‘Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic, the floating City, City of Canals. I want to take in the sights and all I can think about now is how I wish I’d brought my wellingtons,’ Harker said gloomily, looking down at his black leather brogues that were nearly soaked through. ‘Beautiful city, though.’
Stefani just about managed a smile as he moved away from the massive puddles alongside the Basilica overlooking the famous Piazza San Marco. ‘It does experience some minor flooding from time to time, but you can’t deny those views.’
Harker surveyed the sprawling L-shaped open space which constituted the principal public square in Venice; absolutely packed with tourists at this time of day. The Church’s façade boasted enormous arches and marble walls adorned with mosaics, its main entrance attracted a constant crowd of tourists all putting up with those large puddles to gain access to the wonderful interior. He still found it hard to believe that this ancient city was being supported on nothing more than wooden posts, even if there were a million of them constantly sinking deeper into the mud year on year. This place was undoubtedly one of humanity’s most impressive architectural triumphs.
‘Do you remember much of this from your childhood? Harker asked, trying to engage with Stefani who had been uncharacteristically – though understandably – subdued on the flight over.
‘Hardly, Alex, I was barely one year old when I was adopted, and I never came back.’
The strain in her voice was obvious and Harker moved closer to her. ‘So where’s the orphanage?’
‘Should be just around the corner if this map is correct,’ Stefani replied studying it for a few more seconds before folding it up and slipping it into her leather jacket pocket. With sagging shoulders she made her way off the Piazza and down a side street running next to the Basilica. Harker followed in silence and, even though he sensed she wasn’t in the mood to talk, he tried anyway, if for no other reason than simply to elicit a smile from those brooding lips.
‘I haven’t been here since I was eighteen,’ he remarked as a group of tourists headed past them, their smartphones held up in front of them like weapons. ‘Only spent one day before I had to get back.’
‘Family visit, was it?’
‘No, nothing like that. I was training at the Vatican and used a day off to come and see the sights.’
The remark seemed to puzzle her. ‘Training for what?’
‘To be a priest.’
This disclosure had her looking shocked and she stopped short as a further wave of tourists flowed past them. ‘You were a priest?’
‘Yes… with the emphasis on was.’ Harker replied and he felt as if she was judging him for some past crime.
‘I never would have thought that.’ She shook her head and continued walking, ‘You’re just so…’
‘Rebellious? Defiant?’ Harker offered, listing what he concluded some of his best qualities.
‘No, I was going to say stubborn and slightly annoying.’
Harker’s face dropped and he was starting to feel a bit annoyed, when she began to laugh, and he immediately relaxed. ‘Very funny.’
‘I just didn’t know, that’s all,’ Stefani continued, suddenly appearing more upbeat. ‘The famous archaeologist Alex Harker was a priest.’
‘OK, now you’re just taking the piss,’ Harker said with a grin.
But Stefani looked serious. ‘No, I mean it. You know how the Templars feel about you… well, a small number of us anyway.’ She let out a laugh. ‘OK, now I am taking the piss.’
‘Enough.’ Harker was glad to see that she now seemed in a better frame of mind than during the previous few hours. ‘Now, where precisely is this place we’re looking for?’
Stefani turned her gaze to the row of buildings lining one side of the narrow street and finally pointed to one of them: ‘340 Calle Canonico. That’s it.’
On the corner leading off into another tiny side street stood a small restaurant with large bay windows. Inside were people eating, some of whom began staring out at them.
‘Unless they now serve hungry passers-by as well as parentless kids, I’d say your orphanage was shut down a while back,’ Harker observed.
Stefani pulled out the map again and examined it closely. ‘This is definitely it,’ she confirmed.
With a shrug Harker led the way inside to take a closer look. The interior was exactly what it seemed: a restaurant. And, after staring around for a few moments, Harker approached the blond-haired waitress in a black uniform who was sitting behind the small counter. ‘Excuse me,’ he began politely, in order to catch her attention. ‘We’re trying to find the Ospedale del Santo. I was given this address.’
The young woman swept back several loose strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail before she shook her head courteously. ‘We’re a restaurant.’
Harker persisted ‘What was here before it became a restaurant?’
Already used to strange questions from sight-seeking tourists, she shook her head again. ‘Sorry, I’ve only worked here for a few months; would you like a table?’
‘Thank you but no,’ Harker replied, as Stefani dodged a waiter carrying two bowls of spaghetti carbonara and a Diet Coke to a nearby table, ‘it’s the orphanage I was looking for.’
She raised her shoulders helplessly. ‘Would you like to speak with the owner?
Finally some headway, Harker thought, even if just grasping at straws. ‘That would be perfect, thank you.’
