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?’
BOOK FIVE
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.
49
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?’