Darius and Signore Tazzera left the house together after dinner, and Cécile retired to her room shortly thereafter. Colin and I followed suit. I still had not become accustomed to the layout of the house, with its cold landings open to the sky. It made the contrasting warmth of the rooms all the cozier, and there is something to be said for getting a blast of fresh air, even if it’s chilly, before retiring for the night.
“I’m rather disappointed that I had no need to shoot you a longing look tonight,” I said, brushing my hair after putting on my nightgown, a filmy concoction of the finest lawn and Venetian lace. “I was rather looking forward to it.”
“If you do it with the same amount of subtlety you applied to the account of your shopping this afternoon, Darius will have no doubt that you’re up to something that has nothing to do with amorous intentions.”
“I admit to getting carried away,” I said.
“Your unguarded enthusiasm is one of the things I love best about you.” He came up behind me, bent over, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I turned my head and he kissed me, but I pushed him away.
“No distractions, not yet.” Finished with my hair, I sat on our bed while he unfastened the studs from his dress shirt, removed the garment, and flung it over a chair. “I called on the Spichios this morning,” I said and took him moment by moment through my day. “What was your impression of Ridolfo when you met him?”
“Much the same as yours. He’s a lout.”
“Did he appear surprised when you told him about Marzo?”
“Shocked, I’d say, but I couldn’t tell you whether that was due to learning his brother was dead or because he knew my information was not the whole truth. What do you make of Lena?”
I sighed. “She’s utterly confusing. She was so upset at the apartment, but made a complete turnaround when we were in Santa Croce. I don’t doubt that she loved Marzo—”
“Why?” Colin asked.
“Why don’t I doubt that she loved him?”
“Yes. What evidence convinced you of that?”
I considered the question. “Her eyes. They were red and swollen. She could have pretended to cry, but not with that result. Yes, her mood changed after we left the Spichios, but maybe she was relieved to be away from his family. She mentioned that Marzo’s mother wouldn’t share a recipe with her until after the wedding, which suggests she didn’t entirely trust her former future daughter-in-law. Ridolfo lashed out at Lena for not wanting to live with the family. Many Italian girls expect to move into their husbands’ family home. It’s unusual to do otherwise, yet Lena was insisting upon just that. Whatever her issues with his family, she still wanted to marry him, which is more evidence both that she loved him and that her grief is real.”
“You’re good at this, Emily,” he said, his smile warm. “Anything else?”
“Her suggestion that we communicate by leaving letters hidden at Dante’s cenotaph gives insight into her personality. Perhaps she likes adventure. Perhaps she doesn’t take things as seriously as she ought.”
“Perhaps she has reason to believe that open correspondence with you on the subject of her fiancé’s death could prove dangerous.”
His response took me by surprise. He rarely embraced such extreme explanations. “Do you believe that to be the case?” I asked.
“It’s certainly possible, but I can’t say with any confidence it’s a reasonable theory. Lena might crave excitement, but that doesn’t preclude her from being in danger, even if she’s unaware of it. Now let’s talk about Ridolfo.”
“I know far less about him,” I said, “and much of what I do is based on assertions from Lena, whom we have no reason to trust as reliable when it comes to him. She calls him lazy now, but she was romantically involved with him in the past and claims they parted ways when she saw the depths of his lack of ambition.”
“Wouldn’t she be inclined, even if she was not aware of it, to paint him in a bad light to justify throwing him over for his brother?” Colin asked. “It’s not generally considered appropriate to go from one sibling to the next.”
“Quite, although Lena can’t be more than twenty years old. If she was involved with Ridolfo as an infatuated young teenager, it might not matter so much.”
“Agreed.”
“Is any of this helpful?” I asked.
“Having more information is always helpful, although I’m still of the mind that Marzo’s death has solely to do with his work for the British.”
“Even if he were killed directly as a result of his work, his assassin—I feel that’s a more fitting term in the current circumstances than murderer—might have planned his crime based on details from Marzo’s life, to throw suspicion in another direction.”
