Death in the Floating City

by Tasha Alexander

  “Do enlighten me,” she said.

  “First, you specially requested that particular room,” I said. “Second, you forgot to take one small scrap of paper when you left. It’s so tiny it’s no surprise you missed it.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “No,” I said. “I wasn’t about to risk you trying to destroy it. I don’t have it with me.” This was true. I’d left it, wrapped in a handkerchief, with my waiting gondolier.

  “Where is it? What does it say?”

  “It’s still at the hotel,” I lied, “and it only has one word on it.”

  “What word?” she asked, her voice too loud and too harsh.

  “Besina,” I said. “Now. Do you want to tell me what really happened the night Conte Barozzi was killed?”

  “If I knew that I would have gone to the police at once,” she said. She was doing a decent job modulating her tone, but she could not hide entirely the tension she was feeling. The veins in her forehead bulged, and her cheeks flushed.

  “Then tell me about the letters. How did you find them? And where are they now?”

  “You can’t prove I’ve done anything,” she said.

  “I have enough evidence to make the police reconsider your potential role in the crime. You request a room in the hotel where we know Besina’s letters were, because of this book.” I raised it in front of her. “Besina’s ring, missing for an untold number of centuries, mysteriously appears in the hand of a murdered man. A man who destroyed your life. A man who claims to have learned something before his death—something from the past—that would reverse his family’s fortunes.”

  “I lost interest halfway through what you said.”

  “Your interest or lack thereof is irrelevant. I’ll go for the police right now if you would like. Or you could talk to me.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “That’s your choice. I’ll tell them downstairs to expect the authorities.” I moved towards the door.

  “Stop,” she said. “There is more to tell, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Barozzi believed there was something in his family’s past that would bring him untold riches.”

  “Untold riches?” I was skeptical.

  “Enough money at least to settle his debts and maintain a modest lifestyle without losing the palazzo.”

  “The ring is beautiful, but not that valuable,” I said.

  “Not in itself,” Caterina said. “He didn’t know about the ring then, of course.”

  “What did he know about Besina?” I asked.

  “Well, he didn’t exactly know about her. That came from me.”

  “How so?”

  “She spoke to me.” Her tone turned slow and dreamy. “Never have I heard a sadder voice.”

  On the one hand, I was captivated and wanted to hear more. On the other, I realized the critical importance of keeping Caterina from distracting me with romantic nonsense.

  “What did she say?”

  “Only her name.” Caterina frowned. “That was part of the problem, you see. Signor Barozzi wanted more.”

  “And you couldn’t give it to him?”

  “No. Not through any spiritual means.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “After our second séance, he was extremely angry, but I didn’t think he would take such drastic measures to harm me. When he did, I was terrified. I knew I stood to lose everything. So I found out whatever I could about Besina Barozzi.”

  “How?”

  “No doubt the same way you did. I searched records. I read books—which is how I learned about the letters. That memoir is famous. It was one of the first things for which I reached when I started my search.”

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s not contemporary to Besina’s life.”

  “No, Lady Emily, it is not.” She smiled. “But you forget the romantic notions travelers have when it comes to Venice. If they live in a palazzo while they stay here, they always search for hidden treasure.”

  “Do they?”

  “Wouldn’t you? When a family could no longer afford to maintain their home, they would sell it, and move somewhere smaller. Would you take the entire contents of your attic in such a situation? Most likely not, whoever resides in the house later may be interested in what’s been left behind over the centuries. People want to find what was abandoned, centuries ago.”

  “You did not find these letters in the attic. Nor did the author of the memoir.”

  “That doesn’t matter. The principle remains. People cannot resist searching for lost secrets. So I read dozens of books until I came to the right one and learned of the letters. Then I spent the last of my money at the hotel.”

  “How did you know what room to ask for?”

  “You haven’t read the book, have you?”

  “Not all of it.” Any of it, I silently corrected myself.

  “That was the room where our debauched authoress mourned when her assignations inevitably ended. Where else would she store the evidence of such a sad story?”

  “So you do have the letters—and you’ve read them?”

  “I have,” she said. “They very nearly broke my heart.”

  “May I see them? Please?”

  “Unfortunately that is not possible. I gave them, and the ring, which was bundled in with them, to Signor Barozzi the night he was killed. But I assure you—I swear on it—he was very much alive when I left him.”

  * * *

  Caterina’s revelations left me reeling and not entirely sure how to proceed. Only for a moment, that is. Reason soon returned to me, and I did the only sensible thing. I took her to the Danieli and installed her in my rooms, telling her that if she tried to leave I would have the police arrest her.

  “The last guest my husband and I hosted here required tying up,” I said. “I hope I will not have to do the same to you.”

  Caterina raised her thick eyebrows. “I do not need to be restrained.”

  “If, as you claim, you are innocent, you have no reason to try to escape. Should your conscience tell you otherwise, you will be stopped by the guard who will stand outside this door all day and all night.”

