The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) (19 page)

12 July In the Year of Our Lord 1480
Guid'Antonio Vespucci, Florence

Guid'Antonio massaged his hands, blinking, blurry-eyed in the wavering yellow light of the airless
studiolo
. The renegade treaty between Rome and Venice worried him. Everything worried him and left him unprepared for daybreak. How could matters get any worse? He was sliding his pen into its case when he heard the rush of footsteps, and they were very near. Leaping up, he pulled his dagger and darted into the bedchamber just as the door flew open.

Amerigo bounded in. “Wake up, Uncle! Oh!” The sight of Guid'Antonio waiting with knife drawn slowed Amerigo only momentarily. “Uncle Guid'Antonio,” he said, stepping back, quivering with excitement. “The girl's dead! Murdered!”

“Girl?” Guid'Antonio sheathed his blade and locked his journal away for safekeeping. “Camilla, you mean? Where was she found, quickly.” Impossible! Never would he have thought matters would come to this.

“Ummm—” Amerigo faltered. “Not exactly found, Uncle. Yet.”

Guid'Antonio stared. “Murder is an exact word, is it not?”

Droplets of rain dripped off Amerigo's cloak and puddled on the floor. “Of course, yes,” he said, “but her horse galloped through the Prato Gate a short while ago. With no rider, its saddle and harness bloody.”

“Fresh or dried?” Guid'Antonio said.

“What?”

“The blood.”

The fragrant water Guid'Antonio splashed on his cheeks did nothing to calm the heat beneath his skin. Swiftly, he glanced around. Where the devil was Cesare when he needed him?

Amerigo handed him a towel. “Who knows? Whether the blood was fresh or dried, I mean.”

Guid'Antonio located his boots beside the bed. “And now once again, the Virgin is weeping in Ognissanti. That's smart
and
quick.”

“Yes.” A wrinkle furrowed Amerigo's brow. “How did you know the Virgin's weeping again?”

“Complete faith in my fellow man. When it comes to knowing, how did you happen by this information?”

Amerigo blew a lock of damp hair off his cheek, grinning. “I was up late.”

“And not because you were sleepless and writing in your
journal
.”

“Decidedly not.” Amerigo's quick smile faded. “Walking home, I witnessed such commotion as I've never seen in these streets. Swear, I mashed myself against the walls to keep from being trampled by ass dealers and flask makers wailing about the bloodied horse, Turks, and the Virgin, weeping again. Then here comes Palla Palmieri thundering in on horseback, shouting orders.”

Guid'Antonio flung his crimson cloak over his shoulder. His white cotton tunic was none too fresh; for now, it must do. “Palla and his
ufficiale?
”

“Decidedly. He warned people to keep away from the lady's horse. Unnecessarily, as everyone on two legs is rushing to Ognissanti to worship the painting.”

Guid'Antonio secured his scrip to his belt. “And to throw coins into the monks' hands. You say blood. How, when from the looks of you, it's raining.”

“Only in the last short while and lightly as I came home.” Amerigo paused, his expression deeply thoughtful. “The Virgin's tears on the heels of the lady's horse do imply someone near had a hand in crafting them. Surely the monks wouldn't hatch such an evil scheme for a few extra coins in the box. Do away with the lady, invent tears in Ognissanti—”

“Men have done worse for less,” Guid'Antonio said. “Palla believes the horse in fact does belong to Camilla Rossi da Vinci?”

“Yes. In the hubbub, he told me the gatekeeper who caught up with it knows it as the lady's and took it to the public stable where it's always kept.”

“Which one?” Guid'Antonio snuffed the candles and turned down the lamp.

“The Hoof and Hay just inside the gate.”

“And Ognissanti?”

“Packed like a crock of sardines.”

In the hall, Olimpia Pasquale stood on tiptoe, lighting the morning torches.
“Mattina,”
she said, dimpling as she turned to greet them, her expression as she gazed at Guid'Antonio, glowing.

“Mattina,”
he answered, caught off guard by the answering warmth her smile ignited in him. “You're not with Giovanni this morning?”

“No.” Olimpia reached up to light another torch, her breasts pressing fetchingly against the light fabric of her apron. “Giovanni's with your lady Maria and her mother, as the next few hours may be his grandmother's last. Your lady believed it best.”

“Maria sent for him?”

“Um-hm. I walked him there myself. She instructed me to return today with their things and abide there with them until—well. In the meanwhile, I'm lighting morning torches.”

