The Alchemist's Code

17

W hen Luigi saw the body, he rushed upstairs as fast as he could totter, and thundered on the door of Angelo Marciana’s mezzanine apartment. More than just a fiendishly cunning bookkeeper, Angelo is a man of steady nerve and many sons. He told Nino, Renzo, and Ciro to follow him and the women to stay home with the children, then ran down to see for himself. At once he ordered Nino to fetch Doctor Nostradamus, Renzo to inform Father Farsetti, and Ciro to stand vigil over the body and make sure nobody looted it. Renzo probably ran right underneath me as I clung like moss to the side of the building. Meanwhile Luigi had informed the Jacopo Marcianas also, so several of them arrived. By the time the vizio appeared and saw that he had serious work to do, the loggia must have been as crowded as the Piazza in Carnival. He ordered whoever was the best boatman to go and fetch Missier Grande -no nonsense about informing the local sbirri when the Council of Ten was already involved, although I am sure he did not say that. He also ordered everyone else back upstairs, but by then whatever marks I had left on the floor had been scuffed out of existence.

Father Farsetti would have been in San Remo’s at that time on a Saturday. He is a young man and not too puffed up with ecclesiastic dignity to run in an emergency, but he found Danese well past the need for last rites. Giorgio arrived, accompanied by the twins-they being uninvited but irresistibly eager to view a real corpse-followed closely by the Maestro on Bruno’s back. He at once dispatched all three Angelis to the Ghetto Nuovo to fetch Isaia Modestus, whom he freely acknowledges to be the second-best doctor in the Republic.

The body could not be left where it lay and the Maestro wanted to inspect it, so Father Farsetti agreed that it should be moved upstairs and that was arranged. The vizio extracted the rapier and took charge of it. I can barely imagine the intensity of his joy when he read the inscription and saw whose it was. No doubt he fantasized juicy visions of watching my beheading between the columns on the Piazzetta.

Pessimists, on the other hand, are rarely disappointed.

A very few minutes later, when Vasco confronted me with it in the atelier, Father Farsetti shot me a horrified look. He is well aware of my full name. As my confessor he certainly knows of Violetta Vitale.

My head was spinning, but I believe I concealed my bewilderment fairly well. “I must have a talk with you soon, Father,” I said cheerfully, “but the problem is no more urgent than usual.” He nodded, looking relieved.

Vasco smiled happily. “You acknowledge that this is your rapier, messer?”

“It was until it was stolen,” I said, “and I know who took it.”

He scoffed.

“If not you,” I said, “then who? You were on watch in the salone all night, weren’t you?”

“What is this?” the Maestro screeched in the doorway. “Carnival? The Giudecca Festival? The marangona has rung, has it not? Out of here, all of you!” He hates strangers in his atelier. About a dozen Marcianas shamefacedly withdrew, leaving four of us and the corpse.

Vasco was still tying my bonds, as he thought. “You were in bed and asleep from the time we met last night until the alarm was raised this morning, is that correct?” he said.

My wiggle room there was thinner than a razor, as we had all removed our hats out of respect for the dead and my hair was still damp. “I do not have to answer your questions, citizen.”

His smile spread over his face like a cancer. “But you will answer the inquisitors when they put those same questions, clarissimo.”

“This is an unseemly conversation in the presence of mortality,” Father Farsetti said heavily. “Filippo, do you really believe you can learn something that may help the authorities catch the murderer?

The Maestro came forward, thumping his staff. “If you will evict these two yapping puppies, Father…Thank you.” He moved into the space Vasco had vacated and handed me his staff. “Bring my instruments.”

He poked and prodded while I fetched his medical bag. The best way to determine time of death is to estimate internal temperature, but Farsetti might not permit that indignity to a corpse, and he would certainly forbid any sort of dissection. The Maestro thrust two fingers into the corpse’s mouth, but did not suggest any worse intrusion. I gave him one of the scalpels I keep razor sharp for him and he slit open the blood-encrusted doublet to examine the exit wound. The dying man had lost so much blood that his clothes were stiff with it, yet still tacky near his skin.

