The Darkest Sin, page 22
A heavy wooden cabinet against the far wall drew the eye. Numerous drawers filled most of the cabinet. Inside these Aldo found ledgers detailing the many nuns of Santa Maria Magdalena past and present, along with the items surrendered by each woman when they took the veil. Some were covered in dust, untouched for decades; others were more recent.
One large door stretched the full height of the cabinet’s right side. This was secured by a sturdy metal lock that refused to give way, despite Aldo’s efforts. There were scratches around where the lock met the wood of the cabinet. Someone had tried to force it open, without success. The scratches appeared recent, the edges of each one still fresh in the wood.
‘Shall we start?’ Testardo asked, settling in the abbess’s chair behind the desk.
‘Yes,’ Aldo replied. But something stopped him leaving the cabinet. An edge of torn parchment was jutting out beneath the cabinet door. Aldo crouched for a closer look, putting one knee on the cold stone floor. A few letters were visible on the parchment, forming part of three consecutive lines: of Giro; uthority; and be given. ‘A moment,’ Aldo said, aware that Testardo was watching. ‘I have a problem with my boot.’
‘It can wait,’ the monsignor said before raising his voice. ‘Enter!’
Aldo stood, nodding to the abbess as she escorted a chapter nun into the officio. Those words, where had he . . .? Of course, the scrap of parchment under the dead man. It must have been torn from the document caught in the cabinet door. Had Galeri been trying to force the lock? Was that why he came back to the convent after curfew? Aldo combined the words from both pieces and they made more sense: By Order of Giro . . . the Authority . . . shall be given. That confirmed the parchment was not an authorization for the first visitation. The archbishop’s first name was Andrea, not Girolamo.
So who had issued the parchment, and why would Galeri risk his life to steal a corner from the document? Ruggerio’s first name was Girolamo, but that was common in Florence. Aldo could not conceive the circumstances in which Ruggerio would issue a written order. The merchant was notorious for only giving commands and orders verbally. He never trusted anything to parchment in case it could become evidence against him. The order must have come from someone else named Girolamo. The answer was behind the locked cabinet door . . .
‘This is Suor Giulia, our apothecary,’ the abbess announced. Aldo retreated from the cabinet, but not before the abbess noticed on her way out.
‘Be seated,’ Testardo told Giulia. Aldo moved to a corner where he could observe Giulia while remaining to one side of the monsignor.
It was difficult to know the apothecary’s precise age. The shape of her body was hidden by her habit while the veil and wimple concealed all but her face. Wrinkles clustered at the corners of her watchful eyes while lines across her forehead suggested she was near fifty. Her back was straight and her shoulders square. Giulia showed no fear of the visitors.
‘Before answering any questions, there is something I must tell you,’ she said. ‘A quantity of aconitum has been taken from my workshop.’
‘Aconitum?’ Testardo asked.
‘It’s a poison,’ Aldo interjected, recalling what Saul had said. ‘You keep a supply?’
‘Yes.’ Giulia’s attention shifted to Aldo. ‘It is used for some remedies, but in the smallest of amounts. The quantity taken from my workshop was considerable.’
‘Enough to kill a man?’
‘Enough to kill a man many times over,’ she replied.
‘That is of little consequence,’ Testardo announced, impatience in his voice. ‘I have seen Signor Galeri’s body. He was stabbed to death; that much is certain.’
Aldo knew better but kept that to himself. ‘How could someone take poison from your workshop? Was it not locked?’
Giulia shook her head. ‘We are a community built on trust, devoting our lives to God. No internal doors are locked. Theft does not happen here. We trust each other with our lives.’
‘That did not save Bernardo Galeri,’ Testardo said, not bothering to conceal his rising anger. ‘One of you killed him. That is beyond dispute.’
‘Do you know when the poison was taken?’ Aldo asked.
‘Since the beginning of Lent,’ the apothecary replied. ‘My new apprentice, Maria Teodora, discovered the loss today. I haven’t had cause to check it before.’
‘What effect would the poison have if someone swallowed it?’
