The Darkest Sin, page 19
Isabella put an ear against the door, hoping to hear what they were saying. But their voices were low whispers, only a few words reaching her. ‘Hidden’ was one thing she did hear, ‘mistake’ was another, and ‘they can’t know’ a third. Isabella leaned closer, certain—
‘Oww!’ she cried out. Something was burning her foot! She looked down and realized it was hot wax, dripping from the candle. Footsteps hurried away. By the time Isabella got the door open, the hallway was empty. She put the candle back in its sconce and returned to the dormitory. All the others were in their beds. Dea sat up as Isabella went past.
‘Are you well? I heard someone call out.’
Isabella explained about the candle wax, showing the red mark on her foot. She was about to ask if anyone had come in before her, but remembered the chapter nuns and novices slept in other dormitories, or their own cells. It was impossible to know for certain who had been arguing in the hallway, but one of them had a distinctive scratchiness to her voice. Isabella was sure she had heard that voice before, but couldn’t recall when or where. Still she was certain she would recognize it if she heard that nun speaking again.
Saul was closing his front door when Aldo strode along via dei Giudei in the twilight. ‘I was wondering if you would be back before curfew,’ the doctor said with a smile.
‘It has been quite a day,’ Aldo replied, stopping at the doorstep. He was all too aware how close the windows of other homes were, and how inquisitive Saul’s neighbours could be.
‘Do you require more medical advice?’ Saul asked, his eyes twinkling.
‘No, I came to convey the Otto’s thanks for your expertise earlier at the ospedale.’
‘You’re welcome. Please, come in – I should like to hear how the case is progressing.’
It was tempting, but Aldo doubted either of them would emerge before morning. Much as he wanted that – much as he wanted Saul – it must wait until he found the words to explain what had happened with Cerchi. Saul deserved the truth. If he could forgive what Aldo had done, they might be together. If not . . . Aldo didn’t want to consider that, not after waiting so long. ‘Another time.’ He offered a hand to Saul, pulling him close to whisper in an ear. ‘Soon. I promise.’ Aldo stepped back. ‘I hope the Otto can call on you in future, if needed?’
‘Of course.’ The shadow of a frown crossed Saul’s face, but he seemed to understand. ‘If you want me, you know where I’ll be.’
Aldo marched away, not letting himself look back. It was better this way.
From a confession made at the convent of Santa Maria Magdalena:
I am ready to face whatever punishment is deemed necessary for my acts, knowing I shall face a greater judgement. I pray for myself, and I pray for all of you, my sisters in God.
I pray you can forgive me for my trespasses, though I cannot forgive myself.
I pray that those who remain when this is over are able to lead us from temptation.
Most of all, I pray that there will be a tomorrow for all those who dwell within this place of God – chapter nuns and servant nuns, novices and boarders. Most of you have good hearts and pure spirits. I pray that you can find the strength to retain that goodness and purity. You will need it to find the path out of this darkness.
Yes, I murdered Bernardo Galeri.
It was the only way, I truly believe that – even now.
I prayed for him at the hour of his death. And I shall pray when my last hour comes.
I have sinned against you, sisters, those whom I should love above all things.
Know that our Lord is with all of you.
May God have mercy on us.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday, March 27th 1537
Aldo woke early. Beyond his wooden shutter the first glimmers of dawn were painting fresh colours across the bruised sky. Soon the city would stir from its slumber, grateful for the warmth of spring and the promise that brought. But Aldo was already pondering how to make best use of the opening he had secured from Ruggerio. It would require cunning and guile. It would also need a fresh tunic and hose, along with clean boots.
Lay members of a diocesan visitation were expected to be men of good standing in their faith, their manners, and their appearance. There was little Aldo could do about his beliefs, but a boyhood spent in Palazzo Fioravanti had been an education in presenting the right face to the world, while a wash and shave could take care of the rest. He scraped a blade across his chin, fingertips finding the bristles along his jawline in the early morning murk. The tunic and hose he wore for hearings of the Otto were clean, kept ready in case of being summoned before the magistrates. Lastly, Aldo pulled on his best boots, a shiver running up his spine. Taking a dead man’s place was uncomfortable. Galeri had also traded favours to join a visitation to Santa Maria Magdalena. He was murdered for that – poisoned, stabbed repeatedly, and covered with blood. Hopefully that pattern would not be repeated.