  “How exciting,” she said. “Will he pursue me through calli and canals? What if I make it to the campanile at San Marco and fly to the top, threatening to fling myself without ceremony into the piazza below if he does not let me go?”

  “Do not irritate me,” I said. Caterina did not look like she was listening. She was too pleased with her surroundings. That much was obvious. She was drinking in the luxury around her, inspecting the paintings on the walls, fingering the heavy velvet curtains. I stopped her when she tried to look under the furniture for the marks of its makers.

  “Am I to have luncheon?” she asked, sitting down. “I’ve a long story to tell. You can’t expect me to do it without food.”

  I ordered to be sent up an assortment of cicchetti, the most perfect food I’ve yet found when one requires not a whole meal but a light repast. We had balls of rice fried and stuffed with seafood, black and green olives, pieces of spicy salami, thin fingers of toasted sandwiches filled with prosciutto and melted cheese. Caterina’s expression brought to mind sayings about cats and cream. She was most pleased.

  “You know, this room has a magnificent history,” she said, once she’d tucked into the spread of delights the server placed on the table in front of her. “It dates from the fourteenth century, maybe? I am feeling very distinct sensations of—”

  “No, no,” I said. “The letters. Tell me everything.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I have tormented you long enough. I will say you’ve been a good sport.” She blotted her lips with a linen napkin. “They were all written by Besina—but you know that already. The earliest ones were the standard sort of romantic fluff. I can’t live without you—you are my only joy—etcetera, etcetera. Tedious.”

  “I imagine Nicolò wouldn’t
agree with you.”

  “Probably not. From what I could tell, he was as insipid as she. As time went on, though, the situation changed. She’d been forced to marry someone else and was devastated and miserable. He was a vicious, cruel man. Eventually, he divorced her and her family, mortified, put her in a convent. She died there, still miserable and alone.”

  “I knew all that without the letters.”

  “Not the insipid part, surely?” Caterina asked.

  “Nothing in what you said could have been of particular interest to Conte Barozzi. Not in regard to the current plight of his family.”

  “You do realize you’re too clever for your own good, I hope?” She took another rice ball, chewed slowly, and swallowed before she continued. “I could only read so much into what Besina said. It’s difficult to gather a complete picture without Nicolò’s letters. But it seemed as if he was offering something tangible—money, I think—to her.”

  “Would she have needed money in a convent?”

  “Do I look like a scholar of the Renaissance?” She took a deep breath. “Her last two letters contained references to something he’d written that she didn’t understand. She asked him to clarify. Whether he ever did, I don’t know.”

  “Could you make any determination as to the topic they were discussing?”

  “Something to do with a legacy, I think. I don’t have a legal mind, so the details were lost on me. As I said, I think it had to do with money.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Only the saddest part,” she said. “Along with the letters from Besina there were six written by Nicolò, letters that did not appear to have ever been sent. It was evident from what he said that Besina had died, but he kept writing to her anyway, knowing she would never be able to read his words.” Tears filled Caterina’s eyes. “It was the most painful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  This all seemed to corroborate what Brother Giovanni had told Colin—that there was some sort of information hidden away that could help the Barozzi family—but I didn’t know enough about estates and legacies to have even the beginning of an understanding as to whether something from so long ago could make a difference now.

  What was undeniable, though, was the tragedy of it. A girl forced to marry where she did not love, her life lonely and sad. The man she loved more than anything continuing to write to her after her death. It was too heart-wrenching to bear.

  I knew I could not rest until I uncovered every detail of the remainder of the story.

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xv

  Besina had never even dared imagine such pleasure as that she experienced during the time she spent with Nicolò. The night was not long enough, nor was the following morning. Nor would eternity be. But as the blue of dawn gave way to the rose gold hues of early daylight, Nicolò began to worry. A violent man like Rosso would not well tolerate a missing wife. He knew he must take immediate steps to protect her reputation should Rosso find her before they could escape the city.

  He woke his love with soft kisses and spoke nothing of his concerns until he knew they could be ignored no longer. He wanted to think only of love for as long as possible. When at last he had to face the inevitable and broach the subject of what they must do next, Besina listened to him, her eyes wide and serious. She agreed to follow his every instruction. She felt no worry. Nicolò would take care of her.

  Nicolò wished the confidence he had in himself matched Besina’s in him, all the while carefully guarding his doubts from her. She did not need anxiety added to the pain Rosso had already caused her. Besina dressed, and together they breakfasted. And then Nicolò slipped a gold ring with a large corundum ruby in it onto the first finger on her right hand. It had belonged to his mother and had long been a family treasure.

  “Amor vincit omnia,” he whispered, reciting the words inscribed on the band. He kissed her soft lips and took her downstairs, where he put her in a gondola, promising to come for her as soon as he could.

  His eldest sister, he told Besina, would be their accomplice. Lucia would do anything for him. Nicolò had never before exploited her loyalty or asked a difficult thing of her, but he needed her now, and she had not held back any assistance she could offer.

