The Darkest Sin, page 21
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Aldo replied. ‘What you saw was shocking, especially for someone unused to encountering such violence.’
‘Is there anything else you wish to share, Abbess?’ Testardo asked, his voice heavy with disdain. ‘Any other admissions you need to make before we can begin?’
The abbess paused outside the chapter-house doors. The monsignor had arrived angry. If the abbess indulged in the sin of gambling, she would have placed a wager on Aldo’s presence as the cause. Her apology had only added to Testardo’s ill mood. But she had little doubt his decision about the convent’s future was already made. Helping Aldo find the truth was what mattered now. The dead man deserved no less.
‘Actually, yes, there is.’ She told the visitors about Suor Andriana discovering the dead man’s clothes in the convent laundry. ‘They were neither ripped nor cut, and there was no blood on any of his garments.’
‘Is that important?’ Cortese asked.
‘It means Galeri was already naked when he was stabbed,’ Testardo said, ‘otherwise the blade would have damaged his clothes and there would be blood on them.’
‘A doctor examined the remains after they were removed to Santa Maria Nuovo,’ Aldo added. ‘He believed Galeri was stabbed more than twenty times.’
‘Quite,’ the monsignor agreed. ‘I went to the ospedale to see for myself this morning. The fact Galeri had undressed before he was attacked – and that he was inside the convent after dark – indicates that he came here for carnal pleasures.’
The abbess gasped. ‘My sisters in God would never break their vows of chastity!’
Testardo scowled. ‘Can you offer another explanation that fits the circumstances?’
‘I—’
‘Or are my words too close to the truth for you to accept?’
The abbess kept hold of her anger. ‘I respectfully disagree with you, monsignor,’ she said, lowering her voice so nuns nearby did not hear. ‘But there is something else I must share. A bloody habit was also found in our laundry. The blood was still damp.’
Testardo nodded. ‘Then that removes all doubt. Galeri was lured to the convent after curfew, it seems with the promise of sinful pleasures. Once he was undressed and vulnerable, one of your sisters attacked him with a blade, stabbing Galeri over and over until he died.’
The abbess searched the faces of the other visitors. Cortese was ashen, a hand to his mouth, while Zati made the sign of the cross. Only Aldo appeared to disagree, shaking his head. But he did not contradict the monsignor. Why was the officer holding his tongue?
Testardo glanced at the other visitors. ‘Our duty is clear. We shall question each of the nuns until one of them admits to this unholy crime. If no confession is obtained by the day’s end, everyone within the convent shall be held responsible.’
‘That is not fair,’ the abbess protested. ‘That is not just!’
‘I am acting upon the direct edict of the archbishop himself,’ Testardo replied. ‘If you wish to protest this course of action, I suggest taking it up with him.’
‘How can I do that when the convent has been enclosed at his behest?’
‘That is far from my concern. Perhaps you should try praying for help instead.’ The monsignor turned his back on her. ‘Father Zati, you and Signor Cortese will conduct a full inspection of the convent. Go into every room, every storage space. Find the blade that was used to kill Signor Galeri.’
‘Might I make a suggestion?’ Aldo asked.
‘What?’ Testardo snapped.
‘Galeri came into the convent after curfew. Either he obtained a key, or someone let him in. Perhaps our fellow visitors could begin their inspection by discovering whether any of the keys for the three entrances are missing, and confirming whether any of the locks have been tampered with or forced? That would help confirm your – deductions.’
The abbess watched Testardo bristle, but he could not seem to find any reason to refute the suggestion. ‘Agreed. While that is taking place, I will lead the questioning of the nuns, with Aldo by my side as an observer. We gather here again at sext.’
The concession gave the abbess the smallest reason to hope. It seemed that if Aldo could find a way to uncover the truth, he would. Perhaps all was not lost. Not yet.
Aldo waited until Cortese and the young priest had departed before speaking again. Men like Testardo did not enjoy having their authority challenged in front of others, especially when the challenge was one of merit. ‘I have another suggestion,’ Aldo said, ‘one that could make our task quicker, and ensure this matter is concluded today.’