Departing the bordello, Aldo went west rather than taking his usual path east. That would have meant passing via dei Giudei. Better to avoid the temptation. Instead, Aldo crossed the Arno and went on to the tavern. Zoppo did not open before noon, so it took several minutes of hammering to summon the cripple. He opened the door a crack, peering out with tired eyes. ‘Already? It’s not even light yet.’
‘First thing means first thing,’ Aldo replied, shoving his way in. The tavern reeked even worse in the morning, but at least the poor lighting hid whatever was causing the stench. ‘What have you heard about Galeri?’
‘Not much,’ Zoppo grumbled, stumping across to the bar. ‘You didn’t give me long.’
‘Not much is better than nothing.’
The cripple pulled himself onto a wooden stool. ‘Well, you were right. Galeri was a gambler, and a bad one. He owed money to at least three men, none of who have my natural charm. Galeri wagered his worker’s wages away. And then he wagered the business away.’
‘What about his home?’
‘He lived above the workshop. It’s in the eastern quarter, between Santa Croce and the river. Word is spreading about his death, so it will have been ransacked by now.’
Aldo grimaced. ‘Meaning you told Galeri’s gambling friends about the murder in exchange for a cut of whatever they found at his home.’
Zoppo shrugged. ‘Business is business, and your coin doesn’t cover all my costs.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not long before his death, Galeri had been looking to hire a thief good at climbing. Way I hear it, he was too fond of dolce and that showed round his middle. He needed someone who could go where he couldn’t. Not really the sort of thing I arrange, so I only heard about that from a friend of a friend. Don’t know if he found the right thief . . .’
That solved one puzzle. There was no way to be certain, but Aldo knew in his palle that Galeri had been one of the people Signora Gonzaga saw trying to get inside the convent a few nights ago. His hired complice must have failed, otherwise why would Galeri return on Palm Sunday after curfew? Aldo sighed. Answer one question and another took its place. He slapped coin down on the nearest table. ‘There are two more things I need. First, where was Galeri’s workshop?’
Isabella had never known such a poor night’s sleep. Servant nuns getting up early had woken her long before dawn, while snoring from several nearby boarders ensured she could not get back to sleep. The filling in her lumpy mattress had parted during the night, leaving her lying on top of hard wooden boards. But worst of all was the itching. At first it was a few niggles, but soon her body seemed to be on fire, forcing her to scratch and claw at the skin. There were bumps dotting her legs and belly, clustered behind her knees and across her midriff. Isabella shuddered at the thought of what she would find when she lifted her shift.
A chapter nun entered the dormitory, clapping her hands to rouse those still asleep. ‘Come along, sisters. Time to raise our voices in worship to the Lord!’
As one the servant nuns and boarders rose, stretching and yawning. Some dropped to their knees to pray alongside their narrow beds, Suor Rigarda among them. Isabella wasn’t in a rush to join them. Her belly was rumbling. The nuns must break their fast soon, or would she have to suffer through more prayers before there was any food?
The tired, cheerful face of Suor Dea stopped on her way past. ‘It’ll be prime soon. You need to be ready before we’re called to chapel.’
‘Prime?’
The servant nun laughed. ‘The early service. This time of year it’s before sunrise.’
‘Do we eat first?’
Dea shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
Isabella scratched inside her elbows. ‘Oh.’
‘You shouldn’t have slept there. That mattress is always full of fleas.’
‘What?’ Isabella sprung from the bed, flapping at herself, imagining hundreds of tiny creatures biting and crawling all over her body. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
‘Come with me to the latrina,’ Dea said. ‘We’ll see how much you’ve been bitten. If it’s bad, I can take you to the infirmary. Suor Simona has a salve that stops you scratching.’
