Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  “What do you want me to do?” Biagio asked.

  Such a dainty way of saying it, she thought. They both understood the real question. Two men, both of some repute, had entered a building in a deserted, remote part of the city. She could not think of calling for assistance. There was nothing to report. Or, worse, there was, and the wrong people would hear.

  “Wait for me,” she ordered. “In fifteen minutes you call them, say there’s something suspicious and they should check. That should give us a little time before they come.”

  “OK,” Biagio said uncertainly. He was out of uniform, calling in sick, taking a big risk. She had to protect him if the walls began to fall around their heads. She knew that.

  “Biagio,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them I ordered everything. OK?”

  “You’re the boss,” he replied.

  “Right. And you make that call, whether I’ve arrived or not. I won’t be long.”

  “And then?”

  She heard the hesitation in his distant voice.

  “Then we open a couple of coffins,” she answered. “And see what flies out with the dust.”

  61

  View from a window

  THREE TIMES I PLEADED WITH A GONDOLIER TO TAKE me across that short black stretch of water. Three times they refused. A man without money ceases to exist. I had one item of value left in the world: the small Star of David that Rebecca had placed around my neck a lifetime ago. At the traghetto I offered it to the gondolier. He sneered at the precious piece of silver, then took it and nodded me into the boat. I had no choice. The alternative was to race through the back alleys of San Marco and make that long loop over the Rialto, then down to the Dorsoduro once more. I had not the time, yet without that small memento of another part of our lives, I now felt naked.

  The September afternoon was waning when I found myself in the alley by the rio which leads to the rear entrance of Ca’ Dario. Swarms of flies ascended from the piles of rubbish awaiting disposal by the waterside. From the dark chasms which marked the entrance to the tawdry local inns, eyes glittered at me as I passed. The city stank. I could feel my time inside it running out, like sand falling through a glass. If ever I managed to release Rebecca from this devil’s grasp and take her to safety, I would, I vowed, go down on my knees to kiss terra firma and swear never to abandon land again.

  There was much to be done before that happy state was reached and little with which to achieve it. I had no means and no weapon—I had left my only blade on the cobbles outside La Pietà. No plan, either, save to hope Jacopo would find some way to smuggle Rebecca to freedom. When I saw that familiar house, with its forest of curious chimneys, its secure position by the Grand Canal, and the high surrounding wall, I realised how fruitless this proposition was too. Delapole had chosen his abode well. It was, in its own way, a small fortress. There was but a single entrance to the landward side of Dorsoduro at the rear, and the same on the canal at the front. To the west side stood the rio, just big enough for a gondola, but with no access to the building. On the east was an even narrower line of water between Dario and the adjoining palace, from which entry was barred by a high wall. It seemed impregnable. There was nothing to do but wait. Which I did, sitting in the shadow of the neighbouring garden’s alcove entry, and all to no avail.

  The maid and the cook left—for good, by the looks of it, since they murmured darkly about Delapole’s meanness as they passed me. I watched the windows and saw nothing. I had thought Ca’ Dario a small property until now. It was, by comparison with its neighbours, but not when it came to guessing where a handful of people might be behind its walls. The house stood on four storeys, each of a size which might encompass six or eight normal rooms. I had seen only the first floor, with its grand parlour opening onto the canal. It was impossible to imagine where in this miniature castle Delapole might be making final preparations for his flight. All I could count upon, I believed, was that he would be in a hurry. There, again, I was wrong.

  Two red-faced men, whom I took to be creditors, came to the door and were sent away by Gobbo with a few coarse words and empty pockets. Nothing else occurred. After almost an hour of inactivity, my patience broke. If the watch were to take note of Marchese’s information—which, given his murder, seemed far from certain—they would surely do so soon. Even without this, Delapole must make his exit before long. Either way, we would be damned. I poked my head out into the light and considered the situation. Ca’ Dario seemed impregnable, but there was one small possibility for entry. The house possessed a modest walled garden at the rear which, in part, adjoined that of its neighbour where the rio either terminated or went underground. I could see foliage, jasmine or oleander, running over the corner of the wall where it met the street. A little way along stood the branches of a small orange tree, bearing tiny fruit, which sat in the neighbour’s garden but crossed, a little, into the Dario property.