Guid'Antonio glanced around the hall. “Have you seen Cesare?”

For one moment, Olimpia hesitated. “ 'Tis just now dawn,
Signore
.”

“I did. On my way home,” Amerigo slipped in. “He scooted down an alleyway and was lost in the fog.”

Olimpia, chewing her lip, stared at the floor.

“Olimpia, tell him—” Guid'Antonio made an airy gesture. “Oh, never mind.”

With that, Guid'Antonio and Amerigo hurried downstairs, across the garden and out into Borg'Ognissanti.

Fog, misty and gray, lay like a damp veil over the city, shrouding the rooftops and the Arno, where fishermen in boats cast their nets. Up and down the thoroughfare, people pushed past one another for entrance to Ognissanti, their figures ghostly apparitions in the pale gray atmosphere. Guid'Antonio turned on his heel and walked opposite them toward the Prato Gate.

“God's wounds!” Amerigo exclaimed. “We're not going to see the weeping painting?”

Guid'Antonio shook his head. “Camilla Rossi's horse amongst us here in Florence, rather than kept by her abductors or sold? There's the miracle, I think. We're off to the Hoof and Hay.”

“Stand back!” Eyes squinting with brute intent, the burly sergeant posted at the door to the public stable took a threatening step forward.

“Stefano! Stand down.” Palla Palmieri moved from the stable into the light, chewing a piece of straw, resting his brown eyes lightly on Guid'Antonio. “You're late.” Palla's dagger, cased in leather, rode in full view at his slender waist.

“Right on time for chasing ghosts.”

“The horse is real at least.” Palla directed them past the police guard and on inside the wooden structure that smelled of oats, sweat, and hay. A chestnut horse poked its nose over the top rail of the first stall and whinnied. From another stall there came the sound of a shovel scraping stone. “The stable keep,” Palla said.

“You've seen Camilla's horse? It
is
here?”

“Yes. A dandy little mare.” Palla nodded toward the end of the building, past the lengthy row of narrow cubicles. All was quiet there.

A solidly built man whose wild black hair framed muddy eyes set in a ruddy face emerged from the near stall, armed with a manure-caked shovel. He shot Palla a sour look: You're still here? His eyes narrowed further when he saw Palla's companions, one wearing a crimson cloak and wrinkled tunic embroidered with creamy white wasps, the other impressive in tall boots and a purple tunic slit at the neck to show the brocade
farsetto
and rich cotton
camicia
beneath it.

“What's this, then?” the man said. “How many horses do you want? Two?”

“You are the stable keep?” Guid'Antonio said.

“No. I'm King Ferrante of Naples. Can't you tell?”

Guid'Antonio nailed him with a stare. “We've no need of horses for ourselves. Just to inquire about the one found running loose today in the street.”

The man's full red lips parted, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Lady Camilla's mount!” He wagged his head. “The Turks and their dirty work. Enough to sicken my gut. The girl's blood spilled on the saddle, the girl's blood spilled on the bridle, her bl—”

“Show us,” Amerigo said.

“Show you what?”

“Her blood!” Oaf!

Palla looked away, mouth turned up at the corners, arms folded neatly across the chest of his plain brown tunic.

The stable keep thumbed toward the police chief, sputtering, “I've been through this with Palmieri! I have work to do.”

“All the more reason for you to answer quickly,” Amerigo said.

“By whose request?”

“Mine,” Guid'Antonio and Palla said.

“First Palmieri, now you, our very own neighborhood snoop, sniffing at doors,” the man said. “The all important Vespuccis! Yes, I know who you are. Who doesn't?”

Guid'Antonio studied him mildly. “Watch your tongue or you may need me one day and find I'm nowhere around.”

“For all that, the answer's the same: just as I couldn't show our good police chief the lady's blood, neither can I show you.”

“Can't? Or won't?” Amerigo said.

The man offered them a sickly brown smile. “Can't. I cleaned the animal's gear.”

Guid'Antonio's temper blazed. “It was
evidence
.” He glanced at Palla who, having followed this same, slow curving road a short while earlier, listened with his finely chiseled lips set in a cold smile.

“By her husband's request,” the stable keep said.

“Castruccio Senso has already been here?” Guid'Antonio said.

“Yes, and I do as I'm told,” the stable keep said.

Why waste breath asking this dimly lit fellow anything so complex as who, what, when, and where? Instead, sticking to why? Guid'Antonio squelched his anger and inquired how Castruccio Senso knew the horse in question had been found and brought to this particular holding, when there were countless public stables around town.

