The Darkest Sin, page 27
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘You don’t know?’ Aldo asked. ‘Or you can’t recall?’
Her head snapped round to glare at him.
He smiled at her. ‘You can go.’
‘I’m sorry?’
He gestured at the officio door. ‘Go. I’ve asked all my questions – for now.’
The abbess nodded her agreement. Maria Vincenzia pushed past Aldo on the way out, the door slamming after her.
The abbess arched an eyebrow at Aldo. ‘You never mentioned any of that to me.’
‘A good inquisitor does not reveal all their tools before starting work.’
‘You think Maria Celestia and Maria Vincenzia killed Signor Galeri?’
‘No. I believed they poured the blood over him. The killer – that was someone else.’ Aldo rubbed his hands together. ‘Shall we get our next suspect in?’
When Strocchi returned to the one-room residence above the closed butcher’s stall, Leonello Fideli was still not back. His wife Salvaza said she was expecting him soon. Their bambino kept crying, his face red with frustration. Questioning Fideli there would be difficult. Better to take the husband somewhere Strocchi could have his full attention.
The constable explained this to Salvaza, and asked her to describe Fideli. ‘He has the kindest eyes,’ she said, ‘the eyes of a man you know you can trust. When he smiles, dimples appear in his cheeks. And when he laughs, he makes me laugh too.’
Strocchi nodded. ‘I meant, how might I recognize him when I see him?’
‘Oh.’ Salvaza giggled. ‘Sorry. He’s as tall as me. He has brown, curly hair that needs cutting. Leonello keeps trying to grow a beard, but –’
Strocchi thanked her on his way down the stairs.
‘He’s missing the top of this finger!’ Salvaza called, holding up the forefinger of her left hand. ‘Cut it off his first day working for the fish-seller, the poor thing. They’ve had him running errands ever since.’
The constable made his way back to Ponte Vecchio, finding a locked door where he could keep watch. Most of those coming and going from the nearby fish-seller’s stall were women, but a few men went in – servants, judging by their clothes. As the throng grew thinner, Strocchi feared he had missed Fideli. Perhaps it would be better to wait inside? He stepped from the doorway to cross the bridge when a short man with brown curls appeared. Strocchi caught a glimpse of a wispy beard. ‘Fideli?’ he called. ‘Leonello Fideli?’
The short man stopped, looking round. Strocchi crossed the bridge, shoving aside a toothless hawker with a ring on every finger. The constable introduced himself, before leading Fideli away in search of somewhere quieter. Strocchi wanted no distractions. Fideli’s testimony was the last chance to find whoever murdered Cerchi.
Aldo assessed Suor Rigarda as the servant nun shuffled into the officio. The servant nun couldn’t be more different from Maria Vincenzia. Where the novice had been all sharp angles and arrogance, Rigarda was hesitant in manner and appearance, as if she didn’t deserve to be noticed. She mumbled an unsought apologia for making them wait before sitting. While he was being introduced, Aldo found a chair and sat to one side of the desk, lowering himself to the level of Rigarda’s gaze. ‘I understand you help at the infirmary?’
She gave a small, frightened nod.
‘And you were there the night of Palm Sunday?’
Another nod.
‘Did you see or notice anything unusual?’
Rigarda shook her head.
‘Are you sure?’
The nod was quicker this time.
‘A few days ago a visitation came to the convent. Do you recall that?’
Rigarda nodded.
‘Did they visit the infirmary?’
Another nod.
‘Did you speak to them?’
The servant nun seemed about to shake her head, but spoke instead. ‘No,’ she replied, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘But one of them spoke to me.’
‘Which one?’ the abbess asked.
‘He said his name was Galeri.’
‘Why did he speak to you?’ Aldo asked quickly, to stop the abbess continuing.
‘He saw me – take something.’
‘What?’
The servant nun burst into tears. She crumpled forward, sobs wracking her body. Aldo looked to the abbess. She shrugged and shook her head, seeming as surprised as he was by this outburst. The abbess pulled a clean handkerchief from a desk drawer, pushing it across to Rigarda. The servant nun got the sobbing under control, wiping her eyes and begging forgiveness. Aldo motioned for the abbess to take over the questioning. The last thing this young woman needed was a man demanding answers from her.