The Maestro demanded that the corpse be turned over, so Vasco and I obliged. Face down, it seemed even more widely contorted, and I held one of its ankles lest it roll off the couch. The Maestro examined the entry wound, which was surrounded by a circle of subcutaneous hemorrhage where the hilt had impacted or pressed against the flesh, but the deceased had bled much less on that side. The blood on his leg had come from a stab wound in his calf, which confirmed my vision in the fire. There was a separate patch of blood on the back of his ruff, which was badly crushed, and his right wrist showed faint subcutaneous bleeding, too recent to date from my blow on it a week ago.

“Well, apprentice?” Nostradamus said. “What do you conclude?”

“He was stabbed in the back, master.”

Vasco crowed, as if I had just initialed my own death warrant. “How do you know that, since you weren’t downstairs to see?”

An easy one. “You told me so a moment ago, but the condition of the corpse proves it.” I returned my attention to my master. “The stroke missed his heart and likely penetrated the aorta, accounting for the massive hemorrhage in the dorsal area. A heart wound would not have bled so much. He died of exsanguination and asphyxiation. I mean he bled to death, but he may have suffocated first, as his thoracic cavity filled with blood. The punctures are so tiny it would not be possible to remove the sword and replace it from the opposite direction without leaving evidence. I estimate that he died about nine o’clock last night, but you can undoubtedly judge that more closely than I can, master.”

I thought that I had done quite well so far. There was another conclusion to be drawn, a very obvious one, except that I was not supposed to know about the absence of significant bloodstains in the loggia. Since nobody had yet mentioned that, I yielded to temptation and dangled a lure to see who would bite.

“He must have known his assailant,” I said, “and trusted him enough to turn his back on him, because no man will stand still to be impaled when he can leap into a canal. Dolfin was never much of a swimmer as a child, but the Rio San Remo is barely deep enough to drown in, even at high tide.” No one commented and I pushed on. “So he was standing in the loggia, looking outward-perhaps hoping a gondola would come by, although the hour must have been late. His companion was farther back, possibly on the pretext of seeking better shelter from the rain. Or possibly he came from the door.”

Vasco’s eyes gleamed, and I realized that I had given myself away in earnest this time.

“Or else,” I continued, “Danese was waiting for Luigi to open the door for him, and the murderer came from the watersteps, perhaps disembarking from the very same boat. When Dolfin was struck, he fell back on the hilt of the sword, driving the blade in as far as it could go. It would have snapped if he had fallen forward on it. Which way was he facing?”

For a moment no one spoke, although the Maestro’s lips were pursed hard enough to hurt.

Then Father Farsetti said, “His head was almost in the corner of the house wall, which means he had been facing outward.” The priest is the finest player of simultaneous mental chess I have ever met-I have watched him play six games at once-so either visualizing violent crime was not another of his skills, or he was playing along with me just as the Maestro was.

A clatter of feet announced the arrival of Corrado and Christoforo, jostling their way through the door, competing to be first with the news and shouting over each other: “Dr. Modestus says-” “The Jew says he-” “-he is sorry but he-” “-will visit a sick person-” “-cannot come to view a corpse-” “-but not come-” “-on the Sabbath.” “-to see a dead one.”

“Damnatio!” the Maestro snapped. “Very well, then! Away with you! That is unfortunate,” he confided to the priest. “I would value his opinion on the time of death, for Their Excellencies will certainly want to know that.” He was more annoyed at himself for having forgotten that today was Saturday.

The boys slunk out, angry at not being paid.

“I arrived here about ten o’clock,” Vasco announced confidently. “It took me much hammering to fetch that oaf of a doorman, and some minutes to argue my way in. There was certainly no carcase cluttering up the loggia then.”

“You are sure of the time?” the Maestro demanded, cutting off Father Farsetti’s protest about disrespect for the dead.

“Reasonably. It was about an hour after the curfew rang. The doorman says he locked up at curfew. For what the old fool’s testimony is worth, this morning he agrees that my knock came about then.”

