Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"
Автор книги: Alex Connor
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
31
New York
The news had only been out for an hour when it came to Farina Ahmadi’s ears. Good God! she thought, hurrying back to her gallery on 45th Street. Who had ever heard anything like it? A top dealer virtually advertising for help in finding a famous work of art. Why didn’t Triumph just put a fucking sign up in Times Square? she thought angrily, slamming the door of the gallery behind her and moving into her office. Once there, she made a call on her mobile and stood by the window waiting for someone to answer.
‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’ she snapped, infuriated to find herself talking to Triumph Jones’ recorded message. Severing the connection, she then dialled Tokyo, knowing she would wake Jobo Kido in the middle of the night and hopefully catch him off guard.
‘What!!!’ a voice answered, and Farina smiled to herself. He had been asleep. Good.
‘Jobo, it’s Farina.’
‘It’s one in the morning. What d’you want?’
‘Triumph’s drumming up help to find the Titian.’ She could hear the dealer take in a breath and could imagine him sitting up in bed, shocked out of sleep. ‘You know what that means, don’t you, Jobo? Every fucking lunatic will come out of the woodwork. And now everyone will know about the Titian portrait. I mean everyone.’ Her voice plunged. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Every word,’ Jobo said, getting to his feet, his wife grumbling as she turned over in bed. Walking downstairs, he made for the kitchen, closing the door behind him. ‘You woke my wife—’
‘I woke your wife!’ Farina snapped. ‘Jesus! You moron, this is more important than your wife’s beauty sleep!’
‘Farina, calm down,’ Jobo said, tying the dressing-gown cord round his waist and getting himself some water. ‘Why did he do it? It doesn’t seem like Triumph to advertise something like that. He’s crazy—’
‘Oh, he’s crazy like a snake!’ she snorted. ‘He wants that bloody painting so much he’s going to stoop to any depths to get it. And you know what that means, don’t you? We lose.’
‘We lose?’ Jobo repeated. ‘Why exactly are you letting me in on this, Farina?’
‘The Titian’s out there, hanging its arse in the wind. We have to get hold of it before it disappears again. Or worse, Triumph gets it. He can’t win, not this time.’ She thought of his steely confidence and cringed. ‘I refuse to let him add one more scalp to his belt – particularly that Titian. I want it. And I know you want it. But the way I see it, our joining forces would double our chances. We could share it.’
‘Share it?’
‘Stop repeating everything I fucking say!’ she roared. ‘Think about it. If we keep quiet, then who’s to know that we’re sharing it? We have to act! Triumph’s calling on all sorts – thieves, villains, and all the loser dealers out to make a buck. He’ll be up to his knees in fakes within a week. And even if he does manage to flush out the Titian, he’ll lose it when we offer a better deal.’
‘If we hear of it.’
‘Let it be known that we’re willing to top his offer and we’ll hear of it.’ She paused, confident. ‘Come on, Jobo, it’s a good idea. You could have the Titian half the time and I could have it the other half. East meet West – it would be a cultural gesture.’
‘It would be a two-fingered gesture to Triumph,’ Jobo replied, amused. ‘But I want the painting for my collection.’
‘And I want the painting for my husband. So what? We both want it, but Triumph wants it more.’ She paused, her tone softening. ‘He’s rich, but I’m richer. And you’re no pauper, Jobo. Together we could match – and top – any amount Triumph can offer. Naturally we would have to draw up a contract.’
‘But to share the painting—’
‘It’s your choice, Jobo,’ she said succinctly. ‘Go halves, or get sod all.’
32
It was nearly eleven at the Kensington gallery as Nino finished reading the last of Ravenscourt’s notes. There was no mention of the scapegoat, the man who had been the alternative suspect to Vespucci. And although the notes were detailed, most of the information was now available on the internet site, the creator of which was uploading new data continuously. Facts which had been long suppressed were now emblazoned for the world to read about. Only an hour earlier another copy of the portrait had been added, but this time there was an engraving of Vespucci’s house in the background.
