The Darkest Sin, page 5
The priest rested a hand on Strocchi’s shoulder. ‘Let him go, Carlo.’ Strocchi was happy to release the blubbering, pathetic figure. Buffon fell back against the wall, crumpling to the ground. The boyhood bully was now a weak and sad creature. Strocchi almost pitied Buffon. But there were more important things to be done.
He bent down to pull at Buffon’s belt, undoing the buckle for a closer look. Yes, it was the same as the one Cerchi had always worn so proudly. The officer liked to hook his thumbs either side of the buckle, pulling it forward so nobody could miss the gleaming silver or the fine image of a Florentine lily etched into it. But there were doubtless other buckles like it, and Strocchi couldn’t be certain this one belonged to Cerchi. Unless . . . He pulled the belt free from Buffon’s tunic, ignoring the drunken gravedigger’s objections. Turning it over, Strocchi found two letters crudely scratched into the silverwork: M. C. Meo Cerchi.
‘I believe this buckle is evidence,’ Strocchi announced. ‘I’m taking it into the custody of the Otto until this matter can be resolved. If no one comes forward to claim it, then the buckle will be returned to you.’
‘The Otto? What’s that?’ Buffon slurred.
‘I’ll explain it to you later,’ the priest volunteered.
Strocchi rubbed a thumb across the initials scratched into the metal. There were many ways this buckle could have found its way downriver from Florence to Ponte a Signa, but one clear path was apparent. ‘Father, tell me about this body that washed up.’
Coluccio frowned. ‘It was early last month, I think. We had a week of rain, and the Arno burst its banks. When the waters receded, they left behind a body.’
‘Can you describe it?’
Coluccio shook his head. ‘Sorry. I performed the burial, but didn’t see the body.’ He leaned nearer Strocchi, voice low. ‘Dado Manucci found the poor soul. He said it must have been in the water some time. Probably trapped under a branch until the flood pulled it clear.’
‘Were the remains male or female?’
‘Male, Manucci said, definitely male.’
Strocchi nodded to the village graveyard. ‘And it was laid to rest in there?’
‘Yes. When nobody claimed the deceased, the parish paid for a proper burial in the pauper’s grave. It is what we have always done for lost souls left behind by the river.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Strocchi shook the priest’s hand. ‘I will see you tomorrow for Mass and the blessing, but I may well need to call on you again today.’
‘Of course,’ Coluccio replied. ‘If I am not at home, I shall be in church. Holy Week is a busy time for a priest, even out here in the countryside.’
Strocchi strode away, the silver buckle clasped in one hand, intent on finding the man who discovered the body. The buckle belonged to Cerchi, Strocchi was certain of that, but was it Cerchi’s body that had washed up on the riverbank? If so, that would solve the mystery of what happened to him. But how the missing officer’s body came to be in the Arno, and whether Cerchi was dead or alive when he went into the water – that was another matter.
Aldo introduced himself and his reason for visiting the abbess, keeping the words unadorned and brisk. She had the look of a woman who wasted little time with pleasantries. She stood upright, her back straight and true, chin raised. Her habit and veil were dark blue, almost black, while her face was framed by a crisp white headband and a close-fitting coif that hid both ears before wrapping under her jaw. A simple wooden cross hung from a chain round her neck, and a knotted belt of rope was tied at her waist. It was difficult to know her age, but wrinkles at her piercing dark eyes and faint lines above her mouth suggested she was his age, or a little older.
‘Have you had any intruders here?’ Aldo asked.
The abbess took a long breath before replying. ‘There have been times when men have sought to get inside after dark. A few succeeded by climbing an external wall and coming over the roof. Most were the worse for wine, acting on a whim or goaded by drunken fools. We guided them back outside, via the door that you came in.’
‘And the rest?’
‘One was a besotted youth who believed his beloved had been sent here against her wishes to prevent them being together.’
‘Had she?’
‘Not all those who take the veil in Florence do so of their own choice,’ the abbess said, ‘but this convent does not believe in confining women at the behest of their famiglia. A lifetime in the service of our Lord should be a choice, not an imprisonment. We proved to the youth that he was in error, and he left.’