  Gingerly, I turned the handle on the wrought-iron gate behind me. To my good fortune, it was unlocked, so I hastily pushed it open and stepped into the green parterre that lay behind. There was no time for dawdling. The house beyond looked empty. I scrambled up the orange tree until I reached the level of the wall’s summit, then rolled over and fell hard onto the puny grass of a small lawn. My blood froze. There were voices, coarse, male ones, close by. I hid in a bush and tried to think. The noise was coming from the front of the mansion, by its private jetty on the canal. If Delapole was about to leave, this in all probability would be his exit route. It was more public than the rear, but less accessible. To fly the city, he needed water transport. It made sense that it would arrive at the most convenient location, then carry him and his cargo away, perhaps to land, perhaps to a passenger ship in the docks.

  I considered my options. The ground-floor level of the house was hopeless; the side windows were barred. The first floor, with that grand room where I had betrayed Rebecca to the Englishman, was beyond my reach. If I were to enter the house, it must be at the front, through the same arched entrance they would use to load Delapole’s possessions and, last, their passengers.

  There was nothing for it. I clung to the damp wall, edged my way along the narrow stone skirt that ran from the garden, by the rio, to the canal, and poked my head around the corner. Thank God for the common Venetian. There were three of them, lounging in their boat, with several packing cases around them. Coils of tobacco smoke rose from the prow, where, with their backs to me, the men lay, cursing idly about the whims of rich men who order a boat for five and still decline to board it at six. I felt relieved. Then one of them murmured, “Perhaps he’s fancying a bit of rough-and-tumble with that bit of skirt, lads. Can’t blame him, eh? She’s a pretty one. They were upstairs for a reason, if you ask me.”

  My heart sank. While they gossiped, I edged along the dank white marble frontage until I reached the narrow jetty, then dashed silently into the gaping arched maw of the entrance. None saw me. I paused against a wall, marshalling my thoughts. There was a small sledgehammer at the foot of the grubby stone stairs that led up to the house proper. I did not want to walk into the presence of either Delapole or Gobbo unarmed. No other weapon was likely to present itself. I lifted the thing, felt its pendulous weight swing beneath my arm, and was then up the stairs, two at a time, into the corridor which ran along the main reception room. They had said Delapole and Rebecca were above. I had no idea where Gobbo might be. Then I heard something that made me grip that hammer tight in my hands and catch my breath. From above, distant but with that unmistakable, bold tone, came the sound of Rebecca’s violin, and behind it Delapole’s cold voice.

  They were on the floor directly over my head. I could hear the boards creak as he paced the room. A single flight of stairs separated me from Rebecca and our fate. I strained to hear another sound. There was none. Gobbo could not be nearby—perhaps he had slipped out while I was making my furtive entrance at the front. We seemed alone, with only the bored boatmen outside for distant company, and th
ey would not come through the door until summoned.

  I tucked the handle of the hammer into the top of my trousers, held the hard iron head firm to my stomach, and ascended the stairs, step by patient step, listening to these twin, related sounds, Rebecca’s fiddle and Delapole’s commanding tones, becoming louder all the while. At the head of the staircase was an ill-lit landing with a long velvet drape which ran across to the entrance of the room opposite. I briefly saw Delapole’s back there as he strode across my vision. Rebecca was out of sight. I slipped behind the curtain and started to skirt along the wall towards the open door. There I moved the fabric a little and saw her at last. She was seated, the instrument in her arms, a single sheet of manuscript on a stand before her knees. Delapole marched around her like some kind of teacher.

  “I think not,” the Englishman said. “Some part of it runs out of one’s head before it is heard, like a well-worn phrase. This is a textbook definition of the cliché, and we must avoid that at all costs.”

  “Sir,” Rebecca replied wearily. “I am tired. I believed we were to depart tonight.”

