towering platform shoes. Confronted with the ten-inch cork soles in front of me, I gasped. “It would be impossible to balance, let alone walk. Surely they were just … ceremonial?”
“Not at all,” Donata said. “Servants or ladies-in-waiting would take the arms of the woman wearing them and keep her upright if she required help. They’d go all over the city in them. Wore them to parties.”
“It must have made for an inelegant gait.”
“To be sure,” she said. “At least until the wearer learned to be steady on her feet. But it also made her rise above everyone around her. Imagine being ten—or even twenty—inches taller than the rest of a crowd in the Piazza San Marco.”
“I can’t imagine it would be worth it,” I said. “Although we
aren’t much better now, are we, with our tight corsets and ridiculously wide sleeves? And I’m not confident there’s ever been a fashionable shoe that could be described as comfortable.”
I continued my survey of the room. Other cases contained pieces of jewelry, rosaries, prayer books, and miscellaneous articles of clothing. Fascinating though they all were, I kept my attention on the larger paintings, searching for Besina. Donata, however, paused in front of a grouping of miniatures.
“What I would like to find is a portrait of Besina carried by N.V.,” she said. “His dearest treasure, with him always.”
“You are a romantic,” I said and stepped to the next case.
“It infuriates my father,” she said, “but there’s nothing I desire more than finding perfect love. What could be superior? Not his academic pursuits.”
I smiled. Donata looked as if she were designed for love, like a stunning portrait of Venus. I hoped she would find her perfect love, and I was about to say so when I came to a painting whose card read:
Portrait of Besina Barozzi, 1489
Artist Unknown
Her brown hair, a light chestnut shade with hints of red, was braided and wrapped around the top of her head, accentuating her large forehead. A long, thin nose dominated her narrow face. Her mouth was unremarkable, but her eyes, hazel with bright rings of gold around the pupils, made the portrait come alive. I called for Donata to come look.
“She certainly wasn’t a beauty,” Donata said.
“Her eyes are stunning.”
“This dashes all my fantasies about N.V. carrying a smaller version around. What a travesty.”
“That’s unfair,” I said. “Physical beauty may attract a person initially, but it’s hardly the only thing that can take away one’s breath.”
“Easy words for a woman whose husband is the image of Adonis’s better-looking brother.” She stepped closer to the painting. “It’s not a bad dress.” The bodice, a rich wine-colored velvet that neatly complimented the color of Besina’s hair, was elaborately embroidered with gold thread.
Death in the Floating City Page 4