Aldo nodded. The Otto had received a few anonymous denunzia against convents in the past, claiming a sister or lover was being kept against their will. The claims were passed on to the Church, which had authority over such matters. But Santa Maria Magdalena had never faced such an accusation. ‘Any others?’
‘There was a thief who had heard rumours of a treasure kept within these walls. His mistake was to climb onto our roof during a rainstorm in January. He slipped and fell into the courtyard.’ The abbess looked over her shoulder at the internal door. ‘His left leg was injured, so we treated him in our infirmary until he was able to leave.’
‘I don’t recall that being reported to the Otto.’
‘Nothing was taken, so there was no need.’ The hint of a smile played around her lips. ‘As the Lord’s prayer tells us, we must forgive those who trespass against us. Most of our prayers aren’t usually quite so literal in their expression, but . . .’
Aldo found himself warming to the abbess, but he was no closer to knowing if there was any truth in what Ruggerio had reported. ‘And in the last few nights? Has anyone attempted to get into the convent then?’
She frowned a moment. ‘Not to the best of my knowledge.’
The abbess might not believe in lying, but it didn’t mean she was beyond a sin of omission. Besides, her word alone would not satisfy Bindi, let alone Ruggerio.
‘Could I look around the convent? I don’t need to see all of it, but the segretario expects a full report on what I found here, as well as what I am told. Otherwise he will keep sending me back.’ That sounded more of a threat than Aldo intended, but it was still true. Once fixed on a problem, Bindi kept worrying at it, like Cerchi’s unexplained absence.
‘I will show you the rest of the lower level,’ the abbess said, her reluctance all too evident. ‘The upper level is where my sisters in God rest and sleep. If you wish to see the dormitories and private cells, that will require permission from the archbishop.’
‘Of course,’ Aldo agreed.
‘Then I shall fetch the key to admit you,’ the abbess said on her way out.
Aldo was grateful for her co-operation. He had no wish to get entangled with Church politics. The present Archbishop of Florence was notorious for having bought his position from his predecessor with a large sum of coin. Since then Andrea Buondelmonti had devoted much of his time to reclaiming his considerable expense by various stratagemmi, such as imposing a bounty on those who sought absolution for missing Mass on Sunday.
The sooner Aldo could complete his investigation at the convent, the better.
Chapter Five
Isabella Goudi stalked from the palazzo and climbed into the carriage waiting outside. She would have slammed the door behind her, but a servant was holding it open. Besides, the carriage belonged to the Contarinas, not her own famiglia, and there was no value in taking her anger out on somebody else’s possessions. Her friend Chola Contarina saw the look on Isabella’s face and stayed silent. The two were close enough for Isabella to share what was infuriating her when she was ready.
The carriage rolled away, heading east on its way to the Convent of Santa Maria Magdalena. When it was first proposed that Isabella should study at the convent, she had refused. Why waste her days being lectured by nuns? After all, nuns spent their lives praying and denying themselves even a moment of pleasure. Isabella preferred whispering secrets with her maid Nucca, gossiping with Chola or persuading Papa to buy her another gown.
That was fun. That was joy.
Not praying. Not studying. Not nuns.
But then Nucca mentioned the opportunities that might arise from doing what Mama and Papa wanted. First, it meant going out into the city. The palazzo could be like a gilded cage, especially when Nonna was in one of her moods. Isabella was fifteen and eager to explore, to see and experience new things. Most of the time she never went anywhere except to Mass, and even then she was surrounded by the whole famiglia.
Agreeing to study at the convent meant a chance to spend time with more girls her own age. That was exciting, much more exciting than learning about Latin and history and dusty old things in dusty old books. Isabella used to see her friend Chola Contarina every month, back when Chola and her mother were frequent visitors to the palazzo. But those happy mornings had become less and less frequent, no doubt because the famiglia business was struggling again. Papa and Mama thought Isabella didn’t know, but she did. She might talk more than they liked, but she also knew how to listen and how to go unnoticed when important conversations were being whispered close by.
