The walk Cécile and I took to the Piazza Santo Spirito was my first excursion into the Oltrarno, the other side of the Arno. The Ponte Santa Trinita’s elegant arches spanned the river, offering an incomparable view of Florence’s most famous bridge, the Ponte Vecchio. The first structure on the site was Roman, dating to 994, but the current Ponte Vecchio had been constructed in 1345, a flood having destroyed its predecessor. Medieval shops lined it on both sides. Atop the buildings on the east runs an enclosed corridor designed by Vasari in the sixteenth century to make it possible for the Medici to travel from the town hall, Palazzo della Signoria, to their ducal home at Palazzo Pitti, across the river, without having to encounter the public.
After crossing the bridge, we turned toward Santo Spirito, quickly locating Lena’s father’s leather shop when we reached the piazza. Inside, gleaming wooden counters displayed a stunning collection of handbags, valises, wallets, book covers, portfolios, and more. The leather was indisputably of the finest quality, but adding to its inherent beauty was the method used to decorate it. Florence is famous for its colorful marbled paper. Here, a similar technique was used to stunning effect on leather, giving exquisite detail to the pieces. A boy who looked to be no more than fifteen popped his head out from a door in the back.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“We’re looking for the shop’s owner,” I said.
“I can fetch him for you if you’ll wait.” I thanked him and he disappeared behind the door. We could hear his footsteps clattering up the stairs, and a few minutes later a middle-aged man with gleaming raven hair—not yet marred by a single streak of silver—greeted us.
“I am Signore Bastieri,” he said. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“I didn’t realize what a pressing need I have for a new bag until I saw your exquisite stock,” Cécile said. “It’s unlike anything else I’ve ever seen.” She picked up a buttery tan chatelaine bag, its strap decorated with marbling the colors of sunset.
“Your compliments are most appreciated,” he said. “If you prefer something made to your specific needs, I can design it for you, using whatever style and colors you like.”
“I am overwhelmed, monsieur,” she said, “and suspect we are going to require a long, long meeting to discuss what I want. I’m going to keep you busily at work for months.”
He smiled. “I am at your service, signora.”
“I’m afraid before we can start, however, my friend needs to speak to you about something else,” Cécile said, nodding toward me.
“I’m looking for your daughter, Lena.”
His eyes narrowed. “What has she done?”
“Nothing so far as I know,” I said. “I was acquainted with her fiancé and met her yesterday at the Spichios’ apartment. Do you know where I might find her?”
His countenance darkened, turning somber. “She is upstairs in our own apartment, but she is most distraught, signora. Losing Marzo is a blow from which I fear she may not recover. I wish her mother were still alive to comfort her, but we lost her when Lena was only three.”
“I am more sorry than I can say. Would it be possible to see her?” I asked. “She expressed a desire that we keep in touch.”
“Of course,” he said.
“You go without me, Kallista,” Cécile said. “I should like to speak with Monsieur Bastieri about ordering a number of pieces.”
I followed him into his workshop. In contrast to the beautifully spare displays in the front, the backroom was a jumble, full of stacks of soft leather and gleaming paint. We ducked into a narrow stairway, climbing until we reached a door that, when opened, led directly into a large, bright, sitting room. The furniture was modest but well-built and in good condition. Most interesting to me was a bookshelf full of leather-bound volumes.
“They’re beautiful,” I said, pulling down a copy of Dante. “Did you make the covers?”
“I am no bookbinder. A friend from my guild does them for me,” Signore Bastieri said.
Lena emerged from what I assumed was the kitchen, her face smudged with flour. “Don’t start him talking about the guild. He won’t stop.”
“You should be proud that I’m a consul.” There was no censure in his voice, either because he was used to her needling or because he indulged her. “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”
“It’s quite an honor to hold an office in a guild,” I said after he was gone.
“The consuls are chosen at random, their names pulled from an urn,” Lena said. “They only serve a few months. It’s nothing to cause excitement.”
“The Furriers and Skinners are a powerful guild, are they not?”
“The last in precedence of Le Arti Maggiori,” she said.
“Which are the Greater Guilds of Florence, the most influential in the city.”
She rolled her eyes. “I ought not be so critical, but I find guild business immensely boring. My father is a respected member, likely to someday be provveditore or even consigliere, but I doubt you came here to discuss guilds. Would you like coffee?”
