Jo Kilian - The Tiepolo mystery

The stranger stepped into the light. He wore a green-and white-striped jester costume. Bells hung from his sleeves and belt. His face was hidden behind a half-laughing, half-crying mask. Falkenberg’s dagger, pointing right at him, left him cold. He bent over, with an exaggerated theatrical bow, which meant to accomplish only one thing: provocation.

The

Tiepolo Mystery

by

JO KILIAN

The

TIEPOLO MYSTERY

Historical crime novel

by

JO KILIAN

JO KILIAN is the crime pseudonym of romanrausch.eu

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek

Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über < http://dnb.d-nb.de> abrufbar.

1. Auflage 2018

© 2018 Echter Verlag GmbH, Würzburg

www.echter.de

Umschlag: wunderlichundweigand.de(Foto: akg-images)

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Poem p. 102: Theodor Fontane, John Maynard (arr.)

ISBN

978-3-429-04428-2 (Print)

978-3-429-04949-2 (PDF)

978-3-429-06369-6 (ePub)

I’m not the only one who claims court life is the noblest kind of life in the whole world. I’d even venture to say it’s a celestial life.

Without a doubt, even the Holy Ghost himself called great rulers Gods. Similar to God reigning in heaven, rulers reign on earth. Since both are Gods, their lives must be godly, and therefore lead the noblest lives on this planet.

Johann Rist, Das AllerEdelste Leben Der Gantzen Welt

CARNIVAL, ANNO 1751

Venetian masquerade was the theme for that evening. It was a grand party, which unfortunately ended bitterly for two poor souls.

Prince-Bishop Carl Phillip von Greiffenclau invited two dozen high-ranking subjects to a lively festival. The highly respected Maestro Giambattista Tiepolo, and his sons, Domenico and Lorenzo, were among the new arrivals from Venice.

Guests were required to wear masks, which they were more than happy to do. Only once a year, a total of four hundred subjects in the prince-bishop’s court were allowed to disguise, unpunished, their origin and rank. Everyone was equal, since nobody knew who was hiding behind a mask. Was it a servant or chambermaid, the prince’s personal physician, the chef or the prince’s favorite muse?

Welcome to the realm of fools!

The banquet hall shimmered in flickering candlelight. The air was stuffy from steaming food and body heat. Wine glasses merrily rang from jovial toasts, laughter echoed, and the daCapo shouts outdid one another.

Signora Platti stood on stage, surrounded by musicians. For a change she was not dressed in an elegant gown, but instead wore a maid costume. At her side, a volunteer hovered behind his mask, posing as an aristocrat and helplessly contesting the commands from his servant, Serpina. He futilely and repeatedly attempted to contradict her, but Serpina’s resolute soprano voice forced him into silence.

“Quiet! Quiet! Serpina rules this house!”

Without giving it a second thought, twenty throats loudly echoed back: “Quiet! Quiet! Serpina rules this house!”

The maid had promoted herself to a mistress, and the master had to obey. Such was the merry opera, La serva padrona, in which a maid outwitted a rich fool into marriage.

Serpina: “Do what I tell you!”

And everyone repeated it so loudly that the cups danced upon the tables and rebellious cannon shots resonated through the halls of the vast residence.

Only one was silent – Maestro Giambattista Tiepolo. Several rooms further down, where the guests of the prince-bishop were dining, he smoked, deep in thought, his cigar. No way would such defiant words ever escape his lips. He pushed the bothersome gondolier mask to the side and scratched his nose and forehead. May fate be merciful. After all, it’s carnival; it was just a drunken servant’s joke, nothing more. Tomorrow everything will be back to normal.

“Why are you looking so serious, father?” Lorenzo, the maestro’s fourteen-year-old son asked. His cheeks were blushed from singing and dancing. Pearls of sweat covered his forehead, black strands hung down over his golden-colored falcon mask.

The maestro gently stroked over his head. “It’s nothing; no need to worry.”

“But father, you can’t fool me. I see it clearly. Something is on your mind.”

His father smiled gratefully at him. “Thank God for your alert observations. It’s really nothing; I just have to get back to work.” He turned and cleared his way through rows of masked people, to escape the reality.

Lorenzo wanted to follow him, but a hand upon his shoulder prevented him.

“He is and will remain a grumpy old man”, Domenico, the maestro’s twenty-four-year-old son, scolded. Contrary to his father, he understood his assigned honor as a duty. He would never dream of leaving the festivities so early.

“Don’t talk about him like that”, Lorenzo countered. “Great works of art are expected of him.”

“You mean of us!” Domenico corrected his brother and tore his own plain white mask off. He wasn’t a fan of carnival or costume parties, and never was; not even in the heart of the carnival, their hometown, Venice. “Without your drawings and my inexpensive paintbrushes, his fame wouldn’t be worth anything.”

“He is the maestro. We can only do what he orders us to do.”

“What is a master worth, without his servants?”

Before Lorenzo could argue, the crowd cut him off!

“Quiet! Contradicting doesn’t count!”

Cristina, the maestro’s favorite model and no less creative muse, emerged from the raging crowd. She headed straight on toward Domenico, who had guessed what was expected of him. He took a step back, to bump into the wide chest of Angelo, Tiepolo’s black servant.

“Step aside!” Domenico ordered, which he immediately did. But it was too late. There was no escape from Cristina’s eager fingers.

“Vieni, balla con me!” Come dance with me!

Between her long black waves of hair, darker than Lorenzo’s, two eyes sparkled; they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“We aren’t in Venice”, Domenico answered weakly. “What will the noble Gentlemen think of us?”

She threw her mane back into her neck and laughed. “Gentlemen or servants? Nobody cares. We are all equal today.”

“You should do what she wants”, Angelo grumbled, “simply to avoid any more attention.”

He’s right, Lorenzo thought. There was no stopping Cristina when she was in this mood. “Then go, if you value our reputation that much.”

“Should I ask Angelo”, Cristina spewed out, “so that everyone can see how we mingle with savages?”

The servant didn’t blink an eye; he remained still, looking ahead and over all the heads. Although Lorenzo knew the insult wouldn’t go unpunished. Eventually an opportunity would arise; Angelo forgets nothing.

As a last resort, Domenico gave in and allowed Cristina to pull him into the center, where the elegant court servants gathered.

“Do you believe young man”, Angelo asked, “that she will treat him graciously?” A smile crossed his thick lips, crowned by a large distinct nose. The wide forehead blended into copper-colored hair. It was the result of the maestro’s failed attempt in diminishing the court subjects’ fear of the black giant.