I DIDN’T SEE Anna de Hoog at first. She was surrounded by Italian police, gondoliers and porters from the Danieli Hotel. But the big, blond body that had been dragged from the canal was clearly recognizable. We didn’t need Bitten’s scream to tell us it was Gunther.
The narrow canal that runs by the hotel is one of the busier waterways in Venice. In addition to gondolas, private cruisers and barges loaded with goods, water taxis were constantly arriving and departing from the small dock next to the hotel. From where we stood, on the stone bridge over the canal, the dock was inaccessible. You would have to go through the hotel to get to it, which Bitten did. The rest of us remained on the bridge.
Andrew looked pale. He leaned over the bridge and was sick over the side. Marco patted his shoulder distractedly and went over to the group down on the short strip of quay opposite the hotel, a group I could now see included Signore Sandretti. Across the canal, on the hotel’s landing dock, the unremarkable Anna, still in her formal black dress, was in the center, apparently explaining who Gunther was. Bitten knocked her aside in her haste to get at the corpse of her lover.
Francesca and Roberta came racing up to me on the bridge and gasped when they saw Gunther’s body laid out on the dock.
“Who is he?”
“The German bassoonist,” I said. “I wonder if it was the oboist, Anna de Hoog, who discovered him.”
Signore Sandretti glanced up and noticed us standing on the bridge above. A look of distaste, even rage, crossed his face when he saw his daughter with Francesca. It reminded me of Marco’s expression just a short while earlier, when handsome turned to horrifying for a split second. Roberta returned his glare with vigor, but I felt Francesca tremble slightly beside me.
It soon became obvious that we could do nothing. Marco returned from a conversation with the police and said we should all go home; the inspector would let us know in the morning if he needed a statement from any of us. For the moment the police were treating Gunther’s death as suspicious, but only after an autopsy would they be able to pinpoint the cause. They would interview Miss Johansson and Miss de Hoog now.
“But how did it happen?” I whispered to Marco in Italian. “Did Anna de Hoog see anything?”
“No, she left the Pietà immediately after the performance and came into the Danieli to meet someone for a drink. There was a commotion on the dock, and she went out and was able to identify Gunther.”
Marco looked subdued and scared. He avoided looking down at his father. I wondered if Sandretti would hold Marco responsible. Roberta left the bridge without speaking to her brother, and Francesca, giving me a shaky smile, trailed after her.
I cast one last glance at the scene below, with Bitten collapsed like a fallen Valkyrie at the feet of a slain warrior companion, and then reluctantly followed Marco and Andrew to the vaporetto stop and back across the Grand Canal to the Dorsoduro. No one had mentioned the word murder yet, but it lingered in the air like the brackish scent of the canals.
I couldn’t help thinking, It’s unfortunate that Nicky had to choose this afternoon to disappear. And that made me remember that Albert Egmont had not been among those who had arrived breathless at the scene of the crime. The last time I remembered seeing him was at the table in the piazza, with a Campari in front of him and a look of pleasure on his austere face as he tapped his black fingers in time to the clarinet.
The next morning I woke from a dream of stone echoing under a solitary step. The sound was coming from outside my hotel, but the steps wound their way into my sleep. I was in a convent, a nun, and in my dream it was a very pleasant thing. I had no worries and no job other than to walk in circles and pray. No romantic entanglements complicated my life; my yearning was only for the Virgin. Best of all, I knew I was making my mother happy. She had longed to be a nun herself, she’d once confided, and had hoped that one of her four daughters would make the choice. I was the least likely of the four to take the veil; on the other hand, I was the only girl in the family who was still technically a virgin, which counted for something I suppose.
I’d ordered my breakfast brought up and in great luxury sat up in bed with a tray of rolls and fruit and coffee, with Lovers and Virgins open in front of me. It was gray and overcast outside, and I was in no hurry to go out. Nicky might or might not show up, with or without explanations or bassoons. Gunther’s death might or might not be solved. But in the timeless world of a romance novel, life would go on, like a ship surging over rhythmic waves of luxurious prose. Despite some feeling of guilt on my part, Bashō in Lima had migrated to the small pile of books I’d brought with me but hadn’t yet opened. Guilt, because I knew it was real literature, composed with thoughtfulness and intent. Guilt, because I considered myself a literary person, widely read and not adverse to working my way down through the surface of a text to the meaning below.