‘That depends on the amount. A creeping numbness in the arms, legs or face would be the first signs.’ The apothecary pressed a hand to her belly. ‘Then they would feel pain and illness here. The person would become weaker, struggling to breathe, as if a weight was pressing on their chest. If the dose of aconitum is great enough, it will claim their life.’
‘How long would the poison take to weaken a man? How long to kill him?’
‘Again, that depends on the dose. It could be very swift, if enough is consumed.’
‘Thank you,’ Testardo snapped at Aldo. ‘Now, Suor Giulia, I understand you occupy one of the private cells on the upper level, is that correct?’
‘Yes, the middle cell of the seven, between Suor Andriana and Suor Fiametta.’
‘Did you leave your cell after curfew on the evening of Palm Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
Testardo leaned forwards, studying her closely. ‘Why?’
The apothecary smiled. ‘The need to use the latrina during the night becomes more familiar at our age, as I’m sure you know. And I have a jar of nutmeg oil that needs shaking each noon and night to make sure its contents are being properly mixed.’
‘You came down to the convent’s lower level to do that?’
She nodded. ‘My workshop is next to the scriptorium.’
‘What time was this?’ Testardo asked.
‘I can’t be certain. It was well before dawn.’
‘Did you see anyone while you were out of your cell?’
Giulia shook her head.
‘What about voices? Did you hear anyone?’
She hesitated. In Aldo’s experience that meant a witness was either recalling what had happened, or was crafting a lie. ‘Matins,’ the apothecary said. ‘I could hear the service being said in the chapter house. That means it was early morning on Monday, not Sunday evening.’
‘Did you recognize the voices saying matins?’ Testardo asked.
‘No, but I believe two of our novices, Maria Celestia and Maria Vincenzia, were due to say matins and lauds that night. You would have to ask them.’
‘Thank you, Suor Giulia. You may go.’
Aldo waited until the apothecary had departed before speaking. The monsignor had been thorough, but he had omitted an obvious question. ‘You did not ask if she knew Galeri.’
‘What?’
‘You did not ask Suor Giulia if she knew the dead man.’
Testardo rose from his chair. ‘And you did not have my leave to ask any questions at all. I agreed to your presence as an observer, Aldo, nothing else. I do not know how you came to be part of this visitation, but I shall not have my methods challenged or my authority undermined. From this moment you will stay silent when I am asking questions unless I give leave to speak. If you cannot abide by that, leave the convent now. Do you understand?’
In his life Aldo had been confronted by men far more dangerous than Testardo. Better to let the monsignor blow himself out like any storm. Let all that anger have its moment. Testardo was an impediment, yes, but one that could be endured.
Aldo gave a respectful nod. So, Saul had been correct, Galeri was poisoned. Could the apothecary have been the one responsible? She would know the amount required, know how to handle the poison without suffering any illness from it herself. And coming forward to say the aconitum had been taken from her workshop was a clever strategia, if she were responsible for the murder. The admission made her appear more honest, willing to admit a mistake and accept responsibility.
Giulia mentioned she had an apprentice, Maria Teodora. If the apothecary proved not to be the one responsible, her student was another potential suspect. And Giulia had said the novice was her new apprentice, suggesting there had been others. They would know about the poisons in the workshop. It could be useful to know names of her past apprentices.
Then there were the two novices who had been up saying prayers before dawn on Monday, Maria Vincenzia and Maria Celestia. Both were potential suspects, with the cuts on Maria Celestia’s hands of particular interest. A pity she was not fit to be questioned. Not yet.
Aldo wished he had intervened to ask if Giulia knew Galeri. The nun’s response – whether a lie, the truth or an evasion – would have been instructive. Her knowledge of poison was certainly impressive for an apothecary working in a convent. As with Galeri’s corpse, it seemed there was more to Giulia than might at first be apparent . . .
Chapter Twenty
Ponte Vecchio was thronged with people as Strocchi approached it, the rising curve of the bridge hidden from view by the crowds pushing past each other. It would be better to come back when the best bargains were gone, but the constable could not wait. The needs of the Otto had all of Bindi’s attention for now, yet he could turn to other matters without warning. The segretario lacked any patience with those who failed to fulfil his orders.
