He paled. “You dare?”
“My name is written in the Golden Book. Yours does not deserve to be.”
“Stop that, both of you!” Medea’s eyes flashed fire. “Bene, you should withdraw your remark.”
He bit his lip. “I spoke without thinking, clarissimo. ”
“And I in haste.” We bowed to each other. My standing had improved.
“I have good reason to believe that the attack on me was related to the matter of your grandfather’s murder.”
Young Benedetto was visibly drooping under the load we had just piled on his shoulders. He made an effort to straighten them. “My father must be informed of all this. And the first thing he will ask is why the state inquisitors are employing a…” He looked at me in disbelief. “This nobleman to conduct their inquiries for them.”
“It is a tribute to the esteem in which your late grandfather was held,” I told him. “Do you really want your sister interrogated by the Three? Everyone is trying to head off formal proceedings that must be a harrowing experience to those involved. For example, where were you on Saint Valentine’s Eve?”
His outrage did not convince. “You dare suspect me?”
“You think the Three will not?”
“I don’t care if they do.” That was juvenile bravado and unbelievable. “I was not even in the city. I was in Padua-in jail. There was a duel and I was accused of drawing first.” Hence the sling, of course. It was probably a sound alibi and I would get nowhere by asking to see his wound.
“I hope you killed him?” Helen asked sweetly.
He turned to her in anger, but her smile can melt any man. It won a tiny, shamefaced grin. “I didn’t get near him. But I will next time.” Then he swung back to me. “If what you say is true, clarissimo , the Greek’s suicide was an admission of guilt.”
I shrugged. “My master has good reason to believe that it was not, strange as that may seem. But you are undoubtedly right if you think that the Ten are likely to accept that explanation. And in that case your grandfather’s killer will escape to enjoy the benefits of his crime. Is that acceptable to you and your honored father?”
Before he could answer, I continued. “Obviously if you were in Padua that night, you were not the killer. Your father was not in the Imer house either. But your sister was. No!” I raised both hands to hold back an explosion. “I am not suggesting that she poisoned your grandfather. But she may have seen something vital. I beg you, clarissimo, to allow us to ask her a few simple questions. It will not take long.”
Benedetto was out of his depth. He had much growing up to do yet. “Tell me your questions and I shall go and put them to her.”
I set my jaw in the notch labeled stubborn. “My master’s orders are that I speak with her in person, messer. ”
“Then you must call on her when my father is present.”
“I have only one more day to complete my investigation before I must report to the authorities. Shall I say that your honored sister refused to answer my questions?”
“That is a foul lie!”
“Then I must tell the truth, which is that she was not permitted to. Expect Missier Grande to come calling tomorrow.” I bowed and offered my arm to Violetta.
She cried, “Oh, no, Alfeo! How awful for her!”
“Wait!” Benedetto snarled. “Did you tell her that you and I were once intimate?”
Violetta’s eyes twinkled like stars. “Only once, Bene? You were never satisfied with once. But no, I certainly did not mention that to her. I never discuss my patrons with anybody.”
“If I permit this, then you will remain Sister Maddalena in her presence and you will never have anything to do with my sister ever again, is that agreed-no visits, no letters, nothing?”
“Bene, you know you can rely on my discretion. Of course.”
“And you will never pester her either, Zeno.”
“Certainly.” I bowed.
“Wait here!” His heels went clicking away across the terrazzo to the door.
“You did that beautifully, my dear,” Helen purred, easing me away from the Titian as the ladder crew closed in on it. We wandered towards the empty center of the big room.
“You did more than I did. How long were you a friend of messer Benedetto?”
She smiled cryptically. “I never discuss my patrons.”
“Then discuss his grandfather. Why did somebody hate him enough to murder him?”
I thought for a moment she would not answer, but she was just working out what she would tell me.
“He was strict, and had his own ideas. You know that rich families sometimes hire a courtesan as tutor when a boy reaches the age to study calligraphy?”
“Penmanship?”
“Joined-up writhing.”
I laughed. “Yes, Aspasia.”
“And physical intimacy may blossom into friendship. I recall one young man who was very upset and desperately wanted my advice. He said his grandfather was planning to launch his political career right away by entering him in the Santa Barbara’s Day lottery.”
Every December the Great Council admits thirty youngsters as young as twenty, the creamiest of the cream, scions destined for greatness. The odds of winning a seat are good for anyone, and I would have been very surprised if an Orseolo had failed to win, because there are ways to adjust lotteries. Putrid would do it if I told him to. You should know by now why I never would, but there are other practitioners of the occult in the Republic and some have nothing left to lose.
“The young man in question,” she continued, “did not want that. He wanted to get away from home, poor little rich boy. He babbled about volunteering to be a gentleman archer on a galley. His ambition was to be a sailor, a great merchant trader like his ancestors. His grandfather would have blocked him. I suggested he ask to study law at the University of Padua. The old man accepted that compromise. It got him out of the city, at least.”
“Is Benedetto a good swordsman?”
“If you mean that literally and are not just being vulgar, I have no idea. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
Around any university you will find almost as many expert swordsmen as fleas. Pick a fight with one good enough to claim first blood without doing any serious damage, be first to draw so that you end up in jail, and you have an excellent alibi. I could not imagine why Benedetto Orseolo would have wanted an alibi. I am just a cynic.
15
B ianca entered on her brother’s arm. She was swathed in black, even to a full veil, although I could make out enough of her features through the lace to recall Giuseppe Benzon describing her as “fiery.” In fact she was gorgeous, with a heart-shaped face and eyes the size of cartwheels. She exchanged greetings with Sister Maddalena and curtseyed to my bow.
“Remember,” Enrico said, “that you do not have to answer this man’s questions, none of them.” He scowled unhelpfully at me.
“Madonna,” I said, “I am apprenticed to Maestro Nostradamus, whom you met the other night. There is reason to believe that your honored grandfather was poisoned at that reception, and we are trying to discover the culprit and bring him to justice. I deeply regret intruding on your time of grief, but you will agree that I offend in a good cause?”
She nodded, keeping her eyes downcast even behind the veil. Workmen at the far end of the hall were laying out lumber to start crating up the pictures, as if determined to make the interview even more difficult.
“Did you often accompany him to such social affairs?”
She shook her head. I waited.
“No,” she whispered. “He rarely left the Procuratie any more. He was getting so unsteady…” More silence. “He was forced to use a cane and his right hand was bent. He called me his hands, clarissimo. ”
“That evening, he went straight to the book viewing from this building?”