I couldn’t help it, though, I had to find out what was happening to the four sisters in Venezuela.
I had come to the part where Lourdes, the baby of the family, was demanding to return to the convent and become a novice. She had seen her sister Maria’s seduction by the stable hand, and her innocent mind had rebelled and turned it into a Biblical vision that she kept babbling about, much to Maria’s dismay. Mercedes, her next oldest sister, who clearly had her wits about her and was perfectly aware of what had gone on in the horse box, was considering taking the veil as well. Not because she completely believed in God or thought that locking herself up in a nunnery was so fabulous, but because the convent had a library, and the library contained not only the complete works of Voltaire and Rousseau, but also Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, books she couldn’t obtain elsewhere. As Mercedes said, “What else can a woman with a mind do in this godforsaken country but live as a nun?”
Occasionally my mind drifted to the Ospedale della Pietà and to the musicians there. Had the orphanage been a kind of prison where musicians were produced for the entertainment of the Venetian nobility and foreign guests? Or had it been a safe haven where girls who would have otherwise been on the streets were assured of education and livelihood, where talent was recognized and rewarded? What if my choice had been between cloistered musical servitude and prostitution? What would I have chosen? Nun, I thought, but crossed my fingers behind my back. Shut away, but at least with my own kind. Maybe some of the Pietà girls were the same kind of virgin I was. Maybe, I liked to think, they had had time for a kiss in between all those hours of practicing the bassoon.
There was a knock at the door and the maid came in. I’d been in bed most of the morning, and I assumed she probably wanted to make up the room; instead, she handed me an envelope with my name on it.
I opened it quickly.
Cassandra. Meet me at one at the Campo Santa Margherita at the Bar Antico.
N.
P.S. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going or let yourself be followed.
“Who gave you this?”
The maid smiled and shrugged. “The front desk.”
But when I went downstairs a little later, the clerk at the front desk professed not to know anything about it. I asked if anyone else had left me a message, and the clerk pulled out a scrap of paper with a single question scrawled across it:
What orchestra or chamber music group does Miss de Hoog play with?
Could it be from Albert? I had never seen his handwriting before, but it was like him to be curious about the least obvious thing.
I’d hoped to see Anna de Hoog at the palazzo; to my relief, she was sitting in the garden with a few newspapers and a book beside her, obviously alone. I pulled up a painted iron chair and sat down beside her. It had turned into a sunny day with bouncy white clouds above. In the dappled shade Anna’s skin looked pale and mottled. Did she have a life-threatening disease? Her expression was a picture of serenity.
I picked up the book. It was Women Musicians of Venice. It looked like Nicky’s copy. When I turned to the inside cover, I saw that indeed it was. Someone else might have apologized for snooping among Nicky’s things, but not the unflappable Anna. With a guileless smile, she said, “Wasn’t it kind of Nicola to loan me this book?” and she launched into a discussion of the Venetian welfare state that had created the ospedali in the first place.
“They say the reason there were so many abandoned children in Venice was that men were encouraged not to marry, and a huge class of courtesans arose. There was no stigma in giving up a child. The mother would simply place the baby in a sort of revolving door and ring the bell. The nuns would be on the other side to take the baby in, wash it and brand it with the letter P for instance, if it was the Pietà that was taking the child in, and then give the baby to a wet nurse. It was quite a system, don’t you think? I believe the Pietà still has a sign near where the little revolving door used to be. All the same, don’t you think some of those women wondered, when they went to the concerts years later, whether their daughters might possibly be among the performers? And don’t you think the daughters wondered too, looking through the grille work out into the audience: Is my mother here?”
“Not that this isn’t fascinating,” I interrupted, “but…”
“You’re probably wondering about Gunther’s death,” she said quietly. “It was shocking, a shocking thing to see.”