Strocchi studied the homes above the shops and stalls. They were simple dwellings, two rooms at most, built precariously on top of the businesses below. Most were occupied by those who worked on Ponte Vecchio, the constable knew that much, but he could not imagine how the air must smell when the hottest days of summer came. By July, those who could leave the city did, retreating to their country estates, while those left in Florence sweated and sweltered and suffered. Then the air here would be fit only for flies.
Strocchi plunged into the crowd, forcing his way towards the first stall on the eastern side of the bridge. There was no separate door for the home above it, so whoever lived there must come and go through the shop. The fish-seller inside confirmed this after Strocchi had shouted his question across the heads of impatient wives. ‘Nobody’s up there now,’ the fish-seller said. ‘My son lived over the shop, but he got married and his new wife refused to stay there. Not good enough for her.’
It was a similar response in the next shop, and the next. Some homes were occupied, but the people that lived there were busy working. Come back before curfew, come back tomorrow, or don’t come back at all. Most of those Strocchi did find at home had not lived on Ponte Vecchio long, a few weeks, perhaps, and they were already eager to leave. He didn’t blame them. Some residents refused to talk at all, having no interest in getting involved with the court. Others were grateful for the coin Strocchi offered, but had nothing useful to say.
Frustration wore at the constable’s patience. Santo Spirito. He had been so certain Cerchi met an end on the bridge. But if Cerchi had died on January 11th, it was still many weeks ago. Strocchi knew where he had been that day because it had been so significant – riding back to Florence with Aldo, that incident with the moneylender’s killer, before returning home to find Tomasia waiting. Strocchi’s life changed in more ways than one that day. But for most citizens of Florence, January 11th had been a cold Thursday in the middle of a long winter and nothing more . . .
Strocchi was close to abandoning his quest when he knocked at the door of a home above the largest butcher’s stall on the bridge, not far from its highest point. The stall was closed, but that didn’t mean the home above it was empty. A young woman answered, a beaming baby balanced on one hip. She had smudges of tiredness under both eyes, but her smile was warm and welcoming. Strocchi explained his reason for visiting, struggling to conceal his weariness at saying the same words for what must be the twentieth time. To his surprise, the woman – Salvaza Fideli – was happy for him to come in.
Her home was cosy, just one long room with a low ceiling. The marital bed occupied the end of the room, a cradle beside it for the baby, with a nursing chair and trunk the only other pieces of furniture. Salvaza and her husband had moved in two days after Christmas. Leonello had been learning his trade as a butcher, otherwise they would never have such a home. During Lent he was working long hours for a fish-seller, leaving her to care for their new child, Gasparro. They had no famiglia in the city, and visitors were few. ‘Nobody wants to come here most of the time,’ Salvaza said, resting the baby against her chest, little Gasparro lying his head on her shoulder. ‘The smell.’
Strocchi nodded. Even though the butchers’ stall below was closed until the end of Lent, the stench of blood and stale meat still seemed to fill the air. Yet the young signora seemed not to notice. Perhaps a person became used to it in time?
‘I have no sense of smell,’ she explained. ‘I lost it when I fell ill as a child.’
The constable could not help watching the baby, wondering about the child Tomasia believed she was carrying. Should God bless them, it would be many months before the child – their child – was born. Let it be as happy and healthy as this little one.
‘Do you have children?’ Salvaza asked.
‘Not yet, but perhaps soon.’
‘Then get all the sleep you can now.’ She held up the baby boy, shaking her head at him. ‘This one never stays asleep through a night. You don’t, do you, bambino? I’m lucky Leonello gets up sometimes to rock him back to sleep.’
Strocchi asked if they had been home on the night of January 11th. ‘It was the Thursday after the feast of the Epiphany. A cold night.’
‘We would have been here,’ she said. ‘But when you have a young baby all days and nights seem the same. You remember other things, like the first time your baby smiles.’
