Death in the Floating City

by Tasha Alexander

  “I am aware of that,” I said. I pressed my lips together and took a deep breath. “I meant the first written versions, but that does not matter at the moment. I’m interested in why Paolo Barozzi required your services.”

  “He has a lovely collection of books,” the monk said.

  “A collection that, so far as anyone is aware, is not in need of any restoration,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “So why did he require your services?”

  “He did not need a restorer, per se,” Brother Giovanni said, “but … how to explain … he … he was looking for something. Something he thought was hidden in one of the books.”

  “Which book?” Colin asked.

  “Unfortunately, he was not sure of that.”

  “Did you help him find this elusive information?” Colin asked.

  “I was trying,” he said.

  “What about the books Paolo sold?” I asked. “Did he not suspect the information could be found in them?”

  “As best as we could ascertain, there was nothing to be found in either text.”

  “Do you have any idea as to what the information pertains?” I asked.

  “He told me it was too dangerous to let me know,” the monk said.

  “Surely you would have known the subject once you found it?” Colin asked.

  “Of course, but he wanted to protect me as long as possible. His father was killed over it. He’s afraid he will be, too.”

  “What is your method for searching the books?” I asked. “It seems more likely that he would have hired an expert in codes than a restorer.”

  “I will not argue with whatever you choose to believe, madam.”

  “A little more explanation, please.” My sympathy for the man was growing thin. I was beginning to understand why Colin had tied him up.

  “Paper—vellum—was an expensive commodity in the Middle Ages,” he said, “and it was often reused. Written over again, resulting in what’s called a palimpsest. Paolo had me looking for evidence of this in his books.”

  “Was the vellum reused?” I asked.

  “In all but the two he sold.”

  “Is it possible to read the original text?” Colin asked.

  “Sometimes,” the monk said, “but only after having removed the newer paint and ink. It’s a delicate process. That is what I was going to do for Paolo.”

  “That would ruin the books,” Colin said. “Why should I believe Paolo is not pursuing this in an attempt to destroy coded messages in the later text?”

  “Because if that’s what he wanted to do, he would have burned them and been done with it in an instant,” the monk said.

  “Would he?” Colin asked. “When the collection is the most valuable thing the family now possesses?”

  “I can only tell you what I know. I apologize if you find that unsatisfactory.”

  “How did Paolo plan to get back in touch with you?” I asked.

  “We have an arrangement,” Brother Giovanni said. “But it will only work if I am back in Padua.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I cannot say, Lady Emily. I gave my word to Paolo that I would never tell a soul. Not even the Grand Inquisitor could get it out of me. Were there, that is, still a Grand Inquisitor.”

  Somehow, I did not doubt that.

  It meant only one thing: Colin would have to take him back to Padua at once.

  * * *

  “I can’t say I regret bringing him here,” Colin said. “It was worth it to see you, if only briefly. And he admitted more here than he did when I questioned him in Padua. Perhaps the journey softened his will. Or at least made him take the situation more seriously.” Brother Giovanni, his hands tightly secured and under the watch of a stern boatman, was waiting for my husband in a gondola that would take them to the railway station.

  “It was well worth it,” I said. He pressed me against the wall of the narrow corridor leading to the water entrance and kissed me. “I’ll expect much more of that when you return.”

  I took a seat in the hotel lobby, where Donata had agreed to meet me so that together we could go to the Tramontin boatyard. I’d made further inquiries about Facio Trevisani and found he had sought work with several other households in the city, as well as in at least seven hotels, where he’d made it clear that he would take any position, down to the lowliest. He was desperate, and he was denied everywhere. No one would take him without a character written by his former employer.

  The walk, a pleasant one, took us half an hour, across the Ponte della Carita and along the Fondamenta delle Zattere with its spectacular views of the Giudecca Canal. Donata replied to my good-natured attempts at conversation with minimal answers. It was not like her.

  “What is troubling you?” I asked. “You’re hardly yourself today.”

  “I saw something when I was coming to the hotel,” she said. “It was probably nothing more than coincidence, but I admit it rattled me. Your plague doctor. Someone in the costume was standing in the center of the bridge nearest my father’s shop. He was standing there, watching me.”

  “Did he follow you?”

  “No,” she said, “but he nodded when I saw him. It felt like he was putting me on notice.”

  “You don’t have to continue helping me, Donata. I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable or possibly dangerous situation.”

  “I’m not worried. Not exactly. It unnerved me, that is all. I’ve enjoyed assisting you. It’s much preferable to sitting in the shop and arguing with my father. Still, I think it made me reconsider how serious what we are doing is.”

  “It is serious, Donata. Terribly serious.”

  “Then I cannot abandon you.” She smiled. “I may, however, choose to take gondolas over walking when I’m alone.”

  “A wise decision,” I said. “One can never be too careful.”

  Domenico Tramontin was not expecting us, but he could not have been more gracious. Justifiably proud of his work, he showed us the tools used by the squeraroli, the gondola builders, and explained how, with water and fire, they curved the long planks to the elegant shapes required for the boats. He then ushered us into his office, sat us down, insisted we be brought coffee, and asked how he could help us.

