Six steps of perfect marble rose from the canal to a set of large doors covered in elaborate decorations of iron. They opened into an atrium of sorts, with a black and white tiled floor. This led to another atrium. From this, I mounted a wide staircase that took me to the portego. The room was enormous. Cavernous, even. Windows lined the walls on either end, and two huge lanterns hung from the ceiling. I followed a servant through a series of smaller square rooms, each decorated in pastel shades. Fine frescoes depicting scenes from Greek mythology were on every ceiling. More had been painted on the walls in some of the rooms, and the rest had walls covered in the finest silks.
“You like what we have done with the house?”
The voice came from a tiny figure sitting on a chaise longue in a square chamber done up in a soft, salmon color. She wore her hair, a perfect shade of the purest white, pulled back in a tight bun, and her clothing was more out of the romantic era than the present. Despite the warm weather, she pulled a long shawl made from Burano lace, with its famous Venetian points, around her shoulders.
“I shouldn’t take credit, of course,” she said. “Most of the work was done more than a century ago. Would you like a tour?”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“You are Lady Emily Hargreaves, I presume?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You may call me Zaneta.” She rose from her seat and motioned for me to follow her. “The frescoes are all by Tiepolo. The best. The ceilings are so high because we removed a floor. Very fashionable, yes?”
“It’s lovely,” I said, and it was. Beautiful. Tiepolo, considered by many to have been the finest painter in eighteenth-century Europe, brought a grandness to his work that few others could achieve. His heroes appeared more heroic, his heroines more beautiful and vulnerable. There was no question the rooms of Ca’ Vendelino were spectacular in their beauty. Yet there was something about the shabbiness of Ca’ Barozzi that made me prefer it. I wanted to find the Renaissance in Venice, not something approaching the onset of the Regency.
“We have the most magnificent garden in the city,” she said. “But you are not really here to see the house, are you?”
“I apologize if you thought I was,” I said. “I meant to be quite clear when I wrote—”
“Yes, yes.” She shook her head and turned around, taking me back to her salmon-colored salon. “You are interested in the painting of that Barozzi woman.”
“Besina, yes. What can you tell me about it?”
“Very little, I’m afraid,” she said. “How it came into our possession is unfathomable. The Barozzis are trash. Always have been.”
Now I was at an even greater loss for what to say.
“You’re not friendly with them.” I felt stupid the instant the words fell from my mouth.
She raised her eyebrows. “Vendelinos do not speak to Barozzis. It has been this way since … oh … the thirteenth century at least.”
“Six hundred years?” I asked. “Why?”
She blinked her eyes rapidly and shook her head. “Does it matter anymore? Such things are as they are. The reasons are unimportant.”
“Are they?”
“Sit,” she said.
I obeyed, lowering myself onto a delicate bone-colored chair with salmon velvet upholstery. “The portrait was, I believe, at your country house?”
“Yes. Well. Not in the house, per se. In one of the little-used outbuildings. That’s why it went unnoticed for so long.”
“How did Signora Morosini come to acquire it?”
“She saw it during a garden party I was hosting.”
“In a little-used outbuilding?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “You are savvy, yes? She was, I believe, involved in some sort of assignation with an unnamed gentleman. Why they chose to meet at such a place is quite beyond my comprehension.”
“And she saw the portrait?”
“Apparently the gentleman is not entirely adequate in all areas,” she said. “At least that’s my judgment. I shouldn’t want to be capable of noticing some old painting at such a moment.”
“You’re quite certain they were—” I stopped. This sort of gossip would get me nowhere. “I mean—”
“You’re embarrassed.”
Her words combined with the look on her face to make me feel slighted. “No. Not in the least, I assure you. I’m merely trying to imagine what it would require—or what would be omitted—to allow such a thing to happen.”
Zaneta smiled. “Good girl.”
“So Signora Morosini confessed all this when she asked to buy the portrait?”
“Not at all,” she said. “The gardener saw everything. And he never keeps anything from me.”
“So you sold her the painting?”
“Yes. As I said, it has no value to me. Once I knew I owned it, family honor required that I be rid of the dreadful thing at the first possible moment.”
“You did look at the painting before you sold it?”
“Yes. If it were a Titian it would have commanded a higher price.”
I pulled the ring off my finger. “Do you recognize this?”
Her manner changed in an instant. She sat upright, her eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?”
“Signor Barozzi was holding it when he died.”
“That ring belongs to the Vendelino family. It was stolen in the early sixteenth century, more or less.”
“More or less?” I asked.
“Sometimes details aren’t important,” she said. “The material point is that it should come as a surprise to no one that it was the Barozzis who took it.”
Un Libro d’Amore
vii
Lorenzo made the mistake of ceasing to worry about his sister halfway through the reception being held in honor of her impending nuptials. Besina had been sullen early in the evening, but now he could see she was blossoming. Her face glowed. Her eyes sparkled. Any beauty she ordinarily lacked seemed, as if by magic, to have been bestowed upon her. Though he found it difficult to believe, all Lorenzo could imagine was that Uberto Rosso had inspired the change.
