Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘What kind of secrets?’

‘The baby she was carrying … it wasn’t Tom Morgan’s.’

The words were a body blow.

‘Did he know?’

‘No,’ the Contessa said firmly. ‘Seraphina only told me … and possibly Johnny Ravenscourt.’

The name resonated unpleasantly. ‘I know Ravenscourt. He’s not the father, surely?’

‘I don’t know who the father was,’ the Contessa replied. ‘It’s amazing how easy it is once you start to talk. Hiding things becomes a habit. You tell a lie so long you believe it. Every word is considered for its impact. How much do I say? To whom? I suppose all ancient families are the same. Do you think so, Mr Bergstrom?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ she agreed. ‘It’s like recovering from an anaesthetic. I feel I can breathe again. If I want to. If I choose to.’ She paused, as though she was considering her options there and then. After a moment, she spoke again. ‘Seraphina’s dead. I want to know who killed her. I know why—’

Nino was taken aback. ‘ You know why? ’

‘Angelico Vespucci killed his victims because they were immoral. Seraphina was immoral too.’ Her head went up, her eyes fixed on her visitor. ‘You think it pleases me to say this about my own daughter? No – but it is the truth nonetheless. All the time Seraphina was growing up I’d look at her and wonder why she behaved so recklessly. At nineteen she left Venice and travelled the world. I imagine she had many lovers. We had nothing in common, Mr Bergstrom. I married young and remained married, without taking a lover.’ She looked around her, tensing as her gaze fell on a painting of a red-haired woman. Nino didn’t have to ask who the sitter was. ‘That’s Melania. Seraphina inherited the worst of her ancestor’s traits … I used to worry that something would happen to her, but when she came back to Venice and married Tom Morgan, she was content.’ The Contessa paused, then continued in the same quiet, listless tone. ‘I believed she’d changed. After all, they were in love. But Tom Morgan was lazy, let his business slide, took risks, took drugs.’

‘Did Seraphina?’

‘No, she said not. She had no interest in drugs, or in drinking. She didn’t need it, she said, she was always full of life. Too full of life. To my amazement she continued her education, worked as a scientist, using her brain. She could separate her life into little containers, into pigeon-holes: career, family, husband, lovers.’

‘So she was unfaithful to Tom Morgan?’

‘After the first thrill of marriage wore off, Seraphina started looking around.’ The Contessa caught Nino’s gaze and held it. ‘Venetians close ranks against outsiders, but people here knew her reputation. It was only when she became pregnant that I was hopeful. Maybe, at last, she’d settle down.’

‘What about her husband? Did Tom Morgan have lovers?’

‘Too lazy,’ the Contessa said dismissively. ‘He likes to get “high”, to lounge about. He’s no taste for seduction. To be honest, I imagine he would find it tiring.’

‘But he knew about Seraphina’s lovers?’

‘Isn’t the question “Did he care?”’

‘Did he?’

‘He cared for comfort, for money, for a soft life,’ she replied. ‘He cared for my daughter, but never enough. Do I think he killed her? He could have done …’

Nino took in a breath as she continued.

‘But when I heard about the other deaths, the murders so like Seraphina’s, then I doubted it. It would take planning, cunning and energy – not traits Tom Morgan possesses.’ Her gaze moved downwards to her hands. ‘But then Gaspare told me about the Titian portrait and I started to think again. The painting would be worth a fortune. An easy way for a lazy man to get rich.’

‘But Seraphina never told you about the portrait?’

‘No. But then a wife tells a husband more than a woman tells her mother,’ she replied perceptively. ‘Seraphina could have told Tom Morgan. And he could have been tempted … And if he killed her, I want to know. I have to know.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Read the papers, Mr Bergstrom. Read what Melania di Fattori wrote. She knew The Skin Hunter. She was his lover. If you’re hoping to find Vespucci’s imitator, perhaps you should first learn more about the original.’

45

‘I need your help,’ Nino said, ringing Gaspare from Venice. ‘The Contessa di Fattori has given me some information—’

‘She said she was going to.’

‘Why did you tell her what was going on?’

‘The woman’s lost her daughter, and her marriage has broken up. What reason was there to keep it a secret from her? She deserves to know. If she was still with her husband I wouldn’t have told her, but the Contessa’s smart, she can handle it.’ Gaspare paused. ‘So, what did you want me to do?’

‘Time’s running out. I’ve got to find the last victim. So I want you to trace every woman who’s ever been connected to Angelico Vespucci—’

‘What!’

‘Go on the internet and see what’s been done on The Skin Hunter. We know about the copy of the portrait, and the article. The last victim has to have a link.’

‘It could be anything.’

‘I know!’ Nino snapped back. ‘But what else have we got to go on? I’ll read the stuff I was given, and then talk to Tom Morgan again. Incidentally, Seraphina’s baby wasn’t his.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. Her mother told me.’ Nino sighed. ‘Every time I turn round there’s another corridor leading off to God knows where. Motives in motives, claims and counterclaims. No one’s what they seem.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘Less than two weeks, Gaspare. That’s all we’ve got. We have to discover the link to the victim. We have to.’

Finishing the call, Nino turned back to the papers the Contessa had given him, drawing them out of the envelope and laying them side by side. There were three pages of handwritten Italian, the writing baroque.

November 1555

He is harvesting and speaks of nothing else. As for Aretino, such a conscience there, he worships Titian like a god and yet thinks nothing of deceiving him. Last night I lay with him again, Angelico Vespucci coming later, when the boar had finished. He watches, like he watches his pet whores, sweats in his excitement, his body wheezing with the thrust of pleasure.

Aretino writes of me in his books, gives me another name, as though I cannot guess the subterfuge. Poor Aretino, so very foolish for a clever man. And yesterday, when the rain stopped for an hour come afternoon, I chose another whore for my Vespucci …

Nino stopped reading, the words staring up at him from the page.

… a little Jewish girl, come from Milan a month ago. She is naive and compliant; I think maybe he will love her. As he did the merchant’s wife.

Claudia Moroni was a whim of mine. A response to a rumour I had heard some months before. I courted her, came to her home, flattered her into a friendship, then brought her to Vespucci.

He loved her within hours. Not for her appearance, which was poor, but for her wickedness.

‘God,’ Nino said softly. Contessa di Fattori, the whore of Venice, the consort of a murderer, was also Vespucci’s procuress.

I watched her plead with him to keep her silence, but he’d have none of it. She lies with her brother – and so Vespucci wants her.

He tells me that he feels her corruption on his skin, that it dries like mud against his fingers. He licks his lips as though he can taste her poison, and calls her to him, time after time.

She comes across St Mark’s, the priest with her. Passes through the bronze archway leading to Vespucci’s room.