Lucifer's Shadow

63 Report from the watch

From the journal of Captain Giuseppe Cornaro of the Dorsoduro night troop, September 17th, 1733.

The villain Lorenzo Scacchi is dead. I lugged his cursed carcass to the block myself and watched in satisfaction as the Doge’s executioner despatched him to the region where he belongs. In all my years of guarding the Republic from foul devils, I have never, I believe, come across a young rogue such as this. His cunning was matched only by his capacity for cruel violence and, oh! such damage has he done. Thanks to this vicious criminal, the city has lost much: a publisher, his uncle, no less, and owner of a much-reputed name. Then, in his last hours upon this earth, the life of one who sought nothing more than to enrich the Republic with his talents and generosity. The good and meek are snatched into God’s bosom by the vile and low. I am no priest, so I do not pretend to know why such filthy deeds occur. We must, on the Dorsoduro watch, merely observe their enactment and then attempt to remedy the consequences as best we might.

The facts of the uncle’s murder are well-known. Those surrounding the death of the English gentleman Oliver Delapole appear to be the subject of much rumour in the city, a good deal apparently started by Scacchi himself, since documents in his abode show his handwriting closely resembles that on several of the anonymous notes which have come into our possession. I set down now what we, as the legal authorities, know and in so doing assure those who read this report that there is no more of material value to be gleaned from further investigation. A base criminal is dead. The sad aftermath of his actions lives on. We must waste no more of the state’s time and money adding to an executed felon’s list of charges.

So that justice be done to the dead Delapole (and the vociferous English consul assuaged) let me state here and now that we find no evidence, save our villain’s mischievous lies, of any wrongdoing on his part. There were debts, it is true, but then what gentleman does not from time to time rely a little upon the bank? There was the contested matter of his authorship of this mysterious concerto. I am no artist myself, sirs, merely a hunter of the facts. In this case I would ask a single question: if Delapole did not write this work, as he claimed, then who did? For none other has come forward to place his name by the frontispiece, not even an obvious fraudster. This nonsense about there being a curse upon the piece, I dismiss instantly. If the composer lived — and surely could re-create the work from his own head — why would he remain silent? Even if he never wrote another note in his life, he would be assured fame and fortune for this single e fort alone. No, Delapole was the composer, surely, and the gossip spread about by his murderer was merely some ruse by which to ruin him. Thus it seems an even greater tragedy that every last piece of paper relating to this concerto appears to have been destroyed by the scoundrel himself after he bludgeoned its author to death.

The dead Roman I dismiss entirely as a lunatic. I have interviewed those who spoke to him when he first arrived, babbling about Delapole’s past and making wild and wholly unsubstantiated accusations. The man was unbalanced. That he knew Scacchi cannot be in doubt. I have evidence that the young rogue stayed with him in Rome and perhaps there unhinged his mind so e fectively that the old fellow followed him to Venice and attempted to make mischief. Marchese’s arrival threatened to foul Scacchi’s game and the result we know well. I have an army of witnesses who saw him standing over the old man’s body with the bloody knife that killed him still dripping in his hand. What more must one require?

Some reason for all this, you shall say, and with justification. The dark depths of Scacchi’s deeds are well documented, yet we continue to lack an explanation for them. The answer must lie in a woman, of course. There was one. After we called on Delapole to discuss the matter of Marchese’s accusations and found his shattered corpse instead, I went to speak to those who had been in his household. A female, young and beautiful, had been there for several days and was known to Scacchi too. She is gone. Perhaps her corpse lies at the floor of the lagoon, despatched there by this jealous villain. There is no way of knowing, and I venture that it matters little. We understand the nature of the deeds and the identity of their perpetrator. He has met his much-deserved fate. All else is idle chatter, and as guardian of the Republic’s citizens, I have no time for that. The beast is dead, and for once I shall not pray for a departed soul. I saw his handiwork. It was hard to believe that the pile of flesh and tattered rags upon the floor in that fine mansion had once walked and talked — and written fine music. Even that it had ever been a man at all.

As to the manner of Scacchi’s apprehension, I shall offer a brief description. As I noted, I was sent, with no urgency, to talk to the Englishman on several matters and found, on my arrival, the dreadful tragedy I have described. Close by the house, in an alley near the rio, my guards discovered one who had, it seemed, apprehended the villain as he sought to flee. During the scrap that ensued, young Scacchi — whom the fellow recognised, having seen him in the neighbourhood before — was sorely wounded in the chest and face, the latter so badly that he could speak not a single comprehensible word. Not that it was needed. We could see, with our own eyes, the extent of his criminal deeds and would have held him anyway, without the warrant over his uncle’s brutal slaying.

There was, I scarcely need add, no need for the expense of a full trial. That excellent magistrate Cortelazzo hurried from a dinner party to listen to our case while Scacchi slumped, half-dead, on a chair in the dock, with his apprehender beside him. A sterling fellow this chap was too. Had he waited afterwards, I would have commended him for some gift from the city funds. He was, it seems, a physician on his rounds when he encountered Scacchi, panic-stricken and bloody, who demanded money and immediately set about him. For once the villain met his match. The fellow’s profession proved fortuitous, for I wonder if the scoundrel would have survived long enough to be dragged to the block without his tending. But like many a Venetian, when it comes to a crisis, he answers the call and asks no reward. After I saw Scacchi despatched by the axe, I turned and he was gone. I have his name, however — Guillaume — and an address in Cannaregio. One day when times are quieter, I will visit him and say a word of thanks. It is from such folk — good Christians all — that Venice is made.

I shall, accordingly, conclude. The world is rid of another villain, though not without the loss of two good and talented men at his bloody hands. That old serpent visited us and found us ready. There is no cause for rejoicing, but I do believe we may allow ourselves a little satisfaction. On a single point I will, however, offer criticism. We would have apprehended Scacchi much more rapidly had we been better informed. The descriptions of him on the city posters — and I know not where they come from — speak of an average lad of average build and comely appearance. Perhaps he wrote them himself, for in real life, bloodied and injured as he was, it was clear to see that Lorenzo Scacchi was the ugliest individual it has ever been my privilege to despatch to Hades. Even without a knife split down it, his face would have been hideous. Furthermore, on his back stood the distinct makings of a hump such as one might find on a cripple or a leper. Had young Guillaume not confirmed his identity for us, I fear he would have escaped, for all our e forts.

Perhaps sweet Jesus smiled on us that moment and, through that good doctor, shone a beam that penetrated this beast’s disguise. In future I should prefer a few hard facts to save our Lord the trouble.