‘Yes?’ the monsignor replied, not bothering to hide his impatience.
‘Abbess, where do your nuns sleep?’
‘Most share dormitories on the upper level,’ she said. ‘The two larger dormitories are used by chapter nuns, while the servant nuns share two smaller dormitories – one with our novices, and the other with the girls who board here. We have seven private cells which are mostly given over to those of us who hold senior positions within the convent.’
‘I saw all that when the previous visitation made its inspection,’ the monsignor complained. ‘How is this relevant?’
Aldo ignored the question, continuing to address the abbess. ‘Could a sister leave one of the dormitories during the night without another nun noticing?’
She shook her head. ‘Not easily. The dormitory doors tend to creak. Two amongst us must rise each night to say lauds, the early morning service. They always wake the others coming and going. My sisters in God often complain of this in the chapter house.’
‘So whoever sleeps closest to the door in each dormitory—’
‘Could tell us whether anyone left that room the night Galeri died,’ Testardo cut in. ‘Good. That would quicken our task. Tell me, who occupies the private cells?’
The abbess pointed to the upper level of the convent above the infirmary and visitors’ parlour. ‘I have the cell at the far end, by the church. Suor Paulina, our almoner, sleeps in the cell next to mine. I can hear her snoring most nights through the shared wall. Next to her is Suor Andriana, the convent draper—’
‘I remember her,’ Testardo interrupted. ‘A quiet, unworldly young woman.’
The abbess waited for him to finish before continuing. ‘Beside her is Suor Giulia, our apothecary, and beyond her is the sacrist, Suor Fiametta. By rights Suor Simona should have one of the cells but she prefers sleeping in the infirmary to stay close to her patients. So Suor Benedicta has the next cell.’
The name sounded familiar to Aldo. ‘She is the nun who listens to all conversations in the visitors’ parlour?’ If Galeri had returned after the first visitation during daytime, the listening nun would know of that.
‘Yes,’ the abbess said. ‘The final cell was occupied by the prioress for some years, but she asked for it to be given to her younger sister when Suor Violante joined the convent.’
Testardo nodded. ‘Suor Violante was unwell during our first visitation. Her cell was the one room we were not able to inspect. I trust that will not be a problem today.’
‘No, monsignor,’ she replied, but Aldo noticed a hesitation in her voice. What was inside Suor Violante’s cell?
‘Very well,’ Testardo said. ‘I shall require an officio in which to do my questioning. Arrange for the nuns who sleep beside the door in each dormitory to come forward first, one by one. After that I will need to see each nun who occupies a private cell. That should answer many of my questions.’ He glanced at Aldo. ‘Unless you have any other suggestions?’
‘Actually, yes. Abbess, you said Suor Simona sleeps at the infirmary. How many patients are in the beds there at present?’
‘Five,’ she replied, looking across the courtyard to the infirmary. ‘But the novice Maria Celestia was only taken to the infirmary yesterday, with shock. She was the one who found the body. Our infirmarian found deep cuts to both of Maria Celestia’s hands, but we do not know what caused these.’
‘Why not?’
‘Maria Celestia has been in a fever since she was taken to the infirmary. You will have to wait for her to recover before she can be asked any questions.’
Aldo nodded his understanding, while hiding his frustration. The novice was an obvious suspect or, at least, a key witness. Not being able to question her would hamper efforts to find Galeri’s killer.
‘The other four patients –’ the abbess continued. ‘None of those poor souls can leave their beds. They are close to death themselves.’ She made the sign of the cross before squaring her shoulders. ‘You may use my officio. I would ask that Suor Violante be questioned last. She has not been well, and it would be better if she was not disturbed.’
‘That will depend on another nun confessing to their guilt first,’ Testardo said. ‘If not, Suor Violante must face our judgement like everyone else.’
