They entered the room, and there was a moment’s silence as they gathered in front of me. I did my best to assume a look of stupid helplessness. It was not very difficult.
One of them pulled the gag from my mouth. I resisted an urge to spit and contented myself with slow and heavy breathing.
“My friend tells me you have not been helpful,” said the old man. He had adopted a harsh whispering tone, presumably with the double purpose of disguising his voice and frightening me. It was surprisingly effective. I was very glad I had overheard the foregoing conversation.
“I don’t know what he wants,” I said.
“I think you do.”
“If it’s this book…”
“So you do know,” came the hoarse whisper.
“The Englishman told me about it, but that’s all. He didn’t give it to me.”
“So why did he come to you?”
“He doesn’t know anyone else here – anyone else who speaks English. He thought I might be able to help him to escape. Which I couldn’t, of course.”
“We have ways of making you remember,” said the old man.
“Not if there’s nothing to remember,” I said. “I swear to you. Why should I lie? Do you think I care about his wretched book?”
There was a long pause.
“I think you may be telling the truth. But I warn you, if it turns out you do know more than you say, we will punish you in ways you can only dream about.”
I had the sensation he was now enjoying himself, and I began to suspect something about this man. He was a lover of the dramatic. There must be a reason why his two henchmen had brought me to a theatre. Most theatres in Venice were financed by the nobility; I guessed that this particular nobleman had a stake in the one we were in. Sometimes it was a purely commercial venture, but in many cases it indicated an attraction towards the world of fictitious thrills, laughter and tears. I suspected that he would have loved to be an actor himself; precluded from such an activity by his rank, he had taken up the next best thing: sponsorship and possibly directorship of a theatre.
And now he was taking the opportunity to play the lead role in a stirring drama, complete with diabolical villains and cruel torments.
Well, I could not applaud but I could gratify him by letting out a whimper. The sooner this whole farce was over, the better.
Some minutes later I was back in the boat, as helplessly gagged and trussed as ever. The nobleman had come to the water gate to hiss a last melodramatic “Remember what I said…”.
More twisting and turning through the quieter canals of Castello and then I could tell from the breeze on my face and the cries of seagulls that we were out in the open lagoon, where I was unceremoniously dumped on the muddy shore of a remote island. Their last gesture was to slacken the knot on the rope binding my wrists.
A few minutes later I had struggled free of rope, gag and blindfold. I was on a tiny island somewhere between Murano and Burano and I could see the boat that had brought me there: a tiny dark shape making its way back across the lagoon towards the sun-gilded towers of Venice.
12
A couple of Buranello fishermen took me back to the Fondamenta Nuove. I fortunately had a couple of coins in my pocket and once I had let them know that my being stranded on the island was the result of an unlucky bet they lost all curiosity about my predicament. I was just another mad Venetian.
When I arrived home, before entering the front door, I looked carefully at the building. I saw that by skilful use of the protruding stone frame of the ground-floor window, a gap in the brickwork above that, and a combination of athletic dexterity and foolhardiness, it would indeed be possible to climb up to my own window. I was not intending to try. There was just some slight comfort in the knowledge that my assailants did not actually possess the power of flight. This comfort, of course, was counterbalanced by the thought that it could be done again.
That afternoon, having caught a few hours’ sleep, I made my way to Fabrizio’s bookshop.
“Ah,” he said, as soon as I entered. “You’ve been released.”
“So you know.”
“Only what all Venice knows. And I’ve managed to strip away some of the more lurid accretions to the story. For example, I find it hard to believe that you and Mr Boscombe had spent the evening together at the Ridotto, losing thousands of zecchini each.”
“Why else would I be wearing these old clothes?” I said with a rueful smile. “But go on. Tell me what you’ve heard. And then I’ll tell you what happened, as far as I know.”
He gave me a summary of the stories that were going the rounds. At the core of them was the news that an English gentleman (some said a lord, some a scholar, some a priest) had been murdered by his friend (some said a lord, etc.) while they were playing some perverted game. His account became a little stilted and nervous at this point because Lucia joined us in the shop while he was giving the details. He passed on to all they had heard about my involvement; it was simply reported that the murderer had taken refuge with me.
“Tell us what happened,” she said, gazing at me with troubled dark eyes.
I gave them a rough account of the story up to the same point. When I told them about Boscombe’s description of the dead body, Lucia drew in her breath and said: “That poor man.”
I remembered that she had spent some time with Shackleford and made a sympathetic murmur. When I reached the moment of my brief encounter with the Missier Grande Lucia gave another sharp intake of breath and Fabrizio said, “Cospetto.”
“It was a frightening moment,” I acknowledged. I told them how I had been warned to stay away from the whole business.
“Good advice,” said Fabrizio.
“Yes,” I said. “Nothing I would like better.”
“Why do you say that?” said Lucia, looking sharply at me.
“It seems I’m not going to be allowed to.” And I went on to recount my subsequent nocturnal adventure. For some reason I left the details of where I thought I had been taken vague.
