The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) (34 page)

“Il Gentile,”
Lorenzo said, grinning. “He's stabled at San Pietro in Grado, at our house west of Pisa. Under wraps till the day before the race. That
Draghetto
of Gostanzo's—” He kissed his fingertips. “There's a formidable horse. I don't mean to lose to him.”

“I'm sure you don't.”

Lorenzo's gaze swept the countryside, the fields, the River Ombrone. “One day I'll have fish ponds, mulberry trees and gardens as far as the eye can see. For now, I like the fact the place is rough and free, like my own nature.”

“You are neither.”

“Nor are you, my friend.”

Guid'Antonio remained alone at the table for a long while, thinking and watching heat lightning play across the sky. Somewhere, a twig snapped. A stag or a doe, perhaps. A hare or a fox. Off in the woods, something screamed and died a slow death. He recognized the sound.

A hare, after all.

The following morning, Saturday, it was Lorenzo's son, Piero, who spotted the horseman first. Their small party had set off from Poggio shortly after dawn and had already traveled several hours. Now they could see the Palazzo della Signoria watchtower soaring toward the sky high above Florence's walls, Giotto's bell tower, and the Cathedral's softly rounded red brick dome. “We'll drop the boys off and go straight to the Bargello. That's where Palla will hold Castruccio till we get there,” Lorenzo was saying when Piero pointed to the rider pounding toward them from the Prato Gate.

“Another courier?” Lorenzo said, his tone dubious.

“No.” Amerigo straightened in the saddle. “What the devil? It's Cesare!”

Guid'Antonio started to question this but in the next instant recognized the lithe figure of his manservant who had, they learned in the next moment, set out for Poggio to tell them that when Palla Palmieri's captain went to Castruccio Senso's house to take him in for questioning earlier this morning, he had found the wine merchant sprawled face down on the floor of his house with his head bashed in.

Camilla Rossi da Vinci's husband lay on his stomach in the
sala
of his house off Piazza Santa Maria del Carmine in the Santo Spirito quarter, his brains spilling onto the carpet in a lake of gore and blood. Guid'Antonio forced his thoughts from another, similar, setting and quickly surveyed his surroundings. Leaves of writing parchment ripped from Castruccio Senso's account ledgers littered the floor. A
forziere
, a strongbox bound with iron straps and fitted with locks, had been pitched against the tiered sideboard, then battered open, and the box emptied of its contents. Pottery lay everywhere in shards.

Near Castruccio's corpse lay a pewter candlestick polished to resemble silver, the upper portion smeared with blood. Castruccio's right hand was outstretched, his fingers twisted in the strings of the rush hanging that had fallen from the portal separating the
sala
and the kitchen.

In his mind's eye, Guid'Antonio saw the dead man scramble toward the back room, grasp the curtain, lowered at the time, and stumble under his pursuer's attack. He saw the candlestick slice Castruccio's head.

Palla Palmieri, on his knees beside the body, rocked back on his heels, glancing up. “This is no robbery gone wrong. There was a battle here and demon anger to boot. You're here quickly.”

“Yes, once I heard the news.”

From the Prato Gate, Lorenzo and Cesare had escorted the three boys home, while Guid'Antonio and Amerigo nudged their horses into a trot across Ponte alla Carraia to the Santo Spirito quarter on Florence's left bank, Guid'Antonio cursing himself for a fool. The trip to Poggio had cost him dearly in more ways than one.

“That fat little man did put up a fight,” Amerigo said. “I've never seen so much blood other than at hog killing season.”

“Aptly put, Amerigo,” Palla said dryly.

Guid'Antonio's gaze flicked to the black boy huddled by the towering sideboard, as distant from the corpse as he could get. Gently, Guid'Antonio approached. “Who's this?” he said, although, of course, he knew. This was Camilla Rossi's slave, about twelve years old, tall for his age, his whip-thin body struggling to catch up with his skinny legs and arms. He had been told the boy was not here, but in Vinci town, along with Camilla Rossi da Vinci's nurse, whoever the woman might be.

The boy's cheeks and brow were bunched up in terror, and his dark skin had a chalky pallor. Amerigo removed a handful of sugared almonds from his scrip and offered them to the child. “What's your name?”

The boy refused the sweets. “Luigi.” He shrank back into the corner, clenching his fist behind his back. “Don't hurt me, please!” he said, and burst into tears.

Amerigo cast a silent plea to Guid'Antonio, who shrugged and nodded for him to proceed. “All right, then, Luigi,” Amerigo said. “I'll place the almonds in your scrip, and you can have them whenever you wish.” He bent down and slipped the sweets into the child's purse.

