A Death in the Venetian Quarter (3 page)

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Authors: Alan Gordon

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“I collect gossip,” I said. “A bit of scandal is worth several dinners to me. And it may be worth something to you as well.”
“Really?” he said, more interested now.
“I have a patron, a wealthy man,” I explained. “He has, shall we say, unusual tastes, even for this debauched city.”
“Go on.”
“He has a particular interest in macabre settings. Places of sudden death, whether suicide, murder, or just the unexplained. He has been known to take impressionable young ladies into these rooms, close the door and … well, I'm sure you can imagine the rest.”
“Shameless!” exclaimed Vitale, his lips glistening. “To think that such shocking behavior goes on in this city. And he would be willing to pay?”
“For one night's entertainment, it could be as much as a year's lease is worth to you,” I said. “But it must be the right kind of atmosphere. That is why I'm here, as sort of an advance scout. May I see where it happened?”
“Certainly, certainly,” he said, dropping his broom with glee. “It's on the third floor.”
He started up the first flight with a bustle but slowed considerably on the second and was wheezing heavily by the time he reached the top.
“Begging your pardon, good Fool,” he gasped. “The excitement and all.”
“Take your time, good fellow,” I said. “Which room was his?”
“The middle one in the back,” he said as his breath caught up with him. “We have six rooms on each floor, three in front, three in back. He preferred his privacy, so he chose the one with no view.”
“What was he so private about, do you think?”
Vitale shrugged. “It was no business of mine, as long as he paid the rent regular, which he did. Last night, he came home as usual, said good night as he passed me, and turned in. I serve a morning meal here. When he didn't come down, I went up to get him. I knocked, no answer, knocked louder, still no answer. I thought maybe he went out during the night, but when I tried to push the door open, I found it was still barred from the inside.”
“Which concerned you.”
“Of course. I dashed down to the first floor, got a couple of the other tenants, and we ran back up and broke the door in.”
He pushed it open to reveal a small room, sparsely furnished. A bed was in one corner, the bedclothes scattered. A cedar trunk was in the opposite corner, and a chamberpot was upended nearby. No bottles, plates, cups, any indication of food or drink. There were no windows, and the room stank.
“I'll clean the pot up and throw some rushes in before your patron uses it,” Vitale assured me hastily.
“I should think so,” I huffed. I scanned the room, looking for anything that might be of use. “Where did you find him?”
“He was in bed, lying on his back, his eyes closed. I wasn't the first one in the room, one of the others was, but I could see him through the door. I nearly dropped dead myself, had one of my coughing fits with all the excitement and galloping up and down the stairs so many
times. I would have said it was a natural death, except when I looked at his face, I saw the pink in it. Never seen anything like it.”
“Do you think it was murder?” I asked.
“I think it was witchcraft, to tell you the God's truth,” he said, his eyes wide.
I gave the room one more glance, then stepped out. He closed the door behind him, and a thought struck me.
“You said you broke the door in,” I remarked.
“Yes, sir. The boys knocked it right off its hinges.”
I pointed to the hinges, which were whole.
“What say you to that? And where are the broken pieces of the wooden bar?”
He looked at me oddly. “Well, sir, since one of my tenants is a carpenter, I had him fix it up as quickly as possible. I want to let the room out by week's end. And as for the broken pieces, they went into the fire already.”
“A pity,” I said. “The scene may be too disturbed now for my patron to derive the true sense of mayhem that he requires. Let me ask you this: Did Bastiani receive any visitors here?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don't know what you mean, Fool,” he said. “I run a respectable establishment here.”
“To be sure,” I said. “Perhaps you could direct me to some of the others who saw him? And let me pay you for your pains.” I tossed him a couple of bronze coins which he pocketed quickly.
“Let's see, the only one who would be here right now is John Aprenos,” he said. “He rooms with the carpenter on the second floor. He was one of the ones who helped me break the door in.”
I suspected that Vitale's shoulder never touched wood during that incident, but I was content to let him make himself part of the story.
Aprenos was lounging on a pallet, one of two in the middle room facing the front of the building, with a window over the front door.
He was drinking and blinked a bit uncertainly when he saw me. Mounted on the wall by him were three spears and a shield.
“What's this creature?” he growled.
“Feste the Fool,” I said.
“Well, I'm John, the Huntsman,” he replied. “I've no need for fooling.”
“He wants to hear about Bastiani,” Vitale informed him.
“What for? He's dead,” said Aprenos, rising unsteadily to his feet. He was a lanky fellow with powerful arms.
“I'll leave you with him,” whispered Vitale. “More cleaning to do. Let me know what arrangements need to be made for your patron.”
“Thank you,” I said. He lumbered down the steps.
“What's this to you?” asked Aprenos.
“Curiosity,” I said. “I search out curious incidents, then recount them to others.”
“It's a curious way to make a living,” he said.
“Precisely,” I replied. “What can you tell me about your late neighbor?”
“Not much,” he said, scratching his neck. “Kept to himself, didn't say much, died alone.”
“Did he ever have any visitors here?”
“Well,” he said, chuckling. “There was some woman who came by. He would sneak her in, but Tullio and me saw her a few times. That's the fellow who sleeps in the other pallet. He's a carpenter. He's at work.”
“Why aren't you?”
“The gates are closed,” he said. “They're not letting people out until they know what's happening with that fleet. So much for my living. I'll have to find some day work until things settle down.”
“About this woman—would you recognize her if you saw her?”
“Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “Just some drab from the street as far
as I know, never paid her much attention. Haven't seen her in a while.”
“Any idea how he died?”
“We all thought poison, from the face,” he said. “That color pink's not a usual color for a man. But neither is white, and here you are.”
“Here I am,” I agreed. “Any idea who might want him dead?”
“I didn't know him that well. I only saw him when we came home at night. You'd be better off asking the other silk merchants.”
“Fair enough. Would you know where I could find your friend Tullio?”
“Sure,” he said. “Down at the embolum, finishing up the coffin. Funeral's tomorrow.”
“Thank you, friend John. I hope that you hunt again shortly.”
He waved and returned to his bottle.
 
