by Dave Duncan
“You are staking Violetta out as bait!”
He nodded sadly. “The only alternative I could see was to enlist demonic help, and that would be especially dangerous in this case. A dark spirit powerful enough to block a major sin like murder would put up enormous resistance.”
“She’ll get murdered!”
He chuckled softly. “You think you are the only brave person in the world? She knows the risk and agreed without a moment’s hesitation. She will be well guarded. We have baited our hook and must wait to see who bites.”
“But if the Michiel killer is using hired brawn, then he’ll be all you catch, not the real culprit.”
“But he will tell all his little secrets to the Ten.”
I winced. “Did you believe Jacopo when he said that either Fedele or Lucretzia was in the Basilica that night?”
“On balance, I am inclined to doubt that either of them had the seniority to get into such an august ceremony as the doge’s Christmas Mass.” Nostradamus scratched his beard. “I know Zorzi wasn’t there, which is what matters.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the Ten would not be making such a fuss now if they were certain they had condemned the right man. The present Council of Ten is covering up for its predecessors and trying to protect its reputation.”
I slumped down in my chair and gathered up my papers. “And the Orio estate? Is it entailed as you call it?”
“I have no evidence, but I should be astonished if what I told him is incorrect. Patrician families keep family wealth where it belongs—in the family. Donna Alina had five brothers. That the plague would carry off everyone but she would have seemed so unlikely at the time their wills were drawn up that the prospect would not have been considered. The lawyers would have tacked on some standard paragraph giving her a life interest.”
That sounded very weak to me, evidence of how desperate he was.
“You really believe that Jacopo will go home and report to the murderer—whether knowingly or unwittingly—that Zorzi Michiel was with Violetta Vitale on the night Gentile was murdered? And that the murderer will dare act on that information?”
Nostradamus sighed. “There is an alternative. Jacopo deceives himself too, remember. He lives in a fantasy world of his own making. I hope that he will now see how dangerous his own position has become and go to the chiefs to confess. Pity him. He was reared in a palace, even if he did have to eat in the kitchen. If his father had lived he would probably have been provided with an apprenticeship, but apparently nobody else cared. Then, suddenly, he is offered more money than he has ever seen in his life just to dress up like the rich playboy noble he has always dreamt of being and haunt brothels. Do you wonder he succumbed? Or that he shuts his mind to what is happening as he tracks down the victims? Poor devil!”
Put that way, yes. If the Maestro had correctly analyzed Jacopo’s role in these crimes, then he was going to be yet another victim of whoever had murdered Gentile Michiel.
“It must be time for dinner,” he said. “Afterward you will write out our interview with him in fair and prepare a report for the chiefs of the Ten. I dare not withhold that diary from them any longer.”
My master had his priorities, but I had mine. I gobbled my dinner and made all speed for Violetta. The fastest route was by way of the roof, of course, but if the security at Number 96 was as tight as it should be, I might have to spend more time explaining myself than I would save. I ran downstairs instead.
I found Antonio outside the door of Violetta’s suite, supervising a carpenter who was installing three massive bolts. She was on the inside, supervising both men. She was also clad in a loose house gown, being long overdue for her day’s helping of sleep.
She flashed me a smile. “I’ve decided to stop you sneaking in on me at ungodly hours in the morning.”
I blew her a kiss and went around the corner to the kitchen door. My key worked, but the door would not open. Then I heard bolts being drawn; I was admitted. We completed the kiss in proper form, ignoring Milana’s smiles in the background.
“This is madness!” I said when we paused for breath. “If you must be bait, at least come and stay with us next door, where you will be safe. We have an excellent guest bedroom.”
She touched the tip of her tongue to the end of my nose. “Oh, and wouldn’t you like that!” She was dark-eyed Helen, ready to tease me to distraction.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“For a day or so, I suppose. Not enough variety for longer.”
“Vixen!” I kissed her again.
She broke free. “I am safer here, my darling, because I have more protectors. Antonio has brought in extra guards—all good men he knows and trusts. We’ll have guards on duty by night and day. Now we have bolts on both doors, as you can see, and it would take a cannon to break through these doors. I even canceled all my engagements for the next three evenings!”
I sighed and nodded; tried to kiss her again and was balked when she laid fingers on my lips.
“But,” she added coquettishly, “I will be lonely all by myself. I could use an extra bodyguard.”
“I know a good man!”
She smiled at me under her lashes. “So do I. Don’t forget to bring your longsword, soldier.”
I took all afternoon to transcribe the Maestro’s interview with Jacopo, because I was on tenterhooks and my mind kept wandering. I wondered how similar my report might be to the one our champion liar would deliver when he returned to the Palazzo Michiel. Would the killer, whichever of them it was, swallow the bait, or recognize the trap the Maestro had set? Had word already gone out to the hired assassin that another deadly task awaited him?
It was only when winter dusk was falling that I reached the end and passed the final sheet across the desk to the Maestro, who had been ostensibly reading Paracelsus’s Archidoxa all afternoon, but had done much more frowning and beard tugging than page turning. He had followed my progress, page by page without comment. Now he scanned the ending and nodded.
