by S. D. Sykes
When I reached the courtyard of Ca’ Bearpark I threw myself down upon the bench beneath the budding fig tree and dared not look up from my hands. I felt that it was near to me now, creeping toward me across the stones, wanting to touch me with its fingers, so I closed my eyes and concentrated. At first I just wanted it to leave, but as I pushed it from my mind an idea began to form in its place—and it was a good idea. It was a solution to my problem. There was somebody who might lend me money to pay off Vittore’s debt without security. The sum I needed was extremely large, but this person was my friend and would understand my predicament. He would not lose out from this arrangement, as I would promise to repay my debt with a generous excess, as soon as I got back to England . . . whenever that might be.
I smiled at the cleverness of this idea, because I knew he would help me. He was my friend. But the next time I saw Enrico Bearpark, he was dead.
Chapter Five
All thoughts of Vittore and my debt receded, as I raised the alarm—calling for the servants of Ca’ Bearpark to come quickly as their master had been murdered. Somehow I had recognized my friend Enrico, as he lay on the steps to the water gate, even though his poor, mutilated face had resembled the most grotesque of carnival masks. As the men and women of the household answered my call, I realized that the doors to the water gate were open, when they should have been closed and locked for the night. Leaning out to look up and down the canal, I could just see a hooded man clinging to the outside wall of the house. The light was poor and his hood remained pulled over his head, but I caught a brief glimpse of his profile before he sidled along the ledge to make his escape.
I clung to the metal curls of the water gate, swung myself onto the same ledge, and then gave chase until he reached a bridge at the turn of the canal, after which he disappeared into an alley. I hauled myself up onto this same bridge and then pursued him along the pinched streets, thin bridges, and covered passageways of this sestiere—but my efforts were in vain, for he knew these paths, and I did not. It was not long before I had both lost my quarry and my way.
I sank down against a damp wall to catch my breath, and it was then that the reality of Enrico’s murder truly struck me. My first reaction was a blow of sadness—but I’m ashamed to say that another ignoble thought quickly intruded into my mind—that I could no longer ask my friend to lend me money. As I tried to shake this dishonorable idea from my head, I noticed a group of ragged children staring at me from the shelter of a nearby doorway. It was time to leave, for while I didn’t dress with the usual flamboyancy and excess of the typical Venetian, the quality and style of my clothes still marked me out as a wealthy man. A person who should not have been hanging around in this dirty alley at this time of night.
I stood up, but the children had crept toward me and were now blocking my exit. As the tallest boy advanced, I grabbed him by the ear without warning. For a slight, undernourished child, he was surprisingly strong—squirming like a piglet to be rid of me. His ragged friends held back, not knowing whether to run away or come to their companion’s aid. It would not be long before these same children roused some older ruffians who would pose a much greater risk, so I whispered to the boy in Venetian—telling him that he must lead me to Ca’ Bearpark, where I would reward him with a soldino. Lead me into danger, I warned him, and I would pull the ear from his head.
At this proposal, he ceased wriggling and then looked me in the face, as if sizing up the true weight behind my threat. Despite the fact that I still held him by the ear, he guessed rightly that he held the advantage, for he asked for two soldini, and I had no choice but to agree. Once the deal was struck, he then led me at a great pace through the back alleys of San Marco until we finally reached the street entrance to Ca’ Bearpark—just a plain door in a plain facade, without the opulence and ostentation of the house’s water gate. When the boy demanded his fee, I told him to stay where he was, promising to return immediately. He was suspicious, of course, but what else could I do? I had no money to my name, not even the smallest coin.
The house was in uproar as I entered. Servants were running up and down the stairs with lanterns, and I could hear a wailing from the depths of the building. Mother stopped me in the hall, dressed in her white linen bed chemise—her hair was wild and loose. “Enrico Bearpark has been murdered,” she told me.
“Yes, I know. I found his body by the water gate.”
I tried to sidestep Mother, but she succeeded in blocking my path by swiftly placing her hand against the wall. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, as I gently removed her arm and then pushed past, only stopping when I remembered that the boy outside was still waiting for his money. “I need you to do me a favor, Mother.”
She folded her arms suspiciously. “Oh yes?”
“There is a group of children outside. I need you to give them two soldini.”
She gave me a strange, bewildered look. “Why?”
“Please, Mother. Just do it. I’ll tell you why later.”
“Where are you going?” she called after me.
I chose not to answer.
I experienced some difficulty in getting past the guard at the door from the courtyard to the water gate. Beyond him was a noisy confusion of shouting and rushing feet, and it was only when I called for Bearpark’s clerk, Giovanni, that I was allowed entry to this part of the house. I had guessed that Giovanni would be at the center of this melee, given that his sleeping quarters were near the gate, but I had not expected to see John Bearpark there as well. I thought the old man might have been spared the sight of his grandson, but instead Enrico’s dead body had been pulled up the steps, and was now laid out upon the marble floor, his face turned up to the ceiling. Thankfully somebody had thought to place a length of silk over his battered head, hiding the cruelty of his death from the eyes of those about.
