S. Parris - The Secret Dead

** *

September rolled into October, apples ripened in theorchard, and mists drifted in from the bay, though without a repeat of theprevious year’s fever epidemic. Fra Gennaro relaxed around me as he realizedthat I appeared to have suppressed my qualms and was not going to endanger himwith a sudden eruption of conscience. He requested my assistance morefrequently in the dispensary, and on occasion confided in me his notes anddrawings from previous experiments, as if to demonstrate his trust. He promisedto introduce me to a friend of his in the city, an aristocrat and a man ofconsiderable influence as a patron of the sciences. As the weeks passed, I evenmanaged to sleep through the night untroubled by dreams of the dead girl,though not every night.

But in other ways, my fortunes took a turn for the worse. Itbecame clear that I had put myself on the wrong side of Donato, and that was adangerous place to be. Perhaps he thought I knew too much, or perhaps he justwanted to remind me of his threat. I was summoned before the prior, chargedwith a series of minor infractions of the rules that he could not have knownabout unless someone was spying on me. I was given penance and a stern warningnot to repeat the offenses, as there would be no leniency in future. I lost thesmall freedoms taken for granted by the wealthier young friars, and foundmyself reduced to a life of prayer, worship, and study — which was, I supposed,no more or less than the life I had signed up to in the first place, but itstill chafed. The watch brothers were told to confirm that I was in my cellevery night between Compline and Matins. My reading material and mycorrespondence were subject to unannounced inspections. Everywhere I felt Donato’seyes on me — in the refectory, in chapel, in chapter meetings — and I could donothing but watch and wait for him to strike. All this petty needling, I felt,was just a prelude. Donato was afraid of what he thought I knew, and he hadsomething planned for me. The worst was not knowing what or when, so that I waspermanently on my guard.

Over a month had passed since the night ofthe girl’s death. The season was growing cooler; at night, when we troopedreluctantly to Matins as the bells struck two, the air was tinged with wood smoke.I shuffled to my place in the chapel one night in October, stifling a yawn(there was a penance for that, if you did it too often), when I glanced acrossthe choir and noticed the empty seats. Donato, Agostino, Paolo, and at leasttwo of the other younger friars had not returned in time for the service. Thisin itself was unusual; for all his swagger, Donato was careful to make anoutward show of obedience. He reasoned that, as long as he was present at eachappointed office, no one would question what he did in between. I could seethat the prior, too, had noted the absences, though he made no mention of it.

Ten minutes into the service, I heard a disturbance at theback and turned to see Agostino rush in, his face blanched and stricken, thedoor clanging behind him. With no regard for propriety, he pushed through toFra Gennaro and whispered in his ear; Gennaro immediately snatched up hiscandle and followed Agostino out of the chapel. The prior was furious at theinterruption, his face slowly turning the color of ripe grapes, but he masteredhimself, exchanged a few words with the sub-prior, and disappeared after thetroublemakers. The younger novices were almost bursting with excitement at theunknown drama and the sub-prior had to call us back to order several times. Itwas a small miracle that we managed to complete the office as if nothing were amiss.

Paolo was waiting for me in the cloister when I returnedfrom Matins. I had never seen him look so shaken.

“Did you hear? Donato is dead.”

“What?” I stared at him. “When?”

“An hour ago. At the Cerriglio.”

Heedless now of the watch brothers, I followed him to his celland made him tell me everything.

Donato had taken a room upstairs at the tavern and engagedthe services of one of the girls. After she left, he had called for hot waterand towels to wash himself before returning to the convent. When the servanttook the basin of water up to him there was no answer from the room. Sheknocked louder and then opened the door, to find him lying on the bed, naked,with his throat cut. You could have heard her screams at the top of Vesuvius,Paolo said. No one had noticed any disturbance from Donato’s room earlier,though one of the other customers thought he had seen a new serving girl, onehe did not recognize, loitering on the stairs by the back door shortly beforethe body was found. But Signora Rosaria had not hired any new serving girlsrecently, and this man was quite far gone in his cups, so his word was notworth much.

“They brought in the whore Donato was with, of course,”Paolo said, his voice still uncertain, “though she swears blind he was aliveand well when she left him a half-hour earlier. What’s more, she didn’t have aspeck of blood on her, and you couldn’t cut a man’s throat like that withoutbeing drenched in it. I suppose that will not count for much, if they decide toaccuse her.”

The strangest thing, he added, was that Donato’s purse hadbeen sitting there on top of his habit on a chair by the bed, in full view, andhad not been touched. He shuddered. “Think of it, Bruno. Naked and defenseless.Throat cut right across. It could have been any one of us.”

“Donato went out of his way to make enemies,” I said,carefully. “I don’t think you need to worry.”

“All the same,” he said, rubbing his neck with feeling, “Ithink I might give the Cerriglio a miss for a while. Wouldn’t hurt me to stayin and pray more often. I could learn from your example.”

“I would be glad of the company,” I said, forcing a smile.

** *

The furor took a long time to die down. Fra Donato’s father,Don Giacomo, was almost felled by grief; Naples had not seen such anextravagant and public display of mourning in decades. In return for hushing upthe ignominious circumstances of Donato’s death, the prior of San Domenico receiveda handsome donation, for which he was grateful, particularly since he knew itwould be the last. Don Giacomo had intended his money to ensure his son’ssmooth ascent to election as prior one day; now there was no longer any purposeto his bequests. The whore Donato had been with before he died was arrested andquietly spirited away. Some days after the murder, they had found thebloodstained dress of a serving girl stuffed into a well a few streets from theinn, which was considered good enough evidence against the word of a whore. Inever learned what became of her; I suppose she was hanged. No one else wasever found guilty of the crime.

The following spring, not long after the Feast of Candelora,as I was crossing Strada del Seggio di Nilo, I saw a young woman moving towardme through the mass of people, and for a moment my breath stopped in my throat.She carried a leather satchel across her body; a fall of glossy dark hairrippled around her shoulders, burnished in the sun, and she walked gracefully,with an air of self-possession. I withdrew into my hood and turned my faceaside as she approached; I did not want to be recognized. If she saw me, shegave no sign of it, but as she passed, a splinter of sunlight caught the goldencrucifix locket she wore around her neck, blinding me with a flash ofbrilliance. When I looked up again, she had vanished into the dust and crowdsof Naples.