“
Signore
, don't kill me!” the boy said, weeping. “I've done nothing wrong. I swear!”

Guid'Antonio's heart dropped. “We're not going to hurt you. We're here to help you, child.”
And to question you
, he thought. Luigi, the little slave, had witnessed not one crime now, but two: Camilla Rossi's disappearance and the death of her husband, Castruccio Senso. How coincidental was that? And how lucky could Guid'Antonio get? He almost danced. “Would you like to go out into the sunshine? Yes?” He gave Palla a sideways look.

Luigi's eyes flicked from one to the other of them. Guid'Antonio pictured himself, Amerigo, and Palla through the boy's eyes: a trio of men gazing down at him, one taller than the other two, his black hair threaded with silver, all three dressed in plain brown clothes and boots, while the wiry, sharp-eyed police chief wore a wide leather belt with his dagger in full view.
“Sì, Signore,”
Luigi said meekly.

“We passed some sort of test,” Amerigo commented quietly as they left the murder scene.

“Now let's see if he does.” Every nerve in Guid'Antonio's body was aware of the boy's hand clenched behind his back.

In the courtyard, a cardinal landed on the limb of a lemon tree and flew off again, searching for his mate. “Palla,” Guid'Antonio said beneath the sound of water gurgling in the fountain. “What happened?”

“Just this: when your courier arrived from Poggio this morning, I sent a man straight here to arrest Castruccio. Instead, the fellow returned shaken, saying he had found Castruccio Senso murdered. I came at once.” Palla's eyes creased in the hint of a smile. “Guid'Antonio, are you questioning me?”

“Take it how you will.”

While Amerigo stood near the garden gate, blocking the house from the view of gawkers in the piazza, Palla settled with the boy, Luigi, on the stone bench encircling the fountain. Guid'Antonio, finding a stool with a rush seat, assumed a relaxed pose facing them.

“Luigi,” Palla said, “I spoke with you a couple of weeks ago in Vinci. It concerned your mistress, Camilla Rossi. You remember, yes?”

Fresh tears rolled down Luigi's cheeks. “You're the police.”

“Guilty as charged. Luigi.” The boy would not look at him. “How came you here? I thought you were in Vinci.”

“Ser Jacopo brought me here when he came to Florence,” Luigi said so softly, Guid'Antonio could just make out the words. “He—he had to go to a wine merchant in Orsanmichele, but he came here first.”

Guid'Antonio glanced at Amerigo. That was last week, when they encountered the fiery Jacopo Rossi da Vinci in the crowded marketplace amongst peddlers and money changers. The same Jacopo who had eluded Amerigo when Amerigo gave chase.

“And so last night when your master, Ser Castruccio Senso, was killed, you were here,” Palla said. The boy nodded and seemed about to burst into tears again. “Did you see what happened?” Palla said.

Luigi clutched his toes in the tips of his sandals. “No!”

Palla made a dismissive sound. “Luigi, the house is small. You must have seen something. Where were you?”

“On my pallet in the fireplace.”

Across from Luigi, Guid'Antonio leaned back. “In the fireplace?”

“You heard him,” Palla said.

“You were in the hearth? In the main room of the house?” Guid'Antonio said.

“Sì, Signore.”

“You didn't rise when you heard the ruckus?” Guid'Antonio said, still not sure he understood the boy's meaning.

“No.” Luigi kept his head down.

“Well, of course not, Uncle,” Amerigo inserted from his post at the gate. “He was scared.”

A steady stream of tears had wet the collar of Luigi's tunic, a tunic appropriately short and skimpy, befitting the boy's role as a slave. All Castruccio Senso's pride of ownership was on display: Luigi's shirt was not uncolored cloth, but sewn from a cotton-linen blend dyed a warm white hue to emphasize his dark skin. His hose were relatively inexpensive brown jersey, but fit him well, and so were probably new to accommodate his constant growth.

Guid'Antonio removed his handkerchief from his scrip. “Wipe your eyes.” Luigi accepted the handkerchief with his free hand and did as he was told. “The intruder didn't notice you in the fireplace?” Guid'Antonio said.

Luigi went very still. “Either he did, or he didn't,” Guid'Antonio said, staring at him.

A small snuffling sound escaped Luigi's lips. “Master Senso had filled the opening with the chimney board. Every night he did the same. In the mornings, he let me out.”

