The Darkest Sin, page 18
Aldo held up a hand. ‘No. I was simply – The chances of Cerchi washing up there –’
‘I know,’ Strocchi said. ‘Tomasia says it is happenstance, nothing more. But I keep wondering if God meant me to find him. What do you think?’
‘That God has more important things to do than this,’ Aldo replied. ‘As for your question about Patricio, I met him a few times over the years. He never struck me as someone ready to murder. Men who love making beautiful dresses don’t often get involved with violence. But if someone was looking to pay for Cerchi to be killed, I know who might have helped –’ He reached in the air, snapping his fingers several times.
Zoppo stumped over to them. ‘Yes? I’m a busy man, you know.’
Strocchi fought back a laugh. He and Aldo were the only people in the tavern, aside from two drunks snoring in the far corner. Aldo held out more coin. ‘The constable needs information. He’s liable to be an officer soon, so you’d be wise to help him.’
Zoppo’s grubby features twisted into an ingratiating smile. ‘Of course. Any friend of Aldo is a friend of this tavern, so long as there’s coin. How can I help?’
‘I believe an officer of the Otto was murdered in January,’ Strocchi said, ‘not long after the feast of the Epiphany. Stabbed in the heart, and his body dumped in the Arno. It’s likely the person holding the blade was paid to do so. I want to know if anyone hired a killer in the days after the Epiphany. Can you help?’
Zoppo took the coin from Aldo’s open hand. ‘When do you need to know?’
‘Before curfew tomorrow, if possible?’
The cripple glared at Aldo. ‘See? This is how you treat a friend.’
‘We’re not friends,’ Aldo told Zoppo before standing up. He nodded to Strocchi. ‘I’ve someone I need to see tonight, before curfew. Good luck with your investigation.’
Aldo strode from the tavern, fighting the urge to quicken his pace. Palle! Even when Cerchi was no more than food for worms, he found a way to soil the day. He remained a festering sore, his name poison on the tongue. How had—
‘Wait!’ Strocchi called out. Aldo forced himself to stop, letting the constable catch up. ‘When I went to see Nardi, she gave me a message for you. She hasn’t found the documents you were looking for. None of the girls had them.’
Aldo’s belly lurched. ‘Documents?’
‘Yes. Nardi said you asked if Cerchi had left any documents at the bordello. Her women searched all the rooms, but there was nothing.’
‘Thanks for passing on the message.’ Aldo strode on, the food and all that wine Saul had given him threatening to come back up.
‘It made me wonder what the papers were,’ the constable said, hurrying to keep pace. ‘I thought they might be to do with Cerchi’s death.’
‘They weren’t.’
‘No?’
Strocchi would keep asking until he was satisfied, so Aldo stopped. ‘Cerchi was not a good officer. He was sloppy, losing court documents. He even took some from the Podestà without permission, and forgot to bring them back.’ It was a lie, but sounded believable.
‘You thought he had left them at the bordello?’
Aldo nodded, willing his body not to betray him. ‘When Cerchi disappeared, I had to take charge of all his cases. Bindi discovered two denunzie were missing for a trial due before the magistrates. I went to Cerchi’s home, I tried the bordello – both without success. I finally found the damned things under a bench at the Podestà, in the officer’s cell off the courtyard.’
Strocchi’s face fell, his disappointment obvious. ‘Oh.’
Aldo clapped a hand on the constable’s shoulder. ‘You will find whoever killed Cerchi. It may take a while, but I know you will find them.’ Aldo’s belly heaved again. ‘Now, let me go. Something I ate is not sitting well, and I need to find a latrina.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The constable stepped back. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t realize.’
Aldo stumbled away, his discomfort growing by the moment. Round a corner he found a dark alley. Then everything he had eaten and drunk came back up. Half-chewed olives and scraps of meat spattered the ground, stained crimson by Saul’s wine. Spasm after spasm bent Aldo double, till there was nothing left to come. Still the roiling inside him would not cease . . .
Strocchi did not know it yet, but much of his speculation about Cerchi’s death was accurate. The killing had taken place on Ponte Vecchio, and it was a knife that ended the officer’s life. Extortion was the reason behind his killing. If Strocchi could deduce all that, it might not be many more days before he discovered the rest.