Attending classes at Santa Maria Magdalena also meant she could hear gossip from the daughters of other merchants, discover all those delicious secrets that never got spoken inside the palazzo. Isabella could learn who was in love with whom, what the newest gowns looked like, and what spring weddings were likely. Marriage was not unknown for girls yet to see fifteen summers, often to men much older than them. Mama had been betrothed by the time she was Isabella’s age to ensure a favourable business alliance.
Having decided going to the convent might be useful after all, Isabella still resisted for another few days. That won the promise of a new dress from Papa, a pleasing reward for something she was going to do anyway. In a palazzo full of women who knew their own mind, Papa always gave way. He was a reed in the wind while those around him were storms and tempests. He would surrender anything for a quieter life, and Isabella enjoyed using this to her advantage. Mama and Nonna did it, why shouldn’t she?
Three months into her lessons came the news Isabella most dreaded. She heard it first from Chola, whispered in the back of the Contarinas’ carriage, bumping along the uneven streets to the convent. Negotiations were underway to form a partnership between Isabella’s famiglia and another member of the Arte della Lana, the prestigious guild of wool makers and merchants – an alliance with Isabella offered in marriage as part of the deal!
She did not wish to believe it at first. Papa was easily bullied into doing what others wanted, but the notion that Mama had agreed to this bargain was much harder to accept. Yet Chola always had the most reliable gossip. And Isabella knew full well who must be behind all of this: Nonna. She would not hesitate to trade her granddaughter for a good alliance, just as she had done by marrying Mama to Papa. Isabella had long delighted in vexing Nonna whenever possible. Now the sneering old strega was getting her own back.
Well, not if Isabella could find a way to stop it.
Days turned into weeks, yet nothing came of the gossip. Chola was never wrong, Isabella did not dare to hope for that. But the silence did give her time to plan. Was there some strategia she could devise to avoid being trapped in an unwanted marriage? Isabella put all her energy and imagination into inventing an escape, but could see no way out. Then she was summoned by her parents and Nonna after they all returned from Palm Sunday Mass.
Papa stumbled over his words, while Mama stood by a window staring out at the city, unable to hold Isabella’s eye. Eventually, Nonna lost patience and announced that Isabella had been betrothed to Ercole Rosso. He was a member of the Arte della Lana, just as Chola had predicted. Rosso was not a young man, Nonna smirked, so he would not bother Isabella often or for long once she had given him a son and heir.
‘When?’ Isabella had asked, not trusting herself to say more.
‘Soon,’ Nonna replied, her pleasure all too evident. ‘A spring wedding is always best. You don’t wish to be heavy with child during summer.’
That had torn Isabella’s breath away. How could anyone be so callous, so cold? But before she could respond, a servant entered, announcing the Contarinas’ carriage was waiting. Perhaps it had been for the best. Isabella would not have been able to stop her tongue once she started telling Mama, Papa and Nonna what she thought of their plan for her future. Yes, it was better to withdraw, to regather. She let Chola gossip as the carriage turned north. Isabella had no wish to share her news, not yet. She would wait until after classes, when they were back in the carriage and on their way home. It gave her a chance to think. There must be a way to escape this betrothal. There must!
Entering the convent cloisters was crossing a threshold into another world for Aldo. The walls around the courtyard were made of stone that recalled warm honey, each surface welcoming the sun – a stark contrast to the cold, forbidding hollow at the heart of the Podestà. The courtyard itself was given over to grass, a lush emerald sward surrounded by fragrant lavender on all sides and stone cloisters with vaulted ceilings. Aldo was surprised to see the distinctive purple flowers blooming so early, filling the air with their scent. A few nuns sat beneath the cloisters on benches, some reading prayer books, others with their eyes closed.
The convent’s upper level rose above the cloisters. Aldo could see narrow windows dotting the walls, a glimpse of wooden shutters visible inside them. None of the gaps were large enough for a man to climb in or out of – a child would struggle to squeeze through. There was certainly no easy way for an intruder to climb from the roof to the courtyard. They would need to bring strong rope, and more than a little guile. ‘Are there any other courtyards within the convent?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been inside the monastery at San Marco and that has two large courtyards, along with a smaller one.’
