The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Alana White

  Amerigo blew a lock of damp hair off his cheek, grinning. “I was up late.”

  “And not because you were sleepless and writing in your journal.”

  “Decidedly not.” Amerigo's quick smile faded. “Walking home, I witnessed such commotion as I've never seen in these streets. Swear, I mashed myself against the walls to keep from being trampled by ass dealers and flask makers wailing about the bloodied horse, Turks, and the Virgin, weeping again. Then here comes Palla Palmieri thundering in on horseback, shouting orders.”

  Guid'Antonio flung his crimson cloak over his shoulder. His white cotton tunic was none too fresh; for now, it must do. “Palla and his ufficiale?”

  “Decidedly. He warned people to keep away from the lady's horse. Unnecessarily, as everyone on two legs is rushing to Ognissanti to worship the painting.”

  Guid'Antonio secured his scrip to his belt. “And to throw coins into the monks' hands. You say blood. How, when from the looks of you, it's raining.”

  “Only in the last short while and lightly as I came home.” Amerigo paused, his expression deeply thoughtful. “The Virgin's tears on the heels of the lady's horse do imply someone near had a hand in crafting them. Surely the monks wouldn't hatch such an evil scheme for a few extra coins in the box. Do away with the lady, invent tears in Ognissanti—”

  “Men have done worse for less,” Guid'Antonio said. “Palla believes the horse in fact does belong to Camilla Rossi da Vinci?”

  “Yes. In the hubbub, he told me the gatekeeper who caught up with it knows it as the lady's and took it to the public stable where it's always kept.”

  “Which one?” Guid'Antonio snuffed the candles and turned down the lamp.

  “The Hoof and Hay just inside the gate.”

  “And Ognissanti?”

  “Packed like a crock of sardines.”

  In the hall, Olimpia Pasquale stood on tiptoe, lighting the morning torches. “Mattina,” she said, dimpling as she turned to greet them, her expression as she gazed at Guid'Antonio, glowing.

  “Mattina,” he answered, caught off guard by the answering warmth her smile ignited in him. “You're not with Giovanni this morning?”

  “No.” Olimpia reached up to light another torch, her breasts pressing fetchingly against the light fabric of her apron. “Giovanni's with your lady Maria and her mother, as the next few hours may be his grandmother's last. Your lady believed it best.”

  “Maria sent for him?”

  “Um-hm. I walked him there myself. She instructed me to return today with their things and abide there with them until—well. In the meanwhile, I'm lighting morning torches.”

  Guid'Antonio glanced around the hall. “Have you seen Cesare?”

  For one moment, Olimpia hesitated. “ 'Tis just now dawn, Signore.”

  “I did. On my way home,” Amerigo slipped in. “He scooted down an alleyway and was lost in the fog.”

  Olimpia, chewing her lip, stared at the floor.

  “Olimpia, tell him—” Guid'Antonio made an airy gesture. “Oh, never mind.”

  With that, Guid'Antonio and Amerigo hurried downstairs, across the garden and out into Borg'Ognissanti.

  Fog, misty and gray, lay like a damp veil over the city, shrouding the rooftops and the Arno, where fishermen in boats cast their nets. Up and down the thoroughfare, people pushed past one another for entrance to Ognissanti, their figures ghostly apparitions in the pale gray atmosphere. Guid'Antonio turned on his heel and walked opposite them toward the Prato Gate.

  “God's wounds!” Amerigo exclaimed. “We're not going to see the weeping painting?”

  Guid'Antonio shook his head. “Camilla Rossi's horse amongst us here in Florence, rather than kept by her abductors or sold? There's the miracle, I think. We're off to the Hoof and Hay.”

  “Stand back!” Eyes squinting with brute intent, the burly sergeant posted at the door to the public stable took a threatening step forward.

  “Stefano! Stand down.” Palla Palmieri moved from the stable into the light, chewing a piece of straw, resting his brown eyes lightly on Guid'Antonio. “You're late.” Palla's dagger, cased in leather, rode in full view at his slender waist.

  “Right on time for chasing ghosts.”

  “The horse is real at least.” Palla directed them past the police guard and on inside the wooden structure that smelled of oats, sweat, and hay. A chestnut horse poked its nose over the top rail of the first stall and whinnied. From another stall there came the sound of a shovel scraping stone. “The stable keep,” Palla said.