Finally, blessedly, the turmoil subsided inside Aldo. He sank to one knee, gasping for fresh air and spitting to clear his mouth. Staring at the crimson mess around him, Aldo’s thoughts slipped back to that night in January . . .
He had been down on one knee then too, coughing and choking while Cerchi strutted around, threatening to expose what kind of man Aldo was. Cerchi claimed to have two denunzie as proof. But before revealing Aldo’s secret to the world, Cerchi wanted to extort all the coin he could. To make matters worse, Cerchi was more than ready to make others suffer for what he saw as Aldo’s sins. ‘Orvieto – he’s like you, isn’t he? Tell me, does the Jew like to put it inside you, or do you put it into him?’
Aldo had insisted Cerchi was wrong, begged for Saul to be left alone. But Cerchi would not listen, would not see reason. ‘I’ll do whatever I want. And as of tonight, you’ll do whatever I say, whenever I say it. From now on, you’re my whore.’
That was when Aldo had buried his stiletto in Cerchi.
Chapter Sixteen
Aldo found his way to the river and turned east, towards Ponte Vecchio. The setting sun was painting the clouds overhead yellow and orange, while the waters of the Arno glistened. Already the heat of the day had faded, pushed aside by cool breezes as twilight came for Florence. Soon the city gates would be locked and night would fall.
Aldo had seen more lives ended than he could remember, many taken by his own hand. Most of his killings had been as a soldier for hire. But some were during his time as an officer of the Otto, defending his own life or that of others. Of all the ways to end a life, stabbing a man was among the most intimate, even more so when done face to face, close enough to embrace. That was how it had been with Cerchi. A moment of surprise as the stiletto pierced skin; Cerchi’s small gasp of pain. Aldo had smelled Cerchi’s foul breath as it steamed the air, witnessed the anguish twisting those narrow, rat-like features.
Aldo had given the stiletto a hard quarter-turn, the blade resisting as it scraped across bone. It was a trick learned from being a soldier, a way to ensure the enemy went down and stayed down. Twisting a knife inside a wound made it harder to staunch the bleeding, the injury more likely to kill. Cerchi had not realized he was dying in those first moments, disbelief still consuming him. How had his moment of triumph become his undoing?
It had been well after curfew, Strocchi was right about that too, clouds covering the moon. The butchers’ stalls and other shops were all long closed, blood from the day’s trade freezing on the bridge’s stones. There was nobody nearby, nobody watching. Cerchi had lurched to the side of the bridge, flailing at the stone parapet for support.
All it took was one hard shove, and Cerchi toppled over the side, falling through the gap between buildings. He sank beneath the water at once, the Arno claiming him in a single swallow. Aldo had strolled away, knowing the butchers’ boys would wash away any evidence the next morning. Sometimes killing was necessary, or so he had told himself . . .
Aldo stopped at the northern end of Ponte Vecchio. It was close to curfew, traders shutting their stalls for the night. There was a second level above many of the shops, with the top half of the buildings providing humble homes for some of those who worked below. Few of these dwellings had windows that looked down on the bridge, and those that did kept their shutters closed. The stench of meat and blood and offal was usually ripe on Ponte Vecchio, though not during Lent when the Church expected people to forego meat. Living above the butchers’ stalls must be all but unbearable during summer. Back in January the smell had been less oppressive, but none of the shutters were open the night Cerchi died, Aldo was sure of that.
He strode up the curving bridge, savouring the last of the spring day. Aldo stopped at Ponte Vecchio’s highest point, where the gap between buildings gave a view of the Arno. The last of the day’s sun was sliding beneath the horizon, throwing one last glorious splash of colour across the clouds before surrendering to darkness.
Aldo had returned here the day after Cerchi died, expecting to see a body caught on one of the weirs downriver – but there was none. The current must have been strong that night, the waters high enough to carry Cerchi’s corpse away. Aldo had gone to the Podestà, waiting for – no, expecting – a citizen to make a denunzia about two men arguing on the bridge, or claiming to have seen a body fall from Ponte Vecchio. But nobody did.
