“There could an obvious connection, you know. Vitturi’s daughter could have married a Vendelino.”
“Vitturi’s daughter did indeed marry a Vendelino.”
“You located the missing records at the archive?”
“No, but I persuaded Angelo to show me the Vendelino family documents pertaining to the match. They’ve noted every birth, death, and marriage in a giant, leather-bound book that’s trimmed in solid gold,” I said. “When Nicolò Vendelino died, he had no children—he’d never married. He named his nephew, Nicolò Vitturi, his heir. One of Vitturi’s daughters married a distant Vendelino cousin, and it was this man whom Vitturi named as his own heir.”
“Why didn’t he choose a Vitturi as his heir?” Colin asked.
I shrugged. “According to Angelo Vendelino it was because he knew Vendelino was the stronger name. More likely is that there wasn’t a suitable male in the family to name as head.”
“So why, if he had arranged a marriage that he thought would increase the family’s power under a different name, would he have then changed his mind and left the estate to someone wholly unrelated to him, even by marriage?”
Sometimes gentlemen could be so naive it was almost painful. “Perhaps, my dear, Tomaso wasn’t wholly unrelated to Nicolò.”
“That’s possible, of course, but proving it would be near impossible. I would like to see this painting,” he said, studying my notebook, which was open to the page on which I had transcribed the text taken there from. “I can’t imagine, though, that anyone would consider it a legally binding codicil to Vendelino’s will.”
“I agree you’re most likely right, but it is signed and witnessed, at least in theory. It’s not entirely impossible that a court would uphold it. Unlikely in the extreme, but not impossible.”
“I shall consult the necessary solicitors. I don’t suppose you fancy digging into the Vendelino family’s dark secrets to see if any of them have reason beyond their supposed blood feud to want Barozzi dead?”
* * *
Angelo Vendelino was no longer at home when I returned to Ca’ Vendelino, but his mother received me. A servant led me through the labyrinth of rooms to the salmon-colored one Zaneta favored, where I once again found the lady of the house on her chaise longue. She was reading Le Château des Carpathes by Jules Verne.
“One moment,” she said, raising a slim finger but not looking up as I entered the room. I stood, awkward, for several minutes, not wanting to take a seat before she’d offered it. She kept reading.
And kept reading.
I was growing increasingly impatient.
Finally she shut the book and smiled at me. “There. A decent stopping place is essential or the entire experience of reading will be ruined,” she said. “I hear you have met my son? He is a lovely boy, is he not?” She rose from the chaise and slipped the novel into an empty space in a glass-fronted case against the wall.
“He is—”
“We will walk,” she said, clearly uninterested in my reply. “It is too fine a day to be indoors, and you have not yet seen my garden. It is the best in the city. I am one of the few Venetians who does not prefer marble to plants.” She took me by the arm and led me back downstairs, through the atriums by the water entrance, away from the canal, and into one of the most beautifully landscaped places I’d ever seen. Not even a lush English garden could compete with what Zaneta had coaxed from the ground within the walls of her cortile. Larch and cypress shrubs stood in front of avenues formed by trees, fruit hanging heavy from their branches. The scent of honeysuckle filled the air, and banksia roses stood tall in every corner, their blooms a vibrant yellow. Dotted throughout stood tall marble statues in the classical mode, many of them Roman copies of Greek originals.
“I confess, Emily, I am less than pleased with what you discovered in my painting,” she said. “I shall have to sell it, of course, which is a shame as I’ve always taken comfort from the serene visage of the woman it portrays. No one paints like Titian did.”
“The woman is Besina Barozzi,” I said. “It’s the same face you would have seen in the portrait you sold to Signora Morosini.”
“A tragedy indeed, and makes keeping it all the more impossible.”
“You really do hate the Barozzis?”
She shrugged, as if such a thing were the most normal in the world. “Of course I do. I am Vendelino.”
“Do you hate them enough to have wanted to see the conte dead?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “You are such a very serious lady, are you not? Want him dead? Well … I can’t say I object to him being dead. Why shouldn’t I? He was my enemy. But I understand the implication of your question very well, and no, Emily, I did not kill him.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “I don’t mean to offend, but these are questions I must ask.”
“Of course, of course—but you forget one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked as we made our way along a charming garden path towards a collection of ancient sculpture.
“To kill him I would have had to touch him, would have had to plunge the knife into that repulsive flesh,” she said, scowling. “I would never have done such a thing.”
“What do you think of the message in the painting?” I asked. “Would you be prepared to give money to the Barozzis if it is found to be legally binding?”
“The money was to go to this, who did you say? Tomaso Rosso? Not a Barozzi.”
“Rosso was Besina Barozzi’s son. He died with no children of his own and left his estate to the man who was then head of the Barozzi family.” I had checked the will at the archives.
“I would have no choice,” she said. “I tell you, though, it will never happen. How would you even decide how much I should give? How do you convert sixteenth-century ducats to lira? Not that it matters. A painting—even one by Titian—cannot contain a will.”