Nino knew that the house had long since been destroyed, that no evidence of the piazza remained. A hotel had been built on the site instead, The Skin Hunter’s legend buried under four floors of bedrooms and power showers. Looking back at Ravenscourt’s notes, Nino came across a later entry for Lena Arranti, matching it to the website. The date was the same: 8 December 1555.
Thoughtfully he jotted down the names of the victims, placing the dates of their death next to them.
Larissa Vespucci
4 November, 1555
Claudia Moroni
26 November, 1555
Lena Arranti
8 December, 1555
Contessa di Fattori
1 January, 1556
Surprised, he stared at the dates, then reached for his own notes and compared them.
Seraphina Morgan
4 November
Sally Egan
26 November
Harriet Forbes
8 December
His heart raced. The killer was copying Angelico Vespucci, using his methods, on the anniversaries of the Venetian murders. There was only one date left unfilled – 1 January. On that day another woman would be killed and mutilated, another tribute offered up to The Skin Hunter. Someone would die. But who? And where?
It could be in London, Tokyo or Venice. It could be any woman, anywhere. And until Nino worked out how the women were connected, he had no way of finding the next victim.
Or saving her.
Suddenly the phone rang, an unfamiliar, friendly voice greeting him. ‘Is that Nino Bergstrom?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Jean Netherton. You left me a message and asked me to get in touch. It’s about Sally. Sally Egan.’
Relieved, Nino nodded. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. I’m investigating Sally’s death—’
‘Are you the police?’
‘No, this is a private investigation.’ He thought of Gaspare Reni. ‘I can give you a name if you want to check me out.’
She hurried on. ‘No, it’s all right. I want you to look into Sally’s death. The police don’t seem to have anything and it’s been two weeks since she died.’ Her voice picked up. ‘I rowed with her that night. I’ll never forgive myself.’
‘What did you argue about?’
‘I used to help look after Sally’s father when she had a night out. Dear God, she deserved a break, but she was drunk when she got home and I overreacted.’ She paused, struggling with her conscience. ‘Sally liked to have a good time.’
‘Sorry to be blunt, but was she promiscuous?’
‘Yes,’ Jean agreed. ‘She liked men, liked sex. Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe she just wanted to feel loved. Poor Sally had no one but her dad and lately even he didn’t recognise her.’
‘Did she ever tell you she was being followed? That she’d had any strange visitors? Any odd phone calls?’
‘No, nothing. She just got on with her life. Looking after her dad was hard work and she had a job at a care home in the daytime. I don’t suppose it was what she expected with all her talent—’
‘She was talented? How?’
‘Sally could paint, Mr Bergstrom. I don’t mean dabble – she could really paint. She’d wanted to go to art school when she was younger, but what with her dad being ill, and her being his only relative, she had to give it up.’ Jean paused, remembering. ‘She showed me a photograph once of a picture she’d done for someone. It was a copy of one of the Old Masters.’
‘D’you remember which one?’
‘No.’
‘D’you remember the painting?’
‘Oh yes,’ Jean said eagerly. ‘It was a portrait of a man. Not a good-looking man – big, rather puffy eyes, wearing black clothes. It was old-fashioned. You know what I mean. The original must have been done centuries ago. Sally told me she’d been commissioned by a London dealer.’
Nino kept his voice calm. ‘You don’t remember who the dealer was, do you?’
‘No,’ Jean said regretfully, then brightened. ‘But I think I might still have the photograph of that painting. Sally was very angry one day, said she’d missed her chance and threw out all her drawings, everything she’d ever done, and all the photographs she’d taken of her work. I didn’t tell her, but when she went to work I got them out of the bin.’
‘You kept them?’
‘Yes. I thought one day she might want them back …’ Her voice caught. ‘She won’t now though, will she?’
Nino paused before continuing. ‘Can I see what you saved?’
‘If it’ll help find out who killed her, of course you can,’ Jean said, giving Nino her address and arranging to meet him the following night. Then she paused, regretful. ‘She had a big heart, did Sally. But there was never anyone there to stand her corner or help her out. Not even me in the end.’
