by Dave Duncan
Vasco was whispering a translation to the Feathers. The Maestro paused to let him catch up.
“I am happy to learn,” Ambassador Tirali remarked, in a heavy-handed parody of the Maestro’s style, “that my notoriously voracious acquisitive bibliophilic instincts are not suspected of leading me into mortal sin. As I told sier Alfeo yesterday, a political motive seems equally improbable. So why was Bertucci murdered?”
The Maestro was not about to spoil his own enjoyment by telling him that, not yet. “I could see no ready answer. Sir Bellamy and his wife are strangers, visiting our city to buy art, not to murder our national heroes. Our host here and the servants seem equally improbable killers. I was forced to wonder if the intended victim could have been someone else, such as our Most Serene Doge Pietro Moro. When the book dealer Karagounis was exposed as a Turkish agent, this explanation suddenly became worthy of serious consideration. The doge testified to Alfeo that he chose to drink retsina, which he rarely touches, simply because he knew the procurator would be here and would choose it. So an accidental switch of glasses must be considered.
“But consider the complications required! The doge should not have left the palace without his counselors. He should not have consorted with foreigners. He did so, he told Alfeo, because at the last minute he received a note from his old friend warning him that the books actually sold might not be those he had been shown.”
“I object!” The howl came from Ottone Imer.
Nostradamus dismissed his complaint with a wave of his hand. “I do not say that was the case, attorney. I merely report what the doge said, quoting a note from the deceased, who might, just possibly, have been deceived by a deliberately planted rumor. Or the note might have been forged. But the chances that this too-complicated trap would lure the doge here in person were extremely remote, and even if he did decide to come and see for himself, why go through all the legerdemain with poison and retsina—a wine the doge was very unlikely to choose anyway, so far as a man like Karagounis could know?”
“I told him,” Imer grumbled. “I told him no one would want it, but he insisted on bringing some.”
“Quite. As I was saying, to a Turkish agent the poison would be an unnecessary complication. An ambush in a dark doorway would be far more effective. So you see, Your Excellency—” now the Maestro carefully addressed the inquisitor “—although the official theory cannot be absolutely disproved, it requires a lot of unlikely suppositions. Pluralitas non est ponenda sine neccesitate,1 as the saintly Brother William of Ockham taught us.”
Donà did not comment. He did not look very pleased, either, from what I could see of his face from where I was sitting. I glanced at Violetta, and she was smiling quietly at no one in particular. So she had seen the answer! I wondered whether she had applied Aspasia’s sensitivity or Minerva’s logic.
Having trashed the official government verdict, the Maestro pressed on. “Vizio, ask Sir Bellamy for me: When he and his lady visited Karagounis at his residence to view whatever books he had for sale, did he offer them wine?”
Translation…Bellamy nodded.
“Retsina?”
Hyacinth pulled a face and said what Vasco translated as, “The madonna says that whatever it was it tasted terrible.”
“You see,” the Maestro continued happily, “we assume that the poison could not have been concealed in the other wines—although this is not certain, because no authority I have consulted gives a recipe for isolating venom from the leaves and I have not had time to carry out my own experiments. But very few people have a taste for retsina. So the question becomes, who else was drinking retsina that night?”
“I tried it,” Pasqual said. “But I promise never to do so again. And while I have the floor, I will point out that I never stood next to Procurator Orseolo. There was always at least one person between him and me.”
“Oh, this is a stupid waste of time!” Minister Orseolo made as if to rise. “If you have an accusation to make, then make it now. Otherwise my children and I are leaving.”
“Two minutes more, if you please, Your Excellency. I think some of you know whom I am about to accuse?”
Violetta said, “Yes.”
Orseolo sat back again, glaring at her. Just about everyone else was frowning, except Bianca and Benedetto, who both looked horrified. There was a murderer in the room?
“Very well,” the Maestro said. “One more digression and I am done. The poison in question is not available for purchase in the city. Sier Alfeo established this for me the next day. That means that the murderer obtained it from the mainland or from even farther afield and the crime was planned long in advance. Unfortunately, this information is not as useful as one would like. Madonna Bianca, for example, would seem to have no opportunity to acquire the herb in question, even if some demented nun in the convent had taught her its properties. But her brother attends university in Padua. I assume he came home for Christmas and…No, I am not suggesting that the procurator’s grandchildren conspired to murder him! I am just pointing out that the poison could have been acquired, given time, by almost anyone in this room. It tells us only that the motive was not a sudden impulse. Either the murderer planned the crime well in advance…” He paused, enjoying the attention like a child performing for family friends.
“Or?” Minister Orseolo demanded.
“Or the murderer is a professional killer, Excellency.” The Maestro stretched his lips in a smile. “Madonna Bianca, are you certain that no one put poison in your grandfather’s glass?”
She was by far the youngest person in the room, reared in the shelter of the cloister, but she held her chin high and was not intimidated. “I did not say that, Doctor Nostradamus! I said I did not see it happen. But I was keeping an eye on his drink, in case he forgot it. I should have seen if anyone had tampered with it.”
