Dave Duncan - The Alchemists pursuit

"Did he name this informant?"

Bernardo growled. "No. Doctor, is it possible that eventually, in the fulness of time, we may come to an explanation of this windstorm?"

"I hope so, messer. Foscari died in September. Let us move on to the curious events of December. Your mother keeps her confidential papers in a warded box. To open it one must know both the words and gestures of a minor spell. You, sier Bernardo, keep your 'political ledger' as you call it, in a similar box?"

Bernardo mumbled something I could not hear.

The Maestro did. "I thought so. Those caskets may seem secure to the uninformed, but in reality they are not. Any reasonably skilled practitioner of the dark arts could override the minor spell with a stronger. They cannot long withstand even a gifted busybody like your Jacopo Fauro. He must have broken your mother's code, perhaps years ago. At some time he overheard your words. At another, perhaps, he witnessed your actions. Last December he opened your casket in your absence and read through your diary. He learned Foscari's secret-and sold it to your mother!"

Domenico laughed. "Lustrissimo, you certainly have managed some high-class snooping of your own, but a lot of what you are spouting is mere speculation. If you are trying to befuddle us into telling you this supposed dark secret that the dying Foscari supposedly imparted to my brother, then you are wasting your time and ours."

"I already know the secret, clarissimo." The Maestro put his fingertips together, five on five, as he does when he plans to deliver a lecture. "The truth is that Zorzi Michiel never fled into voluntary exile. He never left Venice."

"Who told you this?" Bernardo growled. "And by asking that, I am not conceding that what you say has any merit."

"No? I told you earlier-your mother told me. Her favorite son vanished without saying farewell or dropping her a note. He did not warn either of you that he was going, or you would have started comforting her with forged letters right away, instead of weeks or months later. The Ten never questioned her as to where he might have gone. They announced his guilt rather than reveal how he had died. Do I have it right?"

The silence was answer enough.

This was the secret too dangerous for me to know.

It explained why the Ten was so determined to stop any reopening of the Gentile Michiel case, and it totally changed the range of possible motives for the courtesan murders.

"Revenge," the Maestro said softly, as if he had overheard my thought. "Eight years ago your brother was denounced as a patricide in an anonymous letter. A woman gave false witness and now someone is going around killing anyone who might be that perjurer. Four women dead, at least three of them innocent." He waited, but neither of his listeners spoke.

Why hadn't I seen this? He had guessed because his quatrain had prophesied blind vengeance.

"I do not know who that spiteful snitch was and I have been trying to convince the Ten that I have no interest in anything connected with the death of Gentile Michiel. That secret is safe with me. But the current murders must be stopped. That is what matters.

"Tonight, messere, this case has come to a head. An additional piece of evidence has come into my possession. One of the murdered courtesans, Caterina Lotto, was deceived by a note that purported to come from your late brother. The sbirri hunted for it, but it was not found until today and then it was brought to me. Obviously it should have gone directly to the Ten and I must turn it in right away. I will also testify that the handwriting is that of your half-brother, Jacopo Fauro."

Both brothers started to speak, and it was the orator's voice than won out.

"No, Doctor," Bernardo boomed. "Understand that we were in no wise cognizant of these deaths! We were not aware that prostitutes were being murdered until last Saturday, when your apprentice came around asking questions about Zorzi, followed not long after by a messenger from the Council of Ten. Jacopo knew, because he consorts with servants and lowlifes, which we most certainly do not. He took great pleasure in enlightening us. I was deeply shocked and distressed. I convened a meeting of the family on Sunday, including Fedele and Lucretzia, and even signora Isabetta."

"Jacopo?"

"We called him in a couple of times."

"Not your mother?"

"Our mother was feeling indisposed that morning. I had a long discourse with her later. At the meeting I suggested that we all demonstrate that we could not have been involved. Jacopo went and fetched a diary of his own, and we looked up the dates, so far as we knew them. We were not certain when the first woman died, but Jacopo had alibis for the three we did know about."

The Maestro had been shaking his head all through this. "I did not say that any of you committed these crimes in person. But Jacopo locates the victims, starting with the information in that old journal your mother kept of Zorzi's escapades. Jacopo baits the traps, as he did by writing the note I mentioned. He may even hire and pay off the bravo who does the actual dirty work, but just because there is no literal blood on his hands makes him no less guilty in the eyes of the law." He chuckled. "Did you happen to notice when he started keeping this convenient diary?"

Domenico sighed. "I did. When do you think?"

"Around the middle of last December?"

"Yes."

"Jacopo Fauro," Bernardo declaimed, "is a compulsive liar. But why should he murder people to avenge a half-brother he can scarcely remember, a man eight years older than himself?"

"For money, clarissimo," the Maestro said. "Just as the bravo does. And who has both a motive of vengeance and all the money required to finance this hellish conspiracy?"

Right at that moment someone started beating a thunderous tattoo on the door knocker. We had another visitor.

I could have outstripped a bat between the dining room and the door, but even before I arrived the caller began hammering again. I had given up trying to guess who might call on us next, but I was fairly certain that Missier Grande would be more subtle than whoever this was. As soon as I clattered the lock, the racket stopped. The visitor pushed on the door and burst through.

"Where is he?" she shouted. "Where are they? My husband? Sier Bernardo?"

Signora Isabetta's head was bare, which is an unthinkable breach of custom and her graying hair was bedraggled. She was gasping for breath, wore a bloody contusion on her left temple, and was not dressed for outdoors. I could hear old Luigi downstairs arguing fiercely with a woman, but of course no lady would leave the house without a companion. Ignoring Isabetta, I strode over to the balustrade and peered down the stairwell. I waved to the watchman to let him know all was well and he waved back. I returned to the salone.

Already Giorgio and Mama had emerged from the kitchen at the far end, anxious to discover what all the ruckus was about. Isabetta, no longer in the slightest bit mousey, had tried the door to the right, discovering the Maestro's bedroom, all dark. As I headed for the atelier, she shot past me and barged right in. Do not doubt that I followed. The men were all on their feet by then, even the Maestro, clutching his staff with both hands, leaning on it for support.

"She's gone!" Isabetta shouted, "She's gone!" She kept repeating it, trying to be understood over the brothers's cries of alarm and the Maestro's efforts to issue medical instructions. Domenico grabbed his wife to calm her. I grabbed a chair and put it behind her knees. Between us we sat her down. I headed for the cupboard where we keep the medical supplies.

It was Bernardo's cannon voice that prevailed. He bellowed for silence and got it.

"Donna Alina?" he demanded. "She hit you?"