  “When Gobbo’s met that brother of yours. Not before. Blame him, not me. I’ll give them thirty minutes more, and then we’re off. In the meantime I shall play with my new toy, if you’ll oblige. Music, girl!”

  His back was turned. I lifted the drape from my face so that she might see me, but her mind was elsewhere.

  “I have had enough,” she announced. “I will play no more.”

  He walked over and knelt beside her chair. “Oh, surely you will oblige me, dear. It is in your own interests. The Devil has the best tunes, always, they say. With your talent and my ... polishing, who knows where we’ll end up?”

  “I wish no more of this,” she said, and carefully placed the violin back in its case.

  “Ah.” He looked at her with an expression I would once have interpreted as kindness. No more. “I’ll have other sport, then.”

  With a single arm he dragged her from the chair and threw her abruptly to the floor. Rebecca screamed and clutched at her dress. Not for fear of his intentions, either. She was in pain. The beast took no notice. He was unbuttoning himself, and then, in one swift movement, snatched up her hem and ran his lascivious hands upon her flesh. I felt the hammer tight within my grip and wished I knew whether Gobbo was back in the house with Jacopo. We had a single chance to escape their grasp. I would not allow Delapole to savage her again, but I was determined that if I was forced to strike, I would deliver a blow that granted us all freedom.

  Then Rebecca sent every idea fleeing straight out of my head. She dragged herself away from the Englishman and spat full in his face. He paused and wiped the spittle from his cheeks, with a wry smile that said she would surely pay for this impertinence.

  “You shall not touch me again,” Rebecca said coldly. “I will claw your eyes out if you try. This charade about your talent I’ll tolerate if only for the safety of my brother and Lorenzo. The rest you shall not have. I carry Lorenzo’s child. I will not have it soiled in my belly by the likes of you.”

  Marchese’s words of warning rang through my head. I felt the strength drain from my limbs and leaned back against the wall, scarcely able to keep the hammer in my grip.

  The Englishman stood upright instantly and buttoned his fly. “Lorenzo’s child, eh?” he asked without expression. “How sweet. You did not mention this before, my love.”

  She smoothed down her dress and sat motionless on the carpet, her arms around her knees. I fought to catch my breath and squeeze a single rational thought from my mind.

  “I say it now. You mark it well. I’ll not have your poison stain what’s unborn inside me.”

  “A child,” he repeated, seeming calm and pensive. I tried to catch Rebecca’s eye again and failed. If we had to, we must both attempt to tackle him in order to break free.

  Delapole strode to the window and stared out at the canal. “You know,” he said, “I thought I would not have to face this so soon. You have rushed me, girl. You have lured me into Procrustes’ bed before I am ready. Such a waste.”

  Slowly she stood upright and backed towards the door, still unaware of my presence. “The time is late,” she said. “We should be going.”

  He turned and waved a hand at her. “Oh, no. Now there’s new business to conclude. You have demanded it. A child ...” His face astonished me. He seemed in full possession of himself, yet distant, too, as if another Delapole lived inside his skin and had come to the surface to claim a little time in that long English frame.

  “I hear someone come, sir,” Rebecca said. “On the stairs.”

  There was no sound. The house was as silent as the tomb. She could retreat no further without making it clear she intended to leave the room. I waited and prepared to act.

  “And I have demanded nothing,” she observed. “Nothing but some decency.”

  “No?” He took a single stride forwards, hands still clasped to his breast. “Oh, come, Rebecca. Admit the truth, for we both know it. There is but one woman in the world. You may call her Eve. You may call her Lilith; it’s all the same to me. She takes a man’s life from his seed and uses it to breed his death in her belly. Had I known this earlier, I should have ripped that little upstart out of your body before it began to grow. But then we should have been denied the pleasure of each other’s company, girl. That would have been such a shame.”

  “Sir ...”

