The Four Horsemen Page 22

  “Good day to you,” I said.

  “Stop him!” he shouted to his companion.

  I dodged the lunging hand and headed for the sottoportego that led out of the square. I could hear several voices yelling “Stop him!” Faces were turning towards me, so I yelled “Stop him!” myself, pointing agitatedly forward in the direction of a group of gondoliers lounging beside the canal. This created enough of a confused distraction for me to run unimpeded down the narrow alleyway that led towards the Frezzeria. After a few more abrupt twists and turns I reached Campo San Paternian, and I was able to pause, feeling reasonably sure that I had outrun all my pursuers.

  So now where? “Don’t give up,” I said to myself. Don’t give up what? Well, it could only mean the investigation into the Four Horsemen. The murder of Boldrin was almost certainly connected. But it was difficult to see how I could investigate his murder as a fugitive. I needed assistance, and there were only two people I could think of who were likely to be willing or able to provide it. I just had to get a message to them.

  It didn’t take me long to work out who would be the best messenger. It took me a little longer to reach him.

  21

  Half an hour later I was among the boatyards of eastern Castello. I found Lucio, Marco and Piero busy scraping barnacles from an upturned boat. It turned out this was actually a paid job, rather than one of their countless inventive ways of turning their surroundings into an endless playground.

  However, Lucio was willing enough to take a break; this involved a little mathematical dispute, as they worked out how to divide the eventual pay for the boat-scraping, taking into account the length of time he would be absent, but this was soon settled (rather to Lucio’s advantage, as it seemed to me, but I knew better than to interfere).

  I gave Lucio clear instructions on how to reach the bookshop. As I described the approach to it, via Saint Mark’s Square, the eyes of the other two boys began to grow round. “The Piazza!” said Piero, as if he were Marco Polo speaking of Kubla Khan’s summer palace at Shangdu.

  “When I get back I’ll tell you all about it,” said Lucio; and maybe that’s what Marco Polo had said to his family as well.

  “Next time we’ll come too,” said Piero, scrubbing fiercely at a particularly adhesive and all too allegorical barnacle.

  “I’ll show you around,” said Lucio.

  I gave him the message in the form of a folded piece of paper, telling him to make sure that no one else saw it; I didn’t need to tell him not to read it himself, since I was aware that he could not read. “Give it either to the man who owns the bookshop, Sior Fabrizio, or to his daughter, Siora Lucia.”

  “Fabrizio or Lucia. Which would you prefer?” he said, looking sharply at me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “I’m guessing Lucia,” he said, putting the folded paper inside his shirt. He darted a quick smile at me.

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And clever.”

  He shrugged at that. I imagine he had never thought of cleverness as either a likely or a desirable quality in a female.

  I gave him the agreed sum (one lira), and he set off, swaggering slightly as befitted an adventurous traveller. Then I bade farewell to Marco and Piero, who stood gazing wistfully at their friend as he disappeared into the mist, and set off myself.

  An hour or so later I was sitting near the door in a tavern in Campo SS Giovanni e Paolo. I had already eaten a plate of fried fish and drunk a glass of wine and had paid for them, so that I could leave at a moment’s notice. I saw Fabrizio and Lucia approaching and went out to meet them before they could enter.

  “Not here,” I said. “People will remember us. Let’s walk towards the Fondamenta Nuove.”

  They said not a word but walked on either side of me as I set off across the square; perhaps they thought they had to act as bodyguards. As we passed the statue of Bartolomeo Colleoni I gestured towards it.

  “The only great horseman in Venice,” I said.

  “Quite,” said Fabrizio. “Though not a Venetian, of course.”

  I realised it was the first time I had talked to Fabrizio outside his shop. He noticed me looking at him.

  “Surprised to see me out and about?” he said.

  “Well, not accustomed to it,” I said.

  “I don’t get out as much as I should,” he admitted. “Although Lucia knows that I often go for long midnight rambles.”

