“He was run through from behind,” the vizio said at my back. “A dastardly murder by some bravo too cowardly even to look his victim in the eye.”
Turning to make suitable response, I closed my mouth with a click as I recognized the rapier Vasco was holding. It had bloody smears on the blade. He raised it as if to admire the hilt.
“Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori,” he said, reading out the inscription on the guard. “My Latin is not as good as it should be, Father. ‘Love conquers all,’ of course…”
“‘Love conquers all and we yield to love,’” Farsetti said. “It is a quotation from Virgil, quite appropriate for a weapon. It should be possible to trace the original owner, although I expect it was stolen.”
“Not necessarily,” Vasco said, leering at me so widely that he almost drooled. “The other side reads, From VV to LAZ, and a date. Remind me who VV is, Luca.”
Danese had been killed with my rapier. The day just kept getting worse.
17
W hen Luigi saw the body, he rushed upstairs as fast as he could totter, and thundered on the door of Angelo Marciana’s mezzanine apartment. More than just a fiendishly cunning bookkeeper, Angelo is a man of steady nerve and many sons. He told Nino, Renzo, and Ciro to follow him and the women to stay home with the children, then ran down to see for himself. At once he ordered Nino to fetch Doctor Nostradamus, Renzo to inform Father Farsetti, and Ciro to stand vigil over the body and make sure nobody looted it. Renzo probably ran right underneath me as I clung like moss to the side of the building. Meanwhile Luigi had informed the Jacopo Marcianas also, so several of them arrived. By the time the vizio appeared and saw that he had serious work to do, the loggia must have been as crowded as the Piazza in Carnival. He ordered whoever was the best boatman to go and fetch Missier Grande -no nonsense about informing the local sbirri when the Council of Ten was already involved, although I am sure he did not say that. He also ordered everyone else back upstairs, but by then whatever marks I had left on the floor had been scuffed out of existence.
Father Farsetti would have been in San Remo’s at that time on a Saturday. He is a young man and not too puffed up with ecclesiastic dignity to run in an emergency, but he found Danese well past the need for last rites. Giorgio arrived, accompanied by the twins-they being uninvited but irresistibly eager to view a real corpse-followed closely by the Maestro on Bruno’s back. He at once dispatched all three Angelis to the Ghetto Nuovo to fetch Isaia Modestus, whom he freely acknowledges to be the second-best doctor in the Republic.
The body could not be left where it lay and the Maestro wanted to inspect it, so Father Farsetti agreed that it should be moved upstairs and that was arranged. The vizio extracted the rapier and took charge of it. I can barely imagine the intensity of his joy when he read the inscription and saw whose it was. No doubt he fantasized juicy visions of watching my beheading between the columns on the Piazzetta.
Pessimists, on the other hand, are rarely disappointed.
A very few minutes later, when Vasco confronted me with it in the atelier, Father Farsetti shot me a horrified look. He is well aware of my full name. As my confessor he certainly knows of Violetta Vitale.
My head was spinning, but I believe I concealed my bewilderment fairly well. “I must have a talk with you soon, Father,” I said cheerfully, “but the problem is no more urgent than usual.” He nodded, looking relieved.
Vasco smiled happily. “You acknowledge that this is your rapier, messer?”
“It was until it was stolen,” I said, “and I know who took it.”
He scoffed.
“If not you,” I said, “then who? You were on watch in the salone all night, weren’t you?”
“What is this?” the Maestro screeched in the doorway. “Carnival? The Giudecca Festival? The marangona has rung, has it not? Out of here, all of you!” He hates strangers in his atelier. About a dozen Marcianas shamefacedly withdrew, leaving four of us and the corpse.
Vasco was still tying my bonds, as he thought. “You were in bed and asleep from the time we met last night until the alarm was raised this morning, is that correct?” he said.
My wiggle room there was thinner than a razor, as we had all removed our hats out of respect for the dead and my hair was still damp. “I do not have to answer your questions, citizen.”
His smile spread over his face like a cancer. “But you will answer the inquisitors when they put those same questions, clarissimo.”
“This is an unseemly conversation in the presence of mortality,” Father Farsetti said heavily. “Filippo, do you really believe you can learn something that may help the authorities catch the murderer?
The Maestro came forward, thumping his staff. “If you will evict these two yapping puppies, Father…Thank you.” He moved into the space Vasco had vacated and handed me his staff. “Bring my instruments.”
He poked and prodded while I fetched his medical bag. The best way to determine time of death is to estimate internal temperature, but Farsetti might not permit that indignity to a corpse, and he would certainly forbid any sort of dissection. The Maestro thrust two fingers into the corpse’s mouth, but did not suggest any worse intrusion. I gave him one of the scalpels I keep razor sharp for him and he slit open the blood-encrusted doublet to examine the exit wound. The dying man had lost so much blood that his clothes were stiff with it, yet still tacky near his skin.
The Maestro demanded that the corpse be turned over, so Vasco and I obliged. Face down, it seemed even more widely contorted, and I held one of its ankles lest it roll off the couch. The Maestro examined the entry wound, which was surrounded by a circle of subcutaneous hemorrhage where the hilt had impacted or pressed against the flesh, but the deceased had bled much less on that side. The blood on his leg had come from a stab wound in his calf, which confirmed my vision in the fire. There was a separate patch of blood on the back of his ruff, which was badly crushed, and his right wrist showed faint subcutaneous bleeding, too recent to date from my blow on it a week ago.
“Well, apprentice?” Nostradamus said. “What do you conclude?”
“He was stabbed in the back, master.”
Vasco crowed, as if I had just initialed my own death warrant. “How do you know that, since you weren’t downstairs to see?”
An easy one. “You told me so a moment ago, but the condition of the corpse proves it.” I returned my attention to my master. “The stroke missed his heart and likely penetrated the aorta, accounting for the massive hemorrhage in the dorsal area. A heart wound would not have bled so much. He died of exsanguination and asphyxiation. I mean he bled to death, but he may have suffocated first, as his thoracic cavity filled with blood. The punctures are so tiny it would not be possible to remove the sword and replace it from the opposite direction without leaving evidence. I estimate that he died about nine o’clock last night, but you can undoubtedly judge that more closely than I can, master.”
I thought that I had done quite well so far. There was another conclusion to be drawn, a very obvious one, except that I was not supposed to know about the absence of significant bloodstains in the loggia. Since nobody had yet mentioned that, I yielded to temptation and dangled a lure to see who would bite.
“He must have known his assailant,” I said, “and trusted him enough to turn his back on him, because no man will stand still to be impaled when he can leap into a canal. Dolfin was never much of a swimmer as a child, but the Rio San Remo is barely deep enough to drown in, even at high tide.” No one commented and I pushed on. “So he was standing in the loggia, looking outward-perhaps hoping a gondola would come by, although the hour must have been late. His companion was farther back, possibly on the pretext of seeking better shelter from the rain. Or possibly he came from the door.”