“An assassin wouldn’t bother,” Colin said. “He’d do the job quickly and efficiently with an eye on nothing beyond avoiding getting caught. It’s difficult to prove culpability after the fact when a killer has no connection to his victim.”
“Wouldn’t they have a professional connection?”
“Yes, but only in the most tenuous way. If I needed someone eliminated, I would discuss it with my superiors, who would, in turn, decide how to deal with it. They would not ask me to handle the task myself, but rather assign it to a person otherwise unrelated to the situation.”
I cringed, never before having considered that my husband might—even peripherally—be involved in an assassination. For the first time, I didn’t want more details about his work. Still, something niggled at me. “I understand the point, but surely there are circumstances in your line of work that require immediate action by an agent already on the scene. In that case, isn’t it conceivable that Marzo’s life, connections, routine could prove illuminating?”
“It is not impossible.”
“Then I shall continue my work and tell you everything.”
“I appreciate your candor and am sorry I can’t share with you what I’ve learned,” he said.
“At this moment, I’m not sure that troubles me.”
“You’re not? That shocks me to my core. Do I know you at all?” he asked, his dark eyes sparkling. “I shall have to undertake a careful examination of every inch of your person, to make sure you’re not an imposter posing as my wife.”
“I suppose your doing so is critical to the empire?” I asked. He nodded, brushed my hair away from the back of my neck, and kissed me. Who was I to stand in the way of such a noble cause?
The next morning, Cécile and I went to the Uffizi Gallery. It’s difficult to imagine Florence without this famous Mannerist structure, but it did not yet exist in the days of Cosimo de’ Medici—il Vecchio—or his grandson, Lorenzo the Magnificent. Built in the sixteenth century by renowned architect Giorgio Vasari to serve as offices for the city’s government, it is now one of the most important art museums in the world. My friend and I both wanted to see the collection, but also needed a place where we could not be overheard while discussing our investigation. In this regard, the limited privacy of a public space was preferable to the house. I was not confident we could trust Tessa.
“Do you think we are being followed?” Cécile asked, glancing back over her shoulder.
“I can’t imagine anyone would be interested in following us,” I said. “It’s not as if we’ve uncovered sensitive information or have special insight into Marzo’s death.”
“I’ve been reading Monsieur Le Queux’s book, the one you abandoned and left in the Sala dei Pappagalli. It’s quite intriguing. I especially liked the bit where he discusses how the days of British supremacy are coming to an end. He says, The English have endeavored to rule the world far too long. They must be suppressed, and the Powers have already agreed that the time has come to crush this nation of swaggering idiots.”
“I believe it was an enemy agent making that claim,” I said. “It hardly reflects Mr. Le Queux’s own views.”
“I say it only to tease you, Kallista. You know I don’t despise the English. At least not all of them.”
“Your magnanimity is laudable,” I said, accepting her teasing in good humor.
“The book leads me to believe that if we’re entangled in the work of spies, we have every right to expect to be followed. Preferably by a dashing sort of agent.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“Oui, if Marzo Spichio was one.”
“Don’t be unkind to the dead, Cécile.”
She shrugged but made no reply.
Inside the museum, we climbed the stairs to the gallery on the second floor, pausing briefly in front of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. We then sat on a bench in the corridor near windows that offered sweeping views of the city, the Arno in one direction and the Duomo in the other.
“Because Lena did not allow us to accompany her home, we don’t know where she lives,” I said. “I want to speak to Ridolfo. We need to learn more about him, and he can tell us where to find Lena.”
“Will he still be in Florence?” Cécile asked. “He works outside the city.”
“If Lena’s characterization of his laziness can be even half believed, I doubt he’d return to the tannery until after his brother’s funeral. I had a message for him delivered to the family apartment this morning, asking him to meet us here at eleven.” I glanced at my watch. “He’s nearly a quarter of an hour late, so it may be that my deductions are nothing but useless drivel.”
“He does not strike me as a man who knows his way around a museum. As such, it is sensible to expect tardiness.”
Cécile was correct. At twenty past the hour, Ridolfo Spichio sauntered toward us, more interested in ogling the fashionable ladies in the gallery than in showing even a passing concern for art. But he had come, and for that, I was grateful. I thanked him and explained that I’d wanted us to be able to speak freely, without causing his mother further upset.