‘Rigarda, what did you take?’ the abbess asked, her voice gentle and quiet.
‘I – I was so hungry – and one of the patients wasn’t eating, so I –’
‘You took some of their food.’
‘Only when they didn’t want it.’ Rigarda wiped more tears from her cheeks. ‘But that man, he said I was stealing food from those who needed it.’
The abbess shook her head. ‘You did nothing wrong. Nothing. That food would have gone to waste if you had not eaten it. Better you did, and had strength for your duties.’
The servant nun looked up, hope in her sad eyes. ‘Do you mean that, Abbess?’
‘Yes.’
A little hope crept into Rigarda’s face. Aldo leaned forward. ‘The man who accused you, he was not a good or kind man.’
‘Our Lord says it is not for us to judge others,’ she replied.
‘Of course. But I also believe you see who people are by their actions and by their words. This man, Signor Galeri, he came back to the convent after the visitation. Suor Benedicta told us he asked to see you in the visitors’ parlour.’
Rigarda nodded.
‘Did he try to coerce you into assisting him?’
The servant nun frowned. ‘Did he . . .?’
‘Did he ask you to do something for him?’
She nodded, close to tears again. Aldo feared the abbess would end his questioning if Rigarda broke down again. He had to go carefully, delicately.
‘We know someone took Suor Paulina’s key to the back gates so this man could get into the convent on Sunday night. Is that what he asked you to do?’
The servant nun nodded, her eyes brimming. ‘If I didn’t, he would write to the abbess about me stealing food. But I told him no. I wouldn’t do it.’
That was not the answer Aldo had expected. ‘You refused?’
‘Yes. I said he should write to the abbess.’
‘And what did Galeri do?’
‘He laughed at me.’ Rigarda broke down in tears again. ‘He said – he didn’t need me – he had someone else to help him,’ she said between sobs. ‘I was only—’
Aldo finished the words for her. ‘Only in case his other plan failed.’
She nodded. To Aldo’s eye her guilt and shame were true. Galeri had manipulated the servant nun, sought to bend her to his will – without success. Someone else helped Galeri get into the convent after dark, but who had done so and why?
Aldo was willing to wager his own coin that whoever helped Galeri get inside was probably the one who poisoned him. Galeri believed he could use that person to get access to the locked cabinet. Instead, he got a cup of poisoned wine, and twenty-seven stab wounds.
Out in the cloisters a bell rang for nones, the mid-afternoon prayers. Testardo would be back soon, and Galeri’s killer was still to be found. Time was running out.
Suor Giulia refused to sit when brought back into the abbess’s officio. She had already been questioned, there was no reason for her to be summoned again. But Suor Benedicta insisted the summons had come from the abbess, not the visitation, so Giulia did as she was asked. The convent faced enough challenges without her adding to them.
There had been whispers at sext about Testardo leaving, so Giulia was not surprised to find Aldo leading the questions. He promised to be brisk. ‘In fact, I only have one question that needs an honest answer,’ he said, with a bland smile.
‘I have sworn vows of poverty, chastity and obedience,’ Giulia replied. ‘All my answers are honest.’
‘Very well,’ Aldo said. ‘Did you know Signor Galeri before he came to the convent?’
Giulia hesitated. This was the question she had feared. It was a question she had expected earlier but which the monsignor had not asked. Having announced all her answers could only be honest, to lie or evade would be the worst hypocrisy. ‘Yes. Galeri was my husband.’
Aldo took a step back, one eyebrow arching. Most men seemed to believe nuns only came to their vocation as girls or young women. It did not occur to many of them that a woman could be married or even have children before taking the veil. The abbess was less startled, but even she had not known the name of Giulia’s husband – only what he did to her.
‘When was this?’ Aldo asked.