“Paolo Barozzi is bound to think otherwise.”
“If Paolo Barozzi cares to set himself up for disappointment, that is of no concern to me.”
“What would your son think if you were forced to honor the codicil?”
“First, Emily—and this is important—I would not have to be forced. The Vendelinos are an honorable family. If the codicil were upheld, there is nothing I could do but agree without complaint. What other choice would I have? To try to argue otherwise would be to dishonor my ancestor who, for whatever reason, saw fit—if indeed he did—to give money to those people.”
“It would have a devastating affect on Angelo,” I said.
“He would suffer. Of that there can be no doubt. But surely the court would not require that I hand over everything. That would be ridiculous. More likely they would determine a sum that would be considered adequate compensation for whatever Nicolò Vendelino had at the time.”
“Would there be enough left for Angelo to see no change in his lifestyle?”
“You do not suggest that my son would have killed that man in order to preserve his future fortune?”
“No, of course not,” I said, “but we must be realistic, Zaneta. Standing to lose a significant chunk of inheritance could be perceived as giving him motive to want the conte dead.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, at any rate. Angelo was in Paris, at a reception at the Embassy of the United States, the night Barozzi died.”
“You checked?”
“Of course.”
“You must have been as worried about this as I was,” I said.
“A mother always takes care of her son.”
“He can prove this?”
“There is no question of that,” she said. “The ambassador himself has already wired to confirm. I will not have Angelo embroiled in unnecessary scandal.”
* * *
I headed straight for Signor Caravello’s shop after leaving Ca’ Vendelino, eager to tell Donata and her father everything I had learned. So eager, in fact, that I started speaking almost before I’d crossed the threshold into the ma
in room.
“You’re really sure?” Donata asked, her voice a whisper, as she motioned for me to speak quietly. “I am stunned. How could we have been looking for the wrong Nicolò?”
“This makes much more sense,” I said. “Particularly as Nicolò Vendelino, ever loyal to Besina, never married.”
“My father is asleep in his chair in the back room. Let’s talk outside so we don’t disturb him. But truly, isn’t Signora Vendelino’s reaction bizarre? I would have thought she’d refuse outright to even consider the possibility this new will would be upheld.”
“Well, it’s extremely improbable it would ever come to such an end, and she is perfectly aware of that. She can afford to be magnanimous.” We sat on the steps at the edge of the canal in front of the shop. “The painting is unlikely to be upheld as a legal document. For one thing, how could it be proved the signatures are valid? It’s a bit of a mess, but I don’t believe the Vendelinos should lose any sleep over it.”
“Yet you still consider Angelo a suspect?”
“I have to. Theoretically, he could have an extremely strong motive. At the moment, I’m more suspicious of Caterina Brexiano. There can be no doubt as to the effect Conte Barozzi had on her life.”
“And Facio,” Donata said. “Have you learned anything else about him?”
“Nothing. Colin has police all over looking for him. He’s bound to turn up eventually.”
“I am so frustrated to be stuck in this shop unable to help!”
“You’ve been plenty of help,” I said, “and who knows? Perhaps we can work on changing your father’s mind about keeping you close at hand.”
“That, Emily, will not happen. The man never, ever changes his mind.”
“I do have a project for you, if you’re willing. We’ve got the eighteenth-century memoir that mentions Besina’s letters. Do you think there’s reference to them in any others? And what about those written by people who lived in Ca’ Barozzi or Besina’s husband’s house? We know his name now—Rosso. It would be worth taking a look at anything you can find.”
“I know nothing about any Rosso family,” she admitted, “but my father will know something. I will see what I can learn.”
I squeezed her hand and left her, knowing exactly where I needed to go next. If Besina’s letters did reveal more about Nicolò’s will, whoever had them might be in grave danger. As Caterina Brexiano was the last person to admit possessing them, I felt it only fair to warn her.
Perhaps that would encourage her to be more forthcoming about the details of the night of the conte’s murder.
Un Libro d’Amore
xix
In the small room beneath the altar at the Miracoli church, Nicolò embraced Besina, but he did not kiss her. Not in this holy place when she was another man’s wife. He lit a small lamp and sat down next to her on the floor. Now, for the first time since all those years ago when her father had interrupted her planned escape, Besina wept. He held her in tender arms as she cried and he dried her tears when she was done.
He knew they did not have much time.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Can you find a way to leave the house?”
“No,” Besina said. “It is not possible.”
“The next day, then? I have everything arranged, even a house in Cologne.”
Besina closed her eyes. It was too much pain to bear. “I cannot go with you, Nicolò. I have a child now. Tomaso. I cannot leave him with Uberto.”
Nicolò slumped against the wall. “I knew of the child, of course, but had not realized that you felt—”
“It is not only the fact of the child’s existence, Nicolò. It is his father.”
“You cannot mean that you love him. I will never—” He could not find words.
“No, no. How could you doubt me?”