  “You've seen Camilla's horse? It is here?”

  “Yes. A dandy little mare.” Palla nodded toward the end of the building, past the lengthy row of narrow cubicles. All was quiet there.

  A solidly built man whose wild black hair framed muddy eyes set in a ruddy face emerged from the near stall, armed with a manure-caked shovel. He shot Palla a sour look: You're still here? His eyes narrowed further when he saw Palla's companions, one wearing a crimson cloak and wrinkled tunic embroidered with creamy white wasps, the other impressive in tall boots and a purple tunic slit at the neck to show the brocade farsetto and rich cotton camicia beneath it.

  “What's this, then?” the man said. “How many horses do you want? Two?”

  “You are the stable keep?” Guid'Antonio said.

  “No. I'm King Ferrante of Naples. Can't you tell?”

  Guid'Antonio nailed him with a stare. “We've no need of horses for ourselves. Just to inquire about the one found running loose today in the street.”

  The man's full red lips parted, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Lady Camilla's mount!” He wagged his head. “The Turks and their dirty work. Enough to sicken my gut. The girl's blood spilled on the saddle, the girl's blood spilled on the bridle, her bl—”

  “Show us,” Amerigo said.

  “Show you what?”

  “Her blood!” Oaf!

  Palla looked away, mouth turned up at the corners, arms folded neatly across the chest of his plain brown tunic.

  The stable keep thumbed toward the police chief, sputtering, “I've been through this with Palmieri! I have work to do.”

  “All the more reason for you to answer quickly,” Amerigo said.

  “By whose request?”

  “Mine,” Guid'Antonio and Palla said.

  “First Palmieri, now you, our very own neighborhood snoop, sniffing at doors,” the man said. “The all important Vespuccis! Yes, I know who you are. Who doesn't?”

  Guid'Antonio studied him mildly. “Watch your tongue or you may need me one day and find I'm nowhere around.”

  “For all that, the answer's the same: just as I couldn't show our good police chief the lady's blood, neither can I show you.”

  “Can't? Or won't?” Amerigo said.

  The man offered them a sickly brown smile. “Can't. I cleaned the animal's gear.”

  Guid'Antonio's temper blazed. “It was evidence.” He glanced at Palla who, having followed this same, slow curving road a short while earlier, listened with his finely chiseled lips set in a cold smile.

  “By her husband's request,” the stable keep said.

  “Castruccio Senso has already been here?” Guid'Antonio said.

  “Yes, and I do as I'm told,” the stable keep said.

  Why waste breath asking this dimly lit fellow anything so complex as who, what, when, and where? Instead, sticking to why? Guid'Antonio squelched his anger and inquired how Castruccio Senso knew the horse in question had been found and brought to this particular holding, when there were countless public stables around town.

  “Uncle Guid'Antonio,” Amerigo cut in, “I told you the gatekeeper recognized the mare and brought her here.”

  Guid'Antonio held up his palm: Not now.

  A light dawned in the eyes of the stable keep. “Because it's Castruccio's horse,” he exclaimed. “Tesoro. Or rather, 'tis his lady's. She calls the mare her treasure. When the gateman brought Tesoro here, I sent for Castruccio at his
house.”

  “You recognized the mare because Castruccio Senso typically boards her here,” Guid'Antonio said.

  “Yes.” How could they be so harebrained? And they, the supposed leaders of Florence. No wonder the Republic was in such a mess.

  “She's a beauty,” the stable keep declared. “Tesoro, I mean. Though the same may be said of the lady, Camilla Rossi da Vinci. A true Madonna herself, and now—” He trembled. “Next, the Turks will fly over our gates with burning wings and devour us with their fangs like the werewolves who prowl our streets at night. Our souls will spend eternity in hell, thanks to the Antichrist who means to destroy our city.”

  Guid'Antonio ground his teeth. No need to ask which Antichrist the fellow meant. “The blood: was it fresh?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Rather than dried,” Guid'Antonio said softly.

  “Yes.”

  “How did Castruccio Senso seem when he saw Tesoro today?”

  “Seem?” the man said.

  “Was he upset, for Christ's sake!” cried Amerigo. “After all, his wife is missing, and this is her horse!”