33
The house was a semi-detached in the suburbs of London, the mistress of the house nervous but welcoming. Shown into the sitting room, Nino took a seat on the red Dralon sofa and accepted a cup of tea. With biscuits. He could tell that Jean Netherton was uneasy, staring at him and taking a seat as far away as she could. He couldn’t work out if it was because of who he was, or what she was about to show him.
‘Here they are,’ she said, putting a box on the coffee table in front of Nino. ‘All Sally’s drawings and photos.’ She paused, unable to resist the question any longer. ‘Your hair – is it natural?’
Smiling, Nino shook his head. ‘No, I was ill. I recovered, but my hair turned white.’
‘Ah, I see,’ she said, relieved. ‘I suppose it must help you a lot in your business?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, you look tough. I suppose that’s important for a detective. You look like a man who can handle himself. I mean, no one would take you seriously if you were a wimp, would they?’
Smiling again, Nino pulled the box towards him, taking off the lid and beginning to rifle through the remnants of Sally Egan’s talent. He was startled by her ability. The drawings were impressive, even her sketches clever, and when he came to an envelope containing photographs he could feel his hands shake with anticipation. Scattering them on the table, he looked along the row of images. Jean pointed to the last one.
‘There it is!’
She didn’t need to tell him – Angelico Vespucci’s face was immediately recognisable. Picking up the photograph, Nino studied it intently.
‘She was good,’ he said at last. ‘Titian wouldn’t have been ashamed of that.’
‘I told you Sally had talent.’
‘And she did this for a London dealer?’ he asked, turning over the photograph and trying to read some writing. It was faint, written in pencil, and it took him a moment to work it out. ‘Something Ahmadi … The first name begins with F and I think it’s an A.’ He glanced at Jean. ‘Ring any bells? Did Sally talk about a dealer called Ahmadi?’
Regretfully she shook her head. ‘No. She just said it was a dealer in London.’
‘Well, there won’t be that many London dealers called Ahmadi.’
‘Oh, now wait a minute!’ Jean said, remembering some-thing. ‘Sally said the painting was going abroad, somewhere exotic. She did tell me …’ Irritated, she sighed. ‘It’s no good, I can’t remember.’
‘D’you know when Sally painted this?’
‘About three or four years ago. Long before I knew her.’
He pointed to the photograph. ‘Can I take it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve been a big help,’ Nino said, smiling and slipping it into his pocket.
‘D’you want to take the rest?’
He frowned, baffled. ‘What?’
‘Everything else. D’you want to take it?’ Jean said, passing him the box. ‘Please, take it. Look at what she did, how clever she was. I know you’re only really interested in that photograph, but I want someone to see Sally for what she really was. She wasn’t like they say in the papers – she was unlucky, that was all. Look at her work, Mr Bergstrom. Don’t judge Sally Egan by what she was when she died, judge her for what she could have been. If you do, somehow her death won’t be such a waste.’
*
It was nearly seven thirty when Nino returned to Kensington. Letting himself into the gallery by the back door, he turned off the alarm and checked the answerphone. There were three messages: two from Gaspare, one from the police. The last recorded voice asked him, with cold civility, if he would call the station and ask for Detective Steiner. At his earliest convenience.
So when the doorbell rang thirty minutes later the name coming over the intercom was a familiar one – Detective William Steiner. Frowning, Nino buzzed him in, waiting for the policeman at the top of the stairs. Showing him an identity card, Steiner moved into the sitting room and Nino offered him a seat. He was slight in build with curly, dry hair, wearing a creased grey suit that didn’t fit and scuffed brown shoes.
‘I’d like to have a chat with you, Mr Bergstrom,’ he said, his voice surprisingly guttural.
Wary, Nino regarded him.
‘Can I have the number of your police station? I’d like to check that you are Detective Steiner,’ he said, taking down a number and making the call. When Steiner’s identity was verified, he shrugged. ‘Sorry about that. I just wanted to be sure who I was talking to. You can never be too careful these days.’