Chapter Nineteen
Suor Giulia pulled the jar of nutmeg oil down from its shelf in her workshop. She had been dutifully shaking the contents every twelve hours, once during the day and again at night. It would soon be time to drain the nutmeg fragments from the liquid, before starting the whole process again. Another three days and the remedy should be finished – assuming the convent had not already been dissolved by the archbishop.
The refectory was full of gossip that morning as the nuns broke their fast. Suor Fiametta and others who favoured enclosure welcomed the order imposed on the convent, not bothering to keep the triumph from their faces. The prioress was not present to keep her acolytes in check. She sometimes chose to spend time with her sister before the day’s work. The result was a sour mood in the refectory.
Now a second visitation had arrived. Officially, the men were meant to discover who was responsible for the body found in the scriptorium. But Giulia had few illusions about a diocesan investigation pursuing justice. She knew how laws could be twisted and bent to suit the needs of those in power – and that was almost never women. A miracle would be required for the convent to reopen its doors before Easter Sunday. Despite the whispers about Maria Celestia’s wounded hands, miracles were hard to find in Florence.
Giulia was still shaking the nutmeg oil when her apprentice arrived, red-faced and out of breath as usual. ‘Suor Giulia, please forgive me,’ Maria Teodora panted while pulling on her apron. ‘I was praying at the infirmary and got lost in my rosary . . .’
‘Your fervour is commendable,’ Giulia replied, ‘but so is good work done in the service of our Lord. I must make a sleeping remedy for the abbess. She says Suor Paulina’s snoring is worse than usual. Fetch me the devil’s helmet from over there.’ The apothecary gestured to a heavy ceramic jar on a shelf at head height behind the workshop door.
‘The devil’s helmet?’ Maria Teodora asked, her face full of fear and doubt.
‘Yes, the aconitum. In that black jar.’
The novice took the right jar from the shelf, carrying it across to the work bench with great care, as if afraid the diavolo himself would burst from inside.
‘Good, now see how much there is.’
‘You want me to look inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘But – isn’t that dangerous? You called it the devil’s helmet.’
Giulia wondered how such a timid creature got through the day. It was little surprise the novice’s famiglia had chosen the veil for their daughter. Life in most parts of the city would crush Maria Teodora. ‘Aconitum has many names – monkshood, wolf’s bane, and the devil’s helmet. It is highly poisonous.’
The novice backed away from the jar. ‘Then why do you have it in your workshop?’
‘Many of the things I keep here are dangerous if used incorrectly. Aconitum is a plant, it grows in our garden courtyard. The flowers are blue and purple, they look like the hood a monk wears – hence the name monkshood. Each year I harvest one plant, dry it and grind it into a fine powder. A tiny portion goes into some of my remedies. Remove the stopper and look inside the jar, there should be plenty.’
Maria Teodora edged back towards the jar, her hands shaking. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I have not had much need of it since the last harvest.’
‘No, I meant . . . are you sure it is safe to look inside the jar?’
‘Yes, quite safe.’ Giulia watched the novice grip the stopper with trembling fingers. ‘But breathe in before you remove that, just to be sure.’
After a long inhale, Maria Teodora pulled the stopper free, her eyes squeezed tight shut. Eventually, she opened them again, and peered into the jar. ‘It’s nearly empty.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ The novice tipped the open rim towards Giulia. ‘See?’
Perhaps half a cup of powder remained inside the jar, not enough to cover the bottom. ‘How can that be?’ Giulia asked, taking the jar. ‘I keep a careful record of all poisons. The devil’s helmet was half full at the start of Lent, and that was the last time I used any—’
There was a knock at the partially open door. ‘Suor Giulia, may I come in?’
Giulia put the stopper back into the jar. ‘Yes.’
The sharp-faced novice Maria Vincenzia entered. ‘Pardon my interruption, the abbess sent me. The visitors are in her officio. They wish to question those who have private cells.’
‘Thank you,’ Giulia replied. ‘I will be there as soon as I can.’
Maria Vincenzia nodded and withdrew, closing the door after her. How long had she been standing outside before knocking? Had she heard them talking about the aconitum? If so, word of the missing poison would be all around the convent before sext.
