The False Virgin (17 page)

She sighed dramatically, and held out her arm, asking for my assistance in raising her to her feet. It was all a little ponderous and imperious, and an attempt to put me in my place, but it
would have been churlish to refuse the assistance. I took her weight and she rose up. Our proximity allowed me to get a closer look at her face than she might have wished. For a woman of only
thirty or so, she looked quite careworn, and she clearly had plucked her eyebrows out of existence. Her face was pale without evidence of those foul lead-based whiteners some women used. Though I
have heard that some women swallow arsenic to make themselves pale. Masudi al-Din told me this could result in headaches, confusion and hair loss, if not death. So perhaps Speranza Soranzo followed
this cosmetic regime. She certainly sounded a little confused when she replied to my half-question about receiving news of Querini’s death.

‘Yes. Antonio told me, when he came back with the dogs. They will be so upset, you know. They loved Niccolo.’

It took me a moment to realise she was talking about the dogs. And it was probably true they loved Querini more than she did, I thought. She gave no sign of sadness at her husband’s
passing, or even made an enquiry as to the cause of his death. Instead she rambled on about the dogs and Querini’s manservant.

‘He told me that when he approached the body, a cloud of blue butterflies rose up around Niccolo. It was a sign, of course.’

Of what, she clearly wasn’t going to tell me, though it rang a bell with me. Something Katie had said, but I wasn’t able to recall it. And before I could try, she cast a nervous
glance towards the door of the great chamber. There had been the sound of shuffling feet, and subdued voices. It was as if she were afraid her husband might not be dead after all, and would come
striding in from the strand. Instead, his lifeless body was unceremoniously borne in like someone who had passed out after a night of heavy drinking. One servant clasped him by the armpits, and
another by his ankles. His head was turned at an acute angle on the leading servant’s arm. They paused upon seeing the mistress, but she waved a hand, and they carried on with their task of
laying the body in the chapel. Once he had been arranged on the stone altar, she drifted over to the body, and peered closely at it as if reminding herself of what her husband looked like. Her hand
went nervously to the back of her neck, where I knew the suppurating boil would be giving her pain. Then her hands closed in prayer, and I knew it was no use questioning her today. Nor would I get
to examine the body more closely for a while. I gritted my teeth, and walked out of the great chamber, leaving her to her own thoughts.

‘Niccolo Querini is dead?’

Katie shook her head as she asked her question of me. I had been waiting for her in the shade of the ancient olive tree, which was set in the centre of the courtyard of the Querini mansion. I
sat for a long time before her smiling face appeared in the archway. She had skipped over to me, no doubt full of what she had learned from Brother Hugh. But I had to tell her my news first, before
she learned of it from somewhere else. I thought it would have upset her, but I didn’t really know my granddaughter that well yet. Her eyes opened wide, and a look of excitement pervaded her
beautiful face.

‘Was he murdered?’

Trust my Katie to get straight to the point. I shrugged and waggled my head in a noncommittal way.

‘I can’t say yet. The grieving widow is with the body.’ I indicated the doorway to the great chamber and chapel. ‘Perhaps when she has completed her obsequies, she will
allow me to examine him. But from what I saw on the beach, there is no way that he fell from the cliff.’

Katie squeezed my hand. ‘Tell me what you saw that made you come to that conclusion, Grandpa Nick.’

We had both already worked on the case of one murder together, and I knew how she loved the mental exercise involved. And her enthusiasm stoked the fires of my own.

‘The body was at the foot of the cliff, from where it was presumed he had fallen.’

Katie quickly interrupted me. ‘Who presumed this?’

‘Why, Galuppi, of course. He pretty much told me that was the conclusion that the Doge would want me to come to.’

‘Ohhh, Galuppi.’ My granddaughter waved her hand, dismissing Galuppi’s opinion.

I went on with the explanation for my suspicions.

‘The cliff edge is crumbly at that point where the loose soil overrides the rock. So it’s true, a fall was possible. But there was no sign of disturbance above, and no evidence of
loose soil on the sandy beach. No, Querini didn’t fall from the cliff, or even get pushed. Of course, he could have died naturally of a failure of his organs. He was a heavy drinker. But I
don’t believe that was the case either. I will know more when I can examine the body.’