“You’ve had a busy couple of days,” Fabrizio said. “Tell me again: what was this book?”
“A book about Marin Falier.”
“I wonder…” he said pensively.
“What?”
“Well, this reminds me … It’s a curious story.” He turned to a bookcase behind him and ran his fingers along the volumes, humming the while; he nearly always did that when browsing. “Ah, here we are. A curiosity – and one which will mean more to you than it does to me. Literally so.”
He passed me the volume: a small leather-bound book, clearly very little read. I opened it at the title page:
AN ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF DOGE MARINO FALIERO DEFENDER OF THE MOST SERENE REPUBLIC OF VENICE MARTYR FOR THE CAUSE OF REPUBLICAN FREEDOM
“It’s in English,” I said, with puzzlement.
“Your scholarly perspicacity never fails to astonish,” said Lucia.
“This can’t be the book,” I said. “Boscombe specifically said he couldn’t read it because it was in Italian.”
“Let’s see,” said Lucia thoughtfully. “Is it possible for a book written in one language…”
“But why would the Boscombe family have the Italian version?”
“Well, that I don’t know,” said Fabrizio. “The curious thing is that I only know of the English version. It caused a little stir when it first appeared in London.”
“A stir?” I said. It seemed unlikely.
“Oh, not among the English.”
“And why a stir?”
“You know the story of this doge?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So you will understand that describing him as a defender of the republic is provocative, to say the least.”
“Yes, but why should Venetians worry about what some English historian says?”
“Turn the page,” he said.
I did so. The same title was repeated but this time it was followed by the words BY A VENETIAN NOBLEMAN. T
hen, in smaller script, and below a sharp dividing line, came WITH AN AFTERWORD BY A SECOND VENETIAN NOBLEMAN AND A PREFATORY POEM BY A THIRD VENETIAN NOBLEMAN. Finally came the details of the publisher: Printed for J. Knapton at the Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard, 1721.
“You can imagine,” Fabrizio said, “that the idea that three Venetian noblemen were prepared to write a defence of one of the most notorious villains in Venetian history was considered a little troubling. But as nobody was ever able to discover any further details of these noblemen, in the end the book was dismissed as being a hoax by an unscrupulous English publisher.”
“I see,” I said.
“But now you tell me that an Italian version of the book does exist.”
“And as far as we know no one ever translated it into Italian?” said Lucia.
“No, my dear. It was considered best simply to ignore it.”
“So the Italian version…”
“… must be the original,” I concluded.
“It would seem so,” said Fabrizio.
“May I borrow this?”
“I can’t think of anyone better suited to do so.”
Lucia was frowning. “Sior Alvise,” she said, and then paused.
“Siora Lucia?”
“You haven’t forgotten the warning of the Missier Grande?”
“No,” I said. “But I don’t think it extends to taking an interest in medieval history.”
“Perhaps not,” she said, “but please be careful. In any case, there are two questions I’d like to ask you. First, is there nothing we can do for Mr Boscombe?”
I smiled gratefully at her. “Well, if you could take it on yourself to contact his relatives in Florence, it would be good.”
“Of course. Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“It seemed an imposition…” She gave an impatient click of her tongue so I changed the subject. “And your other question?”
“Are you going to report what happened to you last night?”
“Well…”
“It is possible that your information could help Mr Boscombe.”
“Possible,” I said, “but not certain. And my impression is that coming out with an accusation against an unidentified nobleman will not help my own position.”
She frowned. “You may be right. The problem is that word ‘unidentified’.”
“Exactly,” I said. “If only I had been able to get a proper view of him the other evening in the Piazzetta.”
“You thought he was a barnabotto,” said Fabrizio.
“It was just a vague impression, I couldn’t see him clearly but from where I was standing his cloak looked, well, shabby.”
“That is hardly definite evidence.”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll recognise his voice if I hear it again.”
“No,” said Lucia.
I looked at her in surprise. “You don’t think so?”
“I mean that you will not spend your time hanging around the taverns of San Barnaba trying to identify this man.”
Fabrizio nodded. “Lucia is right. You had better stay out of things. The Missier Grande’s spies are everywhere. We’ll contact the relatives of Mr Boscombe and leave things in their hands.”
“Very well,” I said meekly.
Lucia looked hard at me. “You mean that?”
“I promise not to lurk in the neighbourhood of San Barnaba,” I said.
She still seemed a little suspicious but I changed the subject by giving them what little information I had on Boscombe’s relatives in Florence. Fabrizio told me that he had heard that the English Resident had arranged for Boscombe’s servant, Benson, to be sent home, so that was one problem the fewer. Having sorted out these practical matters I left the shop and made my way to Bepi’s house. I did not often call on him at home, our relationship being a strictly professional one, and I was not too sure that his mother approved of our partnership; she probably felt that Bepi could have done better by finding fixed work with some noble family. She was a large lady, with a voice to match, and it was clear that her sons (I was never sure just how many there were) went in awe of her.
