Death in the Floating City

by Tasha Alexander

  “Is there any mention of a woman called Besina Rosso?” I asked.

  “No.” He skimmed the page in front of us. “I can check again if you would like, but I see nothing.”

  I couldn’t find her name either. Perhaps leaving something directly to her would have been too obvious. I wrote down the names of each of Nicolò’s heirs and hoped that Donata would be able to find out something of use about them. Then I read through the will again, as best as I could.

  “You’re quite sure there’s nothing unusual?” I asked. “Nothing that, perhaps, suggests a coded alternate meaning?”

  “No, Lady Emily,” he said. “There is nothing of the sort.”

  I believed him but did not let go of the idea altogether. If we could get nowhere with what we learned about his heirs, I could always revisit the will. I thanked the clerk and headed to the law office Signor Caravello had recommended. He was correct—the man to whom I spoke answered my questions almost at once. A legacy, no matter how old, could be validly claimed, but only so long as it could be proved that it had never been collected.

  Ca’ Barozzi was my next stop. Emma did not meet me at the steps this time. She had kept me waiting for nearly half an hour before I decided to take matters into my own hands. I left the camera d’oro where a surly servant had installed me and went directly to the library. I had work to do and would not be distracted or delayed. When Emma found me there, twenty minutes later, she scowled.

  “Have you decided to make my house your own?” she asked.

  “You are the one who summoned me here to help you,” I said. “Now you need to let me do just that. Unless there’s something you don’t wish me to find?”

  “I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’re talking about.”

  “What else was on your father-in-law’s body when it was found?”

  “Only the ring and the dagger, as you well know.” She looked slightly ill at the thought of the blood-encrusted knife. “Why? Should there have been more?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He had in his possession a set of letters written by Besina. Letters that may prove the family is entitled to a large legacy, long since forgot.”

  “Really?” Her eyes brightened. “That’s the best news I’ve had in ages.”

  “Not if we can’t find the letters,” I said.

  “Letters can only tell you so much,” she said. “Legacies require legalities. Can’t you simply find the will in question?”

  I was surprised by how readily the idea sprang to her mind. “I’ve already examined it. There is no mention of Besina.”

  “So why are you in my library? If it’s not in the will, it’s irrelevant. Which I must say is a great disappointment.”

  “There could be a codicil,” I said. “If there is, we need to find it. The library seemed a reasonable place to begin my search of your house. I’ve contacted the police, and they are sending over several men to offer assistance. If there is something hidden, it will be found.”

  “What a disruption,” she said.

  “Do you want to make it safe for your husband to return to you or not?” I asked.

  “I do,” she said and sank onto a chair. “I know you think very little of me and that you believe Paolo and I do not love each other, but we do. Very much. His indiscretions—”

  “They are none of my business, Emma,” I said. “I do not doubt the sincerity of your affection for your husband. Nevertheless, it is essential that I know whether you are hiding something from me. Your relationship with your father-in-law is very unusual.”

  “We were united in a common cause—to keep the family from falling apart. Paolo is terrible with money. That is why his father left the manuscript collection to me.”

  “Did you see Besina’s letters the night of the murder?” I asked.

  “No. I swear I did not.”

  “Then we must tear apart the house looking for them.”

  Emma did not question this. I was silently thankful she hadn’t noticed the lack in logic. If the murderer had taken the letters when he or she (I was not wholly convinced by Caterina’s plea of innocence) fled from the palazzo, they would no longer be here.

  Unless there was no flaw in my logic. Unless the murderer was someone who lived in the house. If Emma knew, or suspected, that, she might find it perfectly reasonable to assume the letters were still here.

  The police did, indeed, send me several capable assistants who didn’t balk at being asked to search a house they’d already searched the morning after the murder. It was different when one knew what one was looking for. We applied ourselves with focus and energy, and I do not believe any party could have been more thorough. In the end, we found neither Besina’s letters nor a codicil to Nicolò Vitturi’s will. We did find the old conte’s correspondence, and as soon as I read it, I began to look at Emma in an entirely different light.

  The conte was deeply concerned about his daughter-in-law’s inability to have a child. I determined this from a letter he received from a gentleman with whom he obviously had extremely close ties. I was shocked that Paolo had confided this problem to his father, and shocked further that his father, in turn, had found it fit as a topic of discussion. Then I read on. Divorce, the conte’s confidant said, was unthinkable. Annulment was the only way forward, he counseled, and he believed Paolo would have no trouble getting one granted.

  Did Emma know about any of this? I needed to proceed with extreme caution. I wanted a great deal more information in hand before I confronted her again.

  * * *

  As I suspected, Paolo had not taken any formal steps towards starting the process of annulling his marriage. The family solicitors may have known of his plan (if indeed it was his plan) but, of course, couldn’t tell me. Nothing, though, had been filed in the public record. With the letter I’d borrowed (with police approval) from Ca’ Barozzi in hand, I set off to call on the missive’s author.