‘Yes, we can examine it together.’

I knew that was as close Katie would get to a request to be present when I looked at Querini’s body. And to be honest, I didn’t mind the thought of having her as a companion. As I
said, blood always turns my stomach. I had already allowed her to see a much more gruesome body when we explored my burned-out house in Venice for any remains. We had come across the body of a man
that was no more than a blackened cinder. Katie had a strong stomach and a good eye for detail too. I nodded my agreement.

‘Now tell me what you learned from Brother Hugh.’

She laughed. ‘He showed me his most precious possession.’

I looked suitably concerned for her modesty, just as she had intended with her ambiguous comment. But it turned out that what she referred to was the relic of St Beornwyn. The finger that
Great-uncle Marco had originally brought to Venice. Katie was convinced that the monk truly did revere the saint and what she stood for. He came from a small community based in a place called
Carmarthen on the edge of the English king’s territories. He had been offended when Katie had called him English, and insisted he was Welsh. I had heard of these hill-dwelling people on the
fringes of King Edward’s lands. Troublesome and independent-minded, they had taxed the patience of the older King Edward, now his son was not doing any better apparently. Perhaps that was why
he was borrowing so much money from the Bardi and Peruzzi banks, where I had my own funds invested. If Hugh was Welsh he would be an opinionated fellow, no doubt.

‘I told him I had heard of St Beornwyn and the tale of her saintly devotion to keeping her virginity. He blushed a little, but explained more of the saint’s history to me.’

It appeared that Beornwyn had been betrothed to a local lord in the north called Aethelbald, or some such barbaric name. Beornwyn, however, though being the daughter of another lord and
therefore always likely to be married off for dynastic purposes, wished to dedicate her life to Christ. There was a belief that as long as she remained a virgin, the pagan invaders would not
devastate her father’s lands. Refusing Aethelbald, she maintained a nightly vigil at a remote chapel. Hearing this, I snorted in derision.

‘It sounds like she had a younger lover and her vigils covered some sort of assignation with him. She didn’t want to give him up for some old baron.’

Katie pouted. ‘Grandpa, you are so coarse. The story is beautiful. Anyway, finally the invaders did come, and they murdered Beornwyn when she refused to give up her vigil. They even flayed
the skin from her body and hung it on the chapel altar. And that is why she is the saint of virgins, and people with skin diseases.’

‘Hmm. And the relic?’

‘When he had finished his story, Brother Hugh produced this small gilded box from his sleeve. He opened it and inside, laid on red velvet, were the bones of St Beornwyn’s finger held
together with gold wire.’

I pulled a face.

‘I have always thought there was something gruesome about holy bones. I mean, how is a saint to be clothed in flesh again at the Resurrection, if his body is scattered all over the
Christian world?’

Katie’s laughter was like a tinkling silver bell. Unfortunately, at that very moment, Speranza Soranzo emerged from the great hall into the sunlight. Maybe it was our levity that caused
her to screw up her face, or maybe it was the brightness of the sun. Whatever it was, she stormed past us and out the archway. And there went my chance of questioning her about Querini and the cult
of virginity. I wearily pushed myself to my feet, my knees protesting at the effort. Katie almost put out a hand to assist me, but seeing my glare, stopped herself. I would be fooling myself if I
thought that I still had the physique to give her a run for her money. She would soon outstrip me. However, my mind had not dulled yet, and it occurred to me that she could be my eyes and ears with
Domina Speranza Soranzo. But I would leave that until later.

‘Come. Let’s take a look at Niccolo Querini before anyone prepares him for his funeral. They could wash away a lot of evidence.’

The interior of the great chamber was suitably sombre with no candles lit. The small slit windows let in little light as well as keeping the hall cool in high summer. Someone, presumably
Speranza herself, had lighted a solitary candle inside the chapel, which was located at Querini’s head. I was glad of it, for it would give me some light for the next task. As we got closer
to the body, I saw that she had also placed her husband’s hands in a prayerful pose on his chest. I moved them apart, examining the hands closely.

