Sanudo sighed. “Very well. If I must carry the camel, I will not count the fleas.”
20
D own at the watergate, Ottone Gritti was still very much in charge. He bid farewell to the Sanudos, promising to follow them shortly. Had he written it in fire, the message could have been no plainer: If you murdered Dolfin, fly for your lives. A less-exalted family would not have been given such a chance, but some senior patricians guilty of major crimes have been allowed to go into voluntary exile and return when the fuss has died down, after having negotiated a massive fine. There were extenuating circumstances when the victim had been a gigolo and legally a rapist. There was a second message, too. Treason was much worse than murder, and Gritti would not extend such mercy to suspected traitors. He must be very sure that the Sanudos were not involved in espionage. What did he know that I did not?
After we had bowed the Sanudos away along the canal, he turned to me.
“ Sier Alfeo, I should have asked the good doctor this, but he has obviously trained you well, so give me your expert opinion. You mentioned internal bleeding. How much external bleeding occurred, would you estimate?”
For a man in his position to flatter a youngster like me in this way was so out of character it was almost farce. It alarmed me greatly.
“I am no expert, Your Excellency! I am certainly not a doctor. Your own opinion on such matters would be worth far more than mine would. But since you honor me by asking, I note that the corpse’s garments were drenched with blood, so whatever surface he was lying on must have been stained at the very least. The mud on the rest of his clothing indicates that he died outdoors, so the storm may have washed away the evidence by now.”
He nodded gravely, as if my words were a promulgation from the University of Padua. “That is a danger, certainly, but the matter is important.” He turned to one of his fanti, the same Marco Martini who had summoned the Maestro two days before. The other, a taller man of about the same middle years, I later learned was Amedeo Bolognetti.
“Marco,” Gritti said, “I want you to scout the parish. Search the calli and campi for bloodstains. The dead man bled to death a few hours before the rain started. Amedeo, deliver this letter to the Signoria and then find out from the chiefs if any bloodstains have been reported in the city. Report to me at Ca’ Donato Maddalena.”
They boarded the government gondola and their boatmen pushed off, letting Marco disembark at the end of the calle. That left Gritti, Vasco, a surprised-looking Giorgio, and me.
The old man smiled fondly. “You will not mind company when you call on madonna Corner?”
Of course I bowed acquiescence. “Your support is welcome and an honor, Excellency. Campo San Barnaba, please,” I told Giorgio.
Gritti boarded and placed himself in the felze. When I tried to join him he waved me forward. “You sit there. The vizio is too conspicuous.”
That left me out in the drizzle, of course, facing Gritti and a smug Vasco under the felze, but in truth the rain was a relief after the long months of heat. Soon we were gliding along, as Giorgio’s oar stroked the rain-dappled waters. On either hand the centuries flowed by-a fourteenth-century building, a fifteenth, then a twelfth, a modern sixteenth. Soon we should start on the seventeenth, which would seem odd. Gondolas passed us and followed us. Even on such a drab day, gondoliers sang on the water and canaries in high windows.
“I should explain, clarissimo,” I said, “that I never counted Danese Dolfin among my friends. He certainly never behaved like a friend to me. Why he told his wife otherwise I cannot imagine. He must have lied about his mother’s name and address, too.”
“Some liars need no reason, alas,” the inquisitor said. “They seem to feel they have failed if they have to speak the truth.” Probably nobody knew more about the subject than he, but he was still playing his jocular, grandfatherly role. “Tell me how one goes about identifying a jinx. Should you not have brought some equipment with you? A bible? A trained cat?”
No scribes stood ready to write down my words. If I asked him, he would assure me that they would not be quoted against me, but that would not stop him from asking the same questions again in more stressful circumstances-as, for example, when my wrists were tied behind me and taking my weight as I dangled on the strappado.
Fortunately I had worked out by then what the Maestro had hinted. I wanted to strangle him for not telling me sooner, because he had known something I had not, but perhaps he was not as sure as he had pretended.
“If my master meant what I think he did, Your Excellency, then I can just point and you will understand. If I am wrong, then I won’t be able to identify anything. Nostradamus is often needlessly cryptic, as you know.”
He chuckled. “I think you are picking up the habit. Tell me about the fire elementals.”
Warning bells rang.
“According to theory, Your Excellency, one would identify the source of evil by invoking fire elementals, which are-”
“Morally neutral. I read your master’s testimony. I am not certain Holy Mother Church agrees with his interpretation, but carry on. What is involved?”
“Much hocus-pocus, but basically it meant sitting in front of a fire and daydreaming.”
“And what did you see?”
He sounded genuinely interested. I am sure he was, because almost anything I said could be taken as an admission of witchcraft. I reminded myself that I was dealing with a fanatic. “I saw many things. Shoes and olive trees, galleons and bell towers. Women. Just daydreams. No demons, no Algol.” To confess that I had seen the murder before it happened would be fatal: Exodus 22:28, Deuteronomy 18:10.
“Who killed Dolfin?”
“I have no idea, clarissimo.”
“But you have suspicions. Tell me.”
I was flattered that he thought my opinion worth listening to, but a friendly chat with Ottone Gritti was a romp with a full-grown leopard. “Any man can be stabbed in the back. But the sword that killed Danese was his sword, legally mine of course; I mean he was wearing it. Only an agile and strong opponent could disarm him in a hand-to-hand struggle. When he stole my rapier, he should have taken my dagger as well!” I patted it, dangling at my right side. My sword was back in place on my left, and comforting. “The sword was left behind, so the motive was not theft, and a random killer would not have known to dump his body at Ca’ Barbolano.”
Gritti was listening with flattering attention. “So?”
“A hired bravo seems most likely, clarissimo, and there are many such ruffians to be had. So the question becomes, who hired him? Just about anyone in the Sanudo family had a motive. Sier Zuanbattista and his wife have been made laughingstocks, politically and socially. Sier Girolamo to a lesser extent, but there are rumors that his interest in Dolfin was less than honorable. Any of them may have wished to rescue Grazia from a potentially disastrous marriage. And she may have realized her mistake, although I see no practical means for a lady of her age and station to go out and hire a killer. As you said yourself, Your Excellency, Dolfin was a lecher, so even the servants might have had motives.” I waited for comment, and when there was none continued, “I would like to know where Girolamo was at the time of the murder.”
“Ask him.”
Puzzled, I said, “Your Excellency?”
“Ask him. I mean it!” The inquisitor smiled with secret amusement. “He will tell you the truth. Your list of motives leaves out the one that interests me most. If either Zuanbattista or his son is Algol, then Danese may have stumbled on the secret and been killed to keep him from revealing it.”
Gritti was playing games with me. He was very sure that neither Sanudo was the spy, and by then I had worked out why. It made sense and it complicated things. If the Sanudos were not traitors it was much harder to see them as murderers.
“It would have to have been done very quickly,” I said, “because Danese was no hero, as I told you. Sier