The girl headed off down a narrow corridor leading to the rear and within a minute a heavy-set woman in her late fifties appeared. Sporting a bouffant hairstyle that only served to accentuate her ample frame, and dressed in a tan business jacket and skirt, with a necklace containing the largest set of fake pearls Harker had ever seen, the sight of her rapidly disproved the idea that all Italians were born with an inherent sense of fashion.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked in a strangely, high-pitched voice somewhat at odds with her generous frame.
‘We’re trying to get some information on the orphanage that used to be here. Maybe you can help us?’
Her eyes squinted slightly, not with any sense of defensiveness but rather an air of puzzlement. ‘Why?’
Stefani gently stepped past Harker and right up to the counter. ‘I was adopted from here as a baby, and my husband and I were putting together a family tree…’ She patted her stomach which she was now forcing outwards to suggest a bump.
Without needing a prompt, Harker draped his arm around his supposed wife and nodded eagerly with a smile. ‘Family history has become so important to us now little Edward is on the way.’ He felt a pinch to his waist from Stefani indicating ‘Don’t overdo it’.
The proprietor remained blank-faced, then a wide smile emerged on her puffy lips. ‘When you have children your life does take on a different meaning, doesn’t it? I’d be happy to show you around the place, if you’d like.’
‘That would be great,’ Stefani enthused and, with a beckoning flick of the woman’s hand they followed her beyond the counter and along the narrow corridor towards the far end of the building.
‘I bought this place about twenty-five years ago, after the orphanage closed down.’ The plump woman guided them on past the kitchen area and out into a small backyard patio bordered on all sides by neighbouring buildings. The surrounding walls supported trellises hung with a beautiful collection of passion vines in a refreshing mixture of purple and orange, while in the centre was a round wooden table and several chairs whose varnish had long lost its shine.
‘There used to be some additional rooms here but we received special permission to take them down and build this seating area.’ The woman proudly swept a hand over the attractive arrangement.
‘It’s lovely.’ Harker nodded in approval.
She turned back to face them both. ‘So what can I show you?’
At that moment Harker returned gratefully to their reason for being here. ‘We were hoping to find out more about the orphanage’s history. Why it closed, for instance?’
His question drew a look of wide-eyed surprise from the restaurant owner.
‘You don’t know, then?’
‘Know what?’ Stefani replied.
Signora Busetto began to look uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, I assumed you knew – seeing as you were adopted from here.’
She was obviously curious at their lack of knowledge and so Stefani began to explain herself. ‘I was adopted as a young baby and this is the first time I’ve been back. I honestly expected the orphanage to still be here.’
Signora Busetto looked sad that Stefani was going to be disappointed and she motioned for them both to take a seat. She followed suit, the wooden chair creaking underneath her plentiful weight. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but the orphanage was closed after a dreadful incident here some twenty-five years ago. I suppose it must have occurred shortly after you were adopted.’
‘What exactly happened?’ Harker demanded, as Stefani leant closer to the table.
‘About twenty children between the ages of one and eight years old used to be cared for here at the Orphanage of the Saint, which back then was attached to the Basilica out on the main Piazza. It was overseen by a priest – I can’t remember his name, I’m afraid – but by the early nineties orphanages had become all but extinct, so as such it had become a well-known institution in the city of Venice. Everyone knew of it.’
Signora Busetto paused and began to rub her hands together anxiously, her retelling of this story clearly troubling to her. ‘One night the police responded to a reported disturbance right here, and what they found still haunts the memory of the locals who witnessed it.’
‘What did they find?’ Harker asked so impatiently that he was sharply nudged in the arm by Stefani.
‘Let the lady finish.’
Signora Busetto appeared grateful for the pause, then she continued with a look of genuine sorrow on her face. ‘They found the supervising priest mutilated, so the newspapers reported, and the body of one of the eldest children treated in much the same fashion. I don’t know exactly what, but such terrible things had been done to both of them that the details weren’t fully reported.’
‘Oh my God, that’s awful,’ Harker mouthed, massaging his forehead vigorously, as the woman nodded slowly.
‘I know. The things some people are capable of can be quite overwhelming – which is how the surrounding community reacted at the time.’
‘What happened to those other children?’ Stefani asked, and her expression remarkably hard given the nature of the atrocities they were learning about.
‘They didn’t find all the… body parts,’ Signora Busetto replied cryptically, ‘but I do know some remains were found at the bottom of the canal just a few streets over from here.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harker muttered sympathetically.
‘I know, that’s how the whole local community felt, and it is also the main reason we were allowed special permission to demolish those rooms of the building in which it actually took place and had this garden built in its place. It’s also the reason my husband planted these passion vines surrounding us: to honour those poor little souls.’
There were few things in the world that Harker could not find some semblance of understanding for but when it came to the rape, abuse or murder of children his heart, like most people’s, was turned to stone and the retribution of an eye for and eye seemed not just justified but a human duty. ‘Did they catch anyone?’
