Isle of the Dead (28 page)

He slipped up once. Suddenly the trail of the painting dried up. He even thought he had lost it. But within a day he had picked up clues which led to Gaspare Reni. The dealer had been old, but feisty. And when he left the convent gallery he brought the Titian home and hung it in his cupboard. At night he opened the doors and stared at it. His knives were sharpened, his wits also. He watched Seraphina Morgan and thought of her ancestor, the Whore of Venice, and was obsessed.

His first victim was a revelation. That surprised him, as did the amount of blood which came from her when he punctured the skin. He had mutilated her in Venice in a rented cellar next to an abandoned warehouse, then put her in the hired launch and taken her over to St Michael at night. It seemed the right place – in with the dead. The work had been hard, taking a long time, exhausting him so much that once he drove a knife deep into her stomach, churning it around the organs in fury. When he pulled it out again, he was ashamed. The skin was spoilt.

He would not do that again.

Pushing aside one book, Nino reached for another, avoiding Gaspare's intense stare. Together they had worked through most of the dealer's extensive art history collection, the bulk of which covered the Italian Renaissance, and the time when Titian and Angelico Vespucci had been active. Nino had known from the start that it was a long shot, more than a little doubtful that he would come across some fact in among the academic theories. But he had hoped.

And had been disappointed.

Exasperated, he had then turned to the internet. The email he had sent to the chat room of the Vespucci site had been ignored, and Jobo Kido had not been in touch since they'd parted. Instinctively mistrusting the dealer, Nino's attention turned to Triumph Jones. But although he was out of hospital, the American had not been forthcoming when he'd called him earlier.

‘Can't you think of anything that might help?'

‘How would I know who the next victim is?' Triumph replied, his voice dropping at the end of the line. He sounded
lethargic, wavering. ‘Maybe there won't be another killing.'

‘You believe that?'

‘No …'

‘So help me. Have you had any further contact about the Titian?'

‘I think we both know the answer to that,' Triumph replied. ‘The painting's gone to ground. If any dealer in the art world had it, I'd have heard. If anyone else has it, they're not telling me – even for a reward.'

‘You don't think that your mugging was connected?'

‘I think a man who's a big enough fool to walk in Central Park after dark deserves everything that's coming to him.' He sounded defeated. ‘But, Mr Bergstrom, if you're asking me where I think the Titian is now, I think the killer has it.'

‘But how could he keep it quiet?'

‘Maybe it's in another country. Maybe it's in
your
country. Maybe someone destroyed it.'

‘No, it's too valuable.'

‘
Really?
' Triumph said, ringing off.

Moving back to the computer, Nino typed in the name Vespucci and then looked at the listings. He had investigated every entry several times before and learnt nothing he didn't already know. Flicking on the table lamp, he glanced over at Gaspare. The dealer was reading again, concentrating, his glasses magnifying his eyes.

‘Gaspare?'

He looked up. ‘Yes?'

‘We have to go through this, step by step.'

‘All right,' the old man said patiently.

‘Seraphina had the painting, and she was related to the Contessa di Fattori.'

Exasperated, Gaspare slammed his book shut.

‘Dear God, not again! We've gone through this a hundred times.'

‘And we're missing something!' Nino retorted. ‘Sally Egan did a copy of the Vespucci portrait—'

‘Which no longer exists. Or so Farina Ahmadi says.'

‘You think she's lying?'

‘She's breathing,' Gaspare said, raising his eyebrows, ‘so she could be lying.'

‘Harriet Forbes wrote an article on Vespucci.'

‘Did you read it?'

‘Yeah, it was interesting.'

‘For him or against him?'

‘She's dead. What do you think?' Nino remarked wryly. ‘So what other areas could there be?'

Taking off his glasses, Gaspare yawned. Then he straightened up in his seat, turning to Nino.

‘History.'

‘I've researched the time that Vespucci lived, but not found anything written about him that we haven't already seen. Nothing particular—'

‘Did you look in Italy? The Italian universities have History departments. Maybe they'd have something extra on Vespucci?'

Nino shook his head. ‘There's nothing online.'