‘What are you looking for?’

Katie’s question was a good one. I wanted to see if there had been a struggle.

‘A man may have traces of blood on his hands, if he was in the act of defending himself when he died. I see nothing here, though.’

I placed his hands at his side, and proceeded to pull up his eyelids, peering into his eyes. Katie was full of curiosity.

‘I thought it was nonsense to imagine that the image of the murderer was left fixed on the victim’s eyes. Is it then true?’

I smiled at her misunderstanding of my actions.

‘You are right to think it ridiculous. And in response to your enquiry, I was looking to see if the eyeballs were spotted with blood in any way. Masudi al-Din told me that if a person were
strangled or smothered, blood vessels in the eyes would be burst. Again nothing.’

I gazed at the torso of Querini, stroking my hands over his chest.

‘Ah, here is something odd.’

‘What?’

Katie leaned forward eagerly. I smoothed out the outer jacket, which was laced up the front over his undershirt, and pulled the opening a little wider. There was a patch of blood on the dark red
shirt that had not been noticeable before. And I could see a small hole in the shirt, which I could just poke my finger in. Not caring about the evidence I was now destroying – for who but I
cared about it? – I ripped open the hole and revealed a similar hole in Querini’s chest. Swallowing the bitter taste of vomit rising in my throat, I poked my finger in the hole. It ran
deep, probably as far as his heart. The wound made a sucking noise as I withdrew my finger. Katie was fascinated, quite unmoved by the presence of blood and violent death.

‘Is this how he was killed? Stabbed to death? Such a small wound and so little blood.’

‘I have seen this before, though. A thrust to the heart with a slim bassillard can kill as effectively as chopping a man to pieces with a sword. And the blood can stay inside the body
because the puncture in the skin is so small. You heard how it sucked closed after I pulled my finger out.’

Katie stared at me, her eyes big with an excitement that I suddenly regretted exposing her to. She whispered the word that was in my head.

‘Murder for certain, then.’

I nodded, and added the inevitable question.

‘But who did it?’

The following morning I had my first intimation of what might have happened. Katie had already left for Mongou monastery in the hope of speaking again to both Brother Hugh and
Domina Speranza. We had spoken briefly about what information she should gather. Ostensibly, her task was to discover more about the cult of St Beornwyn, and Speranza’s adherence to it. But
if in the process she learned more about Querini and his life on Sifnos, then that too would be very useful.

All I knew about him was that he had no obvious income other than his wife’s money, but was living the life of a lord with a heavy drinking habit. It was Antonio, the manservant, who began
to explain that conundrum. I requested his presence soon after I had finished my breakfast. I found the heat of midday intolerable, causing my brain to boil and prevent concise thought. Mornings
and evenings had become the time on Sifnos for me to apply myself, leaving the middle of the day to eat and rest. A timid tapping on the door alerted me to the arrival of Antonio. I called him in,
and observed him closely for the first time. He was a dark-complexioned man with thick black hair, more like a Saracen than a Venetian, and it confirmed that he must be a local man. The Greeks were
closely intertwined in physique to the Turks who ruled them, though they were loath to admit it.

‘Is your name really Antonio?’

The man blushed, and shook his head. ‘That is what my master called me. He liked to imagine he was still in Venice, I think. My real name is Antonis.’

‘Antonis, I want to ask you about your master, and why he should have been on the strand in the first place. It is pretty much out of his way if he was coming back here from Kamares
harbour. Even drunk, he would know his way home.’

Antonis dropped his gaze to the floor, examining his sandals quite extensively. I had obviously hit a nerve, and needed him to explain. I waited only a moment, then bellowed in the most
intimidating way I could muster.

‘Come, man. Tell me what you know, or by the will of the Doge, it shall go ill for you.’

The cowed servant looked over his shoulder, as if fearing that Querini would rise from the altar and stop his words with a ghostly hand.

‘Master, please tell no one or they will surely kill me too.’

This was getting interesting.

‘Who will kill you? Do you then know who killed Querini?’