  “I’m curious to know if an acquaintance of mine, Facio Trevisani, has come to you looking for work.”

  “Sì, signora.” He nodded enthusiastically. “He did, but I cannot give him work. He has no experience, no training, and I am too busy to take on a new apprentice. It is unfortunate. He was most enthusiastic. I did not want to discourage him, but I had to tell him it was unlikely he could find the sort of work he wants. He was a gardener before, so I suggested he see my friend who lives on Giudecca.”

  “Is your friend a gardener?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, “but his sister’s husband works as one on a huge estate on the Brenta. La Villa di Tranquillità. I thought perhaps they could use an additional hand.”

  “Do you know if he took your advice?” I asked.

  “He did, he did. I was most pleased.” Domenico’s smile was infectious. “I told him I would give him a good word, as there had been bad blood between him and the Barozzis. I know a good man when I see one, and I’ve never trusted a Barozzi. Facio is a good man.”

  * * *

  “Should we find a boat and go to Brenta at once?” Donata asked as soon as we’d left the boatyard.

  “No,” I said. “I shall send a message to Signora Morosini and inquire as to whether Facio is working there.”

  “Then we will go?”

  “Yes, if he’s there.”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit a grand villa on the Brenta,” Donata said. “Are you sure we can’t manufacture a reason to meet with Signora Morosini in person?”

  “We don’t have time for such things now. I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I was only half serious. Not about wishing we could go, but about suggesting we do so when it’s
not necessary. Domenico Tramontin is a well-respected man. His backing of Facio may have made all the difference. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if he got the job, which is why my inclination was to go at once. Especially given the significance of the villa to our present investigation.”

  “Believe me, I’m equally tempted,” I said. “If Facio is employed at the villa, it will make me all the more suspicious of him. He could easily have been the one who destroyed the painting. But why? I don’t know how to connect him to the ring.”

  “Perhaps we need to learn more about his family,” Donata said. “What if they were once great, and brought low by the Barozzis, centuries ago? It would give him even more motive for murder.”

  “A delicious suggestion, Donata, but unfortunately we’ve no evidence to support it. Do you think you could research his family? And if so, how long do you think it would take?”

  “It would be no problem at all. I will enlist my father’s help—he loves feeling useful. It couldn’t take more than a day or two.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “I’ll count on you. Before you start, though, I need you for one more thing. You’ve no commitments tomorrow, have you?”

  “None.” Donata grinned. “And I find I, too, like feeling useful.”

  “Do you like minding the shop?” I asked as we walked to the nearest public gondola and hired a boat.

  “It’s not bad,” she said. “I can read while I do it, which I like. It’s what I’d be doing if I weren’t minding the shop, so I can’t complain. When my father’s gone”—she crossed herself—“his customers will already be used to me and won’t balk at finding a woman running the business. Of course, I hope that will be a long time from now.” Her eyes grew a bit misty, but she pulled herself up straight and smiled. “Where are we going tomorrow, Emily?”

  “I’m sure I’ve told you before, I believe we have more to learn from the Polanis.”

  “You have indeed,” Donata said, “and I imagine this would be an excellent time to speak to Signor Polani? To see what he has to say for himself?”

  “Quite. If we’re fortunate, he could prove most enlightening.”

  “And if not, you will at least have met Casanova’s successor.”

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “I do,” Donata said. “I delivered a book he ordered from my father not long ago. He insisted on personal delivery, and I can’t say his intentions appeared honorable in the least.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “Fear not, I escaped unharmed. Although if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to distract his wife while you seek him out. I’ve no interest in a repeat performance.”

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xii

  Miracles could happen anywhere in Venice, but Besina knew that many had been attributed to the intersession of the Holy Mother. And many who received the Blessed Virgin’s help prayed before the image Francesco Amadi had commissioned nearly a hundred years ago for a tabernacle in front of his house. In time, the number of pilgrims coming to the portrait grew so immense that the Senate of La Serenissima was forced to take action and ordered Amadi to build a more fitting place for his treasure. The people of Venice threw their support his way, collecting funds to finance the construction of a magnificent new church, Santa Maria dei Miracoli.

  Today Besina knelt in that church on the bottom step of the tall staircase that led to the altar, over which hung the famous portrait. It was here that she prayed, not at a kneeler or in a seat. The hard marble pushed against her knees, but she rejoiced in the discomfort. It brought her closer to the Savior, purified her, and, she hoped, would make it more likely that Mary would intercede on her behalf.

  She came no fewer than three times every week. When she’d finished her prayers, she sat where the congregation would for mass. This church was the only place she could find peace. The only place where she could let herself believe that, someday, light and beauty, like that in this holy space, might return to her life.

  Today she prayed longer than usual. When she was nearly finished, she asked for forgiveness for what she was about to do.

  And then, for the first time, she mounted the steps and walked all the way to the altar, bowing before it. She paused, at once afraid and compelled to raise her eyes and see the image of the Madonna. It was even more beautiful close up. She whispered a quick prayer to the Virgin and then turned to the left, going to the marble bench that lined the walls behind the altarpiece.