‘There is a second courtyard on the other side of the chapter house, near the rear of the convent.’ The abbess gestured to the far side of the cloisters. ‘As you will see, it is given over to the kitchen garden, and a small orchard. We grow as much of our own food as possible. The garden also provides herbs for Suor Giulia to use in her remedies, and a drying place for our laundry during the warmer months of the year.’
‘How many live here?’
‘Forty-three, at present,’ she replied, without hesitation. ‘Thirty of us came when the convent was created as a daughter house to Le Murate, and our numbers have grown in the two decades since. Most of our sisters are chapter nuns, devoting their lives to good works and prayer. We also have servant nuns, plus six girls who board here under our guardianship. Another half a dozen girls come to the convent to study during the day.’
‘And none of them has reported seeing an intruder in the last few days?’
‘Of course not.’ The abbess frowned as if the question was absurd. ‘I would know should anything of that nature occur within these walls.’
It all seemed unremarkable, and much as Aldo had expected. Whatever Ruggerio was pursuing inside the convent, there was little of interest to report here. To the left of the parlour stood an infirmary. This long, narrow room occupied the rest of the south side of the courtyard, running parallel to the dirt road outside. The infirmary contained ten beds, but only a few were occupied, all by nuns of later years. ‘The elderly and frail are a constant presence here,’ the abbess said in a hushed voice as she led Aldo past the patients. ‘Sometimes they are joined by sisters who become acutely ill. But all are well cared for by our infirmarian, Suor Simona.’ The abbess nodded to one of three nuns tending the ill. She wore a similar habit but the two nuns assisting her wore black habits, rather than dark blue. One patient had a bowl beneath her left forearm to catch blood seeping from a cut across the skin. ‘We had to summon a doctor for Suor Piera,’ the abbess whispered. ‘He insisted on bloodletting to ease her delirium, despite objections from our apothecary, Suor Giulia.’
As the abbess led him back to the cloisters, Aldo asked about the different colours worn within the convent. ‘Girls in our guardianship and those who come here to learn wear pale blue. Servant nuns wear black,’ she replied. ‘They are usually from poorer families, or outside the city. They have a calling, but serve in a different way to chapter nuns.’
‘How?’
‘They work in our kitchen, or the laundry, and in the infirmary, as you’ve seen.’
‘The more menial tasks,’ Aldo observed. The abbess bristled.
‘Chapter nuns all have duties of their own in this convent. Some labour long hours at the scriptorium, copying illuminated manuscripts. Others assist those in important posts, such as the sacrist and the almoner. It is important that such knowledge be passed on within the convent, to prepare those who may well fill these posts in future.’
‘But how is it decided who becomes chapter nuns?’
‘Those with education are better suited to certain roles,’ the abbess replied, her face becoming stern. ‘Those from humbler backgrounds are used to more . . . laborious tasks.’
Even here there was a hierarchy, Aldo noted, a divide between those who came from wealth and those who didn’t. He wouldn’t be surprised if families paid to ensure their daughters and sisters became chapter nuns. ‘As it is in the city, so shall it be in the convent,’ Aldo muttered as the abbess strode away.
She whirled round to face him. ‘I permitted you to enter our convent despite the fact that you have no authority here. You have been inside our walls mere minutes, yet you see fit to judge a community about which you know nothing.’
Aldo’s face flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I did not—’
‘Silence!’ she snapped, her nostrils flaring. The abbess took a slow breath before speaking again. ‘This convent is not perfect, but it aspires to do our Lord’s work. Inside these walls my sisters and I are able to talk and pray together. We discuss and debate, we make our own decisions – regardless of whether we are chapter or servant nuns. We are a community. In return for being servant nuns, those sisters can learn to read and write if they wish – opportunities that would be impossible for them outside. Here they are treated with respect. Is that the life of most women in this city? Is that how life is for women from poor families?’