  She nodded. “And when I was a child you used to take me all over,” she said. “We even went to Torcello and Burano once.” She turned to me. “That was a bright boy you sent.”

  “Lucio?” I said. “Yes, he’s clever.”

  “I don’t think he’d ever been in a bookshop before,” said Fabrizio. “He seemed fascinated.”

  “He loved the gold bindings,” said Lucia.

  “I’m sure he did,” I said. “And I’m sure he’d love their contents if someone could just teach him to read.”

  “I told him that,” said Lucia, “and he just looked at me as if I were mad.”

  We passed the corner of the great marble facade of the Scuola di San Marco, under the eyes of its stern white lion, and started walking down the fondamenta alongside the Rio dei Mendicanti.

  “But none of this is to the purpose,” said Fabrizio. “What are we going to do now?”

  “I’ve got to find out who killed Sior Boldrin,” I said.

  “Yes,” they both said, though in rather doubtful tones.

  “You don’t sound very convinced,” I said. “I’m hoping it’s not because you think I did it.”

  “Of course not,” said Lucia at once. “But who do you think did do it? And why?”

  “Well, I believe it may well have been that Neapolitan who came to your shop.”

  “What makes you think that?” said Fabrizio. “Not just a general belief in the murderous tendencies of Neapolitans, I trust.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m quite sure he’s a hired killer. I’ve read a file on him.”

  “Goodness,” said Lucia. “Where did you read that?”

  I made a slightly impatient gesture. “At the Missier Grande’s office, as I’m sure you guessed.”

  She was silent.

  “Sorry,” I said, “But you are going to have to accept that my work as a confidential agent is part of this whole story. I never chose the role, but that’s what I’ve been doing for the past few months.”

  Sior Fabrizio said, “We understand that. Just go on. Why did this Neapolitan kill Boldrin?”

  “Well, this is the part that you might find hard to believe. He did it, I think, for the sole purpose of incriminating me. I’m sure he had nothing against Boldrin at all.”

  “It seems a little excessive,” said Fabrizio. “If he’s a killer and he wants you out of the way, why doesn’t he just kill you?”

  “Father!” said Lucia.

  “I’m not advocating it, my dear,” he said. “Just pointing out that it would have been a much easier solution to his problem.”

  “Well,” I said, “there are two answers to that. One is that Antonio Esposito apparently specialises in murders that look like accidents.”

  “That’s certainly not the case of Boldrin’s murder,” said Fabrizio.

  “No, but if the real intended victim was not Boldrin but me, since I would of course be executed when found guilty, then you could say the crime still shows something of the same deviousness of approach. But more important, there’s the fact that using this method he would succeed not only in eliminating me but also in discrediting me totally. If I’m the kind of person who viciously and vindictively murders a man because he threw me out of a gambling house, then I am certainly not the kind of person whose views on anything are worth considering.”

  “And what are these dangerous views?” said Fabrizio.

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “I’m not sure. But I think that whoever hired E
sposito believes I know something of vital importance. It’s the same person who hired Esposito to murder Paolo Padoan.”

  I glanced at Lucia. She nodded. “Yes, Father has explained that part of the story to me. The poor old classics teacher. I remember him, you know.”

  “So why do you think Esposito came to our shop?” said Fabrizio.

  “I’m not sure. I imagine that whoever hired him had just told him to look into all possible ways of getting rid of me. And we are known to be friends.”

  “Oh, cospetto,” said Fabrizio. “And the book? How did they get hold of it?”

  I told them about Sanudo’s trick at the salotto.

  “So Sanudo was the last person to have it,” said Lucia. “And he obviously hates you. So doesn’t that make it clear?”

  “I have thought of that, of course,” I said. “But I’m still not sure that he would have the wit or the connections to hire a killer like Esposito.”

  “So who else knew Sanudo had the book?” asked Lucia.

  I could already feel my cheeks flushing. “Well, I did mention it to Noblewoman Isabella Venier. She detained me at the end of the salotto and I explained to her what had happened.”

