"You're saying that Foscari was one of the Three back then, back when Gentile Michiel was murdered?"
The Three are the state inquisitors. The Ten-who are actually seventeen, comprising ten elected members plus the doge and his six ducal counselors-do not have time to investigate criminal cases personally. They delegate that duty to the Three, a subcommittee of two elected members and one ducal counselor, known as the blacks and the red respectively from the color of their robes. The lips of the Council of Ten are notoriously sealed tighter than the Vatican's cash drawer, but Celsi was hinting that a case as old as the Michiel scandal was about due to spring a few leaks.
The old man smirked approvingly. "Yes, he was. Foscari was the red."
"And the blacks?"
"Just where is your nimble little mind running now, sonny?"
"Tell me the other two inquisitors who investigated Gentile's murder, and I'll give you a lovely, juicy morsel to make your day. I promise."
He pouted. "Or I shall claim a forfeit! The other two were Tommaso Pesaro, and Giovanni Gradenigo. He's gone too, now. Foscari in September, Gradenigo last Thursday, and you'll never get anything out of Pesaro. He won't tell the recording angel his middle initial. Now what's the big secret?"
"Nostradamus foresees another murder. We expect it this evening and we have a good idea of where it will happen." Or would have, when I had more time to think about it.
So I didn't have to discover what Celsi meant by a forfeit and we parted on good terms, with him rubbing his hands in glee at not being just on top of the news but actually ahead of it. I had put my master's reputation on the line, but it was worth it.
The one other question I had wanted to ask and hadn't was whether the young Timoteo Michiel, when he took his friar's vows, had taken the name of Fedele.
13
Back at Ca' Barbolano, I found a note from Violetta to say that she was going to a house party on the mainland and would be back on Sunday. It was addressed to me, but the Maestro had opened it and read it. He always does, so she knows not to include any lovers' secrets. For once I wished I knew where she was going and who was taking her.
I had just enough time before dinner to give the Maestro a quick summary of what I had learned. That left him to do most of the talking at table, which he normally does anyway. As we headed to the dining room, I was pleased to see that his lameness was less marked, his disposition was improving, and he was definitely caught up in the Honeycat case now. Which effect was the chicken, which the egg, and which the rooster, I do not speculate.
"So you think," he demanded, "that the dying Giovanni Gradenigo learned of the murdered Caterina Lotto and remembered that it was she who betrayed Zorzi Michiel to the inquisitors? That was all he wanted to tell me?"
While planning my response, I nibbled appreciatively on a mouthful of Mama Angeli's delicious Taglierini noodles. I had told Violetta that any connection between the death of her friend Lucia and the patrician's deathbed appeal had to be an impossible coincidence. Now it was starting to look like no more than close timing.
"Possibly, but I think he must have heard about the other murders too, at least one of them. One dead courtesan wouldn't mean much-that was your own reaction when Violetta told you about Lucia. It's hard to believe that three women all betrayed Zorzi," I hastened to add. "Which may mean that Honeycat doesn't know which of his lady friends shopped him and is going to avenge himself on all of them…
"Or," I added with sudden inspiration, "he wanted to kill that particular one without drawing attention to his own case, so he killed a couple of others as well." Too late I saw the trap I had fallen into.
"Bah! Rubbish! Why tell me? An antiquated, invalid retired doctor? Why wouldn't Gradenigo summon one of his Council of Ten friends, who could start a hunt for the returned exile?"
"I don't know," I said humbly. "But the fact that the old man was a state inquisitor right when Zorzi was exiled can hardly be pure coincidence."
"And just what is an impure coincidence?"
When I said that the Maestro's disposition was improving, I meant that it was returning to normal. I sidestepped the question.
"You want me to try Bernardo Michiel this afternoon, master?"
"You are not a court. I want you to try to get to talk with him. If he doesn't know where his murderous brother is hiding, then I don't know who else to ask."
"Domenico, perhaps," I said. "He's the one who buys and sells property, so he could give Zorzi sanctuary somewhere on the mainland. It would be easy enough to nip across from Mestre, commit the murders, and nip back again."
"By 'nip' you mean 'row'? Or 'swim'?"
"Sail or be rowed. And Bernardo was the one whose political career was swamped by his brother's patricide. I doubt if Domenico's real estate business would have been hurt much, so there may be less ill-feeling there."
One of Nostradamus's tiny fists thumped the table. "That is absurd speculation. Facts! You're job is to bring me facts, not guesswork. I do the guessing. You cannot predict the brothers' respective reactions to their father's death until you know them personally. Speak with Domenico if you get the chance by all means. And find out if the sanctified Timoteo is now going by the name of Fedele. That might be an impure coincidence."
Since Violetta was out of town, I abandoned thoughts of a siesta after dinner and trotted up to the archive boxes in the attic to find the Michiel file. It was thinner than a portrait painter in Constantinople, just a brief personal letter from Bernardo and the Maestro's even briefer response, dated the following week and written for him by my predecessor. I learned nothing I did not already know, such as that a nobleman writing on a topic that might interest the Council of Ten will do so in his own hand rather than trust a secretary.
Few of the Venetian nobility go back to work after their noon break and a meat inspector would find little to do by that time of day anyway. Confident that one or other of the Michiel brothers should be home, I copied out the Bernardo letter in an honest Roman hand and then created one to Domenico, giving myself the same glowing introduction without mentioning Bernardo's previous approach to the Maestro.
From the outside, the ancient Palazzo Michiel looks as if it is merely keeping its site warm until it can be demolished and replaced by something newer and grander. I was anxious to see inside it, though, for its art collection was reputed to be one of the finest in the city. Its location certainly is, just around the corner from the Doges' Palace, right on the Riva degli Schiavoni-the Croatians' shore-looking out over the basin where the fleets gather. I had Giorgio drop me off at the Molo and strolled the rest of the way, admiring the setting even while I huddled my cloak tight against a gray February bluster.
Three men were quietly freezing as they sat on a long bench in the loggia. One was clearly a porter; the other two were younger and probably apprentices. I wasn't going to put up with that treatment. I was armed and wearing my best outfit, wishing as always that the Maestro were logical enough to see that he should not try to exploit my title without dressing me to match it. I rapped the worn brass knocker hard.
The flunky who answered my signal recoiled slightly before my haughty aristocratic simper and I moved to step past him. He hesitated, but the sight of my sword convinced him, and he let me enter. I bestowed my sier Bernardo letter on him. He took it, asked if messer would be so kind as to wait, and vanished through an archway that offered no view beyond it except the wall of a corridor. In seconds a page emerged from wherever he had gone and hurried off across the androne, bearing the letter.
Indoors was probably no warmer than outside, but at least I was sheltered from the wind. By then I had observed another three men-well-dressed men waiting on well-upholstered benches-and had deciphered their clothing as that of a hungry young lawyer, an aging merchant with liver trouble, and a prosperous middle-aged Jew. The liver trouble I deduced from the color of the sufferer's eyes, of course.