  She sat on the bench, her heart pounding. Would God strike her down for what she was about to do? Writing to a man who was not her husband? She waited, making sure no one else was in the church to see her. She bent over slowly, a small piece of paper, folded and sealed, in her hand. It was the letter she’d written the previous night. There wasn’t space to leave all the ones she’d brought, and she decided this was the one she wanted Nicolò to receive. She slipped it beneath the decorative legs of the bench, in the space left by a crack near the curve of the marble near the floor. She walked out of the church on trembling legs, hoping she had not put in danger her mortal soul. The remaining letters were still hidden in her skirts. She would burn them when she reached home.

  Nicolò knew Besina’s habits. He might have no longer had reason to sit outside her parents’ house in his gondola, hoping to catch a glimpse of his love, but he did, on occasion, slow his gondola as he passed Rosso’s palazzo. One day he had seen Besina leave and followed her, just to be near. He watched her from the window of the felze on his gondola, safe behind its narrow walls, hidden from view. When he saw the tranquil expression on her face when she exited Miracoli nearly an hour later, and then repeated the same sequence day after day, week after week, he knew that this was a place they could use to exchange letters.

  So on this day, waiting three hours after he knew Besina had returned to her home, Nicolò followed her steps, collected the paper, and replaced it with another. They would repeat this three times a week. Besina had not changed her routine. Uberto would never notice.

  13

  Donata and I met in the lobby of the Danieli and hired a gondola to take us to the Polanis’ house. There, when I asked Florentina if Donata and I might have the pleasure of being introduced to her husband, she apologized with great panache for his inability to see us. She was all sweet smiles as she explained how busy he was, buried under a mountain of work from which she could only hope he would free himself in time to dine with his family that evening. I did not believe a word she said. I had learned everything I could about him before returning to the house. Signor Polani had no work. He ran no business, he managed no estate, and he involved himself in no charitable activities. His only occupation was gambling. As the casino was not yet open for the day, I also knew he could not yet be at his favorite chair at his favorite card table.

  Furthermore, the gondolier to whom I’d slipped a tidy sum to keep an eye on the house had assured me the signore had not stepped outside. Deduction is all well and good, but it never hurts to also acquire solid information.

  I had anticipated being kept from Signor Polani. It fit neatly with my idea that his wife was protecting him. Which was why, as I’d instructed her, Donata was prattling on with Florentina, discussing everything from art to fashion to politics while I did my best to appear glum and distracted.

  “Is your investigation stalling, Lady Emily?” Florentina asked. “You’re positively out of sorts. I much prefer seeing you happy and smiling.”

  “I’m afraid my role in it will be sadly limited by things my husband has discovered in Padua. It’s likely that’s where the killer is,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. It wouldn’t hurt to let her think suspicion was far removed from her. “I will be glad to see justice served, of course, but can’t help wishing my role in it hadn’t been so diminished.”

  Florentina smiled. Smugly, I thought, which was not her usual jovial mode. “Padua, you say?” she asked. “How interesting. Can’t say I like the place. Too many students.
”

  “The university there is excellent,” Donata said.

  I let Donata get halfway through a speech she’d prepared on the relative merits of the courses before rising from my seat. We’d planned to bring the conversation around to Padua.

  “Ladies, I beg you forgive me,” I said. “I’m afraid I have no heart for socializing today.”

  “You’re not leaving us?” Donata asked, her face all sincere concern. The girl would make a fine actress.

  “I’m afraid I must. You’re both so lively. My mood can do no one any good.”

  “Is there nothing I can do to cheer you up? Would you like gelato? Some biscotti? Anything?”

  “No, Signora Polani,” I said. “There’s nothing that can entice me.”

  “Such a pity, Lady Emily,” Florentina said. “You will be missed.”

  “Don’t get up.” I gave them a wan smile. “I can find my way out.”

  The statement was true. However, I had no intention of leaving directly.

  So far as I could tell, Venetian palazzi all had similar layouts. The large portego on the first floor was the showcase: the place where the family exhibited signs of its wealth and influence. Off this room, one would find numerous smaller ones, each connected directly to the next, with no corridor joining them. When Donata and I had been led to Florentina, we’d passed through rooms that all had a decidedly feminine air to them, but I’d noticed that what I could see of the chambers on the opposite side of the portego was decorated in an entirely different fashion.

  Deducing that this side of the house was most likely to be where I would find Signor Polani, I strode forward with confidence through two rooms and into a red salon overdone in exactly the manner I had expected to find at the bordello where Caterina Brexiano now lived. A gilded plaster rose filled the center of the ceiling and was surrounded by frescoes that could only be described as blatantly erotic. I moved on as quickly as I could, feeling my face grow hot with embarrassment. Beyond this chamber was a library that contained only two medium-sized bookcases, a large globe that caught my notice at once—it was even more spectacular than the one in Signor Caravello’s shop—and an enormous table at which sat the man of the house.