Amerigo gasped. “He boarded you up?” Slaves were a commonplace in Florence, as was true throughout Italy. Tartars from the Black Sea, Russians, Greeks, Turks, Moors, and Albanians: all were fair game for purchase, so long as they weren't Christian. Although slaves were meant to work hard, usually as family servants, they generally were not mistreated. “The bastard,” Amerigo said.

“And since you were behind the board you couldn't see anything,” Palla said. “But what did you
hear
, Luigi?”

“They—they yelled at Master Senso.”

“They?”
Guid'Antonio pounced. “There were two of them or more?”

“Yes! Ten or twenty, at least!” Luigi sobbed as if his heart might break.

The boy had survived a terrifying experience, yes, but this? From what Guid'Antonio had seen inside the house, to say a dozen men or more were there last night was preposterous. But why lie about it? It was then he realized they knew nothing of Luigi's character. Luigi could be a liar. He could be a thief. Guid'Antonio caught Palla's eye:
Go easy, or we will learn precious little from him.

“Luigi, Luigi, you're all right now.” Palla placed his arm around the boy, his black eyes fast on Guid'Antonio over the top of Luigi's head.

“Luigi,” Guid'Antonio said, “we need to know as much as possible about last night so we can catch the men who did this and chain them in the Stinche.”

“You'd like to help us do that, wouldn't you?” Palla said.

Luigi's glance slipped away from them, toward the middle distance. “Yes,” he said in an emphatic, clear voice.

“Last night was terrible,” Guid'Antonio said, careful to keep his knees from bumping the boy. “I'm glad you were in the fireplace, nice and safe from those bad men. Sometimes it's best to keep quiet, isn't it?”

“Yes. That's what Margherita said.”

“And Margherita is?” Guid'Antonio asked.

“My lady's nurse.”

“Ah. Where is Margherita now?” Guid'Antonio said, hoping against hope Camilla's nurse was here in Florence.

“Vinci,” Luigi said.

Guid'Antonio glanced at Palla, who chose then to stand and arch his back, easing the soreness in his muscles. “Luigi, do you know what things Castruccio Senso kept in his strongbox?” Palla said.

Luigi eyed Guid'Antonio but answered Palla softly. “Ser Senso hid some florins there. And my lady's jewelry. He didn't know I saw him do it,” he said, smirking.

Jewelry. The jewelry Camilla did not take on her trip, was not allowed to take in all probability. And now stolen by Castruccio Senso's killers. “Luigi, did Castruccio keep a private journal?” Guid'Antonio said, tilting his head, hoping.

“They stole it,” Luigi said.

“How do you know that?”

“It was in the strongbox. It's gone now.”

Guid'Antonio gritted his teeth. Where was Lady Fortune when he needed her? Castruccio Senso's journal might have gone a long way in revealing the fate of Castruccio's lost wife. But Lady Fortune helped those who helped themselves. And Luigi had become very quiet again.

“Here come the
beccamorti.
” Amerigo thumbed toward the sound of creaking wagon wheels. The grave diggers would wash, shave, and anoint Castruccio's body and also report his name, parish, and quarter to the doctors' and spicers' guild. Unless his family spoke up for him, he would be buried with little or no pomp, given the umbrella of excommunication the Pope held over the city.
Give me that rascal, Lorenzo de' Medici.

“Luigi, I'd like to see the item you're holding in your hand,” Guid'Antonio said.

The boy hunched his shoulders. “What item?” Palla said.

Guid'Antonio held out his palm. “It's important, Luigi. If you found something in the
sala
this morning, it could help your lady.”

There's a cheap shot, Palla's expression said. Well done.

“You have no choice, Luigi,” Guid'Antonio said.

The boy wilted, and Guid'Antonio took a small swatch of white cotton fabric from his shaking hand. “It's her
guardacuore
,” Luigi said.

“Her nightgown?” Amerigo said, incredulous.

“A piece of it, yes.”

“Wherever did you get this? It has blood on it.” Palla's friendliness had evaporated. Now, he was alert as a cat and ready to pounce.

Luigi glanced from the courtyard to the door leading back into the household. “I found it on the floor when your sergeant fetched me from the fireplace and then ran to fetch you,” he said, looking away from Palmieri. “I borrowed it. Please don't chop off my hand!” He cried again, aching tears from a bottomless well.

“Luigi. Swear on the Bible, no one is going to do anything bad to you.” Guid'Antonio handed Palla the small white cotton scrap. On it were embroidered the initials CR. And, yes, the cloth was damp with blood; Castruccio Senso's, Guid'Antonio guessed, though there could be no way of knowing with certainty. It could be the blood of a cat. Or a dog.