Isle of the Dead (26 page)

‘You bastard!'

‘What are you complaining about? You got the painting,' Tom said, guiding Ravenscourt out of the apartment and slamming the door behind both of them. Finally, he slid the keys through the letterbox and dusted his hands off.

‘I'm glad to be leaving. Seraphina never liked this place. Said it was bad luck.'

‘It certainly was for her.'

Shrugging, Tom moved past Ravenscourt. But halfway down the stairs, he hesitated and looked back at him. ‘I don't buy it, you know.'

‘What?'

‘Your big dumb act. Like Seraphina, you're not what you seem to be. I don't know whether I should laugh at you, or be afraid of you.' He paused, as though he was considering his options, then walked on, whistling.

Apparently the di Fattori marriage had been a charade for over a decade. Or so the Contessa told Nino as they sat in the apartment overlooking the Grand Canal. The height of the room prevented any intimacy, the arched ceiling as impersonal as a church. And seated under all this grandeur was the sparse frame of Seraphina's mother, the Contessa di Fattori. When she spoke the impression of fragility continued, her voice as brittle as her appearance.

In the weeks since Nino had last seen her she had lost weight, the veins on her forehead pronounced under the skilful make-up, her tinted hair too dark for her pallor. Erect, she looked like a person who had been tied to her seat, rigid with unease.

‘Thank you for coming,' she said in Italian, then slid effortlessly into English. ‘I have matters of the utmost importance to discuss with you. And of course I ask for your complete confidence.'

Nino nodded. ‘You have it.'

She went on without a pause. ‘My husband and I are getting a divorce.'

‘I'm sorry—'

‘Please don't be. Seraphina's death was too much for us. They say people either grow closer in adversity or break apart. We did the latter.' Her lips closed firmly, as though she was relieved to have the words out of her system. ‘I have something to show you, Mr Bergstrom.' Reaching over to the table beside her, she handed him a substantial envelope. ‘My husband was of the opinion that family matters should remain within the family. I, however, do not agree. But then again, I married
into
the di Fattori line, so perhaps I don't have the same loyalty to the name. Or the dead.'

Opening the package, Nino was struck by the age of the paper, a heavyweight embossed vellum.

‘What are these?'

‘Those are jottings written by the infamous Melania, the Contessa di Fattori. Painted by Titian, the lover of Pietro Aretino, the Harlot of Venice. Do you know what the name Melania means?'

He shook his head. ‘No.'

‘
Dark
,' she said wistfully. ‘And she was. Not in colouring —she had red hair – but Melania di Fattori had a dark heart. Of course you know of her death, her murder? Very like Seraphina's, wasn't it?' She paused, sighing, although there was barely a sound. ‘I've been thinking a great deal. About my daughter, about what happened to her. And I was speaking to Gaspare Reni this morning – he told me about the Titian
portrait.' She put up her hands to prevent Nino interrupting. ‘It was right that he did so. I couldn't go on in ignorance, Mr Bergstrom. It makes sense that there was some connection between Seraphina and Melania … What Gaspare told me made me decide to show you these.'

‘You want me to read them?' Nino said, gesturing at the papers.

‘Every word. They might help you.'

‘Have you read them?'

‘Read them first, Mr Bergstrom, then we'll talk again,' she replied. ‘My husband would never have released this information, and I ask you to keep it secret. I only give it to you because it might be of use. Melania was an extraordinary woman. Immoral, without conscience.' She breathed in. Again, the action was hardly audible. A wraith in a silk dress. ‘We disguise so much, lie to ourselves, hide so many secrets. Melania did that. So did my daughter.'

‘What kind of secrets?'

‘The baby she was carrying … it wasn't Tom Morgan's.'

The words were a body blow.

‘Did he know?'

‘No,' the Contessa said firmly. ‘Seraphina only told me … and possibly Johnny Ravenscourt.'

The name resonated unpleasantly. ‘I know Ravenscourt. He's not the father, surely?'

‘I don't know who the father was,' the Contessa replied. ‘It's amazing how easy it is once you start to talk. Hiding things becomes a habit. You tell a lie so long you believe it.
Every word is considered for its impact. How much do I say? To whom? I suppose all ancient families are the same. Do you think so, Mr Bergstrom?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Yes, maybe,' she agreed. ‘It's like recovering from an anaesthetic. I feel I can breathe again. If I want to. If I
choose
to.' She paused, as though she was considering her options there and then. After a moment, she spoke again. ‘Seraphina's dead. I want to know who killed her. I know why—'

Nino was taken aback. ‘
You know why?
'