“Except once. You noticed the doge leaving, because he walked out when the attorney and Sir Bellamy were having their shouting match. They made so much noise that a servant looked in to see what was going on. That was the only moment when everyone was distracted and the substitution would have been safe.”
I watched faces, as many as I could. I saw realization and even some nods. Imer was twitching again.
“So who,” the Maestro said, “would have known that there would be a convenient ruckus? Who could have obtained the poison somewhere outside the city and had it ready to tip into a glass or switch glasses? Not Feather himself. All eyes were on him. But his wife fits these requirements.”
Hyacinth snapped something at her husband.
“No!” Feather jumped to his feet and gabbled a tirade at Vasco.
The vizio translated. “Sir Bellamy denies that his wife did so and demands that the English ambassador be summoned.”
All eyes settled on State Inquisitor Donà in his splendid scarlet robes, presiding like a judge. He stroked his beard a few times. In his way, he was as much a showoff as the Maestro.
“Tell the foreigner to sit down while we hear more of this.”
The Maestro bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Your Excellency is kind. Of course there are questions I must answer. How did she know that retsina, or something equally pungent, would be on offer that evening? How did she know that the procurator would be present, how did she know he would choose the retsina if she had never met him? What possible reason can a visiting art dealer have to murder a senior officer of the Republic? And how did she and her husband come to gate-crash the party?”
“I did not invite them!” Imer shouted. His chair was against the wall at the far end from me, so I could not see him well. I could hear the panic in his voice easily enough. “And neither did Karagounis! I accused him of it. He denied it. He said they had come to his apartment and he had shown them some other documents. He had not told them about the auction and did not invite them to my house! I had told him that nobles would not come if there were foreigners present. I told him not to come, but he did.”
The Greek had n
ot trusted his local hireling.
Vasco’s whisper droned in translation. Both Feathers started shouting denials before he was even finished. He calmed them down and translated.
“Monseigneur Bellamy insists that this is not true. The Greek did tell them that they would be welcome. He invited them to come and dine, to view the books and bid on them, and to meet important people.”
The Maestro nodded. “But that invitation would have had to come through the interpreter, Domenico Chiari. What went in may not have been what came out. Today Alfeo exposed Chiari as a swindler. I trust, Your Excellency, that he was taken into custody and questioned about these events?”
Only the Maestro would have the audacity to cross-examine a state inquisitor. Donà stared very hard at him while the rest of us held our breath. Finally he said, “The man Chiari has confessed to art fraud and is currently naming his accomplices.”
I had sent him to the torture chamber. I said a hasty prayer for both of us.
“But,” Donà continued, “despite careful interrogation, he persists in denying knowledge of the murder. He claims he did not even know about the viewing planned for this house and could not have told the Feathers about it.”
The Maestro shrugged. “It is sier Bellamy’s word against his. Vizio, pray ask the foreigner if he is truly married to—”
Bellamy did not wait for a translation, and his French improved dramatically. “No! I am her servant. We do not share beds. She paid me to pretend!” He jumped up and moved his chair well away from Hyacinth.
Hyacinth was not the sort to remain silent. She burst into an excited babble of French, English, and Latin.
When she paused for breath, a very unhappy-looking Vasco said, “I cannot remember all that, Your Excellency. But she denies using poison. She says she never met the procurator before and would not know him if she ever met him again. She came to Italy to buy art and she pays her secretary to masquerade as her husband because single ladies traveling alone may be molested. Domenico told her the book viewing was open to everyone. And she again asks to see the English ambassador.”
The inquisitor nodded, but I was certain that the Maestro’s accusations had not surprised him. He or someone in the Council of Ten had worked it out. Two people working together are much more effective than one alone. I should have seen that for myself without having to have my nose rubbed in it, and now I could understand her clumsy efforts to flirt with me as a desperate effort to find any available ally to help her escape from the trap.
The inquisitor said, “You have brought serious charges against these persons, doctor. Can you also supply us with their motive?”
The Maestro looked offended. “Certainly.”
“Then will you—”
“Lies!” Hyacinth shouted, on her feet, towering over both her husband and even Vasco. “I demand the ambassador!” She had taken two quick strides towards the Maestro before Vasco grabbed her arm and stopped her. To my regret she did not flatten him on the floor with a single punch; did not even try, in fact. Realizing I was on my feet with my sword out, I sheathed it and sat down.
“Silence!” Donà said. “Missier Grande, have the foreigners taken to the palace and lodged in the Leads as witnesses in a case of murder. They may have one cell or two, as the woman chooses. You may tell them that their ambassador will be informed in due course.”
Missier Grande opened the door and called in two fanti, large young men wearing swords. He nodded to Vasco. No one said a word. Even the Feathers seemed to be shocked into silence. They vanished out the door with the vizio and the guards.
But just before the door closed, I caught a glimpse of more fanti standing outside. And also two slender youths I knew very well, Christoforo and Corrado Angeli, wearing matching grins as wide as the Grand Canal. My tarot had prophesied help coming from the two of staves—who else but the gondolier’s twin sons?
26
The room settled. Only Missier Grande remained standing. The mood had changed, the dark clouds of worry rolled back to reveal the pearly sunlight of the Adriatic. It had been the foreigners all along.