Giulia returned the aconitum to its shelf and removed her apron, draping it over the jar of nutmeg oil. Her apprentice lingered by the workshop bench.
‘What should I do?’ the novice asked.
‘Go to the chapel and pray for your friend, Maria Celestia. In fact, I suggest you pray for all of us. We need our Lord’s mercy more than ever. I will fetch you soon.’
Strocchi had hurried from Palazzo Landini to the Podestà, believing the segretario would expect a full report on the search for Cerchi’s killer. There was little to tell, but Bindi kept the constable waiting more than an hour before finally sending him away unseen. Holy Week had brought forward a planned sitting of the Otto and preparing cases for the magistrates took precedence. Strocchi was both angry and relieved. Waiting had wasted much of his morning, but at least it meant not having to face Bindi.
The constable headed south before turning east to find Renato Patricio’s former workshop, not far from Piazza delle Travi. The new owner was a Jew called Elijah Farissol. Short in height but full of gossip, Farissol couldn’t wait to share his triumph in acquiring the workshop. ‘There are many in this city who would not sell their place of business to one of my kind,’ he said. ‘They would rather we stayed in our little street south of the Arno, that we did what we have always done – lending money and tending bodies. But my father was a cloth maker, and his father before him. I intend to make them proud.’
Strocchi smiled, happy to listen but eager to learn what else Farissol knew. ‘Why do you think Patricio was so willing to sell?’
‘Desperation.’ Farissol took Strocchi’s arm, leading him away from workers stretching cloth to a small officio nearby. ‘Patricio needed coin to leave the city. If he had not been in such a rush, he could certainly have sought a better price. But something was forcing him out of Florence. He wouldn’t reveal what – or who – that was.’
That answered Strocchi’s next question before he could ask it.
‘Patricio went around saying he had plans to introduce the grand wives of Milan to his dresses,’ Farissol continued. ‘I’m only a humble Jew, but even I know Milan is the dullest city in the north for clothes. Patricio will struggle to sell a single gown up there.’
‘So why go?’ Strocchi asked.
The Jew shrugged, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. Farissol wanted to say more, but needed to have it teased out of him. Strocchi glanced from the officio door to the busy workshop. ‘Patricio cannot have made his dresses alone. Tell me, what happened to his workers? Did they go with him to Milan?’
‘No. Some of them didn’t wish to work for a Jew, but a few remained. They had quite the tales to tell about Patricio and his last few weeks in the city . . .’
‘Such as?’
Farissol leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Patricio was in trouble with the Otto. An officer of the court visited several times, and left poor Patricio in tears.’
That must have been Cerchi, extorting coin from the dressmaker. Strocchi described the dead man, but Farissol didn’t know what the officer looked like.
‘When was the last time Patricio had one of these encounters?’
‘Not long before he left the city.’
That didn’t make sense. All the evidence suggested Cerchi had died in January, but Patricio hadn’t departed Florence until several weeks later. ‘In February? Are you certain?’
‘I think so.’ Farissol shrugged. ‘I don’t pay much attention to gossip.’
After thanking Farissol, the constable questioned a few of the workers but got nothing further from them. He went outside to Piazza delle Travi. Had his deductions been wrong? Had Cerchi still been alive weeks after January 11th? If so, where had he been hiding and why had nobody seen him? Aldo and several constables had scoured the city for Cerchi. They would have found him. And Cerchi’s body had washed ashore in Ponte a Signa in early February, after days or weeks in the water. No, Farissol must be mistaken.
Either way, it was best to keep investigating and trust the truth would emerge. Better that than going back to the Podestà and admitting he had been wrong.
Aldo had not paid much attention to the abbess’s officio the previous day. Then he had been seeking paper, ink and a place to write – the top of her desk provided all three. Now he was seeking answers, and a murderer. But Testardo insisted on asking the questions. While the monsignor prepared to face the first nun, Aldo studied their surroundings to see why Galeri had been so eager to gain entry to this chamber.
