Quickly Nino filled Gaspare in, pouring two glasses of brandy and passing one to the older man.
‘Ravenscourt tried to land me in it – which makes him look even more suspicious. If he’s copying Vespucci I reckon he picked me to be his scapegoat.’
‘Or he was just stirring up trouble,’ Gaspare offered, passing Nino a letter with his name on it. ‘When I got home, this had arrived.’
Taking it, Nino read.
Dear Mr Bergstrom,
We met the other day and I would very much like to speak with you again – concerning Claudia Moroni. Perhaps you would like to call me on Tel. Norfolk 845 - 9851.
Kindest regards,
Hester Greyly (Mrs)
Gaspare was looking at Nino with curiosity. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘It’s from Harold Greyly’s aunt. Perhaps she wants to tell me something he wouldn’t.’
‘Or perhaps she’s working with him to get you back to Norfolk?’
‘She asked me to ring her. Not visit.’
Gaspare shrugged. ‘So ring. But don’t go back there.’
Half an hour later Nino finally managed to get an answer on Hester Greyly’s phone. The receiver was picked up, but there was no greeting, just soft breathing down the line.
‘Hello?’ he said, concerned. ‘Mrs Greyly?’
‘Who’s this?’
Nino hesitated, not recognising the man’s voice. ‘Mrs Greyly asked me to call her. Can I speak to her, please?’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Is she ill?’ Nino asked, uneasy. ‘I need to talk to her. She sent me a letter—’
There was a rusting sound on the phone and someone else spoke. This time Nino recognised the voice immediately – it was Harold Greyly.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Nino Bergstrom. Your aunt sent me a letter asking me to get in touch. Can I talk to her, please?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bergstrom, that won’t be possible,’ he replied, bone cold. ‘My aunt died this morning.’
Nino’s mouth dried.
‘She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. So I’m afraid that no one will be speaking to her. And frankly I have nothing to say to you anyway, so I’d be obliged if you didn’t contact me or my family again.’ His manner was all crisp efficiency. ‘You came here under false pretences, Mr Bergstrom. I feel I should warn you that any further harassment will be reported to the police.’
After putting down the phone, Nino took a long drink of his brandy and turned to Gaspare. ‘Hester Greyly died this morning.’
‘That was convenient.’
‘Her nephew said it was a fall …’ Nino paused, thinking back. ‘She was a nice lady. Old school. She had something to tell me, or show me. But you can bet that bastard’s emptied out her house, made sure I’ll never see anything I shouldn’t. I reckon he knew that she’d got in touch with me and I don’t believe she fell – I think Harold Greyly killed her.’ Nino finished his brandy, his hand shaking as he put down the glass. ‘I’m not sure he murdered the other women, but he certainly could have killed his aunt.’
‘But that would break the pattern. Vespucci killed four young women—’
‘I know. And he killed them on specific dates. The same dates as Seraphina, Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes were killed. There’s only one anniversary left – the first of January.’ He held the old man’s gaze. ‘You think someone on a killing spree wouldn’t deviate from it? Maybe Harold Greyly was forced to act. Maybe Hester was about to give him away and he had to kill her.’
‘Or maybe Greyly didn’t kill the other women?’
‘Maybe not. But he could have done,’ Nino said quietly. ‘Greyly’s ex-Army, disciplined, unemotional. He hunts and kills for sport. He’s very aware of his status in life. I doubt he’d let anyone take that away from him without a fight. And there’s something else. When he told me his aunt was dead his voice was flat. No grief, not even a pretence of it. There was nothing. Jesus, he could have been telling me the time.’
Venice, December 1555
On 8 December a body was found suspended from one of the bridges which leads to the Jewish Quarter. I saw this, bore witness to it. The woman was hung by a rope slid under her arms, the end fastened to one of the iron lamps above. Her chest was stripped of skin, also her legs, a star of David hanging limply against the shredded flesh. She loomed out of the heavy mist suddenly. Shaken, a woman shielded her child’s eyes, and an old man crossed himself. In the wind which has not left us, the body swung like a side of beef, and from her toes, blood the colour of cranberries dripped into the canal below.
I could hear the rope scrape against the iron lamp which held it; I could see the carcass, red-raw, waving like a bloodied flag. I heard some woman scream and footsteps running. I heard shouts coming from across the bridge, a tumult of activity, panic and distress.
She didn’t mind them. Even when men caught hold of the rope and tried to pull her upwards, to swing her on to the bridge, even then. What little unmarked skin remained was white as a winter stoat; much more bloodied where the knife had done its work. I think she had been very young, this girl of Israel. Even before I knew for certain, there was something of the child about her.
Three women are now dead. Yet this time Angelico Vespucci does not cringe, nor skirt the crowd. This time he is silky, Aretino telling all who listen that he is innocent. He was caught up with business, Aretino says. They were discussing their next venture. Vespucci was not abroad that night. The killer is not him. Look, says Aretino, I have the proof you seek.
He thinks his brilliance fools; that no one knows that secretly he has long traded with Vespucci. No one suspects that paintings leave Titian’s studio bound for courts abroad, where fees demanded double the artist’s charge. For nearly a year Aretino has betrayed his comrade. Thrown in his lot with the merchant, shored up his wealth by robbing his oldest friend.
But now the Devil has him by the tail. Aretino is off to Titian’s studio. Maybe he wants to study Vespucci’s portrait. To flatter the genius he tricked into immortalising a killer. And still I watch and wait. My time has not yet come. I have to stay my hand, wait to see what next occurs. For all his talent and his eloquence, Aretino cannot shield the merchant forever. Vespucci’s face is changing, growing slack with all the horrors he has seen. His hands shake with a tremor, his confidence a sham. Daily the kindness he once possessed gives way to a dank depravity; and the weather follows his mood.
An awful stillness has come upon the city. The cold has had some part in it, but there is more, an undercurrent as dangerous as the sea snakes who swim in the depths at our feet.
The name of the last victim was Lena Arranti. She came from Milan, arriving in Venice to work as a servant, her beauty taking her from the kitchens to the beds of famous men. On the day she died, it had been her birthday. She was fifteen years of age.
And Angelico Vespucci’s lover.
BOOK FOUR
Painting done under pressure by artists without the necessary talent can only give rise to formlessness, as painting is a profession that requires peace of mind.
Titian (1485–1576)
36
Venice
Grabbing hold of Johnny Ravenscourt, Tom Morgan hustled him backwards into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. Caught off guard, Ravenscourt put up his hands to ward the American off.
‘Calm down!’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down, you fag!’ Tom replied, jabbing at the other man’s shoulder. ‘I want to talk to you. Seems like I’m not the only one either. Why did you leave London so suddenly?’ He pulled at Ravenscourt’s arm, navigating him towards an armchair and then pushing him into it. Although Ravenscourt was the bigger man, he was cowed by the show of aggression and began to blather.