Bearpark squatted on a barrel near the body, with his wrinkled hands dug into the loose skin of his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I volunteered, not knowing what else to say.
Bearpark tried to press his tears away with his fingers, before clearing his throat with some determination. “The servants told me that it was you who found Enrico. Is that true?” he said, his words a rasping whisper.
“I heard a noise at the water gate. But, when I got here, I—” I wasn’t sure how to continue, so I bowed my head, in what felt like an apology. “I found Enrico. He was dead.”
Bearpark wiped another tear away. “I understand you chased somebody along the canal?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did you catch the fellow?”
I shook my head. “No. He escaped.”
Bearpark covered his face again with his hands, and I had to draw close to hear his words. “Did you recognize him?” he asked.
Once again I shook my head.
An awkward silence followed, punctuated only by Bearpark’s heavy, labored breathing. I wanted to comfort the old man, though I doubted my sympathy would be welcome, so I remained at his side until Mother appeared.
“You poor man,” she said, before placing her hand upon Bearpark’s shoulder. I could see that her attentions were neither welcome nor comforting, but Bearpark couldn’t muster the energy to rebuff her.
Mother then clicked her fingers in the air, as if a servant might appear. “This man needs some brandy,” she shouted to nobody in particular. “And a bone broth. Look at the pallor in your master’s face. He’s as white as a corpse.”
In truth, Bearpark was a good deal pinker on hearing this word, so before Mother could make any farther unfortunate remarks, I encouraged her to leave.
“Perhaps you should go to the kitchen, Mother?” I said. “You could instruct the cook to prepare a suitable dish.”
She shook her head. “No, no. I’m needed here, Oswald.” Now she whispered, “And where to goodness is Monna Filomena? You’d think she’d be at her husband’s side after such a terrible disaster, wouldn’t you?”
>
I maneuvered her away from Bearpark. “Why don’t you go and find Monna Filomena?” I said tactfully. “Perhaps nobody has told her what’s happened.”
Mother shrugged me away. “How could the woman be ignorant of this murder? The whole household is awake.”
“She might be concerned for her child. It is due soon and such a shock can send a woman into labor.”
Mother hesitated and drummed her fingers together as if giving my suggestion great thought. “No,” she said at length. “I shall go to the kitchens instead and have them prepare a dish. In times like this, an Englishman needs English food.”
With Mother’s departure, I turned back to John Bearpark. Tears now streamed down his cheeks, making forked channels across his freckled skin. Once again I guessed that my sympathy would not be welcome, so I took a lantern and then stooped next to Enrico’s body, shooing away a couple of the servants. Pulling back the silk, I looked again upon my friend’s face—though this time without the shock that had accompanied my first examination.
From the condition of his face, it was clear that Enrico had been involved in a fight, but when I looked at his hands, I found no scratching or bruising upon his fists. His skin was cold to the touch, and, though there was some stiffness to his face and shoulders, the rest of his body remained slack—suggesting that he must have died a few hours ago, rather than being killed in the moments before I found his body.
I wanted to study the injuries to his chest, for this assault had not been confined to his face and head. When I lifted the silk back farther, I could see great patches of blood staining his linen shirt. I pulled down at his collar in order to look farther, when a hand pressed itself into my shoulder.
“God’s bones, de Lacy! What are you doing?” It was Bearpark. “Leave my grandson alone.”
“I wanted only to look at his injuries,” I protested.
“Enrico’s dead! Is that not enough for you?” Bearpark’s nostrils flared. “Have some respect!”
I replaced the silk gently and stood up. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to upset you.”
Bearpark’s anger subsided as abruptly as it had risen. Now he placed his hands over his face and openly wept. The sobs echoed about the chamber, springing back at us from the stone walls and then settling on the water. Outside, a thin light indicated that it was nearly dawn, and the early morning boats were beginning to make their way along the canal. When I noticed a passing oarsman straining to look inside the house, I quickly called the servants to move Enrico’s body out of view and then to shut and lock the gates.
When I turned back to look into the room, Filomena had joined us, passing Enrico’s body with a short gasp, before she clutched her husband’s head to her breast and let him sob into her chest. I had never seen any tenderness between this pair previously, and the sight of their embrace shocked me.
I left the room in haste and tried to cast the image from my mind, but it continued to trouble me as I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber. I couldn’t say why exactly, but their intimacy had upset me.
Chapter Six
A strange, exhausted sleep found me, leaving me to dream that I was trapped inside my own coffin, while somebody hammered nails into the lid. I woke to discover Mother knocking insistently at the door.
“Come quickly please, Oswald,” she called. “It’s urgent.”
“All right, all right. I’m coming,” I said, placing my tired feet to the cold terrazzo, and then opening the door a crack.
“You must come to speak with Master Bearpark,” she told me, trying to push her way in. “He’s calling for you.”