‘I don't mean on the internet! Let's do it the old-fashioned way,' Gaspare admonished him. ‘Let's pick the brains of tutors, scholars, historians.' He reached for his address book and thumbed through the pages, throwing it down and picking up another from his desk drawer. Peering through his glasses, he made a clucking sound with his tongue and then waved the book in front of Nino. ‘Professor Cesare Lombardo!'

‘Who is?'

‘About ninety,' Gaspare replied, pulling a face. ‘But when I knew him he was the foremost authority on the Renaissance painters in Venice.'

‘He's an art historian. Vespucci was a merchant—'

‘
Who was painted by Titian.
If Lombardo's still alive, he'll be worth talking to.'

Reaching for the phone, Gaspare put in a call to Rome, his voice rising with impatience as he talked. Fluent in Italian, Nino could follow what he was saying – that the Professor had been moved into a nursing home. He was fit, if frail. Writing down the number, Gaspare dialled again.

Asking for Professor Lombardo, he was gentle when he was put through.

‘How are you, sir?' he asked, his tone respectful. ‘This is Gaspare, Gaspare Reni … Yes, I'm well … living in London. You sound good, very good …' He laughed, amused. ‘Yes, we are both still alive. I need some help, Professor. I'm looking for information on a man who was painted by Titian
– his name was Angelico Vespucci. And it's your speciality, that period …' There was a pause, then more conversation, and Gaspare made notes. ‘Yes, yes, I know all that. I was thinking of anything more in-depth about The Skin Hunter. Perhaps you know of someone with specialised knowledge? … I see, Mr Patrick Dewick. He had a special interest … And where is he? … A hospital in London? Most illuminating …' He glanced at Nino, his expression incredulous. ‘And Jonathan Ravenscourt wanted to talk to him. Yes, I know of Mr Ravenscourt. Did he speak with Mr Dewick? Did you pass this information on to him? …'

Nino was holding his breath without knowing why.

‘… No … As you say, Professor, there are people we confide in and people we mistrust … I thank you for your help … grazie. Grazie. Ciao.'

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Gaspare glanced at Nino. ‘He gave me the name of a male nurse who works in Ealing – Patrick Dewick. Mean anything?'

‘No, but Sally Egan was a care worker. They could have met that way. He lives in London, so did she.' Nino paused, trying to contain his excitement. ‘But why would a nurse study Vespucci?'

‘Patrick Dewick is a psychiatric nurse,' Gaspare replied. ‘Why
wouldn't
he?'

 

Venice, December 1555

They found part of the skin at noon on Sunday, hanging outside the church, fluttering like a bloodied flag in the east wind. The priest cut it down and took it away, we do not know where. Some say it is a new victim, but I hear the hide fits part of the portion taken from Claudia Moroni.

But there is more. The scapegoat has been named, at last. The suspect who will absolve Vespucci's guilt. I heard it spoken outside the studio of Titian, saw how the crowd mumbled the name, then fell hushed. Aretino came out to talk, his eyes lowered as though he could not bear to be the carrier of such news.

He said my friend is innocent, and the man who has done these deeds is Pomponio.

Pomponio, son of Titian.
Pomponio, brother of Octavio. Pomponio, priest of the Catholic church, estranged from his father. Pomponio, feckless, a wanton spendthrift, cut off from his family as a waster. Pomponio, the braggart, the idle, but The Skin Hunter?

The rumour traversed Venice within the hour, Aretino visiting his friend, pleading with Titian to listen to him. That it grieved him to impart such news. That he was forced to speak to protect an innocent man …

I watched him talk, puffed up with bile and cunning, Titian motionless, without words. His hand gripped the paintbrush he held, his eyes turning to the man he had counted as his dearest friend.

‘Pomponio is my son …'

Dropping his head, Aretino glanced down. I watched him. As ever, he did not see me, but I saw him. Saw him nail the foolish Pomponio to a scapegoat's cross.

All of Venice knew of the bad blood between the father and the son, but he was Titian's child, for all his carelessness. For all his idleness, his greed, for all his loathing of the priestly vestments that he was made to wear, he was the artist's son. Less than his brother in talent, no match for his father's genius, a reluctant and unsteady priest.

