wanted to keep his involvement off the table, his success or failure would be decided here.
Long Beard harrumphed. “We are questioning the witness Zeno about the assault on him earlier in the day. That case is not closed, but we have only his word-his admitted speculation-that there is any connection. On your oath, witness, do you know for a fact that there is a connection?”
“No, messer, er messere.”
“Well, then,” said Portly. “And the man was not summoned as a witness, he came here to volunteer some information. Why don’t we hear what he wants to tell us?”
Morosini shrugged and gestured to Sciara to lay down his pen. “We give you three minutes, sier Alfeo.”
Relieved, but aware that my reprieve might be only temporary, I said, “Doctor Nostradamus instructed me to inform Your Excellencies that the late Procurator Orseolo died as a result of poison administered to him the previous evening at the house of Citizen Imer. My master-”
All three chiefs tried to speak at once.
Portly had the loudest outrage: “Administered by whom?”
“He dare not say yet, messere. I swear,” I continued quickly, “that he has not confided even to me the name of the person he suspects.” The torture chamber was still open for business, one floor up.
“Why doesn’t the old fool write us a letter?” Morosini shouted. “That’s how these things are done.”
“Because he cannot yet offer absolute proof, clarissimo. He is convinced, though, that if the persons who were present at the book viewing that night were to be reassembled in that same room-including himself, of course-then he would be able to reconstruct the murder, showing how it was done and who did it.”
My suggestion was as welcome as a risotto of pig manure.
“Bertucci died of old age,” Long Beard muttered. “We agreed we had no reason to believe anything else.”
“Let him rest in peace,” Morosini agreed.
Contradicting the chiefs of the Ten requires extreme tact or total insanity, and better both. I bowed. “Without questioning Your Excellencies’ wisdom or knowledge in any way, my master humbly submits that he has additional evidence that he can bring to Your Excellencies’ attention, but it will require the demonstration I described.”
“He must tell us the name of the person he intends to accuse.”
“He insists he has reasons for his secrecy, which will become obvious at the time.”
I had reasons for the nest of eels squirming in my belly, and most of them were memories of that torture chamber.
These men might or might not know that the doge had gate-crashed the book viewing, but they must know that one of the men present that evening had been the new ambassador-designate to the Holy See. To have Giovanni Tirali mixed up in a murder case at this time would be as embarrassing as involving the doge himself. The chiefs wanted the file closed. They wanted to bury it in the bowels of the state archives. They did not want a celebrated sage throwing wild and embarrassing accusations around.
Morosini banged a fist on the table. “Nostradamus expects just us to attend his harlequinade or is he inviting the whole Council of Ten? How much will he charge for admission?”
“He hopes only that Your Excellencies will permit the demonstration and send some trusted observer.”
The three chiefs bent heads to confer. If their expressions were any guide, they were going to send Missier Grande to fetch the Maestro by fast boat and order me flogged for insolence to amuse them while they were waiting.
“The old charlatan is hinting that he doesn’t trust us!” muttered Portly.
Of course he was.
“I have never heard such audacity,” grumbled Long Beard.
Very softly, Raffaino Sciara cleared his throat.
Portly had the best hearing. “ Lustrissimo?”
“I believe there have been precedents, Your Excellencies. A similar case… Missier Grande, do you recall the details?”
Members of the Council of Ten are elected for one-year terms, although they become eligible for reelection after another year. Circospetto and Missier Grande know everything because they are appointed for life.
“Maestro Nostradamus has helped the Council on several occasions,” the police chief said. “I can recall a couple of times when he made dramatic demonstrations.”
Sciara nodded. “That case of the dead gondolier on the roof? Bizarre!”
“Incredible!”
The chiefs pursed lips angrily. Long Beard said, “What case of what dead gondolier on what roof?”
“The man had seemingly been beaten to death and his body left on a roof, which it was quite impossible for him to have reached without witchcraft.”
“And Nostradamus explained it?”
Sciara shrugged. “With a pendulum, Your Excellency-a long rope attached to the nearby bell tower. There had been a drunken bet. The sage has never been proved wrong yet, but of course the man is old.”
Morosini scowled. No one likes to hear hints that his doctor is senile. “If anyone did poison old Bertucci,” he conceded, “then he ought to wear the silken collar.”
The other two muttered agreement. I could see beads clicking on their mental abacuses-the Ten make their reports to the Grand Council, and a truly dramatic conviction would bring great credit to the current chiefs and boost their political prospects.
“You said there were other precedents, lustrissimo?”
Sciara smiled his death’s-head smile. “Nostradamus has made some startling demonstrations in the presence of state witnesses. I doubt if the learned doctor expects the entire Council of Ten to turn up.”
The chiefs exchanged glances and near-imperceptible nods.
“I see no reason,” Morosini proclaimed, “for us to forbid the sort of charade the Maestro is suggesting, as long as we make clear that it is a private function. How many people would have to be rounded up?” He directed his faded eyes and scarlet wattles at me.
“About a dozen, Your Excellency. Five or six houses would have to be notified. One man and a boatman could deliver the warrants in a couple of hours.”
“Why about a dozen?” asked Portly. “Can’t you count?”
I glanced at Circospetto. Sciara had a sudden need to scratch his right ear, which in turn required him to shake his head, ever so slightly. I took that to mean that I was not to invite the doge.
“My master would like to have the servant Pulaki Guarana attend the demonstration, and also a certain Domenico Chiari. We do not know their present whereabouts. Perhaps the Council does?”
The chairman said, “Even we can’t know everything, lad. You want warrants? I s’pose…Can we order the Imer man to allow this invasion of his home, Avogadoro?”
The prosecutor smiled thinly. “The learned attorney is certainly aware that it is every citizen’s duty to assist the Council of Ten in its inquiries. As long as compliance is voluntary, verbal invitations would be adequate.”
And non-compliance would be prima facie evidence of guilt of course. The chairman glanced at his companions and both nodded. Sciara took up his pen again.
“Let it be recorded,” Morosini declaimed, “that the chiefs raised no objection to the petitioner organizing a private party to reenact the events at the Imer residence…within the existing laws governing assemblies. The petitioner was so advised, and…”-more glances and nods-“…and Missier Grande was instructed to ensure that the proposed gathering be conducted in an orderly fashion.”
I bowed, backed away three steps, and bowed again.
Bruno bowed also. Missier Grande strode across to open the door and see us out to the anteroom. One of the fanti closed the door behind us.
“Find the vizio, ” Missier Grande told him. “Quickly. I’ll watch this door.” Both men vanished out the door to the staircase. He turned back to me with an eye colder than the peaks of the Dolomites. “That man you scared to death yesterday-we had been keeping him under observation for months. The Ten nearly skinned me, because of your meddling.”
For once I could think of nothing to say, so I said nothing.
“Does Attorney Imer know you want to stage a masque in his house?”
