A young male officer sets about the task and she tries to calm herself, not get too excited.
There are numerous boats in the water. A speedboat worth ten times the value of her apartment. A state-of-the-art, solar-powered Czeers Mk1. A rubber dinghy with an outboard big enough to power a flight to Venus. A wooden rowing boat, probably used for fishing.
Playthings of the rich and famous.
Across the water something else catches her eye. Something far more interesting.
A gondola.
A sleek, black, silent seahorse of a craft. Every bit as beautiful as the powerboats, but oddly out of place in this collection. She motions towards a forensics officer. 'This – start with this. As soon as Maria's done her damned photographs, test the gondola for everything: blood, fibres, DNA, hairs, fingerprints. The whole damned lot.'
CAPITOLO XLIV
1777
Laguna Veneta, Venezia The journey across the ancient grey waters of the lagoon is choppy and arduous. The boat the two monks travel in is slightly larger than the one Tommaso uses for his regular morning escapes. It's the monastery's second craft, a small, patched-up bragozzo, a flat-bottomed former fishing boat donated to them almost five years ago.
Brother Maurizio, despite being Venetian and in his late forties, is not a good sailor. Even the short journey to the city turns him pale and nauseous.
Tommaso is oblivious to his fellow traveller's discomfort; his mind is solely on the abbot and the tablet. More specifically, he's wondering if he'll ever see it again. He fears he's lost his only physical link to his dead mother and his missing sister, and the pain of it is growing inside him.
He navigates north and then a little east into the sloshing mouth of the Rio Dell'Arsenale running all the way towards the shipyards. The boat-builders here have never been busier. A staggering two hundred ships a month are being completed, and as usual the sky is filled with a forest of masts.
Ahead of him is the main traffic of the yards and the magnificent fortified towers and giant Greek lions of the Porta Magna. He ties off in the long shadow of a distant polacca that's nearing completion. The ocean-going vessel is probably destined for naval service, patrolling shipping routes and protecting Venetian craft from Turkish and Dalmatian pirates. Its huge, single-pole masts are so tall they threaten to pierce the clouds. Further in the distance, a three-sail trabaccolo tacks out to sea, the distinctive red flag and winged lion emblem of the Serenissiuma Repubblica Veneta fluttering proudly from the stern.
Tommaso takes in all the activity as he helps a pale-faced Maurizio from the boat. 'Are you sure you are well enough to come, Brother? If you wish to stay here, I am fine to go and collect the supplies myself.'
His fellow monk looks relieved. 'Tommaso, I would be grateful if I could have a little time for myself. I thought I might wander until the sickness has abated.'
'Of course.'
They part with a gracious nod and arrange to meet again in two hours in a nearby campo. Maurizio regularly feels ill on the crossing and almost always needs time on his own to recover. His rehabilitation usually includes visiting a local restaurateur who is under the illusion that he can secure his place in heaven by feeding Maurizio until he bursts.
Tommaso quickly goes about his errands. The shipyards are home to private and naval contractors plus dozens of smaller traders, such as rope manufacturers and timber merchants. He's uncertain exactly how many people are employed there, but he knows it's more than ten thousand. Thankfully there are plenty of good Christians willing to help an impoverished monk with his list of chores. Today's monastic requests include a bucket of assorted nails, several seasoned timber planks, a small barrel of pitch for waterproofing and a good length of sailcloth that will be used for a variety of purposes, including repairing his bragozzo.
With time to kill, he determines to try to shed some light on the history of the artefact his mother left him. Armed with the sketch he's made, he heads west past Chiesa di San Francesco della Vigna, moving quickly from art gallery to art gallery.
Nothing.
No one has a clue.
He calls on jewellers, painters and artists between Scuola Grande de San Marco and Chiesa Di Santa Maria Formosa.
Advice comes freely -
'Try Bonfante's.'
'Let old Carazoni on the bridge look at it.'
'See Luca, the silversmith, on the campo behind the basilica. '
It all amounts to nothing.
Dejected and worn out, he arrives back at the Arsenale. There's no sign of Maurizio.
He sits on a wall by the well where they've arranged to meet. Venice is surrounded by sea water, so ironically fresh drinking water is precious. It would, however, be bad form simply to help himself. Faces peer down from tenement windows on all four sides of the square. A young woman hangs washing on a line and smiles at him. A grandmother reaches out and closes green wooden shutters that are warped and faded by the sun. Finally, an olive-skinned young man arrives, pulls up a bucket and a tin mug on a piece of string. 'Water, Brother? You look as though you are in need of sustenance.'
Tommaso is relieved and his face shows it. 'Most kind. Molte grazie.' He drains the mug and, without prompting, the man refills it. 'The name's Efran, I live in this campo. Can I help you get somewhere?'
Tommaso wipes his mouth with his hand. 'I am Brother Tommaso, from the monastery on San Giorgio – and thank you, no – I'm not lost. I'm just seeking some answers to a personal puzzle, and don't seem to be able to find anyone to supply them.'
Efran laughs. 'I thought that was why people turned to God. For answers.'
'It is, but it seems the good Lord is letting me solve this one on my own.' Tommaso pulls the sketch out of a pocket in his hooded outer robe and uncreases it. 'Venice is said to be the centre of world art, but I find only salesmen when I'm looking for scholars. I need someone who may know something about artefacts or old silver jewellery, like this.'
Efran sits and rests his back against the well wall while he looks at the sketch. 'How large is this? Small like a pendant, or bigger?'
Tommaso holds up his left hand. 'From the tips of my fingers to my wrist and about four fingers wide.'
Efran's impressed. 'Substantial. And is it from the church, from an altar?'
The young monk looks offended. 'I believe I told you, this is a personal family matter. The object was left to me.'
'I apologise, Brother, I meant no offence. I was merely trying to establish its provenance.'
'No offence taken. I assure you, this belongs to me and not to the church.'
Efran hesitates. 'I have a friend in the ghetto' – he glances at the young monk – 'a Jew, very learned. He and his family trade in foreign antiquities and oddities – many of which I get for him from the docks down here.' He taps the sketch. 'Ermanno may well know something about this strange block. Did you say it was made of silver?'
'I think it is. But really, it is not appropriate that a Christian monk seeks the aid of a Jewish trader.'
Efran rolls his eyes. 'Are we not Venetians first and Christians and Jews second?'
Across the courtyard, backlit in the shadows of an alley-way, Tommaso sees the rotund silhouette of Maurizio rolling slowly towards them. Impulsively, he closes Efran's hand over the sketch. 'Then I'd be grateful if you would show my drawing to your Jewish friend – but please keep this as a confidence between us.' He looks towards Maurizio, now emerging into the campo. 'This is a fellow monk, please do not mention anything to him.'
Efran pockets the paper and convincingly switches his attention to the cup, bucket and well. 'Then I'll bid you good day and safe passage, Brother Tommaso.' He points up at a window. 'My home is on the second floor opposite us, the one with only one brown shutter over the window. The other is broken, and I keep meaning to repair it. If you're back this way again, please feel inclined to ask after me and I'll bring you more water.'