  Lucia welcomed Besina to Ca’ Vitturi, rushing her guest past her husband’s closed library door without stopping to make an introduction. They could not risk having to answer any questions. Lucia’s home reminded Besina very much of her parents’, and she felt suddenly sentimental and sad, filled with a hopeless longing for things familiar that she feared she would never have again. Lucia comforted her, brought her sweets and wine, and sat with her all morning and all afternoon.

  “It shouldn’t take Nicolò much longer,” Lucia said. “He must be careful to attract no attention to what he is doing and plan the financial side of things in great detail. It is sad enough to leave Venice in any circumstances. You would not want to find yourselves impoverished and without a home as well.”

  “We will go far from here,” Besina said. “To Cologne, and be lost there. Lost to everyone we know.”

  Tears filled Lucia’s eyes, and Besina realized the pain she would be causing, and not only to this lady who had not hesitated to help her, who had welcomed her into her home. Besina’s own brothers and sisters and her mother would suffer as well, as would her father. They would all be disgraced by her actions. They would never see her again, would never be able to take even a shred of comfort in knowing she had at last found happiness. Besina wondered if what she was doing was right. How much harm would she cause her family? And what of the Vendelinos? How much would they be hurt by Nicolò’s disappearance?

  “I am sorry this is bringing you undue pain,” Besina said, reaching out for Lucia’s hand. “Maybe it is not the right thing. Maybe I should return to my husband and cope the way other wives do. Is my plight worse than any other’s?”

  Lucia did not want her brother to leave. She loved him and her children loved him, especially her firstborn, a son she had called Nicolò after her beloved sibling. She had had no particular affection for her husband when she married him but had gone willingly to his house. It was better than a convent, and she was lucky to have been chosen as the daughter who would marry. Over the course of years, she had found herself growing closer to Signor Vitturi, just as her parents had told her she would, and she now was happily settled in a home far grander than the one she’d left. But when Lucia looked at Besina, the bruises on her face, her scabbed lip, she knew Besina was not an ungrateful girl unwilling to accept her station in life. Uberto Rosso was not a man to whom it would be safe to return.

  “You must go,” Lucia said. “It is the only way.”

  “I cannot do it,” Besina said, her voice on the verge of wavering. “What will happen to my family?”

  Lucia was never able to answer the question. The door to the chamber opened to reveal her husband and Uberto Rosso.

  16

  After hearing Caterina’s account of what Besina’s letters contained, I considered my next steps with care, wanting to be thorough and efficient. I visited Donata and her father, asking their advice as to where I might find the last will and testament of Nicolò Vitturi. Signor Caravello directed me to the city archives and told me exactly who would be able to help locate the record of such a document. If, that is, it still existed.

  I showed them the scrap of almost crumbling paper I’d found at the Hotel Vitturi. It was from the bottom right-hand corner of the sheet; the letters of Besina’s name were small and close together, as if she had crammed as much as possible onto the page. This speculation was confirmed when I looked at the other side. Although the characters were largely illegible and formed only part of a word, their presence meant that she’d used both sides of the paper.

  “I can’t believe it’s really her hand,” Donata said, looking through one of her father’s many magnifying glasses. “She actually touched this, held it.”

  “So did Nicolò,” I said. �
�It makes it all so real, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Papà, please, you must listen to reason—” Donata begged and pleaded that she be allowed to accompany me. Her father was unmoved, but he was not entirely without compassion. He brought his daughter six thick volumes of legal text from a bookcase in the far corner of the shop.

  “Read these,” he said, “and find out what you can about the potential legalities of a legacy so long unclaimed.”

  This mollified her a bit, but only a bit. Signor Caravello accompanied me to the door of the shop and opened it when I was ready to leave. Donata was already hard at work, searching the books for appropriate references.

  “I give her this to occupy her,” her father said, “but you should go see this man.” He handed me a slip of paper. “He will be able to tell you off the top of his head what she will never find in those books.”

  “Poor Donata,” I said, feeling truly bad for my friend.

  “No, no,” he said. “Do not feel so. She is not wasting time. She will learn much, and knowledge is never wasted.”

  I left him with his unhappy daughter and headed for the archives, deciding I should try to find Nicolò Vitturi’s will before seeking legal help about the potential status of an ancient legacy. The clerk who assisted me was most helpful. What I asked was not easy, he said, but he was confident he could find the document in question. Three hours later he summoned me to a small room where, on a table, he spread a yellowed and fragile document. Weights held the corners in place so we would not have to handle it in order to study it. I pulled on the pair of soft cotton gloves he handed to me and bent over his find.

  “It is a very ordinary will,” he said, looking over my shoulder. I could read most of it, as the Italian was less colloquial than the letters for which I’d required Signor Caravello’s assistance. “He left the bulk of his estate to his eldest son. His other children received small legacies.”