“Luigi does not always interpret curfew the way the sun does,” I said, “is it possible that sier Danese was killed later than ten o’clock, master?”

He frowned, but did not look at me. “I estimate time of death as being within an hour of curfew, either before or after.”

My sword had killed Danese, so only a total blockhead would not see that I was in very grave trouble. But Vasco himself was now testifying that I had been in Ca’ Barbolano until after ten, so the earlier Danese had died, the less my peril. Ironically, Vasco had not yet seen this.

“I assure you,” he said, “that I did not overlook a corpse at my feet while I was waiting for that wreck of a doorman.”

“I did not say you did, Vizio. Turn him over again, please.” The Maestro slit Danese’s doublet and shirt and pulled free the bloodstained cloth. “Water and a cloth, please Alfeo.”

I assumed he wanted to look for postmortem bruising, evidence of the way blood had settled after death.

As I turned toward the doorway, it was suddenly occupied. The big man in the red and blue robe was Gasparo Quazza, Missier Grande. Behind him came a nobleman in black robes and then Sergeant Torre, chief of our local sbirri. Out in the salone were several more constables and a very worried Giorgio. Without a word, Missier Grande nodded to the priest and Nostradamus, made the sign of the cross in respect to the corpse, and then turned to his vizio.

“The deceased,” Vasco said, “is nobile homo Danese Dolfin, recently married to Grazia Sanudo, daughter of the ducal counselor, Zuanbattista Sanudo. His body was found in the loggia this morning by the night watchman when he opened the watergate at sunrise. It was not there when I arrived here, as per instructions, at approximately ten o’clock last night, although Doctor Nostradamus judges that the time of death was between eight and ten. I assume the murder was committed just after I arrived, but I have not yet asked the watchman if there were any other callers. The weapon was this rapier, which had been thrust through the deceased from behind and has been identified by Alfeo Zeno as being his.”

Missier Grande looked to me for confirmation. So far not a single muscle in his face had moved.

“It is my rapier,” I said. “I wore it to the palace last night, and the fante who took charge of it will confirm that he returned it to me. When we came home, about seven o’clock, I put it back in its place on top of my wardrobe, out of reach of children. I did not touch it after that. It was stolen.”

“By whom?”

“Filiberto Vasco.”

Vasco chuckled. Nobody else did.

Quazza studied me in silence for a few moments. I studied him right back. Soon after I was apprenticed to the Maestro, Quazza’s daughter was abducted, literally snatched out of her nurse’s arms. The Maestro foresaw her and I recovered her, much as I recovered Grazia Sanudo, except that on that earlier escapade, in excess of juvenile rashness, I veered much closer to collecting my eternal reward. Quazza owes me a debt, therefore, but that will never divert him from doing his duty.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because he was the only other person I know of to enter my bedchamber during the night.”

The deadly gaze returned to Vasco.

Vasco, regrettably, maintained his confident smirk. “I was keeping watch for intruders in the salone, as instructed. When the storm struck, the casement in Zeno’s room began to bang. After a few serious crashes, I decided he was either dead or absent. To prevent damage to the building, I made my way in and-”

“You picked the lock,” I said.

“-obtained entrance and latched the casement. The bed had not been slept in. I did not look underneath it, nor in the wardrobe. Nor on top of it. I went out and closed the door behind me. I did not see his sword and did not take it.”

My bruised and abraded shin was hurting. The other was undamaged, but in fact I did not have a single leg to stand on. If I denied leaving Ca’ Barbolano during the night, I would easily be proved a liar by the evidence of the broken glass, removable window bars, and wet clothing. Calling Violetta as a witness would merely make everything worse, because the distinction between an “honest” courtesan and a common harlot is easily blurred. The court would assume I was her bravo protector, that Danese had hurt her or failed to pay her, and I had run him through. Off with my head.

“You deny this story?” Missier Grande inquired.

