The Alchemist's Pursuit (3 page)

Nostradamus quickly grew bored, laid down his fork, and leaned back.

“Tell us about the victim, madonna.”

It was criminal to spoil a good meal with such a topic, but Aspasia would never be so crude as to reject her host's conversational lead.

“Lucia was about forty. She retired two years ago and turned her house into a home for street girls anxious to reform. Nuns from Santa Spirito supervised, so that there could be no scandal. The last time she was seen was when she went off in a gondola with a masked man. She had said that they were going to the Piazza to dance.”

I decided that I agreed with my master; the case was impossible. It had probably been impossible right from the beginning and after three weeks the trail was ice-cold.

“How did she die?” he asked.

“The notary did not know. He hinted that she was probably a suicide but the
sbirri
were calling it murder so she could be buried in hallowed ground.”

Who could tell, after the body had spent a week in the lagoon?

“Who found the corpse?” Nostradamus snapped. “Who identified it after so long in the water? Are you completely certain that the dead woman is who you think she was? If she was dragged under by the weight of her clothes she would surface when distension of the corpse buoyed it up, but putrefaction would be well along by then.”

Violetta understandably laid down her fork. “I recognized the jewelry when it was shown to me.”

“That it was returned at all makes me highly suspicious,” the Maestro said angrily. “The first instinct of any Venetian recovering a body is to strip it of valuables. Fishermen, I assume? Bah! They're all rogues. Even the
sbirri
would not pass up such an opportunity. Who found the body, and where? Who delivered it to the authorities? How did they locate you to identify the jewels?”

“I do not know,
lustrissimo
. These are things Alfeo could find out for you.”

“I have more important things for him to do. Your friend committed suicide. Or she was drunk and fell into a canal.”

“Not Lucia.”

Nostradamus snorted. “Alfeo, call Bruno. I am going to lie down. See your friend home and come right back. You have work to do.” He had been sleeping so badly the last few nights, that he had started taking to his bed in the middle of the day, not his normal practice.

Before I could rise, Violetta turned to look at me and I was startled to see a golden glint in her eyes.

“I become so nervous when I think of this terrible act,” she said. “Many ladies in my profession feel the need of a strong, full-time defender. I do believe I shall have to hire a reliable bodyguard.”

I said nothing. What she was hinting was the worst of nightmares for me, my greatest fear. I know how to use a sword and if my beloved ever decides that she needs a guardian, I shall be lost. Loving a courtesan is one thing, living off her earnings is another, but I can refuse Violetta nothing. If she wants me as her bravo, then her bravo I must become. Then the Grand Council will order my name struck from the Golden Book, a noble house that has endured for centuries will end, and scores of ancestral ghosts will wail in shame.

The Maestro knew exactly what she meant and scowled at her furiously. Those gold serpent eyes had warned me that he was now dealing with Delilah, who is as deadly as a spiderweb, but he does not know her as well as I do. Delilah can lie like sand on a beach.

“Rubbish. Alfeo, you can have the rest of the afternoon off. Investigate all you want, but be back by curfew.”

“I may borrow Giorgio?”

“Yes, yes. Now get me Bruno.”

 

 

A murder so old, with the corpse half rotted and already buried, with no known motive or witnesses, was a totally impossible assignment, and a wonderful excuse to spend some hours with Violetta. It wasn't quite impossible enough for me to suggest that we just give up and go to her house for a glass or two of wine and a few cantos of the
Divine Comedy
.

Giorgio Angeli is Mama's husband and our gondolier. Since the boat had not been used yet that day, we emerged from the apartment with Giorgio carrying his oar and Corrado, one of his sons, laden with the cushions. The surly boatman in the Gradenigo colors was plodding up the stairs toward us. The look he gave Violetta almost made me draw my rapier to start improving his face.

He handed me another letter, this time addressed to
sier
Alfeo Zeno. I broke the seal.

“Hey! That's for
messer
Zeno!” Surly barked.

“That's me,” I said, scanning the text. Normally I dress as an apprentice, which I am. I had changed into something a little fancier so I could wear my sword, but I was still leagues away from what a young noble should wear—a black, floor-length robe if he is already a member of the Grand Council. If he is not, then he is expected to deck himself out in illegal grandeur, far beyond what the sumptuary laws allow. Drab as I appear, I am of noble blood and born in wedlock, the equal of any nobleman in Venice. I just happen to be poor enough to beg alms off seagulls.

“Yes he is,” Corrado said, smirking.

The note was brief and written in a very precise and disciplined hand.

 

I do not swear in the presence of ladies, women, or even courtesans. I was tempted to. The first note had not meant what I thought.

“Go,” I told the boatman, “and tell Friar Fedele that I am on my way. Giorgio, please hurry.”

As men and boy ran off down the stairs, I followed, holding Violetta's arm to steady her.

“Change of plan?” she inquired sweetly.

“Unless you believe in extraordinary coincidences it is,” I said. “This must take precedence.” I explained about the other note, giving her the wording verbatim.

“Then that wasn't your fault!” she declared. “It was ambiguous and perhaps Battista himself did not understand that his master just wanted to tell Nostradamus something, not consult him as a doctor. The wonder is that a servant can write at all, not that he is unskilled at writing letters.”

We passed the great doors to the
piano nobile
and started down the next flight.

“It shouldn't take long,” I said. “We can start work on the murder right after.”

She smiled—oh, how she can smile! “I must change, anyway. I can't go exploring with you in these clothes. Drop me at my door and pick me up as soon as you have paid your respects to
sier
Giovanni.”