‘Thank you,’ Isabella muttered, following Dea out of the dormitory. Coming to the convent had seemed a good idea the previous day, a way to escape marrying some old man. Now Isabella was starting to wish she could go home. Her own bed, her own maid, her own life – it seemed much more appealing. Even if she did have to marry Rosso, at least she would get a new dress for the wedding.
But the convent was enclosed by order of the Archbishop of Florence, with nobody allowed to leave the grounds. Isabella sighed. So much for escaping.
Galeri’s residence had been ransacked, as Zoppo predicted. Aldo found the workshop door hanging from its frame, and anything of value gone from inside. All the dyes and cloth were missing. Only empty benches and vats remained, too heavy to carry away and of little value on their own. Wooden steps led to the upper level where the dead man had lived and slept. Again, anything worth taking was gone. There were no tapestries, no art on the walls, no fine porcelain. But there had been more than thieves at work here.
Everything was in disarray. Simple furniture had been broken apart. The mattress on Galeri’s bed lay in shreds, its filling spilled across the floor. His clothes were in tatters, the linings split, the seams torn apart. Robbers were not this thorough. Someone had come here to search everything Galeri owned. Yet the amount of the devastation suggested the quest had not been successful. If they found whatever they sought, those searching would have stopped before scouring every possible hiding place. What did they believe Galeri had? His murder was not commonly known yet. How had those searching even been aware—
Ruggerio, it had to be Ruggerio. Aside from those Zoppo had alerted, few others in the city knew Galeri had been killed. Fewer still had any reason to scour the dead man’s residence. But Ruggerio did know of the murder, and he certainly knew the victim. His reaction on hearing what had happened now made more sense. Ruggerio feared Galeri had gone to the convent after curfew, intent on stealing something the confraternity kept there.
Knowing the depth of Ruggerio’s ruthlessness, he would have sent men to ransack the residence as soon as he heard Galeri was dead. If they had not found what Ruggerio sought, it was likely still inside the convent, which was now enclosed by order of the archbishop.
No wonder Ruggerio had been so willing to help.
Aldo stepped outside. Was there a link between the scrap of parchment he found under Galeri’s body and whatever those who ransacked Galeri’s property had been seeking? Aldo had thought the torn parchment corner might be from the official documentation for the first visitation, but that was clearly wrong. Any such document would be of no use when Galeri returned to the convent after dark on Palm Sunday. There must be another explanation.
What if the torn corner was actually from a document stored at the convent by Ruggerio’s confraternity? That made more sense. Perhaps Galeri had found what Ruggerio and his brethren kept there. He couldn’t remove the complete document – why, Aldo didn’t know – so Galeri tore off a corner and stuck it inside his tunic. Maybe he planned to use it as means for extorting coin from the confraternity. If so, he didn’t know how dangerous men like Ruggerio could be. Before Galeri could attempt it, he was murdered inside the convent. The parchment must have stuck to his skin and gone unnoticed by whoever killed him . . .
Aldo shook his head. That was all guesses and leaps of reasoning. There was no value in mentioning this to anyone else, not until he had some supporting evidence.
Strocchi bore no wish to return to Palazzo Landini. The last time he had ventured inside the grand residence, the famiglia patriarch – overcome by grief and guilt – threw himself from one of the windows in the upper levels. Agnolotti Landini died from injuries sustained when he fell, but in truth it was Cerchi’s extortion that killed him.
Now the quest to find whoever murdered Cerchi, or paid for him to be killed, brought Strocchi back to Palazzo Landini – a bitter irony. Normally the main double doors would stand open, inviting customers and other visitors into the residence. Today only a small door to one side of the main entrance was ajar. The constable went through it.
He found Palazzo Landini in disarray. Trees that once grew tall and proud in the central courtyard were neglected and dying. Most merchants conducted their business on the lowest level of their residence so a functionary was always waiting to greet visitors, but here there was none. Strocchi had to shout several times before an elderly servant appeared, looking gaunt and tired. At first he insisted the famiglia were not receiving guests.