  “Goodness me,” said Lucia. “She must have been shocked. But you’re surely not suggesting that she—”

  “No,” I said, perhaps too hastily. “But she might have informed someone else.”

  “Or Sanudo might have given it to someone else,” said Fabrizio.

  “I am presuming,” I said, “that this all has something to do with what Padoan was investigating when he was killed. The Four Horsemen.”

  We came out on to the Fondamenta Nuove; there was no view of San Michele, Murano or any of the more distant islands, just the flat greyish-green expanse of lagoon merging murkily into the rolling mist. A gondolier strolled up to us and asked if we wanted to be taken to Murano. We declined and began walking to the right, in the direction of Santa Maria del Pianto.

  “Father has told me something about that,” said Lucia. “Have you any more definite ideas of who the Horsemen are?”

  “Well,” I said, “yes and no.”

  “Let’s begin with yes,” said Fabrizio. “That sounds more likely to take us somewhere.”

  “It seems that Sanudo and some of his companions chose to frighten Padoan with stories of some secret society, so Komnenos told me. And I presume that was the Four Horsemen. And I have since discovered that Sanudo and his companions – three of them, as it happened, making four in all – had indeed formed a secret society, with the aim of carrying out little acts of revenge against the Turks. You may have heard of some of them.”

  “You mean the various indignities against the Turkish merchants?” said Fabrizio.

  “Yes, and something far worse that happened yesterday.” I gave a brief account of the kidnapping of the two women. My audience was suitably shocked by the crime and gratifyingly impressed by my role in thwarting it, off-handedly though I recounted it.

  “Well,” said Lucia when I had concluded, “what are you so puzzled about? Isn’t it obvious that there are your Four Horsemen? And now they’ve been discovered and so presumably that’s an end of it.”

  Fabrizio paused, gazing out at a seagull perched on a pole. “I heard some curious rumours of some such business yesterday. But nobody seemed certain what had happened. And then Madricardo told me that he had heard that Sanudo was being sent off to Corfu by his father. Family business was the excuse. Now I understand.”

  “So if that is the case,” I said, “why was Boldrin murdered last night?”

  “To stop you telling the full story,” said Lucia. She seemed relieved to have got to the bottom of it all.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but maybe not.” I turned to Fabrizio. “Can you remember anything in Padoan’s diary that might be helpful? Particularly towards the end, I imagine.”

  “There were some things that puzzled me there,” said Fabrizio. “He began to make some strange classical references. He mentioned Hephaestus a couple of times – just the name, which he circled.”

  “Hephaestus?” I said. “The armourer of the gods – Vulcan to the Romans. And lame. That must be a reference to Esposito.”

  “It seems possible,” admitted Fabrizio. “And he referred a couple of times to having found the thread of Ariadne but didn’t make it clear what he meant.”

  “The thread of Ariadne?” I said.

  “Yes,” Lucia said, “I’m sure you know—”

  “Yes,” I said, a touch impatiently, “the thread she gave to Theseus to help him find his way through the labyrinth.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I certainly didn’t want to impugn your knowledge of classical myths.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I said, at once embarrassed. “Always too sensitive on matters to do with my education.”

  “And I’m always too ready to tease you on it,” she said with a frank smile.

  I didn’t reproach her. A touch of light relief was welcome, in fact. I turned to Fabrizio and said, “And he gave no clue as to what he meant by this thread?”

  “No. He just announced it, in the very last page he wrote. He seemed to be sure that he was going to see something important. Presumably at the end of the thread.”

  “See something?”

  “Yes, that was the verb he used.”

  “Ariadne,” I said. “Definitely Ariadne?”

  “Is there anyone else who has a thread?” he said.

  “No,” I said, “but there are other Ariadnes.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Fabrizio.

  “Siora Isabella Venier’s Greek maid is called Arianna. Which, I presume, is just the Italian version of Ariadne.”

  “Indeed?” said Lucia. “How do you know her maid’s name?”