I closed the door before Mother could make another attempt to barge past, quickly threw on some clothes, and then descended the narrow staircase to the piano nobile, where Bearpark sat stiffly in his carved chair—waiting for my arrival with his hands clasped around the curled arms of the seat, as if he somehow feared falling forward. Despite my hope that Mother might decline to join this conversation, she had followed me into the room, with no indication that she might leave. Filomena still attended her husband, but as I approached, Bearpark dismissed her so rudely with a flick of his hand that I could not help but give a loud puff of disapproval.
As Filomena passed me, she took the trouble to catch my eye with a fleeting nod of thanks. I felt a short surge of pleasure at this, for the young woman usually ignored me, scorning all my attempts to communicate, but unfortunately Bearpark had also noticed her gesture, despite not wearing his spectacles. “Go on, get out of here,” he shouted at his wife. “Be quick about it!”
At this order, Filomena cast her eyes to the floor and then scurried from the room, while I made the mistake of turning to watch her leave.
“She carries my child, Lord Somershill,” said Bearpark, when I looked back. This sounded decidedly like a threat, but given that the old man had lost his grandson only the night before, I decided not to respond.
I shook Filomena from my thoughts and cleared my throat. “You asked to speak with me,” I said.
He wiped his brow. The tears from the previous night might have ceased, but his eyes were still red-rimmed and watery. “I apologize for my sharpness when we last met, Lord Somershill. I was overwhelmed with grief.”
I bowed. “No apology is needed.”
He reached out to a side table, felt about for his spectacles, and then balanced the device carefully on the bridge of his nose. The thick glass magnified each of his eyeballs, giving him the curious, bulging gaze of a frog.
A long silence then followed, which I felt obliged to end. “So. Have you informed the local constable of Enrico’s death?” I said, at length.
Bearpark responded to my question with a scathing huff. “This is not England, Lord Somershill. There are no constables in Venice.”
“But you must report the murder to somebody?”
He only shrugged by way of an answer.
“I’m sure Master Bearpark will inform the relevant parties, Oswald,” said Mother. “You’ve no need to worry in that regard.”
Bearpark turned his head with a sudden twist, so violent that it dislodged the spectacles from his nose and caused them to fall onto the floor. “Indeed I will not!”
“Oh yes?” said Mother, somewhat surprised by his reaction. “Do murders not matter in this city then?”
Bearpark paused, regaining his composure before he wiped a wrinkled hand about his face, carefully mopping the sweat from his skin. “Venice is not like England, my lady.”
Mother exchanged a glance with me. “But surely somebody will care about your grandson’s murder, John?” she said, reaching down to pick up the spectacles from the floor and then passing them back to Bearpark with great caution, as if she might provoke his anger again.
Bearpark did not restore the spectacles to his nose. Instead, he let them rest in his lap, as he heaved a great sigh. “There is a war against Hungary, my lady, so who will care about poor Enrico’s murder? You must understand that.”
Mother would not admit defeat so easily, however. “Surely not? The Bearparks are a good family. Citizens of Venice.”
“My family is above the mob, that’s true. But we’re not named in the Golden Book.” His hands tightened over the carved knuckles of the seat, causing his veins to stand out in long, crooked channels.
“What Golden Book?” said Mother. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s a list of the oldest and most noble families in Venice,” said Bearpark. “You may sit on the Great Council of Venice only if your family is named in this book.”
Mother regarded the old man quizzically, as if he might have invented this fact. “Then you should have your name added, John. After all, you donated your best ship to this city, didn’t you? How else would they have disposed of the Plague dead? That must count in your favor?”
“You cannot just have your name added,” snapped Bearpark. “The membership has been closed to new families for seventy years.”
Mother gave
a long shake of her head. “What an inequitable system,” she said, as if she had never supported the concept of an elite. “But even so. A murder is a murder, John. No matter if you are named in some foolish book or not.”
“How many times must I repeat myself? Nobody will care,” said Bearpark in a thunderous voice, before rising unsteadily to his feet and knocking his spectacles once again to the floor. “My grandson’s murderer will be brought to justice, have no fear. But I will do it myself.” He then wagged his finger at the two of us. “You must not speak to anybody about Enrico’s death. Do you understand?”
“If that’s what you want, Bearpark,” I said, not managing to hide my affront at his tone.
“I would like to keep this tragedy quiet, that’s all,” he said quickly, realizing that he had caused offense. “Until I’ve started my investigation.”
These words caused Mother to clap her hands. “Well now, John, if you’re conducting an investigation, then you must use our great investigator.”
I felt a tightening in my shoulders, and my heart began to thump. I tried to indicate that I didn’t want her to say another word, but Mother was staring fixedly at Bearpark.
“Investigator?” said Bearpark, looking at Mother disbelievingly. “What investigator?”
“Why, he stands in front of you,” said Mother, pointing to me with something of a dramatic flourish. “It is my son Oswald, of course.”
Bearpark turned to me, wide-eyed. “Lord Somershill is an investigator?”
Mother nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, he is famed for it. He has even come to the attention of the king himself.”
I picked up Bearpark’s spectacles from the floor, so that neither of them would see my face redden. “Please don’t exaggerate, Mother,” I said, passing the glass contraption back into Bearpark’s limp hand.