‘Angelico Vespucci killed his victims because they were immoral. Seraphina was immoral too.' Her head went up, her eyes fixed on her visitor. ‘You think it pleases me to say this about my own daughter? No – but it is the truth nonetheless. All the time Seraphina was growing up I'd look at her and wonder why she behaved so recklessly. At nineteen she left Venice and travelled the world. I imagine she had many lovers. We had nothing in common, Mr Bergstrom. I married young and remained married, without taking a lover.' She looked around her, tensing as her gaze fell on a painting of a red-haired woman. Nino didn't have to ask who the sitter was. ‘That's Melania. Seraphina inherited the worst of her ancestor's traits … I used to worry that something would happen to her, but when she came back to Venice and married Tom Morgan, she was content.' The Contessa paused, then continued in the same quiet, listless tone. ‘I believed she'd changed. After all, they were in love. But Tom Morgan was lazy, let his business slide, took risks, took drugs.'

‘Did Seraphina?'

‘No, she said not. She had no interest in drugs, or in drinking. She didn't need it, she said, she was always full of life.
Too
full of life. To my amazement she continued her education, worked as a scientist, using her brain. She could separate her life into little containers, into pigeon-holes: career, family, husband, lovers.'

‘So she was unfaithful to Tom Morgan?'

‘After the first thrill of marriage wore off, Seraphina started looking around.' The Contessa caught Nino's gaze and held it. ‘Venetians close ranks against outsiders, but people here knew her reputation. It was only when she became pregnant that I was hopeful. Maybe, at last, she'd settle down.'

‘What about her husband? Did Tom Morgan have lovers?'

‘Too lazy,' the Contessa said dismissively. ‘He likes to get “high”, to lounge about. He's no taste for seduction. To be honest, I imagine he would find it tiring.'

‘But he knew about Seraphina's lovers?'

‘Isn't the question “Did he care?”'

‘Did he?'

‘He cared for comfort, for money, for a soft life,' she replied. ‘He cared for my daughter, but never enough. Do I think he killed her? He could have done …'

Nino took in a breath as she continued.

‘But when I heard about the other deaths, the murders so like Seraphina's, then I doubted it. It would take planning, cunning and energy – not traits Tom Morgan possesses.'
Her gaze moved downwards to her hands. ‘But then Gaspare told me about the Titian portrait and I started to think again. The painting would be worth a fortune. An easy way for a lazy man to get rich.'

‘But Seraphina never told
you
about the portrait?'

‘No. But then a wife tells a husband more than a woman tells her mother,' she replied perceptively. ‘Seraphina could have told Tom Morgan. And he could have been tempted … And if he killed her, I want to know. I
have
to know.' She rose to her feet. ‘Read the papers, Mr Bergstrom. Read what Melania di Fattori wrote. She knew The Skin Hunter. She was his lover. If you're hoping to find Vespucci's imitator, perhaps you should first learn more about the original.'

‘I need your help,' Nino said, ringing Gaspare from Venice. ‘The Contessa di Fattori has given me some information—'

‘She said she was going to.'

‘Why did you tell her what was going on?'

‘The woman's lost her daughter, and her marriage has broken up. What reason was there to keep it a secret from her? She deserves to know. If she was still with her husband I wouldn't have told her, but the Contessa's smart, she can handle it.' Gaspare paused. ‘So, what did you want me to do?'

‘Time's running out. I've got to find the last victim. So I want you to trace every woman who's ever been connected to Angelico Vespucci—'

‘What!'

‘Go on the internet and see what's been done on The Skin Hunter. We know about the copy of the portrait, and the article. The last victim
has
to have a link.'

‘It could be anything.'

‘I know!' Nino snapped back. ‘But what else have we got
to go on? I'll read the stuff I was given, and then talk to Tom Morgan again. Incidentally, Seraphina's baby wasn't his.'

‘I don't believe it.'

‘It's true. Her mother told me.' Nino sighed. ‘Every time I turn round there's another corridor leading off to God knows where. Motives in motives, claims and counterclaims. No one's what they seem.' He was thinking aloud. ‘Less than two weeks, Gaspare. That's all we've got. We have to discover the link to the victim. We
have
to.'

Finishing the call, Nino turned back to the papers the Contessa had given him, drawing them out of the envelope and laying them side by side. There were three pages of handwritten Italian, the writing baroque.

Nino stopped reading, the words staring up at him from the page.

‘God,' Nino said softly. Contessa di Fattori, the whore of Venice, the consort of a murderer, was also Vespucci's procuress.

Frowning, Nino stared at the words, remembering the portrait of Melania in the palazzo.

Shaken, Nino pushed the notes aside and stood up. Melania, the Contessa di Fattori, had supplied Vespucci with his whores. Seraphina's ancestor had colluded with a murderer. Willingly.