  It was easy enough to find his address, which I’d taken from the back of the envelope he’d sent the conte. As always, my gondolier delivered me to exactly where I needed to be. The house was in Santa Croce, near the church of Santa Maria Mater Domini. Its occupant was a distinguished elderly gentleman who expressed more than a modicum of surprise at finding me at his door.

  “So you see,” I said, after I’d both introduced and explained myself, “I was hoping you could further enlighten me on the advice you’d given your friend.”

  “This is a delicate situation, Lady Emily,” he said, “and was discussed in confidence with a friend I’ve known for longer than you’ve been alive.”

  “I understand, Signor Sanuto. Truly, I do,” I said. “But, forgive me, Signor Barozzi is dead, and if we are to seek justice for his murder, we have to know as much as possible about everything in which he was involved.”

  “He was fond of Emma,” he said. “He found her Englishness most entertaining, and he liked her high spirits. But he needs his son to have an heir. You understand?”

  “So Paolo should cast aside a wife who has done him no harm simply because she cannot bear a child?”

  His shoulders slumped. “I know it sounds callous. I do. Still, la famiglia, it matters. How could I counsel my friend to knowingly sit back and watch it end?”

  “Miracles do happen. No one can know for certain there would be no child.”

  “Some things are certain enough,” he said. “Look, the Barozzis were one of the greatest families Venice has ever known. Do you know how many members of the Council of Ten they gave the city? They should not be allowed to die out. It is tragic enough to see them so far below their earlier station.”

  I fought to keep my growing anger from him. Venice was no longer a serene republic. It was a city in Italy. There would be no more doges and no more Council of Ten. And old families do disappear, leaving behind nothing but legend. Perhaps the Barozzis would prefer a less ignominious end, but fate does not always give us what we desire. Heaven knew there was little love lost between Emm
a and myself, but I did not think she should be thrown away by a man who had vowed lifelong fidelity to her simply because she might or might not be able to produce an heir.

  If it were even her fault. Of course, it never seemed to cross the minds of men that they themselves might be to blame in this sort of situation.

  My feelings on the subject were not important at the moment.

  “Tragic, indeed,” I said. “Such things are sometimes inevitable, though. Did you know that Signor Barozzi left the family’s collection of illuminated manuscripts to Emma rather than to his son?”

  He nodded. “I did. It was a wise decision.”

  “So he wanted to give her a measure of financial control, but he also thought the marriage should be annulled?”

  “If the marriage were annulled, he would have changed the will.”

  “Wouldn’t that be putting the family back in financial peril?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “but what other choice did the man have?”

  I would have liked to point out several other choices but knew it would not be fair of me to attack Signor Sanuto’s opinions. Furthermore, it would accomplish nothing. I thanked him and took my leave.

  How I longed for Colin to return from Padua! There was so much to discuss, and I found that, when embroiled in an investigation, I very much needed the sort of conversation that inspired and guided my work. Confident in the knowledge that Caterina Brexiano was safely ensconced in the Danieli, I directed my gondolier to return me to Signor Caravello’s shop. There, in the warm glow of gaslight, I would have a meeting of the minds with my new friends and organize my thoughts. I leaned against the soft cushions on the back of the careghin on which I sat and closed my eyes. I hadn’t realized how tired I had become.

  I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I had arrived at my destination. My little nap had invigorated me. Both Caravellos were pleased by my return, and they insisted that I dine with them in their rooms above the shop. The beamed ceilings on the first floor were higher than those below, but otherwise the spaces were remarkably similar, both dominated by enormous quantities of books. Signor Caravello moved a tall pile of them off a leather chair and motioned for me to sit.

  “Tell me what you have learned,” he said.

  “Not until I’ve returned!” Donata had gone into the other room in search of their maid so that she might inform her of their unanticipated guest. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Bring some prosecco, Donata,” her father called after her. “It’s too long since we’ve entertained.”

  She returned with a bottle and her father poured. We drank good wine, ate a magnificent tagliatelle con granchio, long ribbons of pasta mixed with the most delicious crab I’d ever tasted, and talked about everything, starting with the case. I told them about Caterina Brexiano and the others to whom I had spoken.

  “I do find Caterina fascinating,” I said. “I don’t think a medium and fortune-teller would do quite so well in London as she did here before Signor Barozzi eviscerated her. Now, fallen from grace, she’s much in demand in the bordello, or so I’m told. It’s quite unusual. Who would have suspected men in search of female companionship would also have such great interest in having their fortunes told? Caterina’s reputation may still be in tatters, but she’s at least regained some of her income.”

  “That is Venice for you,” Signor Caravello said. “The famous sixteenth-century playwright Aretino spoke of it. Venice embraces those whom all others shun. She raises those whom others lower. She affords a welcome to those who are persecuted elsewhere.”

  “Perhaps that partly explains why I’ve fallen so wholly in love with the city,” I said. From there, our conversation moved to other subjects. Love, books, friendship. The night was one of the happiest in my memory.

  When at last I returned to the Danieli, two things were waiting for me: an extremely sullen Caterina and a telegram from Colin.

  He’d found Paolo.

