The next day, I was left alone. Cécile had accepted an invitation from Signore Tazzera to visit a winery in Chianti; Colin and Darius had gone out after consuming an enormous breakfast, saying they wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. I decided to finish copying the graffiti on the walls of the house.
Much of it was irrelevant, at least to me. There were names that I did not recognize, dates that had lost their significance over the centuries, comments about measures of hay, and phrases rendered incomprehensible by the erosion of the letters that formed them. There were also four more passages written in Latin:
Saepius illa
religio peperit scelerosa atque impia facta.
Again and again our foe, religion, has given birth to deeds sinful and unholy.
Ita res accendent lumina rebus.
So clearly will truths kindle light for truths.
Omnis cum in tenebris praesertim vita laboret.
Life is one long struggle in the dark.
Infidi maris insidias virisque dolumque
ut vitare velint, neve ullo tempore credant,
subdola cum ridet placidi pellacia ponti.
Never trust her at any time, when the calm sea shows her false alluring smile.
The first brought Savonarola to mind, guiding me a step closer to accepting that someone may well have hidden valuables to keep them out of the friar’s bonfire. The fourth read as ominous. The other two did not immediately strike me as illuminating when it came to my investigations.
Life is one long struggle in the dark. As I contemplated this statement, I thought about Marzo. He certainly wanted money. Ridolfo claimed Lena insisted upon a house of her own, something his brother couldn’t afford. Lena did not deny this. What if he knew about the treasure and his death was a result of trying to find it? He could have come to the house at night, mistaken as a burglar by Fredo. Furthermore, Marzo might not be the only one who was searching for it. If he had made progress that became evident to someone else, that someone else could have eliminated his competition.
I’d been working in my study on the third floor and went out to the gallery landing, poking my head over the railing, looking for Fredo, whom I’d seen earlier in the courtyard. He wasn’t there now, but I could hear him whistling—a tune by Puccini—so I went downstairs, following the sound, and found him in one of the ground floor storage rooms.
“Fredo, what do you know of the stories of hidden treasure in this house?” I asked.
He grinned. “Oh, signora, we all know those tales, and I can promise you there is not a single person who has lived or worked in this house who has not tried to find whatever it is. But there is nothing. Trust me. I myself have made a thorough examination of every nook, every cranny, every dark space, every room.”
“How did the stories start?”
“They go back to the days of that crazy friar who burned art,” Fredo said. “Savonarola.”
“Why have they persisted for so long when no one has ever found anything?”
“Most people need money, signora, and they all cling to hope, even ridiculous hope.”
“What about the curse?” I asked.
He laughed. “There is no curse. If there were, I would be dead many times over. Surely you do not believe in such things?”
“I don’t.”
“Good, signora. You are safe in this house, even if you look for treasure. I can promise you that.”
“The man whose body we found in the courtyard was named Marzo Spichio. Had you ever seen him before? Perhaps doing work on the house?”
“No, he was never here. I do all the maintenance needed. Tessa, Signora Orlandi, and Cook take care of the rest. The countess arranged her household so that it would require only a small staff, one she could trust.”
“But she’s been dead for more than a decade, and the house has been empty most of the time since then. Surely things have changed.”
“I do not think so,” Fredo said. “I did not work for her, but my father did. When he retired, I took his place. That is how it often goes here, one relative replacing another. Signora Orlandi is from the old crew, and she chose to hire Tessa, who is the cook’s niece. We are all kept on at full pay, even when no one is in residence.”
“Tessa is a well-educated young woman,” I said. “That seems unusual for someone in her position.”
“The countess had no tolerance for ignorance and required an educated staff. Tessa showed promise as a girl, so her schooling was taken care of.”
“By the countess?”
“Until her death, after which the estate continued to support her.”
“Who took care of the finances before my stepdaughter first came here?”
“For many years, it was handled by the man called Gruber from Vienna.”
Mr. Gruber was the solicitor in charge of the countess’s estate. It was he who informed Kat of her parentage and managed the assets she inherited from her mother. “And has that changed?” I asked.
“Six months ago your husband stepped in.”
“Did he make any changes?”
“None, signora. Things in the Palazzo di Vieri do not often change.”