Steiner was unemotional, unreadable. ‘You work for Mr Jonathan Ravenscourt, I believe?’
‘Yeah, I work for him.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m looking into something for him.’
‘What?’
‘The death of a friend of his, in Venice. A woman called Seraphina Morgan.’ Nino paused. ‘What’s the problem?’
Steiner ignored the question. ‘Aren’t the Italian police dealing with the case?’
‘They are. But Mr Ravenscourt wanted me to look into the matter too.’
‘But you’re …’ There was a pause as Steiner flipped open his notepad and checked his facts, ‘a location finder for the film industry, I believe.’
‘I was.’
‘But now you’re a detective? Rather a change of career, isn’t it? Or did watching all the private eyes on screen inspire you?’
Keeping his patience, Nino answered him. ‘I’m just helping Mr Ravenscourt out.’
‘But he’s hired you. He’s paying you for this help?’ Steiner pressed him. ‘There’s no point being evasive with me, Mr Bergstrom. I’m privy to all of Mr Ravenscourt’s affairs and he hired you on the twenty-seventh of November, and paid you a retainer of five thousand pounds. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Nino said warily. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘What did he want to find out?’
‘Everything about Seraphina Morgan’s death,’ Nino repeated. ‘She was a close friend of his in Venice. He was upset, wanted to find out why she’d been killed. Who had killed her.’
‘And why would he think you could find this out?’
Feeling suddenly under threat, Nino wondered how much to tell, how much to withhold. He had to give the police something, but not too much. Nothing about the painting or Vespucci.
‘I knew Seraphina slightly – we met once. Actually we had a mutual friend.’
‘Mr Gaspare Reni.’
‘Why are you bringing him into this?’
‘Into what?’ Steiner replied. ‘You said you had a mutual friend. We know you’ve been staying with Mr Reni at his Kensington gallery; I was just coming to an obvious conclusion … You seem very jumpy, Mr Bergstrom. Is there a reason for that?’
‘What’s all this about?’ Nino asked, his voice calm again. ‘You’ve obviously been checking up on me – why? Tell me. You owe me that.’
‘Mr Ravenscourt’s back in Venice. He contacted us from there, told us about you. He said he was afraid of you—’
‘What?’
‘That you’d forced him to give you money in return for information—’
‘Is this a joke?’ Nino asked, dumbfounded.
‘He said that you had come to him about the death of Seraphina Morgan. That you knew things no one else did. Things no one could know – unless they’d been her killer. Mr Ravenscourt felt he had to leave London because he was afraid of what you might do. After all, if you’d killed once, you could kill again.’
Incredulous, Nino stared at the detective. ‘He’s lying! He hired me to—’
‘Mr Ravenscourt also said you had stolen some papers from him.’
‘He lent me those!’
Steiner was impervious. ‘He said you were trying to “steal a march on his book”. Apparently Mr Ravenscourt had been writing a book for some years and you had come along and stolen his ideas.’
‘He’s mad,’ Nino replied. ‘It’s all rubbish – the man’s lying. I’ve never killed anyone in my life. Jesus, look at my background! I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. What the hell is the bastard talking about?’
‘You, Mr Bergstrom. He’s talking about you.’
Nino’s mind cleared in that instant. Ravenscourt was setting him up. Nino was to be the scapegoat this time. While the police were investigating him, Johnny Ravenscourt was free to do as he pleased. It was the twelfth of December – and the last murder committed by Vespucci had been on the first of January. The anniversary was coming up fast and the killer was still out there.
‘Everything he said is fantasy,’ Nino insisted. ‘Get Ravenscourt here. Let him face me, then we’ll see who’s lying.’
‘I’d really like to do that, Mr Bergstrom,’ Steiner said evenly. ‘But unfortunately Mr Ravenscourt seems to have disappeared.’
34
Tokyo
Jobo Kido waited until his wife was asleep, then crept into his study and locked the door. Turning on the computer, he went on to the internet, looking for angelicovespucci.1555. com. The site came up immediately and he pressed ENTER. Almost as soon as he had typed hello a reply came up.