“I didn’t doubt you,” he said. “I only meant—”
“You are his father, Nicolò. His eyes are yours. I recognized them almost as soon as he’d been born. I had hoped, but dared not pray, that he was yours, that I would always have a part of you.”
“Does Rosso—”
“He suspects nothing. He is only too glad to at last have an heir who appears strong enough to survive childhood. Uberto does not realize that could only come from a man other than himself.”
“You called the boy Tomaso?”
“After my father.”
“And he is healthy?”
“Yes,” Besina said, “but we cannot leave him without protection in a house with a man of Uberto’s nature. I realize I can exert very little influence over my husband, but I could not bear to abandon a child to him. Especially our child.”
“We could take him with us.” Nicolò knew she would not agree. It was too much of a risk to try to escape with a baby who might cry at any moment. All could too easily be lost, and there would be no way of hiding what had happened should they be caught a second time.
In fact, it was not fear of discovery that made Besina refuse. Tomaso deserved to live in Venice, deserved to inherit his fortune and serve the republic. He should have a life not spent in hiding. He was a Barozzi, even if not in name, and Besina wanted him to know her family, to know his heritage, not to live anonymously in a foreign city. Such a life might be better for her and even for Nicolò, but it would not be best for her child.
“You and I, Nicolò, we can only have our words,” Besina said. “Still, that is far more love than most people could hope for. You must write to me as often as you can. Your words and Tomaso are the only happiness in my life. Perhaps it is greedy to wish for more.”
20
As my gondola glided through canals en route to Caterina, my thoughts turned to the other person the discovery of the painting could impact, another barren wife. Emma, unlike her ancient counterpart, stood little chance of divine intervention solving her troubles. Granted, I had no idea yet how Emma could be connected, but it seemed too much of a coincidence for there to be no relation. Could she have discovered the long-forgot codicil on her own? Did she think it might change her father-in-law’s view of her? Did she even know what the old conte had counseled his son to do? Would an increase in capital have changed his advice to Paolo? It certainly wouldn’t have changed the fact that Emma was still without child.
We were moving along a narrow waterway, too small for more than a single line of even the slim gondolas. The boatman behind us was singing, a mournful and beautiful melody. I smiled as I listened, lulled into a peaceful repose by the movement of the water and the sound of his voice. I loved Venice, loved its changing light and its curved bridges and the ethereal way the city seemed to float on the water. Most of all, I loved how easy it was to imagine the city in Besina’s time. In truth, it hadn’t changed much at all. This was a place where history had not been lost, where it had not been torn down to make way for something modern and clumsy. It was said that if a sixteenth-century resident of the town were deposited in current-day Venice, he would recognize everything around him and be able to find his way through the calli without hesitation. I could well believe this claim.
By the time the boat approached the bordello, I was in far too pleasant a state of mind to have any interest in going inside. I didn’t ask my gondolier to avoid the water entrance as I had before. Instead, he pulled up to it, and I called out to the young woman who opened the door to request that she summon Caterina at once. She looked confused, and I sensed an irritation in her reply, but before five minutes had passed, Caterina was sitting next to me in the boat.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Nowhere,” I said and directed the gondolier to take us to the Grand Canal, down to the lagoon, and back again. “I wanted to speak to you privately. Not in … that place.”
“And here I’d hoped you had a change of heart and were bringing me back to the Danieli. One gets used to that sort of comfort very quickly.”
“You’re awfully flip for someone in a precarious situation.”
“Perhaps that i
s because I am confident in my innocence.”
“There have been some new developments in the case,” I said, “and I felt I should warn you. I know that you claim to have given the letters and the ring to the conte before he was killed, but, as you know, the letters have not been found. Information I have recently uncovered suggests that whoever does have the letters, assuming, of course, that person is not you”—I gave her a coy smile—“might not take kindly to anyone else who may have read them in their entirety.”
“What is the information?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” I said, “but I will caution you strongly to take every ounce of care you can.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Not at all.” I said nothing else, just leaned back against my cushions, crossed my arms, and closed my eyes.
“Now you’re going to go to sleep? After telling me in not so many words that some murderous thug is after me?”
“I’m not asleep,” I said, “but the sun is bright, and I haven’t a parasol with me.”
“I think you should be taking this much more seriously,” she said. “I could be in danger.”
“Which might make you consider being more helpful than you’ve been thus far.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“Well, almost.”
I had suspected as much. I glanced at the watch pinned to my bodice. “I’m afraid I haven’t much more time, Caterina. If there’s something you have to say, you should say it.”
“The contessa, your friend Emma? She was hiding at the opposite end of the portego when I met with the conte.”
“She saw you?”
“Oh yes,” Caterina said. “Our eyes met. She’s not particularly good at hiding.”
“Why was she hiding?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
We’d turned off the Grand Canal, heading back to the bordello. On the last bridge that stood between the building and us, there loomed a familiar figure, taller than everyone around him, his black cloak drawn close, his white mask with its grotesque beak ugly in the midst of so much beauty.
Death in the Floating City Page 19