As I came out of the house, I saw a woman, cloaked and veiled, standing at the far end of the alleyway. She started when I came out, and then she vanished off to the right. I ran to the main street and looked for her, but she was gone.
Probably worth checking out, I thought. A man will tell his mistress many things, even when he's awake. And if she was a common prostitute, all the better. I know quite a few men who will pay such a woman just to pretend to listen while he talks about himself. But first I would have to find her. I had a few ideas on how to tackle that particular problem.
In the meantime, there was the embolum. It was a large rectangular building just inside the Porta Viglae, with several silk and leather shops clustered inside the columns of the loggia running along the outside. Inside were storerooms and a large central trading area. On the upper floor were dormitories for visiting sailors and traders.
Bastiani was laid out in a corner of the central trading area. Business continued as usual in the rest of the room as bolts of silk were passed
under the eyes of the traders for inspection, then assigned to different storerooms. The traders were making neat little entries in large leather-bound ledgers, so that the room was filled with tiny scratching noises.
The coffin was resting atop a pair of sawhorses, and the body was in full view, not so much for the viewing but because the coffin lid had not been prepared yet. Tacked to the wall behind him was a banner depicting the Lion of Saint Mark, made of silk, of course. Next to the coffin, a young, fair-haired man was busy cooking something in a small pot suspended from a tripod over a small brazier. He dipped into the pot a wooden spoon, held it up, and watched a yellowish concoction drip from it. He shook his head irritably and picked up a handful of stale cheese from a nearby table. He sniffed it, grimaced, and tossed it into the pot, stirring rapidly.
“Is it ready to eat yet?” I inquired.
He glanced at me, noted my makeup.
“A proper question from a fool,” he replied. “It will never be ready to eat. I'm making glue. Nothing like cheese for glue, you know.”
“I have had cheese that tasted like glue, so I'm not surprised,” I said. “Are you Tullio?”
“I am he,” replied the carpenter, turning to a group of pine boards on the ground. “Looking for some juggling clubs? I could turn out as many as you like once I'm done making the lid.”
“Actually, I was looking for this fellow in the box.”
“There he is. Friend of yours?”
“Not really. I was wondering if there was going to be a wake. Perhaps I could provide a little entertainment.”
“Ah. The fool makes money off the dead.”
“As does the carpenter,” I replied. “I heard you even fixed a door as part of the deal.”
“You've been to Vitale's?” he exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“Curiosity,” I said. “Bastiani was a neighbor of yours. Did you know
him well? I'm looking for some personal information I can work into my tribute.”
“Not well,” replied Tullio. “He lived upstairs. We said hello in the morning. Sometimes we would walk this way together.”
He picked up a few boards and laid them lengthwise on the coffin, lining them up until the body was covered. He notched the wood at the point where it hung over the end, then picked up a saw.
“What do you think killed him?” I asked as he trimmed the edges.
“No idea,” he said. “There's murmuring about murder, but I think that's mostly to save face. If he's a suicide, he can't be buried in consecrated ground.”
“Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“He's a merchant,” said Tullio. “If a merchant is murdered, it's probably over money. If he kills himself, it's probably for the same reason.”
“Logical thinking for logical times. But these are strange days at the moment.”
“True enough,” he agreed, trimming a second board.
“I heard he had a woman,” I said.
“Who told you that?”
“Your roommate.”
He laughed. “Was he sober?”
“Not very.”
“Poor John. He needs to be galloping through the forest, impaling the poor woodland creatures. He hates being cooped up like this. I'll have to bring him along with me, get him some work.”
“Is he any good?”
“When he drinks only water, he can knock a squirrel off a branch from fifty paces. He's been called by the Emperor himself, at least when his legs were still good enough to hunt regularly.”
“Was he right about the woman?”
“Yes,” said Tullio. “The only one ever to go into Bastiani's room that I know of. Don't know her name, but I think she plies her trade by the Forum of Theodosios. Looking for a little female company, Fool?”
“One can never have enough, friend Carpenter. Now, if you will point me toward the man in charge of the funeral, I will leave you to your labors. I'll come by about the clubs some happier time.”
“It may be a while for that to come about,” he said. “The man you want is Andrea Ruzzini. He's the older man standing by that oaken table.”

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