The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Crossing the floating bridge at the Rialto was a bit chancy, but as luck would have it, some merchant was arguing the toss about the toll he should be paying to cross. As he was being stiffed by the guardian of the bridge, I pulled my hood down and hurried across, making the sign of the cross for good measure. He even let me cross without charge, probably aiming to get double out of the unfortunate merchant. On the other side, I avoided the main streets, and detoured through some vegetable gardens, and a nasty muddy campo where several pigs were rooting for fodder. Not all was beauty and elegant architecture in Venice, even now.

Finally, after wiping the pig-shit off my boots on a couple of wooden piles jutting out from the side of a rio , I made it to where Old Man di Betto’s house stood. It was opposite the church of San Pantalon, inside which there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity. It was already dusk, and the light of scores of candles cast a yellow glow on to the beaten earth of the small square before the church doors. More strangely, the street door to di Betto’s house stood wide open. Venice isn’t such a safe place that you can leave your doors open, and expect your property to still be in place when you return. The unusual circumstances made me instantly cautious, and I just poked my head round the door. A female servant stood weeping at the foot of a spiral staircase. I pulled back, but she had spotted me already.

‘Oh, father. Have you come for the funeral ceremony? It’s in San Pantalon across the way. Your presence will be such a comfort to the master. Though he hardly knows what’s going on, actually…’

I laid my hand on the woman’s shoulder in what I hoped was a fatherly gesture, and expressed my sorrow at old di Betto’s death. Silently, I cursed my ill-luck. With the old man’s death so recent, it would make my inquisition of his son all the more difficult. The servant prattled on about the tragedy.

‘Yes, father, it is so cruel when a son precedes his parent to Heaven.’

‘A son…?’

‘Yes, father. Who would have thought little Lorenzo would die so soon?’

I quickly made the sign of the cross over the servant woman, and hurried across the street, and into the interior of San Pantalon. The groups of candles cast deep shadows in the arcades and recesses of the church, throwing the little huddle of people sitting below the altar into stark contrast. Before them, on trestles, lay a coffin, its interior open to view. I felt an urge to run across the tiled floor to see who was inside, but restrained myself enough to keep my pace down to an urgent trot. But soon I gathered pace, and a few heads were lifted in surprise, as I finally passed the mourners at a gallop to come to an abrupt stop at the coffin. I grasped the sides, and peered in at the sightless face that lay within.

‘Damnation.’

It wasn’t the old man. It was the son, Lorenzo di Betto. The man who had accused me of murder. It was the worst of all situations for me. His witness statement couldn’t be retracted now, and I had missed my chance to get the truth out of him.

‘Father? Why did you say he was damned?’

It was the quavering voice of Old Man di Betto. The poor bastard was confused at the best of times, so now was not the time to cast doubt on the integrity of his only son. I dipped my head down so he would not recognize me, and kept my voice low and spoke with a heavy Paduan accent.

‘I was damning the man who did this to your son. He was murdered, I presume?’

A heavy-set man with thinning white hair separated himself from the group, and grasping my arm, took me to one side. Lorenzo’s father remained standing by the coffin, his mouth hanging open. Saliva dripped down the front of his mantle, and incomprehension stood in his eyes.

The heavy-set man spoke. ‘I am Carlo di Betto, Lorenzo’s uncle. Come, it would be better if my older brother does not hear us.’

We walked side by side back down the nave of the church. In contrast to my arrival, the pace was now stately and solemn. After all, I had nowhere to go now. Carlo di Betto took a deep breath, and then explained what had happened, insofar as anyone could fathom.

‘It seems Lorenzo received a message two days ago that caused him a great deal of agitation. But he would tell no one what the content of it was. Nor can we now find the message anywhere. It must, however, have requested a rendezvous, because at some point that evening, Lorenzo left the house alone. We can only assume he didn’t ever come back, because his bed lay untouched the following morning. Then around midday yesterday, his body was brought to my brother’s door on a pallet. He had been strangled, and stabbed with a dagger. Whoever did this to him surely wanted to be sure he was dead.’

‘And does anyone know who did it?’

The man laughed bitterly. ‘That is obvious. If Lorenzo had not happened to witness the murder of Domenico Lazzari, he would still be alive today. And if my brother had not wasted his money on a stupid colleganza , Lorenzo might still be with us. No, father, it is obvious as the nose on your face who did it.’

I instinctively buried my face further in the folds of my hood, guessing what was coming next.

‘The man who killed my nephew was the man who swindled Lorenzo’s father. The same man who connived with, and then fell out with, Lazzari and murdered him. Nicolo Zuliani.’

Di Betto turned back to go inside the church, leaving me standing on the steps leading back down into the square. The door to di Betto’s house still yawned blankly open, and I could sense only darkness and sorrow inside. I felt the same emptiness in my heart. My final lead had been snuffed out like a votive candle.

At a loss as to what to do next, I hovered by the church doors, keeping to the shadows in case someone recognized me. It was lucky I did, because who should emerge from San Pantalon but a very familiar figure. Fish-faced Pasquale Valier. I couldn’t imagine that he was acquainted with Lorenzo di Betto, or anyone else in that family of merchants, so I was instantly curious as to why he was there. And it may have been the moonlight, shining down cold and silvery on the scene, but I could swear his face looked very pale and washed-out. There was also something furtive about his movements. Though I could hardly comment, lurking secretively as I was in the shadow of the church’s portico in the garb of a Franciscan.

As he scuttled past me, he muttered a plea for benediction. I bowed low to be sure he didn’t recognize me, and made the sign of the cross. I watched him cross the square, and go over the rio , before realizing he was going in the wrong direction for his father’s palazzo. On the spur of the moment, I decided to follow him. I had no other plan up my capacious Franciscan sleeve.

As we both passed the building site that was the Frari, he looked anxiously over his shoulder. So I turned left towards the steps of the half-finished building, and through the archway. Pausing for a few moments, I then abruptly turned back on myself. I peered round a rough-hewn column just in time to see Valier make for the imposing street doors of one of the fine palazzos whose water frontages lined the Grand Canal. Deciding my disguise was a hindrance now, I discarded the robe on a pile of stones, but still hung back in the shadows. I tried to figure out on whose door he was knocking, and it was quite a shock when I realized.

More used to seeing the palazzo from the canal side, it was only when the door was opened, and I heard a familiar broad accent, that I saw he was gaining admittance to Palazzo Dolfin. A million questions buzzed around my fevered brain. Had Caterina and her family returned unbeknownst to me? Had they ever been away? If neither, what business would Valier have with the lone servant left behind to look after the house?