By the time we reached the watergate, Giorgio was ready for us and the Gradenigo boat had already gone. I handed Violetta out through the arches and then joined her aboard. It may seem strange to take a boat to go to the house next door, but there is no pedestrian
fondamenta
on our side of the Rio San Remo. There is a narrow ledge, though, along which an agile young man can work his way to the
calle
dividing the two buildings and then on to 96's watergate. Corrado was already well on his way along it, so that he could hand Violetta ashore when she arrived. At his age even a touch of such a woman's fingers is enough to remember, and in his case to brag about to his twin.

 

 

It took us only a few minutes to arrive at the Gradenigo palace, which is so large and sumptuous as to make even Ca' Barbolano look so-so. There were at least a dozen gondolas outside the watergate, and about twice as many gondoliers waiting in the loggia, gossiping in threes and fours. Only the rich use two boatmen to a boat, so I did not need the livery and insignia to tell me that a widespread family was gathering for the deathwatch. I noted a couple of boats pulling away, though, and assumed that they were now carrying the news to more distant, or less wealthy, relations.

I was too late.

At the exact moment I stepped ashore, the bell of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari began to toll a few streets away. The bored boatmen made the sign of the cross and then carried on with their talk. They had already been informed of the death.

Had the dying man shared his urgent message with someone else? I had no need to knock, for the door stood open, and an elderly manservant waited there holding a piece of paper. I thought of San Pietro at the Gates greeting Giovanni Gradenigo.

“I am Alfeo Zeno. Friar Fedele sent for me. I have come too late?”

He bowed a smallish bow, frowning at my garb, then glanced down at his list. “Indeed you have,
clarissimo
.” He looked behind him, into the grandiose hall. “The friar is coming now.”

I walked into the great hall and wished I had time to admire the enormous splendor of marble, glass, and gilt—about a week would do. It all seemed like a monument to human folly in the presence of death, but Gradenigo would have seen it as evidence that he had preserved, and doubtless expanded, the family fortune. They would be reluctant to admit it, but the Venetian aristocracy admires rapacity above all.

Several people were standing around or moving about their business with suitable gravity, but I went straight for the priest, who was obviously leaving. We met halfway between door and staircase; I bowed.

Bareheaded and barefoot, Friar Fedele wore the gray habit of the Order of Friars Minor, with the belt cord dangling at his side tied in the required three knots, representing his vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity. Obedience is an old Venetian virtue that the Great Council enthusiastically preaches to the commonality, but poverty and chastity are rarely popular at any level.

The fringe around his tonsure was brown but his beard was closer to red. He seemed about thirty or so, with a weather-beaten ascetic face, humorless and arrogant, a face chiseled out of granite, more suited to a Dominican than a Franciscan. Personally I like my clergy to be New Testament, warm and forgiving. One glance at Friar Fedele told you right away that he was straight out of the Book of Judges, all blood, blame, and brimstone. He looked me over, his gaze lingering for a moment on my rapier and dagger.

I held up the letter with his name on it. “I am Zeno, Brother. I fear I have arrived too late.”

He nodded. “Do not grieve unduly, Alfeo. He was much confused at the end. I wrote that letter because he insisted and we must humor the dying, but I don't think you would have heard anything of importance. He might not have known you.”

“I am sure he would not, because we never met. I assume that he wanted to confide something to my master, Doctor Nostradamus, and asked for me because I am the doctor's aide?”

He gave me the same answer any other slab of granite would—silence.

“Do you know what
messer
Gradenigo wanted to tell my master?”

Fedele shrugged. “I cannot say. He was babbling much of the time.”

“He was elderly, I believe.”

“He had passed his allotted span, yes.”

“But a good man, from all accounts.” I believe in being charitable to the dead, lest they come back and haunt me.

“He was a fine Christian, a devoted husband and father, and he served the Republic well. He went peacefully to his reward.” Fedele raised his hand to bless me.

I doffed my bonnet. Then I stood up and watched him stride away with his habit swirling around his ankles, bare feet making no sound on the terrazzo.
I cannot say.
Fedele had not said that he did not know. It was an odds-on bet that he knew perfectly well but had been told under the seal of the confessional. I glanced around the hall and decided that now was definitely not the time to pry. Whatever the dead man's problem had been, if anyone knew it, it would keep.

I went back out to the bustling landing stage and had to wait a few minutes before Giorgio was able to slip his boat in close enough for me to board. His oar stroked the water and we were on our way. The Frari bell was still tolling.

“Too late?”

“Too late,” I agreed. “The dying man wanted to tell the Maestro something, but he's never been a patient or a client. Why the Maestro? Odd.”

“He was a good man, they say.” By “they” he meant the other boatmen, who often know more than most people know they know. “He did things for the poor.”

Being one of those, I said a prayer for his soul.

Back at Number 96, I disembarked. “The lady said she would be ready when we returned, but don't count on it.”

Giorgio grinned and rubbed his trim beard with the back of a hand. He is a small man for a gondolier, stronger than he looks. “It is you I distrust, Alfeo.”

“Not today,” I said. “Or at least, not yet.” I unlocked the bawdy house door and went in. Violetta's apartment is one floor up, and that part of the house is not bawdy, just voluptuous.

S
o where do we start?” she asked as we descended the stairs. She no longer teetered on ten-inch soles. Paint and silks had gone, and she was enveloped in the neck-to-shoe brown dress of a domestic servant. Her magnificent hair was hidden under a shawl that hung to about where her calves must be. Even so, she would catch every male eye within eyeshot.

“With the puzzle, of course,” I said.

“Which puzzle?”

“Why her body was not looted of valuables. Which were?”

“Pearl earrings, a gold ring, and a gold brooch with an amber pebble enclosing an insect. That's not to my taste, but worth a lot as a curiosity. Her gown was . . .” She shuddered and tightened her grip on my hand. “I suppose the sea will have ruined it. And she wore a string of pearls worth at least a hundred ducats.”