Mr Kido, how are you today?
Jobo: How do you know me?
Answer: Everyone knows everyone. Are you wondering about the painting?
Jobo: You know I am.
Answer: In time you’ll see it. But not yet, Mr Kido. Perhaps you’d like to ask me another question?
Jobo: You mentioned three women.
Answer: Three dead women.
Unnerved, Jobo pressed on.
Jobo: Are they connected?
Answer: You’ve disappointed me. I was expecting more from you.
Jobo: Don’t sign off!
Answer: Then make it worth my while to talk to you. I can’t tell you how the women are connected – you have to find that out for yourself. If you do, I’ll give you the painting.
Hands sweating, Jobo stared at the screen. He could get the Titian! Sod Farina Ahmadi, he wasn’t going to have to share it after all. He could have the portrait all to himself. Hang it next to his other exhibits, stare at it, enjoy it. Relish it. It was the culmination of all his hopes: the depiction of a maniac, painted by one of the Old Masters. It would be worth millions. And it would be his.
Giddy, Jobo calmed himself, thinking of the implications of this correspondence. If the man on the computer knew who he was, did he also know where he lived? The thought made his flesh creep. Jobo might argue with his wife constantly, but he had no wish to see anything happen to her. Or himself. He would have to be very clever. Somehow manage to get hold of the painting – and expose the killer at the same time.
The picture would be his, but safely.
He turned back to the computer.
Jobo: Are we talking about Vespucci’s victims, or the recent killings?
Answer: The recent murders. The new Skin Hunter.
Jobo: There’s a new Skin Hunter?
Answer: What do you think this is all about, Mr Kido?
Hesitating, Jobo wanted to ask the obvious question, but resisted. Perhaps the man wasn’t the killer and would be offended by the presumption. He might sign off, never contact Jobo again. And take the Titian with him.
Jobo: Did the same man kill all three women?
Answer: You know he did. He skinned them.
Jobo: They were killed in three different countries. How did he do that?
Answer: Use your imagination.
Jobo: Is he as clever as The Skin Hunter?
There was a long pause, moments passing before the answer came up.
Answer: He won’t be caught. The Skin Hunter is never caught.
Jobo: Do you know what happened to Angelico Vespucci?
Answer: Yes. He became me.
And with that, he logged off, breaking the connection, and Jobo was left staring at the empty screen.
35
London
It was twelve days to Christmas. Lights were strung across Regent Street and around Oxford Circus, shop windows dragging buyers into their clammy interiors. Thick with the scent of candles and perfume, the stores grew sticky under the plastic mistletoe, shoppers overheated as the temperature plunged outside. Snow was forecast, a breakdown at several set of lights holding up the traffic from Piccadilly to Park Lane.
Having been discharged from hospital, Gaspare was back at the Kensington gallery, struggling to remember the code as he turned off the alarm. For a moment he stood in the hallway looking upwards, thinking of the break-in, listening for the sound of footsteps. Then, annoyed at his own timidity, he walked into the sitting room and flicked on a solitary lamp. The old familiar shapes came back in all their dim glory: the painted ceiling, the suit of Japanese armour, the set of kettledrums he had bought in an auction. All so random, like disparate friends greeting him for a surprise party.
Walking over to the central table, Gaspare noticed a jumbled assortment of notes. Some were in Nino’s handwriting, others he presumed belonged to Johnny Ravenscourt. He knew that Nino hadn’t shown them to the police, and touched them gingerly, as though they were contaminated, before gathering them together and putting them into a plastic bag.
Moments later, footsteps announced the arrival of Nino, Gaspare feigning horror as he entered the sitting room.
‘Ah, the Devil is loose. The killer is at large! Please spare me, don’t hurt me!’
Ignoring the comments, Nino stared at his old friend. ‘You got back from the hospital all right then?’
‘Well, when I heard of your predicament I thought you might never get out alive.’ He patted Nino’s shoulder affectionately. ‘You didn’t think I’d let the police keep you in there, did you?’