“I cannot answer your questions, lustrissimo.” I did not have to, for Missier Grande is not an inquisitor; he carries out the orders of the Ten.

“But you will answer mine.” The patrician stepped forward. Andrea Zancani was serving a term as one of the Lords of the Night Watch, the Signori di Notte, and thus was Sergeant Torre’s current boss. That is a starter position for the nobility, and I would have put him around the tender age of thirty. He is a resident of San Remo, so I often see him in church.

I bowed to him. “Alas, clarissimo, I was about to explain that this is a matter of state, in which I can answer only to the noble Council of Ten.”

Vasco did not make a sound, but was obviously enjoying himself hugely.

Zancani pouted and turned to Missier Grande. “You are taking this man into custody, lustrissimo?”

“I have no instructions regarding sier Alfeo,” Quazza said. “I should point out, though, that he is in fact of noble birth, sier Alfeo Zeno. Consequently he can only be tried by the Council of Ten itself.”

Zancani pulled a face. “He doesn’t look it. But let us make sure we know where he is when Their Excellencies want him. Sergeant, arrest sier Alfeo.”

“Bah! That is absurd!” the Maestro said. “Missier Grande, you know what work I am engaged in, or at least for whom I am working. You know why your vizio was sent here last night-to protect Alfeo. Now you will let him be dragged off to share a lockup with drunks and thugs? Who defends him there?”

Missier Grande looked thoughtfully at Vasco, who flinched. Yes, truly, his happiness was quite cast down. If he were sent to the local dungeon with me in order to continue guarding me, he would be in considerable danger from the other inhabitants.

“I should welcome his company,” I said, “but Sergeant Torre may resent the damage to the reputation of his establishment.”

“I shall put Zeno under house arrest,” Missier Grande said, “and leave-”

“Absurd!” the Maestro repeated furiously. “Enough of this nonsense.” He grabbed his staff from me and elbowed me aside. “Come and sit down, clarissimo, and you also, Father. Alfeo, bring a chair for Missier Grande, and you, Sergeant, kindly send one of your men to fetch Giorgio, my gondolier.”

The invitation to be seated obviously excluded Vasco and Torre, so I brought one more chair to the fireplace and then stationed myself behind the Maestro. Zancani, Quazza, and the priest sat opposite us, seeming wary, inscrutable, and mildly amused respectively.

“Now, Alfeo,” the Maestro said without trying to look around at me. “Why were you talking such rubbish just now?”

“Rubbish, master?” Mainly I had been trying to muddy the waters and pin Vasco down so he could not change his evidence to suit the case he wanted to make.

“You know what I mean! What did you really learn from looking at the body?”

“I may have been a little hasty in jumping to conclusions,” I admitted. “Now I realize that I see no gory footsteps on our floor here, so the watergate loggia is not drenched in a mixture of rain and blood, as it would be if Danese bled to death there. So he could not have been murdered downstairs. He died somewhere else and was brought here later. In fact, he was almost certainly dead before the vizio claims he arrived at Ca’ Barbolano.”

“With your rapier in him?” Vasco demanded.

“That is a curious detail, isn’t it?” In fact that detail was almost driving me crazy. Fortunately I do know something about ghouls, so I could blame Algol, even if I had no hope of convincing a court. “Dolfin died facedown, but he could not have been run through from behind and fallen forward, as one would expect of a man stabbed in the upper back. Does the point of that sword show damage, Filiberto?”

Vasco looked and said, “It’s blunted,” with a poor grace.

“A good lunge with a rapier will go right through a skull,” I continued. “A lung would offer almost no resistance, nor would a rib, and yet the sword did not break, so Danese did not fall with it sticking out of his chest. Yet it must have protruded from his breast because that was where his ruptured aorta hemorrhaged most. The wound in his right leg also came from behind, and we must explain the separate bloodstains on the back of his neck, where the ruff has been crushed. There is no mud on his dorsal side, as there is on the ventral.”

“And your conclusion?” the Maestro asked impatiently.