Surely that was impossible.
He could think of no other explanation. This was, after all, the first time the betrothed couple had spent any time together. What else could explain Besina’s transformation? Lorenzo was used to the idea that the moods of Venetians were like the tide, up for six hours, then down for six. Perhaps that accounted for the shift in his sister’s demeanor. It was as reasonable an explanation as any.
So Lorenzo let go of his concerns with no regret and allowed himself to be swept up in a group of his friends, who, having indulged extravagantly in his father’s finest wine, were ready to go elsewhere. Courtesans were not where a man wanted to find love, but sometimes he had no other options.
And so Lorenzo departed, a feeling of relief rushing through him as he saw that Besina had, like him, accepted fate.
He could not have been more wrong.
An hour earlier, Besina’s face had registered surprise when one of the servants handed her a sealed note. She thanked him, made her way through the throngs of dancers in the portego, rushed down the steps, and stole into the garden behind the house. No other garden in Venice compared to that at Ca’ Barozzi. Her mother made certain of that. The sweet aroma of flowers filled the warm air, and the sound of water came from two directions—the canal in front of the house and the fountain in the center of the courtyard. Jasmine and roses bloomed in a profusion of color, songbirds in gilded cages ensured there was always music to be heard, and lemon trees in pots had been spaced among rows of boxwood hedges to create private groves.
Confident no one was watching her, Besina tore open the message, knowing full well it had to be from Nicolò.
Tomorrow at midnight outside the rear entrance to your house. Too dangerous to try to leave via canal. I will be waiting there for you.
Salvation was within her grasp.
8
It took
no small effort to keep Besina’s ring out of Zaneta Vendelino’s hands once she’d seen it. She insisted it was hers by right; I insisted the police required it as part of the murder investigation. Neither of us was being strictly honest. In the end, my will stood firmer than hers. Living with Colin had taught me well. I’d never once seen him back down on a matter of principle. Instead of becoming upset, he would appear to be almost serene. I did my best to mirror his technique, and it worked.
In order to save time, I took a gondola from Ca’ Vendelino to Ca’ Barozzi, where I wanted to speak to Emma and to see if I could eke out any useful information from the servants about her father-in-law. The question of the ring’s significance had grown more and more cloudy. If the old conte had come upon it recently, and the Vendelino family had discovered this (I did not doubt for an instant Zaneta was perfectly capable of feigning surprise), would they have killed to get it back?
It seemed unlikely, but given my extremely limited knowledge of etiquette and procedure when it came to blood feuds and Italian families, I thought it best at present to pass no judgment on the matter. Surely, though, if the murderer was a Vendelino, he would not have left the ring in the conte’s hand?
“Please tell me you have some news?” Emma greeted me from the entrance of the portego before I’d made my way halfway up the flight of stairs. “I can’t take much more of this.”
“I’ve learned something about Besina’s ring,” I said.
“I don’t care about the ring.” She looked as if she might stomp her foot and have a tantrum. “What about my husband? When will he return to me? I can’t bear being here by myself.”
“Colin is focusing on finding him. I’m working elsewhere.”
“Then you’re of no use to me whatsoever.”
I bit my lip, knowing it would be best to keep silent despite the fourteen quips that sprang to mind. “I don’t have much use for you either. I need to speak to the servants.”
“That’s perfectly acceptable.” She waved me away. “There’s no need to even come upstairs, then. Go through the old warehouse. It’s the side door from the water entrance.”
With that she disappeared, not realizing that she’d inspired in me a new line of questioning for those in her employ. I wanted to know what it was like to work in the house.
The answer, shockingly, was that the servants were happy. Emma had managed the household from the time of her marriage, as her father-in-law wasn’t much interested in domestic affairs. She wasn’t a generous mistress, but she was neither stingy nor particularly demanding. The house was a shambles. She knew trying to keep it in order was a losing proposition, and the staff knew that so long as minimum standards were met, she wouldn’t give them any trouble.
Except when it came to Facio Trevisani, who had recently lost his position.
Facio, according to the cook and three maids, had worked for the family for ages, since long before the old conte’s wife had died. She had depended on him to maintain her garden. Given the current state of disrepair in the courtyard, I could only imagine that either he’d done an extremely bad job or its condition had deteriorated with an uncanny speed after he’d been let go. The cook gave me directions to his house. Acting on a strong suspicion that I wouldn’t be able to follow them, I asked my gondolier for help. He, too, had difficulties but managed, in the better part of an hour, to find the grubby apartment for me.
The building that housed it was in alarming shape. I hesitated before climbing the stairs. The corridor was dark, and I thought about asking my waiting gondolier to accompany me but knew he was unlikely to abandon his boat. I heard a baby’s cry coming from the floor above, and it gave me confidence. Surely no one would keep an infant in a place that was actually dangerous? Perhaps that question shows my naïveté at the time, but it nonetheless inspired me to take a deep breath, mount the steps, and knock on the door as soon as I reached the top of the third flight.
