Lena was quiet, keeping her head bowed as we exited the Spichio apartment. I waited to break the silence until after we’d stepped into the sunshine on the street outside. “We walked here, but I can hire a cab if you’d prefer,” I said. “There are plenty in the Piazza Santa Croce.”
“I would like to speak to you before you do Signora Spichio’s bidding and force me to go home,” the girl said. Her eyes were still red and swollen, but her voice was stronger now. “Can we find somewhere quiet?”
We walked to the piazza, past the nineteenth-century statue of Dante erected in its center to honor the six-hundredth anniversary of the poet’s birth, and climbed the steps to the entrance of the church. Given that Santa Croce was more or less the Italian equivalent of Westminster Abbey, with monuments and memorials to Galileo, Michelangelo, Dante, Machiavelli, Rossini, and more, it was unsurprising to see it filled with tourists. We headed toward the cloisters, ducked through an atrium supported by Corinthian columns, and stepped into a perfect domed chapel—empty, aside from us—designed by Brunelleschi for the Pazzi family. As they had led the fifteenth-century conspiracy against the Medici that ended with a dramatic assassination in the Duomo, it seemed an appropriate place for our own collusion, even if poor Lena had no idea we were hiding the truth about her fiancé. She believed him to have died in an accident, not at the hand of some yet-unknown villain. Or so I thought.
“Marzo’s fall was no accident,” she said, pulling Cécile and me close, her voice hushed.
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Ridolfo knew his brother was dead before your husband told the family yesterday. Just after lunch the day before Signore Hargreaves came, I was in the apartment with Signora Spichio, making pappardelle while her ragù al cinghiale—wild boar ragù—simmered. She told me she wouldn’t share her recipe for that until after the wedding but was more than happy for me to help with the pasta. Ridolfo came in, when he should have been at work, a crazed expression on his face, and told us Marzo would not be home for dinner.”
I waited, assuming there was more to her story, but nothing came. “Did he say anything else?”
“There was no need to,” she said.
“His suggestion that Marzo would not dine with his family that evening was enough to make you believe your fiancé was dead?”
“Oh, no, not that,” she said. “Obviously, Marzo never did come home; and later in the evening, when Signora Spichio commented that she would save some of the ragù for him, Ridolfo said not to bother, that he was the elder son now. At the time, I thought it was just a nod to their usual rivalry, but now I see it was more. Ridolfo already knew Marzo was dead.”
“They did not get along?” Cécile asked.
“Not since Marzo and I agreed to marry. You see, I used to walk out with Ridolfo, when we were young, but he is a man with no ambition, and once I became old enough to recognize that, I stopped seeing him. Ridolfo was furious when he learned I was with Marzo, even though years had passed since we had been together.”
“Do you think Ridolfo killed his brother?” Cécile asked.
“No, there’s no chance of that. Marzo was working on your roof. Ridolfo is far too lazy to have ever climbed up so high. And he is not a man to see to dirty deeds of that sort.”
“Would he have hired someone else to do it for him?” I asked.
“There was much bitterness between them, but neither would murder the other. As for paying, Ridolfo would never be able to afford that. I suspect, though, that he was aware of another person who felt hatred for Marzo.”
“Who?” I asked.
“That I do not know,” she said. “You must talk to Ridolfo, find out how he knew before anyone else that Marzo was dead.”
“I don’t think he’s likely to confide in Signora du Lac or me,” I said. “Will his anger at you ebb now that his brother is gone?”
“It might if I tell him I’d loved him all along. He is stupid enough to believe that.”
“I would never ask you to do that.”
“It might be amusing,” she said, her eyes brightening. “There are things about him I miss. But I could not let his mother see what I am doing. She would be angry.”
Rightly so, I thought. “Where does Ridolfo work?”
“Not in Florence. He is a tanner in Santa Croce sull’Arno, halfway to Pisa.”
“How far away is that?” Cécile asked.
Lena shrugged. “Thirty miles or so? Far enough that he has a room there.”
“Yet he was in Florence the day his brother died?” I asked. “Was that unusual?”
“Not entirely. As I said, he is lazy and does whatever he can to avoid work.”
“Was he home when my husband broke the news about Marzo’s death?”
“Yes, but I believe Signore Hargreaves told him downstairs when Ridolfo answered the door. What do we do now? Will you talk to him? Or should I pretend to like him again?”
“I will approach him,” I said. “I don’t want you to put yourself in an awkward situation.”
“If you change your mind, leave word for me at Dante’s cenotaph. You can slip an envelope under the arm of the sculpture of the lady weeping. I will check every day—and you should do the same, in case I need to contact you.”
“I assure you, that won’t be necessary—”
She interrupted. “But it would be thrilling, would it not, passing secret messages?” She smiled again and lowered her voice. “I must go now. There’s no need to escort me. I wanted to speak to you away from the family and pretended to cry so that Signora Spichio would ask you to take me home.”