‘I don’t know how you got me out. Detective Steiner seemed very eager to keep hold of me.’
‘The police had nothing concrete. The benefit of living a long time is that you make contacts over the years. None of us were born old; some of us had very influential positions in our prime. And even long-term friends have debts to pay back. Let’s just say that I made a phone call.’
‘And that was it?’
Gaspare shrugged. ‘I’d love to say I had that much power, but apparently the police were only trying to scare you. They didn’t really believe what Johnny Ravenscourt said, but they’d lost touch with him – thought he was up to something – and put pressure on you to find out what it was.’
‘Up to something?’
‘Mr Ravenscourt’s known to the Art Fraud department. He has a record for smuggling fakes,’ Gaspare said, smiling. ‘It was a long time ago, and he’s not been active since, but it’s still on record.’ He paused. ‘How much did you tell the police?’
Quickly Nino filled Gaspare in, pouring two glasses of brandy and passing one to the older man.
‘Ravenscourt tried to land me in it – which makes him look even more suspicious. If he’s copying Vespucci I reckon he picked me to be his scapegoat.’
‘Or he was just stirring up trouble,’ Gaspare offered, passing Nino a letter with his name on it. ‘When I got home, this had arrived.’
Taking it, Nino read.
Dear Mr Bergstrom,
We met the other day and I would very much like to speak with you again – concerning Claudia Moroni. Perhaps you would like to call me on Tel. Norfolk 845 – 9851.
Kindest regards,
Hester Greyly (Mrs)
Gaspare was looking at Nino with curiosity. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘It’s from Harold Greyly’s aunt. Perhaps she wants to tell me something he wouldn’t.’
‘Or perhaps she’s working with him to get you back to Norfolk?’
‘She asked me to ring her. Not visit.’
Gaspare shrugged. ‘So ring. But don’t go back there.’
Half an hour later Nino finally managed to get an answer on Hester Greyly’s phone. The receiver was picked up, but there was no greeting, just soft breathing down the line.
‘Hello?’ he said, concerned. ‘Mrs Greyly?’
‘Who’s this?’
Nino hesitated, not recognising the man’s voice. ‘Mrs Greyly asked me to call her. Can I speak to her, please?’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Is she ill?’ Nino asked, uneasy. ‘I need to talk to her. She sent me a letter—’
There was a rusting sound on the phone and someone else spoke. This time Nino recognised the voice immediately – it was Harold Greyly.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Nino Bergstrom. Your aunt sent me a letter asking me to get in touch. Can I talk to her, please?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bergstrom, that won’t be possible,’ he replied, bone cold. ‘My aunt died this morning.’
Nino’s mouth dried.
‘She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. So I’m afraid that no one will be speaking to her. And frankly I have nothing to say to you anyway, so I’d be obliged if you didn’t contact me or my family again.’ His manner was all crisp efficiency. ‘You came here under false pretences, Mr Bergstrom. I feel I should warn you that any further harassment will be reported to the police.’
After putting down the phone, Nino took a long drink of his brandy and turned to Gaspare. ‘Hester Greyly died this morning.’
‘That was convenient.’
‘Her nephew said it was a fall …’ Nino paused, thinking back. ‘She was a nice lady. Old school. She had something to tell me, or show me. But you can bet that bastard’s emptied out her house, made sure I’ll never see anything I shouldn’t. I reckon he knew that she’d got in touch with me and I don’t believe she fell – I think Harold Greyly killed her.’ Nino finished his brandy, his hand shaking as he put down the glass. ‘I’m not sure he murdered the other women, but he certainly could have killed his aunt.’
‘But that would break the pattern. Vespucci killed four young women—’
‘I know. And he killed them on specific dates. The same dates as Seraphina, Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes were killed. There’s only one anniversary left – the first of January.’ He held the old man’s gaze. ‘You think someone on a killing spree wouldn’t deviate from it? Maybe Harold Greyly was forced to act. Maybe Hester was about to give him away and he had to kill her.’
‘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.