My conclusion was what I had seen in the fire and had described to him at the time. “Danese was in a fight, master. The murderer wrestled his sword away from him and stabbed him with it.”

“You base that assumption on the fact that his right thumb is broken?”

I had missed that. “Of course, and his wrist shows damage also. These things may have happened when he fell, but more likely when the killer wrenched the sword out of his grip. The leg wound must have come next, when he was trying to run away. He would have fallen. Having disabled him, his assailant then callously stabbed him in the back as he was trying to rise. Danese probably still tried to get up, and the murderer put a bloody shoe on the back of his neck to hold him down while he bled to death.”

Even Missier Grande winced at that image. Father Farsetti covered his face with his hands. My sympathy was quite genuine. It had been a fairly quick death, but not a pleasant one, if there can ever be such a thing.

“After he died,” I said, “the rapier was pushed all the way through him, perhaps just to make him easier to move. The killer brought him here. Thanks to the vizio ’s acute observation we know now that the point did hit something hard, so we must look for a place with hard footing-brick or stone-and extensive bloodstains.”

“Thank you,” the Maestro said. “Now you are making sense.” He looked around to where our gondolier was waiting. “Ah, Giorgio. Last night, what time was it when Alfeo told you that he and I were not to be disturbed?”

Giorgio looked thunderous at having been fetched by a sbirro -such a thing never happened to respectable citizens-but he took a moment to think, “It must have been a little after eight o’clock, Doctor. We were putting the children to bed.”

“And what happened then?”

“ Sier Danese Dolfin came and asked to see sier Alfeo.”

For a moment we were all silent, as we digested this information. Vasco scowled.

The Maestro nodded, as if he had expected something like that. “When?”

“About half past eight, roughly.”

“Go on.”

“I explained that you and he were not to be disturbed. He said the matter was urgent and he would wait.”

“How did he seem?”

“He seemed distressed, Doctor, agitated.” Giorgio himself was starting to look distressed, and also apologetic. “He did not say why he was worried, or what he wanted. But he was very jumpy. He had stayed here as-”

“As a guest, yes. So you let him wait in the salone unattended?”

Giorgio nodded glumly. “I was helping Mama…I heard the front door close. He had gone. I ran to the stair and saw him going down. I did watch him leave the building.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” the Maestro persisted.

Giorgio shook his head. “Mostly just his shadow, lustrissimo.”

There are times when one has to throw in one’s cards and hope that the next deal will work better. “I apologize, Vizio. You were not the only one who could have stolen my sword last night.”

The Maestro was ahead of me, of course. “Where is it?” he asked.

Danese had come to reclaim his own sword, which I had forgotten to return to him with his portmanteau. Either he had snooped around Ca’ Barbolano at some time during his stay here or-more likely-he had taken the risk of searching my room for it while Giorgio was bedding his brood. The top of a wardrobe is not an unlikely place to keep weapons when there are small children around. He had found mine and taken it. Had he also taken the matching dagger? Probably not, because he had been disarmed in a hand-to-hand tussle; with a dagger he could have stabbed his opponent when they closed. Men who sport swords should know how to use them, and he had not. In a real fight, as opposed to a formal duel, a rapier needs a parrying partner, either a dagger or another rapier.

A sbirro moved out of my way. I walked around our seated audience and headed to the medicine supply cupboard, taking my time while I worked out the least incriminating way of explaining why we had what I was about to produce. To confess that I had crossed swords with Danese on the Riva del Vin less than a week ago would not clear me of suspicion-far from it.

Danese’s rapier had no fancy inscription on the guard, just his initials. I handed it to Signore di Notte Zancani.

“Yesterday my master instructed me to pack the clothes Dolfin had left here and deliver them to him at Ca’ Sanudo. In doing so, I forgot to include his sword.”

That was entirely true, but as an explanation it was lame, practically paraplegic. How had the aforementioned sword found its way into the medicine cupboard? NH Zancani’s eyes narrowed like air slits in a dungeon. He got as far as, “And just how did-” when we were interrupted and the case was removed from his jurisdiction.