The family lived in the warren of back streets in the parish of San Giuseppe (or Sant’Isepo, as the locals called it), beyond the Arsenale. It wasn’t an area I knew well but I knew better than to ask for the Zennaro family; probably a fifth of the inhabitants of eastern Castello shared the surname. I made my way down the fondamenta alongside the canal that flanked the church. The alleys to my left were all festooned with washing; the housewives of Castello were taking advantage of the spring sunshine.
In the street where the family lived a group of small children was playing some elaborate skipping game under the benign gaze of three old women dressed in black, who were sitting in a row in the sunshine outside the first house.
One of the old women caught sight of me and immediately called out, “Bepi, it’s your foreign friend.”
The last time I had been here, as far as I could remember, was about ten months earlier. This woman should be working for the Missier Grande. Perhaps she was. The children stopped their game and looked at me with open-mouthed interest.
There was a buzz of voices from within the house and a few seconds later Bepi appeared at the front door, looking dusty and sweaty. “Alvise,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing special. Have you time to talk a moment?”
He looked nervously over his shoulder and said, “Well, if you’re quick.”
“Are you really a foreigner?” asked the smallest child, a boy aged about six, with huge awestruck eyes; he might have confused foreigner with demon from the underworld.
“I’m as Venetian as you,” I said, with technical correctness but knowing it was a lie.
“Bepi!” came a thunderous female voice from inside the house; I swear the walls shook.
“Coming, Mamma!” He gave me an apologetic shrug and smile. “Five minutes…” he said and disappeared inside. He was never as biddable as this with our clients.
“New bed,” said the old woman nearest to me by way of explanation.
The children resumed their elaborate game, with occasional glances at the foreign intruder, and I waited, listening to the voices inside the house and trying to count how many people were engaged in the drama of the installation. I thought I could distinguish at least twelve voices, ranging from ancient to very young, and the discussion seemed to be about the position and orientation of the bed, taking into account the direction of the prevailing winds, the effect of early morning light and the desirability or otherwise of hearing the local church bells. Every so often the dominant female voice would roar something along the lines of “Of course, I’d ask Bepi for his opinion but I know he can’t concentrate on anything while his foreign friend is waiting for him.” Bepi would mutter some inaudible response and I would try to look as if I had not heard anything, while the three old women all stared at me, shaking their heads in sorrow.
Eventually, just when I was on the point of leaving, Bepi appeared at the door again, this time wearing his red cap, and said, “All right, let’s go for a walk.”
I gave a vague nod of farewell to the children, who went on with their game, and to the old women, who shook their heads again as if our departure confirmed all their darkest suspicions, and Bepi and I strolled down the fondamenta. I mumbled some apologetic remarks about disturbing him, and he shrugged and said, “Not a problem.” Obviously he was going to pretend that I had not heard a word of the conversation inside the house and I was expected to play along.
“I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important,” I said.
“All right.”
“Have you heard about our previous clients?”
“The murder? Yes, of course.”
“You know I was taken to the Doge’s palace?”
“And you were released this morning. Yes.”
All this was obviously well established. I said, just a little nervously, “Does your mother k
now…”
“Yes. But it doesn’t matter.”
I guessed that it made little difference to her whether I was a possible throat-cutting maniac or not; the salient fact was my failure to be a wealthy nobleman.
“And then I got kidnapped,” I said. And I told him the rest of the night’s events, including my conviction that I had been taken to a theatre.
I had undeniably caught his attention this time. After all, he had had dealings with the two men himself, and I suspect that despite his wish to stay out of things some resentment lingered.
“I knew I’d seen him before,” he said. “That smooth way he had of moving. Of course.”
“So do you know the theatre?”
“Teatro Santa Giustina,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “I must have seen him in dozens of shows. And his gondolier was probably one of the company too.”
“That makes sense,” I said. I had lost my bearings in the boat, but I knew the theatre had to be somewhere in eastern Venice.
“It closed down about six months ago,” he said.
“And that makes sense too. Why else would the zany have become a hired tough?”
“It couldn’t take the competition. You know: all these wars.”
He was referring to the bitter battles among the various theatres in the city; it was all too likely that the old-fashioned knockabout comedy of a theatre like the Santa Giustina had not been able to stand up to the rivalry of such innovators as Carlo Goldoni and the capocomico Girolamo Medebach.
“So who was managing the theatre?”
He pondered. “I heard of a few names. But the only one that fits your description is nobleman Zanotto.”
“Zanotto. Is he a barnabotto?”
“Well, if he isn’t already he’s likely to become one. He had a lot of money tied up in the theatre, but he doesn’t own it; the Tron family does. His interest is in the company.”
That was unusual; the involvement of noble families in theatres was usually confined to the dignified (and remunerative) business of ownership of the building and its effects. Zanotto’s theatrical yearnings must be very powerful.
“An old man?”
“Must be in his seventies.”
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