“Not bad,” he conceded effusively. “It will suffice.”
Praise indeed! I had expected a dozen corrections at least.
“Now my report to the Council of Ten,” he said. “File copy first.”
He dictated a brief account of Violetta’s plea that he track down her friend’s killer, his discovery that there were other victims, and his efforts to prevent more killings. The name “Honeycat” had directed him to the Palazzo Michiel, and from there had come the enclosed book, believed to have been sent to him by donna Alina Orio . . . and so on. After this, not even an abbess rampant would keep the Ten away from Sister Lucretzia.
“Read it back,” he said. Then, “It will do. Make a fine copy of both.”
He was rarely so uncritical and I began to suspect that the Council of Ten was never going to see my handiwork. Nevertheless, I did as I was told. Then I wrapped up the damning book, my report, and the accompanying letter. I sealed the package with wax.
“I’d better go,” I said.
“Later,” he added, glancing at the windows. “After we have eaten.”
“The Ten will be meeting by then.” The three chiefs of the Ten, who set its agenda, are appointed for a month at a time and must not leave the palace during their term, but the entire council meets in the evenings, although not every day. After it adjourns, the three state inquisitors retire to their own chamber to conduct their own sinister business.
The Maestro dismissed my objection with a shrug. “There is still time. I have been considering my latest foreseeing, the one about hazarding in far lands and death being near at hand. You did not spurn help at your feet . . . You have seen no more of the mysterious cat?”
“No, master.” I sat down, but I know him too well. I could tell that he was procrastinating, hoping against hope that his trap would be sprung before he was forced to turn over that damning evidence to the Council of Ten. Once that happened, a blanket of secrecy would fall over the case and
we might never learn what happened.
“Are we overlooking anything in our respective predictions?” he mused.
That was a command for me to start interpreting. The implication that I was his equal as a seer was mere flattery.
“Your first quatrain predicted the fourth murder very well. The second . . . The first two lines—hazarding in far lands and death near at hand—suggest that Zorzi has returned to Venice or plans to. Not spurning help at your feet suggests my phantasmal cat. Explain Salvation from on high to me, master.”
He pulled a face. “I can’t. The other three lines work out, so keep it in mind. And your two tarot readings. Revisit those for me.”
“The reading for Violetta has turned out quite well,” I said with touching modesty. “I mean the queen of coins facing the problem of Death reversed could hardly be plainer. You just reversed the knight of cups by sending Jacopo home to bait your trap, which will turn out to be the solution if it works.” Or sheer disaster if it didn’t, but I might as well claim credit for giving him the idea.
“And the Popess reversed?”
“Violetta would say that it meant the abbess of Santa Giustina who refused to admit her.”
I thought that even Nostradamus would have trouble interpreting that as a significant prophecy, but he managed it. “The warning may have restrained her from revealing too much. If the abbess had guessed that she was a prostitute, she would have reported her to the censors. And Fortitude as the helper? Your Violetta is a brave woman to participate in our little stratagem.”
“My deck names that card Strength.”
“Well, even if we don’t count it, four out of five is still remarkable. Very few tarot workers could equal that. Now your own reading?”
Hmph! “Not so good,” I admitted. “The Popess as the solution fits, because Sister Lucretzia brought us the book. The snare was the vizio, all right, but I hardly need tarot to warn me of Filiberto Vasco; and it was your quatrain and the phantasmal cat that saved me from him. Nothing else helps at all. The problem was identified as Justice. I suppose that means that Zorzi was innocent, or justice for killing the four women; it’s apt but not helpful. The helper was Judgment, which tells me nothing.”
The Maestro stroked his beard and frowned at me. “The subject or question was the knave of coins reversed?”
“That’s a good indication of Circospetto taking bribes.”
“Then why was he reversed?”
This had been bothering me also. “I don’t know. He got his money and gave up virtually nothing.” All we had learned for five hundred ducats was that the murder weapon was not the khanjar dagger Jacopo had said it was.
Nostradamus tugged his goatee for a moment, which meant that he was seriously thinking, not just wasting time until Honeycat dramatically burst in on us to confess.
“Suppose Sciara cheated? Suppose it was he who removed the rest of the documents, just to score off us?”
“Possible,” I admitted. “Likely, even.”
“Then perhaps he told you more than he intended? Outsmarted himself? The rest of the material would have taken you all night to read and might not have been of value. Because you were not distracted by that, you may have picked up something vital in what you did get to see.”
“You’re saying I missed something in what he did show me?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. That’s up to you. I could entrance you and see what I might squeeze out of your memory that you have overlooked.”
“No!” I said automatically. I hate it when he puts me into a recall trance, because I cannot remember afterward what I said or what he asked, and I always suspect him of prying into my private thoughts.
“Then you do it!” he snapped. “You ought to be able to put yourself into an introspective trance by now. You must practice more.”
Again he glanced at the window to see how the day was fading. There was fog moving in. “Go and find out if Mama has supper ready.”
“Yes, master.” He expresses interest in food about once a decade. “You are expecting visitors.”