When I looked into her eyes, I saw she truly meant it.
“Do the police know anything more?”
She shook her head. “It’s always a bit complicated in Italy when a foreigner dies. Especially when foul play is suspected. I believe his grandmother was contacted last night and has arrived this morning.”
“And his wife?”
“He wasn’t married.”
“But this Frigga he kept talking with on his cell phone…”
Anna deliberately looked into the distance. “I had thought to be leaving today, now that the symposium is finished and the performance of Orlando Furioso is done. But I suspect I may be staying on a few days.”
That reminded me of what I took to be Albert’s question, left for me at the front desk. “I suppose you have to leave because you have other musical engagements to fulfill?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I didn’t catch what orchestra you were affiliated with.”
“I am not affiliated, only a fill-in,” she said, and seemed so pleased with the assonance that she repeated it. But I could see she was watching me carefully and would not be caught out.
“Now I have a question for you,” she said, in a disconcertingly flirtatious voice that contrasted with her bland demeanor and inquisitive eyes. “I find your friend Albert Egmont rather fascinating. I had hoped to see more of him. Is that possible? I understand from Marco that he is staying at the Danieli.”
“I don’t really know.”
“But he is your friend.” Again, that false sprightliness.
“More an old acquaintance. He knows about missing things.”
“Missing things,” she said significantly. “Missing bassoons?”
“Among other things.”
“Missing things are a sort of specialty of his?”
“Why, did you lose something?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t for a moment believe in this sudden coyness, especially as regarded Albert.
Anna smiled, and something in her eyes said that it was me she found attractive, not my friend the Egg. This disconcerted me even more.
We were interrupted just then by the arrival of Marco with Andrew and Bitten in tow. They had all been to the police station, Marco explained. To give statements.
“But why?” exclaimed Anna. “You were all at the concert last night. Though all of you did miss Act Three.” She laughed almost lightheartedly. “In fact, really, it’s only Cassandra and I who managed to stay for the whole performance. Come now, it wasn’t that bad, was it?” she said to Andrew, as if she knew exactly what he’d been saying about her oboe-playing.
He turned bright red under his freckles, obviously the sort of person who enjoyed snide gossip more than telling hurtful truths.
Bitten hadn’t said a word. Her robust Swedish good looks seemed to have vanished overnight. She walked into the palazzo, and Marco looked at Anna severely. “It is no laughing matter, Miss de Hoog. This Gunther, he was very nice, and a good musician too. It is a sad thing, a terrible thing, if he was murdered.”
“No one feels that more than I,” she said, with a sudden return to seriousness. “I laugh because I am nervous. That is all. Has his grandmother arrived yet?”
“Yes. She is at the police station. And Miss de Hoog, the police wish to interview you again for more details about discovering the body.”
“Shall I…go to the station?” She looked anxious.
“No, the inspector, he will come here very shortly. Please make yourself comfortable. And you, Cassandra?” Marco turned to me. “Still no word from Nicola?”
“Not a peep,” I lied.
“Your friend, this Albert, he did not come back to the scene of the crime with us. I told the police he was living at the Danieli.”
Marco’s tone had become more hushed and urgent. He pulled me aside. “The bassoon, have you any thought where is the bassoon?”
“I believe your father told us very firmly yesterday that the bassoon Albert brought over was not the bassoon that had been stolen.”
“Yes, I know,” Marco murmured unhappily.
“Well then?”
“Even fathers make mistakes,” suggested Anna de Hoog, who had moved a little closer to us.
Marco turned on her. “Not my father!”
“Sorry, sorry. No reason for alarm.” Anna smiled and backed off.
Sorry, sorry. No reason for alarm. It was what the unknown woman who called me in London had said.
In her room over the garden, Bitten had taken up her bassoon. She played a series of warm-up chords that led into an adagio movement from one of Vivaldi’s bassoon concertos. I couldn’t have told you which one, but I had heard it often enough, for Nicky loved it too. But Nicky had never played it with such a feeling of loss as Bitten did now.