“You really must let us escort you—”
She was gone before I could finish my sentence.
Nonplussed, Cécile and I tried to go after her, but she had disappeared from the church. We stopped in front of Dante’s monument to gather our thoughts. The poet was exiled from Florence after supporting the wrong side—that is, the losing side—in the strife between the White and Black Guelfs in the early fourteenth century. He adopted Ravenna as his home, died and was buried there, never returning to his beloved Florence. Despite attempts in the seventeenth century to return his mortal remains to the city of his birth, Ravenna refused. Why should Florence have the poet in death, when she banned him in life? Nonetheless, in the nineteenth century, the city commissioned sculptor Stefano Ricci to make a cenotaph for the poet, even if it was to sit forever empty in the church. In a way, it was a long overdue apology from the city.
There was a spot perfect for hiding a note behind the arm of the mourning woman sculpted draping herself over the tomb. I mention this only as an observation, having had no intention of communicating with Lena in such a fashion.
Cécile turned away from the monument before I did. “The girl was clearly upset after she and Ridolfo argued,” she said. “Her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying. Yet now she acts as if she is unaffected.”
“I hardly know what to make of her,” I said. “She’s grieving, that much is evident. Why, then, this bizarre suggestion to pretend to rekindle her old romance with Ridolfo?”
“Maybe she does believe he murdered Marzo.”
“All the more reason to keep away from him. I’ve no idea what she’s playing at, but if it is true that Ridolfo knew Marzo was dead before Colin informed the family, there’s something odd going on. We know the fall didn’t kill him. Colin let as much slip when we found the body.”
“If Ridolfo is as lazy as Lena claims, she’s right that he wouldn’t have dragged his brother’s body to the top of a roof,” Cécile said.
“I agree. But maybe he knows the actual cause of Marzo’s death.” I wanted to hear from Colin how Ridolfo had reacted upon hearing about the accident. Had he seemed surprised? If so, was it due to the news itself or to the story being presented, a story he knew to be false?
“What now?”
“Now, Cécile, we play tourist, so that we can convince Darius we’re doing nothing else. I want to see Giotto’s frescoes of the life of St. Francis.”
“I thought you were going to leave flowers on Machiavelli’s tomb.”
“I would if I had any,” I said. “As it is, Niccolò will have to make do with only my prayers.”
When we returned to the palazzo late in the afternoon, the gentlemen were waiting for us in the Sala dei Pappagalli. After finishing our exploration of Santa Croce, we had meandered through the shops in the piazza, where I bought a dozen wooden trays—sezzatini—carefully painted and decorated with gilt in the manner traditional to Florence since the fourteenth century. Colin’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline when I made a show of opening the parcels. He was not used to me being so enthusiastic about shopping.
“Each one is a unique design,” I said. “A husband and wife run the shop and do the painting themselves. It’s too marvelous. Just the sort of thing the Medici might have had in their own palazzo. I do hope you don’t think twelve is too many, darling, but I couldn’t resist.”
“Not too many at all,” Colin said. I might be laying it on too thick. He looked as if he were having trouble keeping from laughing. Fortunately, Darius did not know me well enough to recognize my purchases as out of character.
“What about you, Cécile?” Darius asked. “Did you manage to resist the siren call of Florentine trays?”
“I did, monsieur. Much as I would like to discuss the details of our day, I’m afraid I must retreat to dress for dinner. I’ve invited a guest to join us.” She excused herself and went upstairs. I wanted desperately to talk to Colin privately, but wasn’t sure this was the right time to give him a longing look. Surely that would be better when Darius wouldn’t be left alone. In the end, I didn’t need to decide. Tessa came into the room with a telegram for Colin, who, upon opening it and reading, told me he needed a moment alone with his colleague and stood up to leave the room.
“Don’t go,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to work on my graffiti project today. This is the perfect opportunity.”
I had noticed writing on the wall in the second floor dining room that morning at breakfast, so, after collecting my notebook and pencil from our bedroom, I copied and translated it. The year 1494 appeared twice, and there was a message about charity or alms being dispensed. Another fragment mentioned someone being scourged. There were other dates, parts of phrases, and several names. Just above the floor on a small wall near the door leading to the neighboring studiolo, I spotted a sentence written in Latin, the handwriting a match for that I’d found on the first floor landing:
quo magis in dubiis hominem spectare periclis / convenit adversisque in rebus noscere qui sit; / nam verae voces tum demum pectore ab imo / eliciuntur et eripitur persona manet res.
Watch a man in times of adversity to discover what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off.