‘Many years ago,’ Giulia said. ‘We married young, far too young. Signor Galeri – Bernardo – was not the man I believed him to be. He gambled, he drank – and often took his losses out on me. One night he came at me with a broken bottle –’
She stopped. It had been so long ago, yet talking about that night brought everything back. Most of the time she could keep the fear and pain at the back of her thoughts. But it always lurked, an old wound waiting to be torn open, a weakness that could give way at any moment. Skin healed, bruises faded, but loss and shame lingered. So did anger – at herself, at those who never came to help, at those who didn’t want to see. And at her husband, for what he did. For what he had broken.
Giulia swallowed all that down, keeping her voice as even as she could. ‘So I fled. I wandered through the city after curfew, banging on doors, but nobody answered me. I needed a refuge, a place to recover. I found it here.’
Aldo’s attention shifted to the abbess. ‘Did you know this?’
She was staring at Giulia. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Did you know this?’ he repeated.
‘I –’ The abbess reached for the cross hanging round her neck. ‘Some of it, but not who Galeri was. I thought Giulia had learned her apothecary skills from her husband.’
‘He preferred hurting to healing,’ Giulia said. ‘No, my father was an apothecary, so I learned at his elbow. My brothers did the same, they were apothecaries as well – they may still be. I have not seen them since coming here.’
‘What happened when Galeri arrived at the convent with the visitation?’ Aldo asked.
‘He did not seem to know me, not at first. And this –’ she gestured to her habit – ‘visitors only see our hands and faces. It is not much to recognize a person by, if you haven’t seen them for many years. I remembered him, of course. It was –’ She paused. ‘He came to my workshop with the monsignor. They did not stay long. Galeri seemed bored, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. I thought my danger had passed. That I was safe again.’
‘But he came back.’
‘Yes. I had been wrong. He did know me, but couldn’t recall from where – at first.’
‘What did Galeri want?’ Aldo asked.
‘To be let into the convent after curfew. He said there was something in the abbess’s officio that he needed. If I helped, he would let me be. If not . . .’
‘He would find a way to hurt you again.’
‘Yes.’
‘But how?’ the abbess asked. ‘You are a respected member of this convent, in a position of responsibility. What could Galeri do to you from outside these walls?’
‘He could make a denunzia accusing me of whatever he wished. Galeri was never much troubled by the truth. He could influence the visitation’s report to the archbishop. He could destroy this convent, if he wished. See it enclosed, or even dissolved. All of that to hurt me.’
‘You agreed to help him,’ Aldo said.
Giulia shook her head.
‘You stole Suor Paulina’s key, and let Galeri in through the back gates after curfew.’
‘No,’ Giulia insisted. ‘I told Bernardo to do his worst. He was always a hollow liar. I knew that whatever he threatened me with was a means to an end and nothing more. Why should Monsignor Testardo listen to a fool like him? Bernardo was angry, cursing at me. He pulled back a fist to hit me, but the young priest came looking for him.’ Someone knocked at the door. ‘I didn’t see him again until the abbess asked me to take his body to the ospedale.’
Aldo crouched beside her. ‘Suor Giulia, did you—?’
The door opened and the prioress strode in, clutching several pages of parchment. ‘Put an end to this inquisition,’ she announced. ‘No more of my sisters in God need face any more your questions. Everything that you need is here.’ The prioress put the pages on the desk.
‘I did it,’ she said. ‘I killed Signor Galeri.’
Statement by Leonello Fideli, written on his behalf by Constable Carlo Strocchi of the Otto di Guardia e Balia:
I live with my wife Salvaza and our infant son Gasparro in a room on Ponte Vecchio above a butcher’s stall where I was working in January. Gasparro was only a few months old then, and not sleeping well due to a cough. I looked after him if he woke before his midnight feed, so Salvaza could get some rest. That was why I was awake to hear two men arguing on the bridge beneath our room. I cannot be certain of the exact date, though I know it was a handful of days after the feast of the Epiphany.
I had been sitting in our nursing chair with Gasparro in my arms, letting him suckle my little finger. It was not his mother’s milk, but still seemed to soothe him. I must have been dozing because a gruff voice woke me, demanding answers. Gasparro shifted in my arms but he did not wake, thank the Madonna. The voice outside spoke again, demanding more coin the next day, and more after that.