“Uncle Guid'Antonio,” Amerigo cut in, “I told you the gatekeeper recognized the mare and brought her here.”

Guid'Antonio held up his palm: Not now.

A light dawned in the eyes of the stable keep. “Because it's
Castruccio'
s horse,” he exclaimed. “Tesoro. Or rather, 'tis his lady's. She calls the mare her treasure. When the gateman brought Tesoro here, I sent for Castruccio at his house.”

“You recognized the mare because Castruccio Senso typically boards her here,” Guid'Antonio said.

“Yes.” How could they be so harebrained? And they, the supposed leaders of Florence. No wonder the Republic was in such a mess.

“She's a beauty,” the stable keep declared. “Tesoro, I mean. Though the same may be said of the lady, Camilla Rossi da Vinci. A true Madonna herself, and now—” He trembled. “Next, the Turks will fly over our gates with burning wings and devour us with their fangs like the werewolves who prowl our streets at night. Our souls will spend eternity in hell, thanks to the Antichrist who means to destroy our city.”

Guid'Antonio ground his teeth. No need to ask which Antichrist the fellow meant. “The blood: was it fresh?”

“How do you mean?”

“Rather than dried,” Guid'Antonio said softly.

“Yes.”

“How did Castruccio Senso seem when he saw Tesoro today?”

“Seem?” the man said.

“Was he upset, for Christ's sake!” cried Amerigo. “After all, his wife is missing, and this is her horse!”

Palla laughed outright. The stable keep drew back, offended. “What do you think? Castruccio Senso's in a terrible way. He wanted done with the blood, and quickly, too. Though he'll remember the sight well enough, when some hunter stumbles over his wife's corpse, or what the Turks have left of it.” The stable keep crossed himself.

“It seems ‘quickly’ is the operative word here,” Guid'Antonio said, glancing at Palla. “Tesoro's in the back stall?”

“She is. To keep her from harm. And further tampering.” Palla turned to Amerigo. “Fetch the animal, please?”

Within the moment, Amerigo was leading Tesoro toward them. “Look at this beauty,” he breathed.

Guid'Antonio looked and stared. A splendid black mare, Camilla Rossi da Vinci's horse possessed a proud curving neck and a long mane that was thick and curling. The animal's tail, an abundant fall of shining ebony curls, brushed the stable floor. For all the mare's magnificent appearance, her eyes flickered, showing fear.

“I believe she's an Andalusian,” Palla said.

“Absolutely, a Spanish breed.” Excitement quavered in Amerigo's voice. “I've heard of them.” With gentle hands, he quieted the mare's restive movements, running his fingers over her back and withers, then down each leg, inspecting the hooves, and then the teeth. He rubbed the animal's shoulder gently. “Excellent condition. Well fed, and there are few tangles in this extraordinary mass of curling tail and mane.”

Guid'Antonio said, “And yet she's been missing and presumably wandering for almost two weeks.”

Palla's dark gaze went to the stable keep. “Do please tell them your explanation for this.”

The fellow lifted his hands up in a gesture of helpless wonder. “We are awash in miracles.”

Palla cut a smiling glance toward Guid'Antonio. “Remarkable, isn't it, how suddenly He is so prompt with them?”

They stepped into the street. The sun had burned off most of the early morning moisture; the day promised clear blue skies and searing summer heat. “This latest poses more questions than answers,” Guid'Antonio said, striding three abreast with Amerigo and Palla along Borg'Ognissanti.

Palla agreed. “One thing's certain. Turks never would have released such a fine animal. Few people would. Be that as it may,
someone
has been tending Tesoro until very early this morning.”

“How do you explain the blood?”

Palla laughed sourly. “I, like you, know that's the main question, along with Castruccio Senso's role in this. The harness and saddle are in my custody, should you wish to examine them. Sadly, all evidence of blood is gone.”

“How accommodating of you.”

Palla shrugged. “We both work for the same man.”

“I thought Camilla's case was closed. Officially,” Guid'Antonio said.

“It is. I count on you to inform me of any progress you make in your private investigation for Lorenzo. Immediately,” Palla said.

“You know I will. Palla, was Camilla carrying any coins or wearing any jewelry when she disappeared? There's motive enough for some men to waylay her.”

Palla shook his head. “No. Only traveler's checks, according to her cautious husband, none of which have yet come to light.”