“Now,” the Maestro said happily, “we can forget Domenico Chiari and the Feathers’ visit to Karagounis. It is probably irrelevant, except that it may explain how the woman knew—or could gamble—that there would be a strong-tasting wine like retsina on offer. No doubt Karagounis proclaimed its excellence. I cannot prove the details of their conversation, of course. How can we ever know what a spy told a thief to tell a murderess? I expect her secretary-husband will prove to be a cooperative witness. So, if you will give me the benefit of the doubt on that point, we shall proceed to the question of how she could be sure her victim would choose the retsina, so that her plot would work.”
“And her motive,” the inquisitor said.
“Ah, yes, motive.” The Maestro rubbed his hands. “And yet there is one small puzzle that remains unsolved. For a private gathering, the book viewing was curiously infested with gate-crashers. The doge had not been invited, nor had the Feather woman and her escort. Nor had you, sier Pasqual. Clarissimo, why did you go out of your way that evening to come here, bringing your charming lady with you?”
Pasqual threw back his head and laughed, seemingly quite unworried. “But I was invited, doctor! Not by our host, I grant you. By my father.”
The ambassador favored him with a rueful glance and then addressed the inquisitor. “So it is all my fault, of course! But my son does speak the truth in this case, Marco. I know old manuscripts. I knew at a glance that the supposed Euripides had been copied out in the late twelfth or early thirteenth century, almost certainly by a Greek monk. The hand is distinctive and the paper characteristic. The document was valuable in its own right, therefore, as an early copy of much earlier copies, but when had the original work been written? I asked Pasqual to come and look at it because he is a much better Classical Greek scholar than I am. I wanted to know if it read like something Euripides might truly have written.”
“Ah! And what did you decide?” the Maestro asked.
Pasqual appraised the company and then looked to his father.
The ambassador sighed. “Tell them.”
“Yes, father. I told him I was certain it was genuine. The imagery, the vocabulary, the flow of language—all cried out that this was a work of Athenian genius. And another thing! A few lines from the play have been preserved in works by other writers, as you are probably aware. Just glancing through it, I chanced upon the famous one about cowards not counting in battle—and the wording was not quite the same! A forger would certainly have been careful to include the known version, to give his fake a semblance of authority.”
“What does this have to do with the murder of Bertucci Orseolo?” barked the inquisitor.
Pasqual smiled. “Nothing, so far as I can see.”
“Nothing,” the Maestro agreed. “I was just tying up a loose end. I already knew that His Excellency the ambassador was not guilty, because he volunteered the information that he had seen the procurator pull a face after draining his wine. You, sier Pasqual, asked Madonna Violetta if she had noticed the same thing, and the timing of your query required that your father must have asked you the same question before rumors of poisoning started to circulate. That is not the action of a guilty man, nor one who suspects his son of being guilty.”
“Motive!” roared the inquisitor. “Why did that woman put poison in Bertucci’s wine?”
“Motive?” said the Maestro. “Ah yes, motive. I require another demonstration, a very brief one this time. If all the gentlemen present would kindly stand along this table, facing the door? Missier Grande has some witnesses he wishes to bring in to identify the real murderer. Thank you.”
Playing fair, the Maestro obeyed his own orders, struggling to his feet and leaning on the table before him. Violetta took Bianca’s hand and together they moved to the far corner, out of the way. The rest of us moved like galley slaves—promptly and in unison—until we were lined up as
required. All except the state inquisitor. Marco Donà moved to a chair against the wall, so he could study the faces in the lineup. His acceptance of Hyacinth’s guilt had been so quick that he must have known exactly what was going to happen, but now he seemed more wary. If he did not know who was going to be denounced this time, then the Maestro must have cooked up this demonstration with Missier Grande after we arrived, while I was welcoming the guests. And Giorgio must have gone back to Ca’ Barbolano to fetch the twins. How did they fit in?
Who was next? Whom did Inquisitor Donà suspect? In his ducal counselor’s red robes, he was sitting directly opposite me. Beside me stood Ambassador Tirali in his senatorial red robes. Was it mere coincidence that we had lined up like this? Did Donà suspect Tirali?
The demon in the illusion had claimed that Tirali was possessed, but what demons say must never be trusted. They can turn around and speak the truth to deceive, though, and Tirali’s bribe to me had come at a very convenient moment. He had known that the poisoning must have happened in this room, he had known about the attack on me, even that the bravi had used knives and not swords. He had known I would be coming to call on him. Had the doge really revealed all that to a man who had been present at the scene of the crime? Surely Pietro Moro would not be so indiscreet?
Charming, Violetta had called Tirali senior, but also ruthless. What motive could he possibly have to order the murder of old Bertucci Orseolo? So that he could buy the Euripides manuscript to give to the Pope for the Vatican Library?
That was utterly ridiculous.
Missier Grande was still by the door. “If Your Excellency permits? The two persons outside have been assured that they are required only to tell the truth and will not be punished for it in any way.”
Donà said, “Let’s get it over with.”
Quazza opened the door, peered out, then stood aside.