  Palla laughed outright. The stable keep drew back, offended. “What do you think? Castruccio Senso's in a terrible way. He wanted done with the blood, and quickly, too. Though he'll remember the sight well enough, when some hunter stumbles over his wife's corpse, or what the Turks have left of it.” The stable keep crossed himself.

  “It seems ‘quickly’ is the operative word here,” Guid'Antonio said, glancing at Palla. “Tesoro's in the back stall?”

  “She is. To keep her from harm. And further tampering.” Palla turned to Amerigo. “Fetch the animal, please?”

  Within the moment, Amerigo was leading Tesoro toward them. “Look at this beauty,” he breathed.

  Guid'Antonio looked and stared. A splendid black mare, Camilla Rossi da Vinci's horse possessed a proud curving neck and a long mane that was thick and curling. The animal's tail, an abundant fall of shining ebony curls, brushed the stable floor. For all the mare's magnificent appearance, her eyes flickered, showing fear.

  “I believe she's an Andalusian,” Palla said.

  “Absolutely, a Spanish breed.” Excitement quavered in Amerigo's voice. “I've heard of them.” With gentle hands, he quieted the mare's restive movements, running his fingers over her back and withers, then down each leg, inspecting the hooves, and then the teeth. He rubbed the animal's shoulder gently. “Excellent condition. Well fed, and there are few tangles in this extraordinary mass of curling tail and mane.”

  Guid'Antonio said, “And yet she's been missing and presumably wandering for almost two weeks.”

  Palla's dark gaze went to the stable keep. “Do please tell them your explanation for this.”

  The fellow lifted his hands up in a gesture of helpless wonder. “We are awash in miracles.”

  Palla cut a smiling glance toward Guid'Antonio. “Remarkable, isn't it, how suddenly He is so prompt with them?”

  They stepped into the street. The sun had burned off most of the early morning moisture; the day promised clear blue skies and searing summer heat. “This latest poses more questions than answers,” Guid'Antonio said, striding three abreast with Amerigo and Palla along Borg'Ognissanti.

  Palla agreed. “One thing's certain. Turks never would have released such a fine animal. Few people would. Be that as it may, someone has been tending Tesoro until very early this morning.”

  “How do you explain the blood?”

  Palla laughed sourly. “I, like you, know that's the main question, along with Castruccio Senso's role in this. The harness and saddle are in my custody, should you wish to examine them. Sadly, all evidence of blood is gone.”

  “How accommodating of you.”

  Palla shrugged. “We both work for the same man.”

  “I thought Camilla's case was closed. Officially,” Guid'Antonio said.

  “It is. I count on you to inform me of any progress you make in your private investigation for Lorenzo. Immediately,” Palla said.

  “You know I will. Palla, was Camilla carrying any coins or wearing any jewelry when she disappeared? There's motive enough for some men to waylay her.”

  Palla shook his head. “No. Only traveler's checks, according to her cautious husband, none of which have yet come to light.”

  Amerigo touched Guid'Antonio's sleeve. “Look there.”

  Ahead of them, Piazza Ognissanti was a mass of men, women, and children elbowing their way through the doors of Ognissanti. Palla said, “There's a dangerous situation. Fear, hot tempers, and a whiff of salvation.”

  “There's an apt description of the Pope and Lorenzo,” Amerigo said.

  “Palla,” Guid'Antonio said. “You're certain Tesoro was with Camilla when Camilla started out from Florence?”

  “Yes. According to her nurse and slave, and a host of eyewitnesses.”

  “And are we certain there was blood on Tesoro's gear when the horse bolted through the gate today?”

  “The gatekeeper who chased her down confirmed it.”

  “And the stable keep said the blood was fresh?”

  “Yes. I have a shadow on Castruccio,” Palla said. “As well as sergeants posted all around here.” His gesture included Ognissanti, Trinita, and the byways leading to Santa Maria Novella. “And on Via Larga, too,” he said, “should people take their passion outside your church and into the Medici Palace.”

  Guid'Antonio considered telling Palla about his own shadowed walk through the city two nights ago, on Monday evening. Instead, he said, “Do you know Castruccio Senso's whereabouts last night? Perhaps the horse is meant to lead us away from him.”

  “He was inside his house. The night watchman confirmed it.”