“I’m curious,” I said. “Why did Lena insist on living away from your family?”
“She is a girl who likes to put on airs, who thinks she is too good to live like a peasant. Which is insulting, as my family has never been peasants. She wants to believe she belongs in a palazzo.”
“Surely she knew Marzo couldn’t afford a house like that,” I said.
“She was willing to modify her desires, at least to some degree.”
“It must have hurt your mother,” Cécile said. “She, after all, still lives with her own mother-in-law.”
“Lena thinks she’s better than everyone, which is why my mother didn’t care what the girl wanted to do. But she didn’t like the idea of losing Marzo. Now, though, she’s lost him in a far worse way.”
“She still has you,” I said, “and I imagine she needs you now more than ever.”
He snorted. “Unfortunate for me. My work is not in Florence. I cannot move back in with her, and I shouldn’t have to.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest you should. Tell me about your work.”
“I’m a tanner. It would not interest you.”
“Florentine leather is the most beautiful in the world,” Cécile said. “Why would that not interest us?”
“Have you smelled many animal hides, signora? You would not find it pleasant.”
Cécile bristled. “I do not equate pleasant with interesting.”
“Why am I here?” he asked. “I know it’s not to talk about tanneries.”
“We want to know more about your brother,” I said. “I feel awful about his death and wish I had known him better.”
“You told me he was kind. That is what Marzo was good at—making people believe whatever he wanted them to about him. If you lived with him, you would know he was not so kind. He was selfish, more concerned with his fiancée’s whims than his mother. He never even feigned the slightest interest in me.”
“I’m sure he cared,” I said.
“You’re wrong on that count. Did you know Lena was engaged to me? Six weeks before the wedding she met my brother. Two days later, she told me she could not marry me.”
This was a markedly different version of the story than Lena had told us. “How long were you engaged?” I asked.
“Four months.”
“In all that time she never met your family?”
“She met my mother and my nonna. I kept her away from Marzo because I knew he would steal her from me.”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“Because whenever he saw something he wanted, he did whatever was necessary to get it. Lena is beautiful. Any man would want her. It came as no surprise to me when he took her.”
“How long after she called off your wedding did she agree to marry Marzo?” Cécile asked.
“Nine days. Nine. I was humiliated.”
Cécile frowned. “How long ago did this happen?”
“A year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “No one deserves to be treated in such a callous manner, particularly by his own brother.”
“What does it matter now?” He balled his hands into tight fists.
“Were you surprised to learn of his death?” I asked.
“Only because it was an accident. Given the way he treats others, I would have thought it more likely he’d be murdered.”
“Who would you have suspected?” Cécile asked.
“Who cares? No one had the nerve to do it. But I suppose I can take comfort in knowing that he’s gone and can’t hurt anyone else.”
“You didn’t kill him when he stole your fiancée,” I said. “Is there someone else who has a stronger motive for wanting him dead than that?”
“Are you suggesting I murdered my brother?”
“No, of course not. His death was an accident.” I needed to tread with care. “I just wondered what he’d done to people unrelated to him, given the appalling manner in which he treated you.”
“That was his business, and now that he’s dead, it’s no one’s. I’m sorry to throw water on your rosy view of poor Marzo, but the truth is that you should rejoice at not having known him better.”
With that, he turned away and stormed back toward the stairs, taking no notice of any of the ladies he passed. His mood had changed completely. I almost let him go before remembering that I needed to know where Lena lived. I leapt to my feet and ran after him.
“Wait, please, Ridolfo,” I called. He stopped, glowering at me. “I know it’s not appropriate at the moment, but I should like to let Lena know what I think of the way she so callously cast you aside. She did not allow Signora du Lac and me to take her home yesterday, so I do not know how to reach her. Can you tell me where to find her house?”
“Cross Ponte Santa Trinita and go to the Piazza Santo Spirito. Look for a shop there that sells leather accessories. Her father owns it. That is all I have to say to you, signora. Please leave my family alone. We have enough trouble without you looking for more.”