‘I believe a murder happened on Ponte Vecchio that night. A man was stabbed on the bridge sometime after curfew – or his body was dumped in the river from here.’
Salvaza gasped, making the sign of the cross. She moved the baby from one shoulder to the other, her brow furrowing. ‘I don’t know what night it was, but Leonello told me he heard two men arguing on the bridge after curfew. Gasparro had a cough, so Leonello got up to try and soothe him back to sleep.’
Strocchi struggled to hide his excitement. After a long morning of little success, this was a break in the clouds at last. ‘Did your husband say what the men were arguing about?’
‘Sorry. You will have to ask Leonello when he gets home.’
‘Do you often hear people on the bridge after curfew?’
‘No. I think that’s why Leonello noticed. I’ve heard patrols passing some nights when I get up to feed Gasparro, but nothing more. Curfew is the only time the bridge isn’t busy.’
‘Did your husband see the men?’
Salvaza shook her head, patting the baby’s back. It wanted her attention. ‘No. We keep the shutters closed at night.’ She reached for her dress buttons. ‘I need to feed Gasparro.’
‘Of course,’ Strocchi said, before realizing what that meant. His cheeks became hot as Salvaza continued unbuttoning. ‘I’m . . . I didn’t . . .’ He stumbled towards the door. ‘What time will your husband get home?’
‘Not long before curfew,’ she replied, reaching inside her dress to pull out a breast. The baby pressed its face into the soft mound, complaints forgotten. ‘Should I tell him that you will be coming back?’
‘Y-yes,’ the constable stammered on his way out. ‘Thank you, signora.’
Strocchi clattered down the stairs, his cheeks hot and no doubt crimson. He had no reason to be embarrassed, a mother feeding her baby was the most natural thing in the world, but still it unmanned him. Strocchi pushed a way through those crowding the bridge to the gap between buildings where he could look down at the Arno.
At last he had a witness. If one of the men arguing was Cerchi, that would prove . . .
No. Don’t leap ahead to the conclusions you crave, Aldo often said. Gather evidence and the truth should emerge. To be an officer of the court, to be just, required dispassionate judgement when the truth was soiled or stained.
Strocchi stared down at the river flowing beneath the bridge.
By curfew, the truth would be clearer.
A salve from Suor Simona had calmed Isabella’s many bites. As thanks, she spent much of the morning helping Dea tend patients at the infirmary. Four were old – even older than Nonna – but one was a novice, Maria Celestia, who kept bleeding from both hands. Isabella watched Dea bringing bowls covered with crimson-stained cloths from behind the screen where Maria Celestia lay.
‘What happened to her?’ Isabella asked Dea while they were folding bed sheets.
‘Nobody is sure. She found the body yesterday,’ the servant nun whispered, glancing over a shoulder to be sure nobody else could hear. ‘She’s been drifting in and out, saying things that don’t make any sense. Some of the other nuns –’ Dea leaned closer – ‘they think her wounds may be stigmata.’
Isabella nodded, not wanting to show she didn’t understand. ‘That’s terrible.’
Dea stared at her. ‘It would be a miracle.’
‘Yes, of course. I meant . . . the pain must be terrible.’
‘Nothing to what Christ suffered on the cross. Wounds to his feet, his hands.’
Isabella paid little attention in church, but Dea talking about wounded hands did sound familiar – ‘Oh yes, the stigmata. Is that what Maria Celestia has?’
Before the servant nun could answer, a sharp-faced novice strode into the infirmary. She spoke to Suor Simona for a moment before disappearing behind the screen round Maria Celestia’s bed. ‘That’s Maria Vincenzia,’ Dea whispered. ‘She and Maria Celestia are close.’
Isabella nodded. She remembered the two novices sneering in front of the class on Palm Sunday, especially Maria Vincenzia. Isabella took fresh sheets to all the unoccupied beds in the infirmary, pausing at the empty cot by the screen that shielded Maria Celestia. A voice was murmuring on the other side.
‘Another visitation is here now,’ someone was saying. ‘This will soon be over.’