“It is possible,” he agreed sourly, annoyed that I had seen through him. “Not necessarily Honeycat, but I kicked the hive very hard. Somebody ought to react.”
As I reached the atelier door, our door knocker summoned me and I looked back. “Nicely timed, master.”
With a smirk of satisfaction, he began levering himself upright. “Pass me my staff.”
I saw him headed for the red chair before I went out to the salone. I had never approached the front door with greater apprehension. Who was out there? A bravo with drawn sword? Missier Grande come to arrest us? Jacopo repentant? One of the Michiel brothers breathing fire? The mysterious Sister Lucretzia returning?
28
I was wrong on all counts. The doge himself would have surprised me less. Beetling over me like a dormant volcano stood Matteo Surian, once Matteo the Butcher. I suppose I gaped at him. He was decked out in his Sunday best, clothes far grander than he would ever have worn in his respectable days as a tradesman, and I could tell at a glance that last week’s sodden wreck was now dried out. As an effort of will, that was remarkable. His eyes were no longer bloody pits, but they held a cold, implacable ferocity I recalled from his fighting days on the bridges. At the sight of me he beamed with relief. It was a fair guess that he had never in his life entered a palace like Ca’ Barbolano except by the tradesmen’s entrance, and mine was the face he had come looking for.
“Sier Alfeo!”
“Matteo! You are welcome! Come in, come in! What brings you here?”
With a leer of triumph he opened one of his huge fists to reveal a tightly folded piece of paper. “I found the note!”
“That’s wonderful! Excellent! Come and show it to my master.” The sbirri had hunted for that paper, so now we were harboring even more evidence that should be delivered at once to the chiefs of the Ten.
Fortunately the salone was dark, for its grandeur might have scared him away. On the other hand, he was so excited and pleased with himself that he might not have noticed. He did not look around him as I ushered him into the atelier, just went striding over to the only person present. The Maestro had settled in his chair and now looked up with astonishment at the giant looming over him, offering his find.
Nostradamus accepted it and ordered him to a chair, joking that his old neck couldn’t bend at that angle any more—he can put people at ease when he wants to bother. Meanwhile I was lighting more lamps.
“So where did you find this, Matteo?” the Maestro asked, carefully unfolding the paper.
The big man shifted uneasily in the green chair, which was hard put to contain his bulk. “It all her furniture, see? She brung it when she moved in. And I knowed she had a place she kept money.” He colored. “Didn’t mind. I got plenty off her.” Meaning Caterina had been cheating her doorman. Most pimps would have beaten her raw for trying that.
“So you went looking for a secret hiding place?” the Maestro asked.
“Press a latch and top lifted up.”
“And you found money. How many other papers?”
“No papers . . . Stuff . . .”
“It’s yours, Matteo. Caterina would have wanted you to have it. I just want to know what else she saw as precious enough to keep there.”
Relieved, Matteo mumbled about some jewels he’d never seen before, but only one paper. The Maestro read it in silence with me looking over his shoulder.
My vessel of love, my fountain of joy—
Yes, it is your Honeycat who has returned! Tell no one yet, sweetest of cherubs, not until the pardon has been issued. But the Ten agree that I am innocent and was wrongly condemned. No one else knows, so I must be very careful, but the thought of seeing you again drives me mad. All these years, yours was the laughter that haunted my dreams. I must kiss the roses and roam in the forest again, discarding all caution. What are you doing in this awful San Samuele? I will call on you tonight at sunset and sweep you
away to better things again. Be ready then.
I went back to the desk and returned with the Orio contract. Again I watched over the Maestro’s shoulder as he compared the two documents. The writing on the note exactly matched that in the contract change written in by Jacopo.
“Matteo,” Nostradamus said, “this is all the evidence the Ten will need. We know who wrote this!”
The big man’s smile exposed a fearsome set of teeth—not complete, but sized to fit a horse. “They’ll have his head, then? The sod who killed her?”
“The ax will fall! But this must go to the Ten right away.”
His face froze hard as granite. “Let Alfeo take it.”
“Matteo,” I said quickly, because if those two started arguing I might die of old age before either gave way, “could you recognize the killer’s voice if you heard it again?”
He hesitated. “Might. He spoke hoarselike.”
“Good. Master, why don’t I show that note to Alessa? Those terms of endearment do not come from the book. She can tell us whether they were expressions used by the original Honeycat.”
He grunted. “Wouldn’t hurt to know, I suppose.”
“And I think Antonio might welcome another helper tonight.”
I could not expect a man of Matteo’s age to leap from roof to roof, or one of his girth to balance on the ledge, so we went around by the land route. This gave me time to explain how we had set a trap for the killer. Then I had to convince our new helper that he must not rip Caterina’s killer into cutlets if he did show up.
There were no girls on display in the entrance parlor yet, only two guards I did not know. They regarded me with suspicion and Matteo with alarm. Then one of them recognized him from olden days and the chilly atmosphere thawed. I demanded Antonio, who was fetched. I explained my new helper.
Antonio was not enthusiastic.