Days passed and Cerchi did not report for duty. His body was not found by fishermen further down the river, and his remains did not wash up on the banks of the Arno. Meo Cerchi was gone, and the world was no worse. In fact, it was a better place. But Aldo also knew that Cerchi’s disappearance had not put an end to his threats. There were still the two denunzie Cerchi claimed to have given to someone Aldo did not know. If anything happened to Cerchi, the denunzie would be sent to the Otto.
For days after Cerchi died, Aldo waited for the inevitable summons to face those accusations, the trial that would follow. But when he was summoned by the segretario, it was to be given the task of finding Cerchi. Aldo had almost laughed. The investigation gave him the chance to search for the denunzie. He found them hidden inside the dead man’s home after searching the two rooms while Grazia was at the mercato.
Cerchi’s claims had all been lies. There was only one signed denunzia, written by Patricio. The other document repeated the same accusations, but bore no signature. Cerchi had been unable to read or write, so someone else had written it for him. A brief comparison made clear why the documents were so similar – Patricio’s hand was responsible for both. Cerchi must have planned to coerce someone into presenting the second denunzia as their own words, or to submit it anonymously as proof the first was true.
Aldo burned both documents. To ensure the problem never arose again, he visited the dressmaker’s palazzo. Patricio begged for forgiveness, breaking down as he recounted the threats Cerchi made. Aldo couldn’t be sure Cerchi had not hidden further copies of the denunzie elsewhere. To counter that, he had Patricio make a fresh denunzia accusing Cerchi of extortion and recanting any prior claims as false, written under duress. Aldo had one last demand: the dressmaker must leave Florence. Permanently.
After Patricio departed for Milan, Aldo believed himself free of Cerchi’s shadow. The merda would not trouble anyone again. So Strocchi’s proud announcement that he had found Cerchi’s remains in a village graveyard – it had brought all those fears back up again, along with the food and wine. Of all the people to find the body, why must it be Strocchi? The chances of him stumbling on the silver buckle Cerchi wore, and then following that to the bones, let alone recognizing the signs of a knife wound in the remains . . .
Was all of this happenstance? Yes. Was it ill fate, playing a trick? Possibly, though Aldo refused to believe the path ahead of him was written before he took a step each day. Perhaps this was all part of God’s plan? Strocchi might think so. He was young, a man whose faith had not been shaken by the realities of life. Strocchi was still innocent in many ways; he still truly believed – something Aldo had not done for years. Perhaps Strocchi would say all of this was God’s punishment for the way Aldo lived and loved. Palle!
Aldo turned his back on the setting sun. Self-pity would not help him. Whatever had brought this about did not matter now. There was a simple truth to recognize. He did not, would not, regret killing that merda. No matter what others might think, it had been necessary. But he did have to decide what to do about Strocchi’s investigation. It might take the constable days, perhaps weeks, but eventually he would find enough threads to follow until he deduced what had happened on Ponte Vecchio that night. The fact that Strocchi had already deduced so much of the truth showed how good an officer he would be. Aldo had done his best to lead Strocchi astray while they talked in Zoppo’s tavern, pushing the constable towards the names on that list. It was tempting to go further, to suggest other false leads for Strocchi to investigate. But if he was too helpful the constable might become suspicious. Better to let him stumble along alone, for now at least.
There was another path ahead that Aldo could see: leaving the city. He could resign from the Otto, gather what coin he had, and ride away from Florence in the morning. By the time Strocchi had enough evidence to make a denunzia, Aldo would be beyond the court’s jurisdiction. His abrupt departure might be seen as proof of his guilt – no doubt Bindi would enjoy making that argument to the magistrates. They would convict Aldo in absentia and issue a warrant for his arrest. But so long as Aldo remained outside the Otto’s reach, he would face no further punishment.
Yet fleeing the city sat uneasily with him. Why run? Why leave behind the life he had made for himself? After two months apart he and Saul were healing their rift. To go now meant leaving behind all the tomorrows they might have, all the happiness they might know. Aldo could ask Saul to come too, but that meant explaining why – and he wasn’t sure Saul could forgive a killing, no matter how justified it seemed. Besides, Saul had a whole community that depended on his care. Asking him to surrender all of that for the uncertain hope of a new life many miles away . . . no, it wasn’t fair.