There was no response. I knocked again. And again.
Then, not wanting to leave without gathering any information, I went up another floor and knocked at the apartment from whence the cries of the malcontented baby came. A harried-looking young woman opened the door. I apologized for disturbing her and introduced myself as a friend of Facio Trevisani.
“You’re a liar is what you are,” she said.
The harsh words took me aback. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“If you were his friend you’d know why he wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?”
She had a point.
“I’ve not seen him for some time and am concerned about him.”
“You’re not one of those Barozzis, are you?”
“No, of course not. I told you I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves.”
The baby started to cry again. The woman pursed her lips and tilted her head as she studied me. “I suppose you might as well come in.”
Despite outward appearances, she had done an admirable job to ensure her home was warm and inviting. The windows were spotless, and there was not a piece of dust to be seen. Granted, her furniture was worn and mismatched, but she’d arranged it in an attractive fashion and was clearly house-proud. She picked the baby up from its cot in the corner. It calmed immediately, giving its mother a gurgly smile.
“What a beautiful child,” I said. I knew extremely little about the raising of children beyond the fact that their parents enjoyed hearing them complimented.
“Thank you,” she said. “You speak Italian well, but with an accent. You are French?”
“English,” I said, suppressing a smile.
“How are you connected with Facio?”
“I know of his misfortune with his former employers and am worried about him.”
“That wretch letting him go was the beginning of all the trouble,” she said. “Wouldn’t even give him a good reference. And you can’t find a job if you can’t present a character, can you? No one would hire him.”
“I understand there was some trouble with the garden?” I was weaving fiction now, but it seemed a reasonable assumption. The garden was a disaster.
“That wasn’t Facio’s doing. The old man wouldn’t let him do a thing. Crazy, that one.”
Signor Barozzi must have refused to let him touch it, just as he’d done with his wife’s bedroom. “But surely his son’s wife, who managed the household, didn’t hold him responsible for that?”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it? Not with the poor child falling ill and no one to pay for medicine.”
“So the contessa let him go?”
“No, not her. The old man. Yelled and bawled and threw him out of the house. And all the while he didn’t give a care about what any of his other servants did. It’s chaos in the household. I’ve heard all the stories. My heart breaks for that family. They’ll never be happy again.”
“The Trevisanis?” I hoped I wasn’t revealing my complete ignorance, but it seemed unlikely, grammar aside, that she was referring to the Barozzis.
“Who else would I be talking about?” She shook her head. “When I think what that man’s done, I’m glad he’s dead. He deserved it. Stingy and mean he was.”
“Facio?”
“No, the old man, of course. He’s the one who’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Do you know where Facio has gone?” I asked.
“With his wife gone and no job, there was no reason to stay, was there? And the priests wouldn’t give her a funeral in the church. No suicides, they said. No compassion, either. Who could blame her, with her only child taken from her just because they couldn’t pay a doctor? It’s no wonder Facio could face no more.”
“Did someone take the child away?”
“No. The baby died, you see. Died of a simple fever because there was no money to pay for the doctor to come. Do you understand?”
I swallowed bile. The poor man, losing his child and his wife and all because of a shortfall of money. “I don’t suppose you know how I could get into his apartment? I’d like to l
eave him a message.”
“It won’t do no good,” she said. “He can’t read.”
“I know, but he’d recognize my handwriting, and he knows how to find me.” Lies upon lies, all in the name of justice.
She paused, and I feared nothing good would happen. “He didn’t lock the door when he left.” Her cheeks colored, and I saw a flash of guilt in her eyes.
“Oh,” I said. “I do hope you removed any perishable goods. It would be awful for him to return to rotting food.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course.” She all but stuttered. With her gaunt frame and a baby to feed, I could not fault her for scrounging for whatever nourishment she could find. If, indeed, that’s what she’d taken from Facio’s home.
“I won’t trouble you any further,” I said, “but, please, if you’ve any idea where he might have gone, do tell me. I want very much to help him.”
She shook her head. But before I’d gone halfway down the stairs she called to me.
“Signora, wait!”
I turned back around. “Yes?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I know he always wanted to learn how to build gondolas. Perhaps he’s trying a new trade?”
“That could be,” I said. “Thank you.”
So far as I knew, a new trade generally didn’t come with a new house. Although, having faced so much death, maybe he couldn’t bear to return to what had been his family home.
Or perhaps he knew that returning could lead to facing charges of his own. Charges similar to those he had likely made against the old conte. I made my way down the steps and tentatively pushed against the heavy door of Facio’s apartment, unaccountably frightened of what I might find inside.
No one—at least not recently—had looked after these rooms with the sort of tender care exhibited by the woman upstairs. Every surface was coated with a thick layer of grit and grime, the sort that accumulates at an alarming rate in old buildings. I opened the windows and the shutters both to let in light and to let out the heavy, oppressive air that filled the apartment. I wondered if this was what the Middle Ages smelled like.
Death in the Floating City Page 8