She shook her head mournfully. ‘There was an arrest but the fellow was released without charge and, although he was innocent, a stain like that doesn’t easily wash off. I read somewhere later that he became a recluse and drank himself to death… but, apart from that, no one was ever apprehended.’
‘How about the bodies of the other children? Were they ever recovered?’ Stefani intervened, her voice quivering slightly.
‘That’s possibly the worst part of it,’ replied Signora Busetto, who stopped fumbling with her hands and laid them out straight on the chair’s arms. ‘They were discovered several weeks later just a few miles from here, on the island of Poveglia. They had been drowned and were then piled up on one another like in some kind of sick monument. No shred of evidence regarding the killers was left behind except this “gross shrine to pure evil”, as the newspapers put it. You don’t forget a headline like that. They later placed a memorial up there as I remember.’
Stefani sat back in her seat and exhaled deeply. The other woman leant forward and tapped her warmly on the hand.
‘I would therefore say you’re extremely fortunate,’ she gave a caring smile. ‘If you hadn’t been adopted when you were, I suppose you’d have ended up like the others.’
It was a disconcerting thought and, seeing how deeply it affected Stefani, Harker began to shift the conversation along. ‘I’ve heard of this Poveglia island many times. It’s got a grim history, hasn’t it?’
Signora Busetto pulled back her hand and placed it in her lap where she began to fidget with her fingers. ‘Every city in the world has its own dark past.’
‘Why, what else happened there?’ Stefani now sat straight up in her seat as if glad to be distracted from brooding on the lucky escape fate had afforded her.
‘It was a quarantine station during an outbreak of plague back in the eighteenth century,’ Harker explained, ‘when thousands of the citizens were abandoned there to die and their bodies later burnt in an effort to control the epidemic.’ He was well aware of the island’s unpalatable history, which was well known. ‘It then became a mental hospital in the 1920s but got shut down sometime in the ’60s after they caught one of the doctors performing crude lobotomies and a number of other nasty goings on – in the name of medicine.’
‘That’s correct,’ Signora Busetto confirmed, seeming more than happy to discuss such a morbid topic. ‘The same doctor committed suicide by throwing himself from the top of the bell-tower after being tormented by the ghosts of those he defiled, so the story goes. Even today there’s a saying amongst Venetians that when bad people die they don’t wake up in hell but instead are imprisoned on that island for all eternity.’
Stefani looked up at her host with a grimace, to which the woman gave a dry smile. ‘As I said dear, every city has its own dark history, and Venice is no exception.’
The gloomy atmosphere was suddenly broken, much to Harker’s relief, when one of the waiters stuck his head out through the open kitchen door and called out to Signora Busetto.
‘Martina, can you give us a hand. It’s getting really busy up-front.’
Mrs Busetto waved a hand elegantly in the air. ‘I’ll be right there, Lorenzo,’ she replied and heaved herself to her feet. ‘If you want to have some lunch here, I would be happy to show you upstairs as well if you’d like. Not that you’d remember much as it’s changed quite a bit since you were here last.’
Stefani stood up, shaking her head and Harker also rose to his feet. ‘Thank you but I think we’ve seen enough,’ she said bitterly and their hostess immediately noticed how sad she looked.
‘I’m sorry, it’s a horrible story, but I’ve lived with it for so many years that I may have become somewhat numb to it.’
‘That’s totally understandable,’ Harker replied, before shaking her hand gratefully, ‘At least we now know what happened.’
‘Yes,’ Stefani added quickly, ‘at least we know.’
With a polite nod Signora Busetto headed back towards the kitchen, pausing at the doorway. ‘I’ll have some sandwiches made for you and waiting at the front desk. Consider it a parting gift, and if you take away anything from our conversation, let it be this. If fate had not smiled on you that day when you were adopted, you would not now be about to welcome your own child into this world, would you? That is surely something to be grateful for.’
She then disappeared into the kitchen, leaving them alone together in what had previously looked like a charming back patio but whose brightly coloured flowers now only seemed like a bizarre testament to the horrors that had taken place all those years ago.
‘You OK?’ he asked Stefani.
She looked up and gave him a brave look. ‘I’m fine, just a bit taken aback really. Putting all that to one side now, if it’s possible, I’m trying to understand why the message led us here?’
In his mind Harker already knew the answer but for some reason he felt that he should not launch straight into it. ‘Well, if that message on the Prophecy was written by Cardinal Vicci a few centuries ago, then I’m still not sure what to make of it. But if it was your father who wrote it, then this place obviously had some significance that he wanted you to know about, or at least investigate.’
‘And that would be…?’
He slipped his arm under hers and drew her towards the kitchen doorway.
‘The island of Poveglia.’