The old villain could not be trapped so easily. “The inquisitor asks the questions, Alfeo.”
I squirmed. “Yes, clarissimo.”
“ Vizio, are you quite certain that Nostradamus did not decipher more than one page and the opening words of two more?”
“Quite certain, Your Excellency.”
The deceptively benevolent gaze came back to me again. “Are you by any chance one of those tricksters who can memorize pages of text at a glance, Alfeo? Is Nostradamus?”
“He is much better at it than I am,” I said. “But memorizing a page of text is easy compared to memorizing a page of random letters. Neither of us could have done that, not even one page. I know, because I tried.”
Our boat turned into the Rio di San Barnaba and the old church loomed up on our left, with the campo beyond. The rain made it less busy than it would normally be and the gossip crowd around the wellhead smaller.
I said, “The campo watersteps please, Giorgio. Madonna Corner used to live over there, Excellency-the brown house, top floor.”
The old man had already drawn the curtain. “It would have to be the top floor, of course. The vizio and I are too conspicuous. We shall remain under cover while you find out where she is now.”
21
H ad I needed to visit the group gathered around the wellhead, I might have been detained there all day, but I had the good fortune to cross the path of old Widow Calbo, who remembered me very well. She had never tolerated idle chatter and still did not, so I soon returned to the gondola to report that madonna Agnese Corner still lived where she had when I had left San Barnaba and she took in lodgers. I offered a hand to help Gritti disembark.
“You fetch a priest,” he told Vasco. “But very slowly. Zeno, come with me.”
No stranger in patrician robes and elongated Council of Ten sleeves could cross the campo without attracting attention, but the sight was not rare enough to attract a crowd. The vizio heading for the church drew more stares, distracting attention from Gritti and his apprentice companion.
I knew those stairs. A dozen years ago I had run errands up and down them and scores like them all over San Barnaba. I knew every worn and cracked step, every broken pane in the windows, every tilted landing. Long-forgotten smells still lingered; the cough on the second floor had not killed its owner yet. I could almost feel the handles of the ancient water buckets I had carried biting my hands. Gritti trod a slower pace than my young self had used, and he halted a few steps from the top, although he did not seem breathless.
“You go ahead, Zeno. I hate the sight of women’s tears.”
But not the sound of men’s screams? I went on alone. From there he would be able to hear what was said.
There were four doors. I knocked on the one I remembered as hers. I could hear water dripping from a leaky roof and the air was still unpleasantly warm, despite the rain. This attic would have been an oven for the last six months.
After a while I began to feel hopeful that the lady was not at home and I could escape the terrible duty. I knocked again, louder. A door creaked behind me and I knew I was being watched, but that is normal and even commendable.
“Who’s there?” asked a voice I recalled at once, a deep voice for a woman.
“Alfeo Zeno, madonna. Remember me?”
A bolt rattled and she opened the door. I remembered her as a tall and grand lady, flaunting the fine clothes she wore when her husband held office on the mainland, although in retrospect I suppose they had been remarkable only by the standards of the barnabotti. She was shorter than me now and the fine garments had no doubt long vanished into the pawnshops of the Ghetto Nuovo. She had the light at her back as she inspected me, but I could see the sagging flesh of her face and the hump of age only too well.
“Yes, I remember you. It won’t be good news brought you, I vow.”
“No, madonna. It is not.” My conscience rebelled at the prospect of letting Gritti continue standing there, eavesdropping on her sorrow. “May I come in?” Let him reveal himself if he wanted to hear.
“No,” she said. “I have work to do. Tell me and begone. What has he done now?”
I opened my mouth to ask Who? and the contempt in her eye stopped me. “He…was in a fight, madonna. Danese was.”
“He’s dead you mean?”
I nodded. “God rest his soul, ma’am.” I crossed myself; she did not.
Indeed she shrugged and I thought she was going to try to close the door in my face. Clearly she was not going to weep, certainly not where I could see her and perhaps not at all. She was a daughter of one of the great families, but of an impoverished branch. Life had long since wrung all the weeping out of Agnese Corner that it was ever going to get.
“How?”
“We don’t know. He was stabbed with a rapier,” I said. “It must have been very quick,” I lied. “He…You do know that he was married?”
Finally I won a reaction from her-she laughed. “To a wealthy widow three times his age?”
“No, madonna. Wealthy, yes, but young. Grazia Sanudo, daughter of sier Zuanbattista and madonna Eva Morosini. You did not know this?”
She shook her head as if trying to rid her mouth of a bad taste. “I have not heard from my son since the day I found out where he was getting his money and how he earned it, and that was before he was shaving. I don’t know if any of his sisters stayed in touch because I forbade them ever to mention him in my presence. So don’t expect me to pay for his funeral. Nor mourn him, either.”
She could not have known that Gritti was listening. She must have known that neighbors were; she wanted them to hear. Her words roused ten years’ sorrows like ghosts in the dusty hallway.
“His wife’s family will attend to the rites. Danese did tell them that he had told you of his marriage.”
She laughed again.
“He did not come to see you last night?”
“He did not knock at my door and I would not have opened it if he had.”
I was sweating. I had never had a worse conversation with anyone and the knowledge that a state inquisitor was lurking just around the corner was not making me feel better. “Madonna, do you know anyone who might have had reason to want your son dead?”
“Any husband, father, or brother in Venice. Any woman or mother. I’ve heard good things of you, Alfeo. Thank you for coming.”
I removed my foot before she discovered it was there and the door closed.
The one behind me closed also. Bolts were shot simultaneously.
I went down three steps and found Gritti blocking my way.
“She already knew?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just don’t know.”
“It’s possible?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s possible. Please let’s go before the priest comes.” I was in no state to face Father Equiano’s reproaches.
22
G iorgio rowed us to the end of Rio di San Barnaba and turned north along that finest of all the great streets of Europe, the Grand Canal, a parade of splendid palaces on either hand. The huge waterway was only slightly less busy on a Saturday morning than most days, quite busy enough. North and east we went, under the crowded arch of the Rialto, swinging around to the northwest, skirting the bustling vegetable and fish markets on our left and Cannaregio on our right, until we turned into the narrower ways of the Rio di Noale.
As we glided in toward the watersteps on the Rio di Maddalena, I noted the Sanudo house gondola moored there among some others, including a government boat, but I saw no signs of the fanti. Women on the fondamenta stopped their chatter to watch Gritti disembark, although the vizio ’s red cloak probably impressed them more, for his visit could not be social.
Vasco thumped the brass anchor knocker. The door was opened instantly by the young valet, Pignate. His face was fish-belly pale, so he had been told of the murder, probably also been warned that the visitor he was waiting for was an inquisitor. He bowed us in.