But still his father's son.

And Aretino thought him worth the sacrifice. Throw Pomponio to the mob, to let Vespucci be … I knew his reasoning: his callousness would justify his claim. Pomponio was no credit to his father, what loss so poor an heir? I could imagine how easy Aretino would have come upon his plan, picking a powerless victim to shield his own interests.

Nothing would be allowed to harm the merchant. Vespucci could take us all to hell and Aretino would stand apologist for him. And all to save exposure. To save the artist knowing of his deceit. To
save a fall from grace as great as that of Icarus.

We are to consider Pomponio The Skin Hunter. A mediocre man, a reluctant priest, to set the mob talking. And thinking. Perhaps Titian had banished him because he suspected his son? Perhaps he was privy to horrors committed and exiled Pomponio to ensure his child's escape? Perhaps this mild and vapid man could kill and fool us by his calf-soft ways?

By choosing the artist's son Aretino picks himself a lamb. But the lamb was raised with lions. The lions of St Mark's. While Aretino holds his suspect high to take the coming arrows, he shows his unclothed hand. Ruthless and unloving, he miscalculates. Loyalty lies with blood, not friendship.

He has betrayed his friend, and Titian knows it. Knows not of the monetary thefts but of Aretino's wickedness of heart. While Titian hears the mob outside his gates, while I hear people calling for Pomponio, while Vespucci slides through the mire of his own making, Titian grieves. He grieves for his child, and in grieving might rear up like a lion to strike against those who would injure his own.

I know it. Only I.

The accusation will not stand. But Aretino has made it, and in doing so, has marked his own demise.

The city is tormented. Cloud, heavy with fog, disguises the buildings and hides the water's edge. There is even talk of snow.

And, in silence, we await another death.

Greenfield's Hospital, London

Patrick Dewick was pushing a teenager in a wheelchair, the boy talking to himself quietly as he trailed his hand along the wall. Dewick was in his fifties, his hair thin and buzz cut, a gold stud in his left ear. It struck an incongruous note, out of character with the rest of his appearance.

Walking over to him, Nino smiled a welcome.

‘Patrick Dewick?'

‘Yep.'

‘Can I have a word?'

Wheeling the patient into the next ward, Dewick parked him by the nurses' station and then moved back into the passageway. Jerking his head for Nino to follow him, he led him into the parking bays at the back of the hospital. Once there, he lit up, inhaling and coughing vigorously.

‘Are you enjoying that?'

He gave Nino a bleak look. ‘So, what d'you want?'

‘I was told—'

‘I don't like that.'

‘What?'

‘Sentences that begin “
I was told
” – it's always trouble.' He winked, mocking him. ‘Go on, I was just playing with you.'

‘You're a nurse here?'

‘For fifteen years.'

‘Long time,' Nino said, glancing around. ‘Hard work, I suppose?'

‘Not to me. I like it here … So what's this all about?'

‘I'm looking into something for a friend. He was talking to Professor Lombardo in Italy, who said that you were interested in Angelico Vespucci.'

Dewick's expression didn't change. After a moment's pause he nodded his head. ‘Oh yes, I remember … God, that was a while ago.'

‘What was?'

‘I was doing some research for a patient.'

‘For a patient?'

‘Yeah, she was a very troubled woman. Really sick. She came from … I can't remember now, but I could look it up.' He inhaled again. ‘She'd been a teacher, I think, some kind of tutor, and then she'd gone into history and was writing a book about the Italian Renaissance.' He said the word and laughed, rolling it on his tongue. ‘I said I'd help her. We do that sort of thing – it keeps them quiet, and it breaks the monotony for us.'

‘What was her name?'

Dewick blew out his cheeks. ‘You've got me there. She came in after she'd had a breakdown. Pretty woman, very smart but scared.'

‘What was she scared of?'

‘Her family, the world, herself.' He shrugged. ‘What are most people scared of? Everything … Anyway, I did some looking up for her, and spoke to Professor Lombardo—'

‘He speaks English?'