The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Who will kill you? Do you then know who killed Querini?’

He licked his lips nervously, and I sought to reassure him.

‘Speak up, and I promise no one will know from me what you said.’

‘The master needed money because the domina had stopped giving him any.’

So Speranza, who no doubt had funds provided by her family, gave nothing to her husband to sustain him in his miserable exile. That of itself was interesting in terms of her immersion in the Beornwyn virgin cult and of her devotion to Hugh. Perhaps the monk was receiving what Querini had lost. I returned my gaze to the man before me, and encouraged him to go on.

‘So how did your master sustain his style of life here?’

Antonis shrugged and remained tight-lipped. But I would not give up, though it took some time before I got the facts from him. It seemed that to supplement his income, Niccolo Querini had resorted to clandestine piracy, along with some of the inhabitants of Sifnos, who were long used to making a living from the pickings of the sea. For many years small trading vessels were boarded and robbed of their goods. Not enough was taken to cause a major problem, which would have resulted in someone like Giovanni Soranzo, in his days as Head of the Navy, cracking down on pirates. They took just enough to feed and sustain a few men and their families. Querini’s role was mostly to discover news of the passage of vessels, but he also relieved his boredom with some active participation too. Antonis was clearly hinting that there might have been a falling out of thieves on the beach.

‘Chlakopo beach is where the pirates bring their loot ashore, you see.’

That was the fearful servant’s last offering. It was going too far for him to offer names. After all, he had to live on this island after we had all gone. But there was one question I had to ask.

‘When you found the body, Domina Speranza said there was a… cloud, I think she said… yes, a cloud of butterflies that rose up from it. Is that true?’

I had remembered in the meantime why her description had chimed with something in my mind. Katie had related to me Speranza Soranzo’s own account of the discovery of St Beornwyn’s flayed body. It had apparently been modestly enveloped with blue butterflies. I was wondering if the miracle had been repeated. Antonis snorted in disbelief.

‘I told her the dogs disturbed some purple butterflies, and that to Greeks they represent the souls of the dead. But there were only two or three. Hardly a cloud.’

Not a miraculous cloud then, more like a figment of Speranza’s fond imagination. I dismissed Antonis, and he practically flew from the room, relief written on his swarthy face. My throat felt dry, and I poured myself a quite palatable Cretan wine of Querini’s. I believe it came from Candia. I decided I would have to follow up Antonis’ information, and find out the names of these petty pirates. The reason why I hadn’t pressed him for the names – besides not having him fear for his life – was that I was unconvinced that Querini’s death had been due to a brawl between thieves. Querini’s hands bore no signs of bruises or scrapes such as he would have got in a fight. However, it was important not to dismiss the idea out of hand. Someone could have crept up on him, and done him in. Besides, what other possibilities did I have at the moment? Katie might come up with something, but until she did, I decided my investigations warranted a journey back to the harbour at Kamares. Querini must have had drinking companions there who could have loose tongues. And the only other avenue I had was Galuppi. If he really did have any orders from the Doge that I was not party to, they may relate to clearing the husband from the scene in order to allow the daughter to return unencumbered. But that was going to be a hard one to tackle. A sojourn in an unnamed tavern close to the harbour had greater appeal as a line of investigation. I would get Querini’s servants to saddle a horse for me.

In the end the horse turned out to be more of a mule, and that was being kind to its ancestry. Perhaps donkey was a more accurate description. Its broad back and recalcitrant ways made the journey over the high back of the island long and sweltering. So I was glad to flop in the shade in one corner of the tavern where I had first seen Querini. In response to my demand for a good red wine, the tavern-keeper brought a jug of something he called Xinomavro. When I poured it into the cracked goblet he provided, it looked as black as old blood. I drank the first draught deeply and incautiously, and my mouth was sucked free of all moisture, leaving me thinking dried blood was an accurate description. I learned later that the name he gave it meant ‘sour black’, which was quite to the point. At first, I didn’t know if I was being played a trick on like some innocent traveller. But everyone else in the tavern seemed to be drinking the same wine, and there were no furtive glances to see if I had been taken in. I poured a second goblet, and took it more slowly. Soon the taste began to grow on me. It was either that, or I was getting drunk enough not to care. I smiled gently and looked around. Several of the faces were familiar from the time I had stormed in to confront Querini, and I wondered if they now knew of his death. And if they did, was it because one of them had been involved in his demise? They all looked like brigands to me.

When I had consumed most of the blood wine, I waved the jug at the tavern-keeper, whose lack of a name made him as anonymous as his hostelry. He brought another jug over, and plonked it on the table by my elbow, splashing some of the wine on my shirtsleeve. I half expected it to burn through the material, but it didn’t. Before he could leave, I grabbed his arm and asked him to sit a while. Reluctantly he did so, casting a defiant glance around the low-ceilinged room in case any of his cronies was of the impression he was consorting with the enemy. I broached the subject on my mind.

‘Querini. Was he a regular here?’

The stubble-chinned man scowled. ‘Why do you want to know? Going to pin his death on one of my customers?’

His Italian was good, which was fortunate. My Greek was execrable. But at least I had learned one thing quickly from his response. They knew Niccolo Querini was dead. I suppose I should not have been surprised – on such a small island bad news would travel fast. It was either that or someone in the tavern had murdered him and boasted of it.

‘Not unless someone here is guilty of his murder. I did hear that he had some… dealings… with local sailors that might have resulted in a falling out.’ I looked around the tavern. ‘Does anyone here fit the bill?’

The tavern-keeper let out a guttural laugh and spat on the rush-strewn floor.

‘Has Antonis been blabbing?’

I kept my mouth shut and my face impassive so as not to give the manservant away. So the tavern-keeper carried on.

‘You don’t need to say anything. He would spread any tale to divert attention from himself.’ He saw the surprise on my face. ‘Oh, yes, he’s dabbled in some offshore fishing , too, if you take my meaning. Him and that little pig-sticker dagger of his. But in answer to your question, there’s some here bold enough to steal, but no one with enough balls to kill a nobleman.’

I nodded sagely. ‘That’s as I thought. But tell me, did Querini talk about his wife much when he drank here?’

Another gob of spit splattered on the floor.

‘That witch? God rot her and her little familiar that follows her around.’

I guessed by the witch’s familiar he meant Brother Hugh. It was not very complimentary for a man of God, but quite apposite. I thought I would stir the pot a little and see what brewed.