“No, thank you, don’t go to any trouble. I’ve come to see how you’re doing.”
“If you wanted to see me, you should have left a message at Dante’s monument to arrange a meeting,” Lena said. “How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t so difficult,” I said. “I prefer face-to-face conversation over notes left on monuments whenever possible.”
She raised one delicate eyebrow. “Why are you here? I don’t mean to call into question your sincerity, but it seems strange that you would hunt down someone you hardly know on the pretense of caring about my well-being.”
“Ridolfo Spichio told me some rather confusing things,” I said. “Things that contradicted your account of the relationship the two of you shared.”
“Ridolfo is a liar,” she said. “I would not have guessed you would fall for his ludicrous inventions.”
“I didn’t say I believed him. Were the two of you engaged to marry?”
She blew out a long breath, frustration on her face. “Of course he would dredge that up. You must understand, Lady Emily, that I was very young when I first knew Ridolfo. He may not look it now, but he has the potential to be extremely attractive. He is tall and has good hair. His eyes are dark and intriguing. Before he let himself go in that tannery, he was a man worthy of consideration.”
“How old were you when you met?” I asked.
“Eighteen.”
Not young enough to excuse her behavior. “How old are you now?”
“A lady should never ask that question.”
“You’re not so old that it’s necessary to blanche when it’s asked.”
She sighed. “I’m twenty.”
“How did you meet?”
“I was in the Mercato Centrale, shopping. He and a group of friends were there, loitering. They started to follow me, singing songs they made up as they went, praising my beauty. It was flattering. I enjoyed the attention. The next evening, he serenaded me, standing in front of the shop until I opened the window and begged him to stop.”
“Why did you want him to stop? You just said the attention was flattering.”
“I didn’t really want him to stop, but everyone knows there’s no more effective way to keep a boy interested than to pretend you don’t want him. That was my plan. It worked.”
“You drew him in enough to get him to propose.”
“Yes. I didn’t love him, but I adored the game of making him want me. It was exciting. When he proposed, I didn’t think he meant it, not really. I still don’t. It was just that he’d tried everything else to win me. By then, I was so enchanted by the prospect of starting my own life that I said yes before I gave any real thought to what I was doing. It didn’t take long for me to see I could never have what I wanted with him. As I told you, he is lazy and unambitious.”
“So after you met his brother, you waited barely more than a week before you threw over your fiancé for Marzo, whose ambition made him more desirable?”
“You make it sound worse than it was. Yes, Ridolfo and I were engaged, more or less, but there was never a firm plan for a wedding. Beyond that, I’d known Marzo for ages.”
“That’s not how Ridolfo tells it,” I said.
“Ridolfo knows nothing about it. When I first met Marzo—long before I ever knew Ridolfo—he never showed the slightest interest in me. My father had hired him to do some repairs to the shop. The front window was leaking. I liked him the moment I saw him, but it was clear I had no effect on him.”
“His indifference made you want him more?”
“Yes. He taught me that lesson well.”
“So you deployed the same tactic on his brother, thinking it would wound Marzo?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “It is not as if I had some grand scheme for revenge. It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t know at first Ridolfo and Marzo were brothers.”
“Were there specific plans for a wedding?”
“La smetti di rompere le scatole?”
I didn’t recognize the expression, so couldn’t respond.
She glared at me. “Will you please stop aggravating me? I did not intend for things to turn out as badly as they did. Why does it matter now, anyway? Marzo is dead and my only chance of happiness with him.”
“So you did love him?” I asked.
“From the moment I first saw him.”
“Why did you lie to me when we discussed this before?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was caught off guard, although I should have expected Ridolfo would tar me in any way he could.”
“Why do you care what he tells me about you?”
“I wasn’t lying when I said that Ridolfo knew Marzo was dead before your husband informed the family. Wouldn’t you be cautious, even deceptive, when a murderer might be on the loose?”
“I don’t see how your deception would have any bearing on your safety. You claimed it was impossible that Ridolfo would kill his brother. Has something happened to change your mind?”
“He’s a violent man, Ridolfo. I don’t believe he murdered his brother, but he very well might use Marzo’s death as an excuse to come after me.”
“When have you seen him behave violently?” I asked. She certainly hadn’t mentioned it in our previous conversation.
“The day I ended our engagement,” she said. “The bruises faded long ago, so I can’t show them to you.”