  “She mentioned it to me,” I said, trying to sound casual. “And she also mentioned the fact that she speaks hardly any Tuscan or Venetian.”

  “And so?” said Lucia.

  “I think it very likely that Padoan, visiting Siora Isabella’s salotto, would have loved the chance to try his Greek out on someone who could only communicate in that language.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Fabrizio thoughtfully.

  “And very possibly Ariadne was gratified to find someone she could talk to.”

  “And she gave him a thread,” said Lucia.

  “That’s what we have to find out,” I said.

  “How do we do that?”

  “We speak to Ariadne ourselves,” I said. “Or rather your father does.”

  “Oh dear,” he said. “I hope she will understand Homeric Greek.”

  “Please, Sior Fabrizio,” I said. “It’s all we have to go on.”

  “Very well,” he said in a resigned tone. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  “Well, I think we’re going to need help from our bright messenger boy,” I said.

  22

  Next morning Fabrizio and I sat in one of the small taverns in the Erbaria close to the Rialto market. All around us the market men – porters, bargemen, street-cleaners, stall-holders and assorted beggars and urchins – were taking their first refreshment of the day, some after several hours already spent carting goods to the Rialto and setting them up on the stalls, others in preparation for a long day to be spent out-bawling their neighbours in the advertising of their wares, or displaying their crippled bodies and ragged clothes behind their begging bowls. Red wine was the refreshment of choice, although some were taking small mugs of grappa. People had run out of comments to make on the caigo and instead were chatting loudly and amiably about the prospects for the next regatta or the success or failure of the latest Goldoni play. There was some light-hearted banter between Nicolotti and Castellani, but it was all clearly part of an established routine.

  Fabrizio and I were probably the only strangers there, but no one bothered us, for which I, for one, was grateful. I had not slept well, having spent the night in an empty apartment near the church of the Madonna dell
’Orto which I knew about from an earlier investigation; it had once held a gambling den owned by a Friulian schoolmaster, who had been banished from the city once it had become clear that his nocturnal activities were taking a toll on his diurnal duties at his place of employment (he kept falling asleep during lessons); the authorities had not yet worked out to whom the apartment belonged, and so it had remained empty for a couple of months now. I had expected to have the place to myself but had been disturbed in the middle of the night by the incursion of a local prostitute and her drunken client. Once they had got over their shock at finding themselves with company, they had been most insistent that I should feel under no constraint to leave, and having no alternative I did in fact remain, doing my best in the adjoining room to ignore their clumsy efforts to carry out their business discreetly; I was astonished at the man’s ability to persist in his endeavours while his partner made constant shh-ing noises every time he uttered any sound of either desire or satisfaction.

  All in all it had been something of a relief to get up very early and make my way through the damp dim streets to the Rialto. Crossing the Rialto Bridge at that hour and gazing at the long line of majestic palaces fading into the caigo, while barges and sandoli and gondolas, their lanterns twinkling feebly in the grey light, wove swirling patterns in the water, made me realise just how intensely I yearned to remain a part of this city, even if it were to mean skulking around corners, hiding under porticoes and wrapping myself in my cloak at the approach of sbirri and watchmen for the remainder of my days.

  I found Fabrizio already seated at a table by the door, a glass of red wine and a volume of Virgil in front of him. He looked remarkably bright and cheery. I began to suspect he was enjoying the novelty of this investigative life.

  After a few remarks of greeting we settled down to a companionable silence; he returned to his book, and I kept an eye on the passers-by.

  At last I spotted Lucia making her way through the crowd. She had a cream-coloured shawl over her head and shoulders, and this helped me to keep track of her as she walked into the bustling confusion of the stalls. She was gazing very fixedly ahead of herself, keeping an eye on her quarry. Since she didn’t know what Ariadne looked like, she had been obliged to wait outside the Palazzo Querini to spot her as she set off on her usual shopping expedition (to the Rialto market at seven o’clock, as her mistress had helpfully informed me).