Dave Duncan - The Alchemist's Code

I thought that I had done quite well so far. There was another conclusion to be drawn, a very obvious one, except that I was not supposed to know about the absence of significant bloodstains in the loggia. Since nobody had yet mentioned that, I yielded to temptation and dangled a lure to see who would bite.

“He must have known his assailant,” I said, “and trusted him enough to turn his back on him, because no man will stand still to be impaled when he can leap into a canal. Dolfin was never much of a swimmer as a child, but the Rio San Remo is barely deep enough to drown in, even at high tide.” No one commented and I pushed on. “So he was standing in the loggia, looking outward-perhaps hoping a gondola would come by, although the hour must have been late. His companion was farther back, possibly on the pretext of seeking better shelter from the rain. Or possibly he came from the door.”

Vasco’s eyes gleamed, and I realized that I had given myself away in earnest this time.

“Or else,” I continued, “Danese was waiting for Luigi to open the door for him, and the murderer came from the watersteps, perhaps disembarking from the very same boat. When Dolfin was struck, he fell back on the hilt of the sword, driving the blade in as far as it could go. It would have snapped if he had fallen forward on it. Which way was he facing?”

For a moment no one spoke, although the Maestro’s lips were pursed hard enough to hurt.

Then Father Farsetti said, “His head was almost in the corner of the house wall, which means he had been facing outward.” The priest is the finest player of simultaneous mental chess I have ever met-I have watched him play six games at once-so either visualizing violent crime was not another of his skills, or he was playing along with me just as the Maestro was.

A clatter of feet announced the arrival of Corrado and Christoforo, jostling their way through the door, competing to be first with the news and shouting over each other: “Dr. Modestus says-” “The Jew says he-” “-he is sorry but he-” “-will visit a sick person-” “-cannot come to view a corpse-” “-but not come-” “-on the Sabbath.” “-to see a dead one.”

“Damnatio!” the Maestro snapped. “Very well, then! Away with you! That is unfortunate,” he confided to the priest. “I would value his opinion on the time of death, for Their Excellencies will certainly want to know that.” He was more annoyed at himself for having forgotten that today was Saturday.

The boys slunk out, angry at not being paid.

“I arrived here about ten o’clock,” Vasco announced confidently. “It took me much hammering to fetch that oaf of a doorman, and some minutes to argue my way in. There was certainly no carcase cluttering up the loggia then.”

“You are sure of the time?” the Maestro demanded, cutting off Father Farsetti’s protest about disrespect for the dead.

“Reasonably. It was about an hour after the curfew rang. The doorman says he locked up at curfew. For what the old fool’s testimony is worth, this morning he agrees that my knock came about then.”

“Luigi does not always interpret curfew the way the sun does,” I said, “is it possible that sier Danese was killed later than ten o’clock, master?”

He frowned, but did not look at me. “I estimate time of death as being within an hour of curfew, either before or after.”

My sword had killed Danese, so only a total blockhead would not see that I was in very grave trouble. But Vasco himself was now testifying that I had been in Ca’ Barbolano until after ten, so the earlier Danese had died, the less my peril. Ironically, Vasco had not yet seen this.

“I assure you,” he said, “that I did not overlook a corpse at my feet while I was waiting for that wreck of a doorman.”

“I did not say you did, Vizio. Turn him over again, please.” The Maestro slit Danese’s doublet and shirt and pulled free the bloodstained cloth. “Water and a cloth, please Alfeo.”

I assumed he wanted to look for postmortem bruising, evidence of the way blood had settled after death.

As I turned toward the doorway, it was suddenly occupied. The big man in the red and blue robe was Gasparo Quazza, Missier Grande. Behind him came a nobleman in black robes and then Sergeant Torre, chief of our local sbirri. Out in the salone were several more constables and a very worried Giorgio. Without a word, Missier Grande nodded to the priest and Nostradamus, made the sign of the cross in respect to the corpse, and then turned to his vizio.

“The deceased,” Vasco said, “is nobile homo Danese Dolfin, recently married to Grazia Sanudo, daughter of the ducal counselor, Zuanbattista Sanudo. His body was found in the loggia this morning by the night watchman when he opened the watergate at sunrise. It was not there when I arrived here, as per instructions, at approximately ten o’clock last night, although Doctor Nostradamus judges that the time of death was between eight and ten. I assume the murder was committed just after I arrived, but I have not yet asked the watchman if there were any other callers. The weapon was this rapier, which had been thrust through the deceased from behind and has been identified by Alfeo Zeno as being his.”

Missier Grande looked to me for confirmation. So far not a single muscle in his face had moved.

“It is my rapier,” I said. “I wore it to the palace last night, and the fante who took charge of it will confirm that he returned it to me. When we came home, about seven o’clock, I put it back in its place on top of my wardrobe, out of reach of children. I did not touch it after that. It was stolen.”

“By whom?”

“Filiberto Vasco.”

Vasco chuckled. Nobody else did.

Quazza studied me in silence for a few moments. I studied him right back. Soon after I was apprenticed to the Maestro, Quazza’s daughter was abducted, literally snatched out of her nurse’s arms. The Maestro foresaw her and I recovered her, much as I recovered Grazia Sanudo, except that on that earlier escapade, in excess of juvenile rashness, I veered much closer to collecting my eternal reward. Quazza owes me a debt, therefore, but that will never divert him from doing his duty.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because he was the only other person I know of to enter my bedchamber during the night.”

The deadly gaze returned to Vasco.

Vasco, regrettably, maintained his confident smirk. “I was keeping watch for intruders in the salone, as instructed. When the storm struck, the casement in Zeno’s room began to bang. After a few serious crashes, I decided he was either dead or absent. To prevent damage to the building, I made my way in and-”

“You picked the lock,” I said.

“-obtained entrance and latched the casement. The bed had not been slept in. I did not look underneath it, nor in the wardrobe. Nor on top of it. I went out and closed the door behind me. I did not see his sword and did not take it.”

My bruised and abraded shin was hurting. The other was undamaged, but in fact I did not have a single leg to stand on. If I denied leaving Ca’ Barbolano during the night, I would easily be proved a liar by the evidence of the broken glass, removable window bars, and wet clothing. Calling Violetta as a witness would merely make everything worse, because the distinction between an “honest” courtesan and a common harlot is easily blurred. The court would assume I was her bravo protector, that Danese had hurt her or failed to pay her, and I had run him through. Off with my head.

“You deny this story?” Missier Grande inquired.

“I cannot answer your questions, lustrissimo.” I did not have to, for Missier Grande is not an inquisitor; he carries out the orders of the Ten.