“I’m sorry.” I paused, not sure what to believe. She had lied to me about so many things, how could I ascertain when—or if—she was telling the truth? “Given that, how could you bear to suggest, as you did, that you’d pretend to care about him again to get information?”
“I don’t know. It might be worth it, not only if it led to the discovery of who killed Marzo but also for the satisfaction of seeing Ridolfo’s heart broken.”
“It would not be worth it if he hurt you again.”
“I’m too smart to let that happen. Not anymore.”
“Regardless, there’s no need for you to resort to such measures. The best thing for you to do is grieve your loss and forget all about Ridolfo.”
“I will consider your advice, Lady Emily, but in the end I must keep in mind that what is best for you is not necessarily best for me.” She crossed to the door and opened it. “If there’s nothing further to discuss, you ought to return to the shop.”
“Please take care, Lena,” I said. “Don’t be reckless. If anything happens that unsettles you, contact me at once. Not via Dante’s cenotaph but at the palazzo.”
“I can promise I will not do that,” she said, the haughty tone she’d adopted when suggesting I leave evaporating. “Something’s not right about Marzo’s death. I may not know what, but he died in your house. I will never go there. If you cannot find me, I hope at least then you will check the poet’s monument. That is the only place I will leave a message.”
After leaving the Piazza Santo Spirito, Cécile and I did not retrace our steps, instead crossing the river via the Ponte Vecchio. We had decided that each day we would allow ourselves one tourist activity, partly to continue deceiving Darius and partly to satisfy our desire to see Florence.
In the Middle Ages, butcher shops spanned the bridge. The river below made it easy for their owners to get rid of the foul refuse left from their bloody work. In the sixteenth century, Ferdinando I de’ Medici, deciding the smell was unseemly, ordered all the shops replaced by more genteel businesses. Specifically, jewelers and goldsmiths. These tradesmen still offer their wares, and Cécile and I browsed through their stores as we crossed the bridge.
The third shop we entered—they were all quite small, their space limited by their location—contained some of the most delicate jewelry I’d ever seen, as well as a handful of items made from florins, the gold coins minted by the Republic of Florence. The proprietor, an elderly man, his spine bent and his knuckles gnarled, explained in flawless English that his family, the di Nardos, had owned the shop from the days of Ferdinando.
“The descendants of the family of the butchers we replaced still harbor animosity, can you imagine? So long after the demise of the Medici, their enemies are still angry. We use the florin in some of our pieces as a nod to the old days, but now make replicas of the coins, as the originals are quite rare. For the rest of our collection, we employ the same techniques used in the Renaissance in order to create jewelry that, while appealing to fashionable ladies like you, would not have looked out of place adorning the wife of Lorenzo il Magnifico,” Signore di Nardo said. “I have two sons. The elder is a painter. He designs our pieces. The younger is a goldsmith. He brings his brother’s work to life. Did you know that the great Brunelleschi, who put the dome on our cathedral, began as a goldsmith?”
“I did not,” Cécile said. “But it should surprise no one that a superior artist would exhibit multitudinous talents.”
“The great Alberti said, A man can do all things if he will. You know of Alberti?”
“He was one of the most accomplished men of the Renaissance,” I said. “A philosopher and architect, I believe.”
“There was very little he couldn’t do, signora,” he said. “We do not have many men like this anymore. It is a tragedy.”
“I am curious, monsieur, to learn more about the jewelry of the Renaissance,” Cécile said. “Rings, in particular, and other small pieces one could easily hide away.”
“Jewelry has long been a form of currency for ladies who are kept from their families’ fortunes,” he said. “In Florence, a wealthy bride might have received fifteen or twenty rings from members of her husband’s family, but, technically, she did not own them. When the time came, she would present them to other girls marrying into the clan.”
“So she couldn’t keep them?” I asked.
“Not forever, no.”
“That rather puts a damper on your idea that we shall find a stash of rings hidden in the palazzo,” I said to Cécile.
“Do you expect to find such a treasure?” Signore di Nardo asked, incredulous.
“I hope to,” Cécile said. “We know there is something hidden, but we don’t know what. I had thought jewelry, as it’s small.”
“Which palazzo?”
“The Palazzo di Vieri,” I said. “I found several references to a treasure that was deliberately concealed in the house.”
“Sì, signora, its treasure is most famous.”
“It is?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh, yes, but I would not try to look for it. Everyone who does ends up dead, in a most unpleasant manner.”