  Palla's slight, brown-clad figure cut a wide path through the crowd as he strolled toward the Bargello, the public jail, while Guid'Antonio's mind whirred with questions, foremost among them this: why would a man have evidence, whether fresh or dried (the stable keep said “fresh,” but how could they believe that hare brain?) erased that might shed light on his wife's disappearance and possible murder, unless he was guilty of having her killed, or of killing her himself? Tesoro let loose only to be discovered inside the city walls while Castruccio Senso remained within his house suggested additional forces at work.

  If the blood truly were Camilla's . . . that meant the girl had been harmed—he recoiled from the word murdered—this very day.

  This new twist in Camilla Rossi da Vinci's disappearance troubled him.

  And what, besides, it had to do with the tears in Ognissanti.

  SEVENTEEN

  At the entrance to Ognissanti, Guid'Antonio and Amerigo encountered Brother Battista Bellincioni, the fat almoner of the Benedictine Order of the Humiliati. Tailors, silk merchants, silversmiths, jewelers, and surgeons jostled one another through the narrow portal and on into the nave, along with menders, shearers, and poor kitchen maids smelling of cooking grease. Prostitutes wearing green cowls with bells on their heads, menders, and fishermen: all opened their fists to release precious coins into Bellincioni's wooden collection box.

  “Father Abbot wondered how long it would take you to come poking around.” The monk sniffed, rising up a bit taller in his sandals, his voice narrow and haughty.

  “Buena mattina to you as well,” Guid'Antonio said. “I came poking around the night before last, too. But of course, you know that. I hear the Virgin Mary's weeping.”

  Bellincioni's face puckered into a frown. “With good reason, too.”

  Guid'Antonio nudged Amerigo, who squeezed into the throng of humanity pushing into the church. “What good reason is that?” Guid'Antonio said.

  Bellincioni's flabby chin lifted a notch. “Are you here as a worshipper or as a spy for Lorenzo the Magnificent?”

  “As one who spends thousands of florins each year decorating this church.” Guid'Antonio indicated the wall on the right a short distance behind Bellincioni's squat frame. “Commissioning, for
example, the fresco of Saint Augustine Sandro Botticelli just completed. Ah. I love the smell of fresh paint. Don't you?”

  Bellincioni scrunched his face and poked the collection box toward Guid'Antonio. “Do you think I know everything?”

  “Good God, no, but enough to answer me.” From his scrip, Guid'Antonio withdrew a coin and dropped it in the box, where it landed with a metallic chink.

  “Look around you,” the monk hissed, his black eyes radiant and sharp. “Our Blessed Mother is weeping in sorrow for her forgotten children. Not for you or any of your ilk. It's you and men like you who tricked us into taking Communion when Holy Mother Church forbade it. And forbids it still, though no one told us that before or since. It's men like you who pull the wool over our eyes time and time again, who gull us into contravening God's will, and who mean for our souls to spend eternity in hell!”

  “Not God's will, but the Pope's,” Guid'Antonio said.

  Bellincioni shook with such indignation, the coins in the collection box clattered, as if they, too, were outraged. “God will punish you! He will punish all of us!” he cried, bouncing up and down on his toes. “He already has, with curses in the streets and empty bellies! Next, He'll send the Infidels to destroy us, just as they destroyed the innocent lady. If ever a mortal woman may innocent be. Cross versus Crescent, here in our own city. The defeat of Christianity, thanks to the devil burrowed in the heart of the Golden Lion district!”

  “Shame on you, Bellincioni,” Guid'Antonio said, his voice harsh as he spoke. “It's you and men like you who keep this misery flaming. And what would you know of empty bellies? It appears you haven't missed many meals.”

  “Satan's mouth!” Brother Bellincioni whirled and hastened into the church, seeking the black comfort of his Benedictine brothers.

  Dangerous, these religious with their shaven heads and holier-than-thou attitudes. Dangerous, their grip on the scared and needy.

  Guid'Antonio slipped into the sanctuary. A man stumbled into him, tugging a little girl along by the hand. A young man pushed against him, elbowing past. Slowly, Guid'Antonio's eyes adjusted to the half-light. In the gloom he smelled sweat and musk mingled with—what? An odor he couldn't identify, something rotten hovering beneath the usual church smell of incense, candle wax, and stone.