Gritti snorted. “And perhaps the young scoundrel had debts that had suddenly become worth collecting? Have you gotten that far, Alfeo Zeno?”
23
Z uanbattista ushered in his womenfolk. Madonna Eva was magnificent in full mourning, swathed in black lace and taffeta. She had experience of mortality and funerals, of course, and would keep a complete outfit ready in her closet. Black flattered her fair coloring. To Grazia a brush with death must be a new experience, and even to my untutored eye her gown looked as if it had been assembled in haste and fastened on her with pins. We visitors rose and bowed, remaining standing until the ladies were seated, side by side on a divan.
Eva lifted back her veil. After a moment’s hesitation Grazia copied her, revealing the red eyes and pink nose of recent weeping. Her mother had not wept, but any joy she felt at being rid of an unwanted son-in-law was well hidden behind maternal concern for her bereaved child. Even if the romance had been a flash in the pan or puppy love contrived by an experienced seducer, Grazia’s shock and loss must be genuine. I felt truly sorry for her, and perversely happy that at least one woman mourned Danese Dolfin.
“I realize that this is very painful for you,” Gritti said, “and I will be as quick as I can. When your husband announced that he had to go out last night, madonna, where did he say he was going?”
Grazia sniffled. “To visit his mother in San Barnaba.”
“He did not mention anyone else he might see on the way?”
Another sniffle, a head shake.
“She says he did not arrive, and we have reason to believe that he was killed on his way back here, not far from this house, about two hours after he left you. So what was he doing in the meantime?”
She whispered, “I do not know, Your Excellency.”
There was a long pause, while the inquisitor sat as if half-asleep. I wondered if he was about to spring some dramatic catch-them-napping question, as he had with the maids, but all he said was, “Alfeo, have you anything to ask?”
“No, Excellency.”
He smiled without looking at me. “Then why don’t you reveal to us the terrible curse that your master thinks has been laid upon this house?”
If I blurted out my suspicions without confirming them first, I would be dismissed as a lunatic. “We are still one short, Excellency. Madonna Fortunata Morosini is not here.”
Gritti frowned as if annoyed that he had forgotten her.
Still standing by the door, Giro said, “She is having one of her bad days,” as his father was saying, “She could not contribute anything, Your Excellency.”
Nothing could have aroused an inquisitor’s suspicions faster than those simultaneous refusals. Gritti ruffled up his feathers. “Nevertheless, if my precocious young friend wants to try interrogating her, let us humor him.”
He could have been more tactful. Zuanbattista glared at me as if he were about to choke, and Giro marched angrily out of the room, which was his version of a screaming tantrum.
The icy silence remained behind.
“That portrait of your honored brother, madonna,” I asked Eva. “When was it painted?”
Although she had no choice but to put up with the state inquisitor, she was no more in favor of the upstart, busybody apprentice than her husband was. The clefts framing her mouth deepened into canyons. “When they were married, of course.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Fifteen years ago, just a month before Grazia was born.”
Assuming that the painter had not flattered his subjects too extremely, the woman ought to be in her thirties by now, if she still lived. I was about to ask her name when a cane tap-tap-tapped outside.
Giro entered, walking slowly and supporting Fortunata on his arm. The men rose while he guided her to a chair. Once she was settled, he presented the inquisitor, speaking loudly. She peered at us as if the room was filled with dense fog and perhaps it was, for her. I could imagine nothing in the world less likely than the decrepit Fortunata Morosini wrestling a rapier away from a ruthless young ne’er-do-well like Danese Dolfin. Nor did I expect her to be much help to the inquisitor in the investigation. But the Maestro had been right-her resemblance to the bride in the portrait was undeniable now that I knew to look for it. My scalp prickled.
“Ottone Gritti?” she muttered. “I knew a Marino Gritti.”
The inquisitor sat down again and stretched his legs as if his left hip hurt. “My son, madonna. You have heard of the sad death of sier Danese?”
“Eh?”
Louder: “You have heard of the sad death of sier Danese?”
“Not sad!” She bared a few yellow fangs. “Pretty-boy thief, that’s what he was. Good riddance.”
“Why do you call him thief, madonna? What did he steal?”
In the background Giro was shaking his head.
“Stole my pearls!” she said. “Stole my ring.”
“You mislaid them, Auntie,” Giro said softly. “We found them for you.” She was not expected to hear that and did not seem to.
“When was the last time you saw him?” the inquisitor asked.
“Who?”
“Danese Dolfin.”
She mumbled and mouthed a while, then pointed her cane at me. “When he was here.”
“Yesterday at midday,” I offered.
“Fortunata suffers from terrible headaches,” Giro said. “She retired to her room soon after Zeno left and would not have seen Danese after that.”
Gritti said, “Then I do not see…” He looked at me.
“May I ask first,” I said, “how long the jewels were mislaid?”
Zuanbattista frowned at me, but this time there was calculation mixed in with the resentment. “About a week, I think. Old people get confused. She had hidden them inside one of her shoes.”
“Or somebody else did? I mean someone stole the originals, had them copied, and then hid the replicas there to be found?”
He nodded. “I see what you mean. I will have them appraised.”
That, I thought, had been the source of Danese’s gold, which I could not mention but might manage to discover later if I got the chance to explore his room. I turned to the inquisitor and pointed at the painting.
“Your Excellency, did you ever meet sier Nicolo?”
“Several times. Very tragic. Why do you…” Gritti’s reaction was everything I could have hoped for. He lost his normal high color, his eyes bulged. Then he stared at the wizened crone on the chair.
“How old is madonna Fortunata?” I demanded.
“She has aged a lot recently,” Eva said defensively.
“But how many years?” I persisted. The family frowned at my insolence.
“What possible business is that of yours, apprentice?” Zuanbattista barked.
Fortunata Morosini wore widow’s weeds, but most Venetian women continue to use their maiden names after marriage. She was not a sister of Eva’s father, but of her brother, Nicolo. Not Eva’s aunt but Grazia’s. Zuanbattista had said so on the day he and his wife came to Ca’ Barbolano, but after meeting the old woman I had made the natural mistake, or the jinx had deceived me also. I had skipped a generation in my thinking. She had done worse than that, something unthinkable.
“Call it my business,” Gritti said grimly. “How old is this woman?”
Zuanbattista shrugged. “Thirty-four? No, thirty-three. As my wife said, she has gone down a lot in the last few years. I admit I was shocked when I returned from Constantinople.”
“She looks at least seventy!”
I would have said eighty, but I was engrossed in watching the reactions: Giro’s horror, Vasco’s disbelief, and the overall confusion of the Sanudos as they fought free of the web the jinx had spun over them. Giro muttered, “Seventy?” to himself and dismay crept over his face. Eva, also, and Zuanbattista…and Grazia? Too late! I had missed it, but there had been something wrong with her reaction. Had Grazia approved of her tutor’s misfortune?