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xvi

  Lucia stood to greet her husband and the unwelcome Signor Rosso. Nicolò had warned her of this possibility. He had told her Rosso would have spies looking for Besina. And Nicolò had made sure Lucia knew what to do if they found her.

  “You came sooner than I could have hoped,” she said. “Have you told my husband what happened, Signor Rosso? I would have myself, but I didn’t want to disturb him at his work. And Besina is safe now, though I don’t see how we’ll ever be able to find the men who did this to her. I would never have asked her to meet me if I thought something like this could occur. That such a thing could take place in front of a church. It is unfathomable.”

  “What church?” Rosso spat the words, making no attempt to hide the disdain he felt for his wife.

  “Santa Maria Mater Domini,” Lucia said. “We had to walk from where the gondoliers could leave us. Besina arrived before I did, and thugs set on her.”

  “What did they want?” Rosso asked, his voice dark.

  “How could she possibly know?” Lucia asked. “Look at the poor woman. They beat her to within an inch of her life. We are fortunate they did nothing else.”

  Lucia’s tone, quiet and insistent, made it impossible for Rosso to do anything but go along with the story. Signor Vitturi, who knew his wife had not left their casa that morning, identified the story at once as a falsehood. The bruises on the face of the woman who was a stranger to him told him all he needed to know. He stood silent, aware that if he revealed the lie, she would suffer even more.

  Rosso took hold of Besina’s arm and wrenched her from her seat. He made no effort to seem gentle and concerned. He led her out of the room before she could exchange so much as a final glance with Lucia.

  Besina felt no fear. She felt no shame. She felt nothing. Uberto threw her into his waiting boat, and they returned home in silence. He dragged her up the stairs and flung her into her room.

  “You will never attempt to leave me again,” he said. Besina cowered, but the expected blow did not come. Uberto did not raise his hand against her. Instead, he spat on the floor next to where she stood and stormed out of the room, barking orders at servants as he went.

  He did not come to her that night. Nor the next. And when he finally did again, he treated her as he always had, using her roughly. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Besina was filled with hopelessness.

  17

  Colin had located Paolo. My mind raced, and I wished my husband had not kept his message quite so brief. Found Paolo did little but fuel my overeager imagination. Was he alive? Was he hurt? Had he admitted to a role in his father’s death? Was Brother Giovanni with him? Did … I knew I would accomplish nothing by wondering. I gave Caterina, who had settled into the second bedroom of our suite, the novel I’d purchased from Signor Caravello’s shop that night for her. A French translation of Pride and Prejudice.

  “Don’t say I didn’t keep you entertained.” I locked the door between our bedrooms, checked on the guard in the corridor outside, and retired. Sleep came more easily than I expected, and I rested, undisturbed by thought or noise, until morning.

  The first train from Padua wasn’t due for another two hours when I woke up. I considered going back to sleep, wanting the time to pass quickly, but then I heard the door to the room open. My husband sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed.

  “I wasn’t expecting to find someone other than you in a rather alarming state of dishabille when I entered our rooms.”

  I sat up fast. “Caterina.”

  “So she informed me. She complained that you’re not giving her enough wine, that she’s tired of the view, and that she thinks Lizzy is a fool for having turned down Darcy.”

  “Obviously,” I said. “Though I will brook no criticism of the view. Tell me about Paolo. No. Kiss me first.”

  He satisfied my latter request with a skill, thoroughness, and vigor that left me trembling. He smiled, sat back up, and adjus
ted his jacket. A man pleased with a job well done.

  “How did you get here so quickly?” I asked.

  “Special train,” he said. “I didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Brother Giovanni is honest to a fault,” he said. “I never let him out of my sight. I followed him to mass—sometimes twice a day—into shops, and through parks, but nothing he did seemed pertinent to our case. Then last night Paolo came to him.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He is, at least in terms of physical health. Although I’m afraid he’s not making a great deal of sense. I have not alerted Emma of his return. I think we should have a more thorough discussion with him—and his accomplice—first.”

  “You brought Brother Giovanni as well?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’ve quite a menagerie. Perhaps I should speak to the manager about adding an additional room until we’re finished with them.”

  “You don’t want them under police custody?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Do you think Paolo and Brother Giovanni killed the conte?”

  “No,” Colin said, “but they’re up to something—and whether what they’re doing is legal or not, it may help lead us to our killer. I would suggest that you get dressed before we proceed. Your current appearance would tempt a man of twice the holiness of Brother Giovanni. And that, my dear, is no small feat.”

  “I thank you for the compliment,” I said. “Will you hold off on starting till I’m ready?”

  “They can wait,” he said. “I may just sit here and watch you.”

  * * *

  I may not have dressed quite as quickly as possible, but I did not delay so long that it would compromise our work, only enough to give Colin something to contemplate for the remainder of the day. We agreed Caterina shouldn’t be present during the discussion and we would speak to Paolo and Brother Giovanni separately. We sent Caterina to read in her bedchamber. Colin took the holy man into our room, and I took the chair across from Paolo’s in the sitting room.