I wondered if this, like the Latin sentence I’d seen on the landing, was from Lucretius, and regretted not yet having a copy of De Rerum Natura in my possession. I copied the remaining graffiti in the room, sketched a diagram to indicate where it was located, and then rang for Tessa to help me dress for dinner. By the time I returned downstairs, Cécile was already in the Sale Madornale with Signore Tazzera.
“Colin will join us shortly,” I said. “He had just arrived to change when I was leaving our room.” The timing, unfortunately, had meant we’d had little time to speak privately. I’d asked him what happened to his face—the bruise looked even worse now—and he gave me the same story Darius had about too much drink and would-be thieves seizing on this vulnerability. There had to be more to it, but nothing he would admit.
Signore Tazzera poured a glass of prosecco for me, from the supply he’d sent Cécile. “Your friend is very kind to pretend to like my gift,” he said. “I know she would prefer champagne.”
I accepted the beverage and thanked him. “I think your prosecco is delightful, but then I—unlike either Cécile or my husband, who brings whisky wherever he goes—enjoy indulging in local delicacies when I travel. Which is why we shall have limoncello after dinner.”
“No port?” Darius said, entering the room. “Colin will be shocked.”
“He knows my habits too well to be even slightly surprised.”
Cécile introduced him to her friend, and Darius welcomed the new acquaintance with boundless warmth. “I have the greatest respect for your profession, Signore Tazzera. My family ought to have a comprehensive library, and did, until my grandfather, the most notoriously eccentric of my ancestors, drew the erroneous conclusion that his wife, who died of consumption, had contracted the disease from a copy of Les Liaisons dangereuses. He had forbidden her to read the book, although at the time made no mention of the threat of disease. Convinced it had led to her demise, he burned all four volumes. His friends pointed out the inanity of what he’d done, chiding him for believing one title among thousands could have caused her illness. Rather than back down from his position, he ordered the entire contents of his library taken outside and consigned to the flames. His very own bonfire of the vanities. My father did his best to refill the empty shelves, but these things take a great deal of time. Since inheriting, I, too, have made an effort, but am not in a position to get everything I’d like. As a result, I’ve spent a great deal of time in the Reading Room of the British Library and owe more of my education to that magical place than I do Cambridge.”
“I wonder, signore, which your grandfather feared more: consumption or the ideas in Laclos’s novel,” Signore Tazzera said.
“There’s little doubt in my mind,” Darius replied. “I say, this wine is excellent. I’m indebted to you bringing it for us and to the ever-charming Cécile, who is good enough to share it with us.”
“Do not delude yourself, sir,” the librarian said. “She is grateful to have others drink it so that it disappears more quickly and she can return to champagne.”
“You see why I like the man, Kallista,” Cécile said. “He is sensible and realistic.”
“I had no idea you were drawn to either,” Colin said, grinning as he joined us. “Emily, before I forget, I’ve contacted Hatchards about your Lucretius, but it will likely take a week to arrive.”
“You will read De Rerum Natura, Lady Emily?” Signore Tazzera asked. “Splendido! It is a wonderful work. How is your research into the history of this palazzo coming along?”
“Quite well, thank you. I uncovered a story of hidden treasure stashed away in this house. It seems inconceivable, but multiple sources make similar claims.”
“Hidden treasure?” Darius asked. “Now that’s something about which I can get excited. What is it? Gold bullion?”
“Florins, more likely,” I said, “but I’ve found no description of what was hidden. The first mention was in a sixteenth-century history of the city, so whatever the treasure may be, it dates at least to then.”
“I think it’s a hoard of jewelry,” Cécile said. “Imagine a young girl, forced to marry an ogre twice her age. After the wedding, when she realizes she cannot bear to live with him, she squirrels away the only things she has of value: jewelry. And then she waits for the right moment to make her escape.”
“With her lover, I hope,” Darius said. “Please let her have a lover.”
“Mais oui, monsieur. Naturally she has a lover. But before they can flee—”
“To Siena,” Signore Tazzera said. “It is a beautiful place.”
“Siena, then,” Cécile said. “The poor girl falls ill—”
“With consumption caught from the pages of a sensational novel,” I said, laughing. “She dies without ever seeing her love again.”
“Thus, leaving the jewels still hidden in the walls of the house,” Darius said. “I like this story very much. Except for the consumption bit. Couldn’t you let them run off?”
“Not if I want the jewelry to still be here for me to find,” Cécile said.
“You can’t really think there is treasure hidden in the house,” Darius said, tugging at his shirt cuffs.
“It is not rational, monsieur, but some things are best left to intuition. Mine tells me there is something here waiting to be found. While Kallista busies herself with graffiti, I shall start a search. I do like to have a project of my own.”
“It would be my infinite pleasure to assist you,” Signore Tazzera said, giving a little bow. They would make a formidable team, but I was not convinced either of them was looking for a treasure hunt.