  He shook a fist at her and came two steps closer. I gripped the handle of the hammer tightly and watched him like a hawk. “Silence, child! I’ll not let it happen. Oh, no.” He reached into his jacket and retrieved something from his person. I stared, aghast. Clenched in his right fist was a long, slim knife like that of a physician’s. “You always make it come to this in the end. The same old deception. The same old cure. Now, be still and make it easier for yourself. I’ll ...”

  He moved towards her. I leapt out from behind the curtain, swinging that crude weapon in both hands.

  “Lorenzo,” the villain said softly, staring strangely at me. “Such a rude intrusion does not become you.”

  The hammer caught him on the right shoulder. His arm shot back. The knife fell to the floor, where I kicked it hard, sending it scuttering into the corner of the room. Delapole tumbled to his knees, his hand clutching the sleeve of his white shirt from which a single point of blood soon began to grow into a broad, round stain.

  I took Rebecca’s arm. She stared at the Englishman, unable or unwilling to move. “We must go,” I told her. “Now.”

  “Where is Jacopo?” she asked me.

  As Delapole squirmed on the floor, he made no complaint, no moan, as if he felt the agony I must have inflicted on him as nothing more than a distant annoyance. “I don’t know. He was supposed to be here, helping you escape. The house seems empty.”

  “Dead, dead, dead, oh, good boy, Gobbo ...” Delapole laughed at us and then, to my amazement, stood straight upright, shook his bloody arm as if to cure it, and gave us both a gracious bow. “One Jew’s enough on this payroll, girl. D’you think I really wanted to feed him too? Gobbo went to find him, but not to fetch him back. Now, to return to business ...”

  He strode over and, with his one good arm, reached down and retrieved the knife from the corner where it lay. Then he walked back to us, his bloody shoulder hanging from its socket, and struck feints with the blade through the air.

  “Lorenzo ...” Rebecca whispered. “It cannot be possible....”

  “I saw,” I answered. “Now, run.”

  She went away from Delapole, across to the fireplace, and picked up a long poker which lay there. “Not without you,” she answered. “Not without my brother.”

  Delapole could not decide which of us to lunge for first. He simply stood there, grinning, as if this were some game.

  “You will not go?” he asked. “Good. I like that spirit. I like that....”

  I almost fell to him. He dashed to one side and swept the air with that long k
nife, so viciously and with such speed it seemed impossible I had wounded him at all. Seeing that sharp line of metal cut towards me, I pulled the velvet drape to one side, watched it slice through the fabric like a scalpel through soft flesh, then jabbed the hammer into his face. Delapole staggered back, off balance, and Rebecca was there, dashing him in the head with one long arc of her poker. He clutched his skull and mewled like a wounded cat, then fell to his knees. I would have no more of this.

  “Come,” I cried. “This madman’s best left for the city to deal with.”

  I had her hand. I stared into her lovely face. In that instant we were closer to each other than we had been for days. She moved. Then the creature on the floor roared, “No!” And I saw, flying through the air, that devilish blade. Rebecca screamed and fell to her knees, clutching her thigh. The knife had bitten deep into her leg. Dark blood welled out from the wound and stained her dress. I grasped the hilt, withdrew it, and pulled up the hem. A red slit had opened just above her knee, a good two inches across, and now was bleeding badly.

  I tore a strip from her hem. “Tie this,” I urged. “It will staunch the blood. And now we shall be gone.”

  Her eyes did not meet mine. Their point of focus lay behind me, and I knew, without turning, what it was.

  “Lorenzo,” the Englishman whispered, and I was a little cheered to hear a wheeze and some hurt inside his voice.

  I twisted round to face him. He was a sorry mess, with a bloody arm and a bloody head. Yet he stood nonetheless, as erect and forthright as a soldier on parade, and would, I knew, be at me, weapon or no, in a moment.

  I covered Rebecca with my body. “You are a stubborn fellow, Englishman,” I said. “What must I do? Break your legs so you cannot walk? Beat you until you stand no more?”

  He bowed his head again and beamed in that familiar way. “Why, you must kill me, boy. Or wait until I do you a similar honour. This day. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. It matters nothing to me. I have all the time in the world.”