Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘Or maybe Greyly didn’t kill the other women?’

‘Maybe not. But he could have done,’ Nino said quietly. ‘Greyly’s ex-Army, disciplined, unemotional. He hunts and kills for sport. He’s very aware of his status in life. I doubt he’d let anyone take that away from him without a fight. And there’s something else. When he told me his aunt was dead his voice was flat. No grief, not even a pretence of it. There was nothing. Jesus, he could have been telling me the time.’

Venice, December 1555

On 8 December a body was found suspended from one of the bridges which leads to the Jewish Quarter. I saw this, bore witness to it. The woman was hung by a rope slid under her arms, the end fastened to one of the iron lamps above. Her chest was stripped of skin, also her legs, a star of David hanging limply against the shredded flesh. She loomed out of the heavy mist suddenly. Shaken, a woman shielded her child’s eyes, and an old man crossed himself. In the wind which has not left us, the body swung like a side of beef, and from her toes, blood the colour of cranberries dripped into the canal below.

I could hear the rope scrape against the iron lamp which held it; I could see the carcass, red-raw, waving like a bloodied flag. I heard some woman scream and footsteps running. I heard shouts coming from across the bridge, a tumult of activity, panic and distress.

She didn’t mind them. Even when men caught hold of the rope and tried to pull her upwards, to swing her on to the bridge, even then. What little unmarked skin remained was white as a winter stoat; much more bloodied where the knife had done its work. I think she had been very young, this girl of Israel. Even before I knew for certain, there was something of the child about her.

Three women are now dead. Yet this time Angelico Vespucci does not cringe, nor skirt the crowd. This time he is silky, Aretino telling all who listen that he is innocent. He was caught up with business, Aretino says. They were discussing their next venture. Vespucci was not abroad that night. The killer is not him. Look, says Aretino, I have the proof you seek.

He thinks his brilliance fools; that no one knows that secretly he has long traded with Vespucci. No one suspects that paintings leave Titian’s studio bound for courts abroad, where fees demanded double the artist’s charge. For nearly a year Aretino has betrayed his comrade. Thrown in his lot with the merchant, shored up his wealth by robbing his oldest friend.

But now the Devil has him by the tail. Aretino is off to Titian’s studio. Maybe he wants to study Vespucci’s portrait. To flatter the genius he tricked into immortalising a killer. And still I watch and wait. My time has not yet come. I have to stay my hand, wait to see what next occurs. For all his talent and his eloquence, Aretino cannot shield the merchant forever. Vespucci’s face is changing, growing slack with all the horrors he has seen. His hands shake with a tremor, his confidence a sham. Daily the kindness he once possessed gives way to a dank depravity; and the weather follows his mood.

An awful stillness has come upon the city. The cold has had some part in it, but there is more, an undercurrent as dangerous as the sea snakes who swim in the depths at our feet.

The name of the last victim was Lena Arranti. She came from Milan, arriving in Venice to work as a servant, her beauty taking her from the kitchens to the beds of famous men. On the day she died, it had been her birthday. She was fifteen years of age.

And Angelico Vespucci’s lover.

BOOK FOUR

Painting done under pressure by artists without the necessary talent can only give rise to formlessness, as painting is a profession that requires peace of mind.

Titian (1485–1576)

36

Venice

Grabbing hold of Johnny Ravenscourt, Tom Morgan hustled him backwards into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. Caught off guard, Ravenscourt put up his hands to ward the American off.

‘Calm down!’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down, you fag!’ Tom replied, jabbing at the other man’s shoulder. ‘I want to talk to you. Seems like I’m not the only one either. Why did you leave London so suddenly?’ He pulled at Ravenscourt’s arm, navigating him towards an armchair and then pushing him into it. Although Ravenscourt was the bigger man, he was cowed by the show of aggression and began to blather.

‘What is it? What is it?’ he pleaded.

Tom stood over him. He had lost some weight, and his exclusive clothes were creased, unkempt. A day’s growth of stubble and swollen eyes hinted at neglect, the smell of cannabis strong on his hands. And his feet were bare again, bloodless in the cold.

‘What d’you know about Seraphina’s death?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing!’

‘You hired someone to look into it. Which is odd, seeing as how I was interviewed by the same man, sent by Seraphina’s family.’ His voice took on a warning tone. ‘I never liked you, Johnny. I always thought you were a bad influence on my wife—’

‘I knew your wife long before you came into her life! I was her oldest friend.’

‘You were an emotional leech ,’ Tom snapped. He was jumpy, jerky in his movements. ‘I know you were always trying to turn her against me. You wanted me gone and Seraphina to yourself. And now she’s dead – and I want to know why you’re poking your fucking nose into my business.’

‘Your business isn’t doing too well,’ Ravenscourt said snidely, straightening his jacket. ‘Don’t forget who helped you out when you needed it—’

‘I never asked Seraphina to go to you! You were the last person I’d have asked for help.’

‘But she did ask me, didn’t she?’ Ravenscourt countered. ‘And I did help you, Tom Morgan. Helped you save your bloody skin. One word from me to your employers and they’d have tossed your drugged arse out of the window in an instant.’

‘You want to watch what you say.’

But the steam had gone out of Tom Morgan and his anger had given way to a craving for a joint. A smoke would calm him down, he told himself. Life had been hell lately. Who could blame him for wanting to settle his nerves? Hurriedly he moved over to a cabinet and rolled a joint. Lighting it and inhaling deeply soothed him in seconds, as he slid on to the window seat.

He could see the canal below, the lamplight stippling the water, a knot of mangy ducks paddling under the bridge. It was true: his business was in trouble, and the old apartment he had once shared with Seraphina would soon have to go on the market. All the past was leaving him, all the memories of his wife disappearing with the home they had once shared. All that remained of Seraphina was the photographs and the papers and the numerous articles about her death.

‘I don’t know why Seraphina loved you,’ Ravenscourt said dismissively. ‘She could have done so much better.’

Tom turned to him. ‘What are you up to, you fat bastard? Why leave London in such a hurry? Are you on the run from the police?’ He paused. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you, Seraphina said you had a colourful history.’

‘I was bored in London. I just wanted to come back to Venice. It was a rush decision.’

‘I bet,’ Tom replied, inhaling again, then blowing the smoke slowly between his lips. ‘I miss her. I miss my wife.’

‘I miss her too.’

‘I was her husband.’

‘Yes, and I was her friend!’ Ravenscourt snapped back. ‘You didn’t … you didn’t have anything to do with her death, did you?’

To his amazement, Tom laughed. ‘Funny, I was just going to ask you the same thing …’ He stared out of the window. ‘She was different when she came back from her trip to London. Something had happened – d’you know what?’