Running from Florence also meant leaving other things unfinished. Seeing Teresa had brought back a wealth of memories, happier times when they had been as close as brother and sister. He had not appreciated Teresa’s attempt to get his help in marrying off her daughter – the cold grasp of Lucrezia was all too evident in that. But part of him still missed being part of the only real famiglia he had known. The day had been so frantic, he forgot to send a message about Isabella. Still, a night of worry might make Teresa rethink the marriage plans for her daughter. And then there was Isabella, caught up in the convent’s enclosure. What would happen to her?
It was vanity, but Aldo doubted the murder would be solved without him. The Church already had a culprit it could blame: the convent, and the women inside it. They would all be held accountable for Galeri’s killing, no matter who was actually responsible. The abbess and her sisters in God deserved answers and that required a proper investigation, not some hasty pretence performed to satisfy the archbishop. No, that was not good enough.
So, the decision was made. The next few days would be devoted to finding whoever murdered Bernardo Galeri. Once that was resolved, it should be apparent whether Strocchi was close to the truth about Cerchi’s death. In the meantime preparations could be made to depart the city, if that became necessary. Aldo nodded. So be it.
When Isabella had fled to the convent to escape her unwanted marriage, she had not planned on spending the night at Santa Maria Magdalena. Her parents would obviously realize they were in the wrong, and come to beg for her return at once. Well, not at once, Nonna would not allow that, but certainly within a few hours. Isabella had expected to be back in her own bedchamber by nightfall with Nucca tending to her every need, the maid eager to hear gossip about life inside the convent.
Instead, Isabella found herself preparing to sleep in a dormitory alongside the six girls who boarded at the convent, and several servant nuns. The room was on the convent’s upper level, near the stairs. It was much larger than Isabella’s room at home, but crowded with many narrow beds. A stale, disagreeable odour hung in the air that made Isabella crinkle her nose. Palazzo Fioravanti had the finest embroidered bed linens, and Isabella went to sleep in a nightdress decorated with beautiful bows. Here the beds bore a lumpy mattress and plain, coarse sheets. One of the servant nuns, a dutiful and dumpy girl called Suor Rigarda, showed Isabella where to find a plain sleep shift. Isabella had never shared a room with anyone else before, let alone eleven others.
All the servant nuns seemed to do was yawn and pray, while the boarders were busy in their own corner. Isabella joined them, hoped for secrets and speculations about the body found in the scriptorium. But the abbess had forbidden all talk of such things. Instead, the boarders kept whispering about someone called Maria Celestia and her wounds that would not stop bleeding. The boarders seemed to think this a miracle, but to Isabella it sounded disgusting. She returned to her allotted bed, aware of a growing discomfort in her belly. That might be due to the food in the refectory. Plain would be one word for it, and dull another. She looked under her bed, but found no pot in which to relieve herself. Isabella crept across to Rigarda who was kneeling nearby.
‘Where do I go to – you know?’ Isabella pointed below her belly.
Rigarda did not reply, her lips too busy whispering a prayer.
‘The latrina is along the hallway,’ another servant nun said. She had darker skin than most of the others, and a weary smile. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’ Isabella followed her out into a bare wooden hallway, dimly lit by a few candles. Further along stood a heavy wooden door. A draught blew beneath it, chilling Isabella’s toes. ‘It’s in there.’ The servant nun took a lit candle from a sconce on the wall, handing it to Isabella. ‘You’ll need this.’
Isabella nodded. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Suor Dea.’
‘Thank you, Suor Dea.’
The servant nun headed back to the dormitory so Isabella ventured inside the latrina. It was clean, but cold air came whistling up through the ovals from below. Isabella dripped wax onto the floor to fix her candle. The last thing she wanted was for it to fall over and go out. After relieving herself, she retrieved her candle and went to the door, eager to leave before someone else came in. But when she peered out, there were two nuns in the hallway having a disagreement. They were looking away from Isabella, veils of different colours hiding their faces. But she knew enough of the convent to realize one was a chapter nun, the other a novice.