I heard another man’s voice, much quieter. He sounded weak, broken.
The first man was sneering. There was a heavy thud, followed by coughing sounds. I put Gasparro back in his cot before going to our wooden shutters. They creak if moved, so I peered between them. But it was dark and I struggled to see much below. One of the men was strutting about as if he owned Ponte Vecchio, while the other was hunched over as if in pain.
‘I should have guessed what kind of man you are much sooner, I suppose,’ I heard the cocksure man say.
Gasparro started coughing again. I feared he was going to wake, but he snuffled himself back to sleep. I put an ear back to the shutter, straining to hear what was happening below.
The louder man said he had been talking to someone. He said that person didn’t seem like much, but they watched and listened. He mentioned a name but not one I recognized. I think it was Benedetto, although I may have misheard that.
Whatever this person had seen or heard, it seemed to be important. The man hunched over was begging for mercy, but it didn’t seem to do him any good. The cocksure one said that from now on, the other man was going to be his whore.
Something happened I couldn’t see, and the two men moved out of my sight. But there was a sound I recognized. I heard it all the time when the butcher was cutting meat at the stall. It’s the sound a blade makes when it pierces flesh.
After that there were only noises, no voices. I thought I heard a heavy splash in the river, but can’t be sure. The last thing I heard for certain was the sound of someone walking away. One man strolled south towards Oltrarno. It sounded as if he didn’t have a care.
I listened for a while longer but there was nothing else. Gasparro’s cough came back and he kept us awake most of the night. Next morning I told my wife Salvaza about what I had heard. She suggested I go downstairs to look on the bridge but I couldn’t see any signs of what had happened. I thought about reporting what I had heard, but Gasparro was very ill and that took all our attention. I forgot about what I’d heard until a constable from the Otto came to ask me about it. He has written this statement for me.
I confirm this is a true and correct record of what I saw and heard that night.
Chapter Twenty-five
After thanking Fideli for his statement, Strocchi hurried to the nearest river crossing. As he strode, Strocchi pieced together what had happened on Ponte Vecchio that cold night in January from what he already knew and what Fideli had said. Cerchi was extorting coin from the man he met on the bridge; that was now certain. This meant the killer was not somebody sent there to murder Cerchi on the behalf of others, not a hired blade or a willing criminal.
The sound Fideli heard of a blade piercing flesh – that must have been the moment when Cerchi’s extortion victim became his killer. Strocchi could not help wondering what the dying man had felt as the knife slid into him. Surprise? Anger? Dismay? Had Cerchi even realized his life was over, or had his arrogance refused to let him consider such a possibility? The splash was probably Cerchi falling into the Arno. The killer was fortunate the waters were high that night, strong enough to carry the evidence of his crime over the weirs and down the river towards Ponte a Signa.
Yet having ended another man’s life, the killer had not run. He had not fled the crime, had not raced from the bridge. There was no fear, no panic. This killer had brought a blade to his meeting with Cerchi, and had been ready to use it. Once Cerchi was gone, his killer strolled south to Oltrarno. What was it Fideli said? As if the killer did not have a care.
Two further things the witness had said made the breath catch in Strocchi’s throat. The first was Cerchi accusing his target of perversion. The man hunched over on the bridge did not deny preferring the company of other men. That secret had become Cerchi’s weapon. Yet a nagging voice at the back of Strocchi’s thoughts told him not to include that in the statement. It was unnecessary, the voice said. Fideli could not read or write so he was none the wiser.
The second thing that had chilled Strocchi was the revelation about who had provided Cerchi with the means for his extortion. What could Benedetto have seen or heard that was so helpful to Cerchi? To find out, Strocchi headed for the Podestà where Benedetto was due on guard duty. A suspicion about who killed Cerchi had been clawing at Strocchi all day. Now it coiled inside him with all the slyness of a serpent, whispering poisonous suggestions. You know who did this, the sibilant voice seemed to be saying. You already know . . .
