Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

“Off!” she yelled. She grabbed the rail, started to climb.

“It’s Carmine from the don’s stable. He’s helping!” Carlo shouted.

Vicenzu lifted a pale face to her and managed a smile. “Lucky for us he rides to Oltramari to visit his parents this evening.”

“Bullet ricocheted, nicked his upper arm. Bad aim, the bandit,” Carmine said. He gestured to a moving cloud of dust in a distant field. The cart, she was sure. The peasants had gone. They must have scattered with the first shot.

On the rest of the ride they were quiet. Dusk mantled the fields, and Serafina felt the chill of early evening. Fingering gold braids, Serafina was glad for the warmth of her cape. She dozed. Saw her husband’s face in the casket. It changed to Vicenzu’s lifeless form. Nearly killed, thanks to her, her innocent, beautiful son. Leg maimed by a galloping horse, left for dead in the streets. A genius with numbers and she’d disregarded him. She hit the side of her thigh.

They should be home before curfew. If not and they’re stopped, Serafina would talk to the roadside guards. For her family and to find the killer of Rosa’s house, she’d do anything. Anything. She gazed out the window, not at the passing scenery, but at the plan she was forming. It was spread out before her, shining, a rough sketch right now. Today she had eliminated two suspects-Don Tigro and the limping cobra. Time to catch the monk.

Sunday, November 4, 1866

Serafina tossed. The Duomo’s bells chimed midnight, half-past. She turned, tangled up in sheets. Slept. Woke. Worried about Vicenzu, the safety of all her children. Worried about coins. The bells gonged: two o’clock.

Throwing off the covers, she pounded out of bed, opened the shutters, nodded to the moon. She breathed in the night air.

Since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well go over her notes. Sitting at Giorgio’s desk in far corner of the bedroom, she scrabbled about in her notebook, sure that she’d forgotten something.

With care she read again her impressions of everyone she’d interviewed. She reviewed the list of suspects she and Rosa made, now whittled down to two, Falco and the monk. Then she made another list. She labeled it ‘Sitings of the Cart’: 1) Outside the shoemaker’s, spewing feathers and old clothes; 2) On Via Saturnalia with Minerva; 3) Near the rope seller’s shop; 4) On the highway (the wounding of Vicenzu). The last one, she circled. Serafina rubbed her eyes. Something, a ragged bit of information she failed to understand tossed about her mind. Important, she was sure.

Scrambling to her feet, she gave one last look outside. Leaning against the sash, she pictured Giorgio, his body lean, his curls dripping neroli oil. The image vanished. Beyond the chestnut tree in the front garden, she could pick out shapes in the piazza next to the statue. A cart near the fountain? Her breath caught in her throat. Was it the ragpicker? The begging monk?

She shut the window, sat on the edge of the bed and thought. In a while, when her eyelids felt like splintered shells in sand, she snuggled into the covers and fell into a sound sleep.

• • •

Serafina watched the sun melt the mist. Deserted the shore, as usual, at this hour. She stared out at the Tyrrhenian Sea, telling herself to be watchful. From now on her movements must be deliberate: she had two more days to catch the killer.

For the past several mornings, she had combed the beach close to where she found Bella’s reticule. So far the tall grass yielded nothing more than bits of old newspaper and cloth, the shells of sea urchins, the sticky remnants of a spider’s web. Had Bella been killed elsewhere; her purse washed here by chance?

Yesterday she noticed a boulder and some smaller rocks partially covering what looked like an opening in a massive outcrop that stood below the orphanage. She was able to squeeze through the fissure into a small space, but the darkness prevented further exploration.

Before she set out this morning, she shoved her notebook, a lantern, some candles and match sticks inside Giorgio’s old knapsack. She slung the bag over her back and started off on her usual trek down to the lower part of town, determined to uncover as much as she could before leaving for her appointment with the contessa.

Serafina consulted her watch. Seven o’clock, still plenty of time before there’d be others on the shore. She squeezed past the boulder, its sides slick with dew, and stood for a moment. After mopping her brow with a linen, she lit the lantern and peered inside at a long narrow hall of stone leading into blackness. She was interrupted by a voice behind her.

“What are you doing here?”

Surprised, Serafina swiveled, slipped on wet stone, catching herself for a moment on the boulder before tumbling to the ground. The lantern, by some miracle, landed upright.

The figure rushed to her. “Hurt?”

“Fine, I think.” Serafina brushed sand from her skirt. Her hand flew to her chest. “I might ask the same of you. I mean, why are you here?” Mind your tongue, let her lead the way.

“I’ve been watching you snoop around these rocks for a couple of days. Orphanage above us. See? Why are you up so early?”

“Investigating the murders of Rosa’s women. Police do nothing. I found Bella’s reticule here, looking for more evidence. Why aren’t you with the orphans?” She bit her lip. No more questions. She smiled at her daughter.

“My day off. You’d better rest.”

They leaned on the rocks and looked at the sea.

“Carlo told me about Gusti.” Carmela looked down. “And Mother Concetta gave me a mighty lecture.”

“Don’t pay attention to that old nun.”

“No, she was right. Always is. Hate to admit it, but-” Carmela’s eyes were wet. “I should have said, I shouldn’t have said-”

My poor girl . “Enough words. No need for more.” Serafina held her daughter, not for the first time and, she vowed, not for the last. No more separation. Never again, never.

They sat. Then Serafina told Carmela what she’d learned so far about the murdered women, the suspects, Rosa’s other prostitutes, the guards, the maids, Formusa, Scarpo, Falco. She summarized the meaning of the marks on the victims’ foreheads, the significance of the six and seven. She retrieved her notebook from the knapsack, went through the pages, making sure she’d left nothing out. “The killer strikes on the sixth day of the month, kills on the seventh. We have two days to create a foolproof plan.”

“Turn up the wick and let’s go,” Carmela said.

“Not in your condition.”

“What would Nanna say?”

Serafina chewed her cheek. “She’d say, ‘Baby the baby, not the mother.’”

Eight o’clock. She still had a few hours.

They walked through a long winding hall, the ceiling at least five meters above them, heard the sound of dripping water, of slithering creatures. Serafina smelled must and human waste. Her curls tightened. She held up the lantern, lit a candle for Carmela.

Their wicks guttered as they entered a cavernous space. Water dripped from the ceiling, beaded on the walls, pooled on the floor. In the middle was a long table with a few chairs scattered about. One was overturned. In the corner were piles of rags and papers, a matted brown cape, gloves, a skein of rope.

“Look at this.” Carmela pointed to a red spot on the table.

“The mark of the serpent,” Serafina said.

“Freakish, this lair.”

“The den of a madman, I’m afraid.” Serafina lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doubtless the place where he executed Rosa’s women.”