‘What if I wished to conduct business?’ Strocchi asked.
‘Then you have come to the wrong palazzo,’ a bitter female voice replied. A grey-haired woman was glaring at Strocchi from an inner window overlooking the courtyard. There was something familiar about her, the piercing gaze, the tilt of her head.
‘Signora Landini?’ Strocchi bowed. ‘My name is Carlo Strocchi, I am a constable—’
‘You’re from the Otto,’ she cut in. ‘You’re the one who killed my husband.’
Strocchi reddened at the accusation. ‘That is not true, signora.’
‘You didn’t stop him,’ she retorted.
‘I did not know what was in his heart.’
That put a stop to her accusations. She stared down, the constable expecting to be dismissed at any moment. Instead, she gestured at the elderly servant. ‘Alfredo, escort our guest upstairs. I will be with you in a moment, constable.’
Strocchi was ushered to the middle level, where the famiglia resided and entertained guests. But there was no grand furniture anymore, no tapestries on the walls, no colourful plates on display. It had been stripped bare, a hollow chamber where a home should be.
When Signora Landini did emerge, he heard her approach by the tapping of a cane on the cold marble floor. She leaned on it for support, her face sagging on the same side. Strocchi had seen old farmers in Ponte a Signa stricken in much the same way, made weak by a sudden illness that cleft their strength in two. He offered to fetch a chair.
‘You will not be staying long enough for me to sit,’ she said. ‘Ask your questions.’
The words blurted out before the constable could stop them. ‘What happened?’
‘You did,’ Signora Landini replied. ‘You came here, accusing my husband. A few hours later he was dead. We have been suffering for that ever since.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Strocchi admitted. ‘Your famiglia had a strong business—’
‘Agnolotti killed our business when he killed himself,’ she hissed. ‘The shame of that was a stain on anyone with the name Landini. Then the whispers began about why Agnolotti died, and our shame became ten-fold. But worse was still waiting. He had borrowed against future earnings. The creditors saw we could not trade and demanded their coin. Everything we own will soon be sold to pay those debts, including this palazzo. My husband – may God curse his name – left us with nothing. No name, no business, no home. Nothing.’
Strocchi studied the widow as she spat and raged at what had happened. Signora Landini had good reason to seek vengeance, but this anger was all for her dead husband. Their marriage, their famiglia, their life together – all of it was a lie, she snarled. Worse still was his cowardice. In taking his own life, Agnolotti Landini condemned those left behind.
The constable waited until her anger was spent before speaking again. ‘Your husband was being blackmailed, that is why he stepped from that window.’
‘I know,’ she said, her voice a sneer of condescension. ‘The fool told me what he had done, why he was like a tapestry fraying from both ends.’
‘Did he tell you the name of his accuser?’
‘He had no need. I saw the man when he first came here, bringing his snide little threats and his nasty little vermin face.’
‘That man –’ Strocchi watched the widow’s face – ‘he is dead. Murdered.’
She shrugged. ‘I hope he suffered, but his death will not save my famiglia. It will not turn back the storm that has ruined us.’ Signora Landini stalked past Strocchi, her cane tapping a staccato rhythm on the floor. ‘You may leave.’
Strocchi watched her go before retreating down the palazzo’s internal steps. Fury was all she had left. But he found it difficult to believe she was behind Cerchi’s murder. The dead officer held no interest for Signora Landini, despite his role in events.
No. Whoever had killed Cerchi resided elsewhere.
From Galeri’s workshop Aldo went north towards the church of Santa Croce, a place of worship so large its name had become that of the entire eastern quarter of Florence. The surrounding streets and piazze were familiar to Aldo, who had spent his boyhood in this part of the city. But he had done his best to avoid Palazzo Fioravanti in the years since returning to Florence, knowing what lurked inside, the coiled venom that waited there.