I thanked him and then sought out the rest of the household staff. Signora Orlandi was in the kitchen with the cook. Neither of them told me anything that differed in the slightest from what Fredo had said. That left only Tessa, whom I found in my study, where she was dusting.
“You have asked the others these same questions, yes?” She left her dust cloth on a table and went to the window, looking outside.
“I have,” I said.
“My answers will be the same as theirs. This household is run in a manner designed to protect the countess. Now that she is gone, the same standards apply. Nothing has changed, so far as I know.”
“Have you searched for treasure in the house?”
“No, signora, you know I would never do that. Am I not the one who warned you that the house stops anyone who does?”
“You did, but I don’t believe you give any more credence to the notion of a curse than I do.”
“You’re correct on that count,” she said, “but I can’t deny that strange things occur here, like those described by my grandmother.”
“What other secrets does the house hold?”
“I wish I knew. Did you speak to the Spichio family?”
“I did.”
“What did you learn?”
“Only that they are deeply saddened by their loss.”
“That’s all? Did you talk to Marzo’s fiancée?”
“Yes. She’s heartbroken.”
All this time, Tessa had stood facing the window. Now, she turned to me. “Is she? I find that hard to swallow, given that she had once loved his brother.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re not the only one curious about the dead man in our courtyard,” she said. “I am not ignorant, signora. I know that Marzo was murdered and that the police should be investigating the crime. Why are they not? What is so special about this house, and the people who own it, that protects them from lawful inquiry? Should I worry about continuing to work here? If I die in mysterious circumstances, will the true cause of my death be hidden?”
“I would never stand for that,” I said, wanting to reassure her, even as I knew I couldn’t make her any promises.
“I trust you, signora, although maybe that is foolish. Your husband and his friend … I do not know what to make of them. They are not honest.”
“My husband is honest.”
“Is he? It does not seem so. He is congenial and polite, but that is not the same as honest.”
My hackles rose and I wanted to defend Colin, but I reminded myself that she did not know anything about his work. “I know how outrageous it seems to keep the police out of the house, but, unfortunately, that is standard procedure among many well-to-do families. They don’t like scandal. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t talking to the police. I assure you, Marzo’s death is being investigated.”
“But in private?”
“Yes.”
“This, signora, is the sort of thing that leads people to build guillotines. The upper class thinks it can do whatever it wants. It never works out for them well in the long run, not when they start interfering with matters of life and death.”
This was not the time to start arguing over historical details. She had skillfully manipulated a change in the direction of our conversation. It was time for me to do some manipulation of my own. “Tessa, please sit down.” She did as I asked, taking the seat across from me near the fireplace. “I shall bring you into my confidence, but must insist that you do not share what I tell you with anyone else. Do I have your word?”
“Yes.” Her voice was solemn.
“My husband and I have investigated murders going back more than a decade. Initially, my participation stemmed from the death of the gentleman I was married to before Mr. Hargreaves. Everyone told me he had died of natural causes, but I proved that one of his closest friends had murdered him. Since then, Mr. Hargreaves and I have been frequently called upon to assist with criminal inquiries. Time and time again, we have found that we cannot rely on the police.”
“Yes, but you are English. In Italy—”
“I have seen this in England, yes, but also France, Russia, Austria, the Ottoman Empire, and more, including Italy. There was a murder in Venice some years back. I identified the culprit. We all want to believe that the police are capable of bringing criminals to justice, and often they are. Sometimes, however, it takes an outside investigator to get the job done.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to work with the police?” she asked.
“In my experience, I’ve generally found it is not. When it appears otherwise, I happily collaborate with them. In the meantime, I promise you I will see to it that Marzo’s murderer is brought to justice.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’ve made a record of all the graffiti in the house, hoping that it might provide a clue as to the treasure supposedly hidden here during the fifteenth century, but nothing stood out. Why don’t you take a look and see if you notice something I missed?”
“Searching for this is not a good idea.”
“You just told me you don’t believe in the curse,” I said. “Neither of us does. However, if Marzo thought he could find whatever’s hidden, his subsequent actions may have catalyzed someone to attack him. We both know he wasn’t working in the house. We don’t know why he was killed and his body flung into the courtyard. I’m trying to find anything that connects him to the palazzo.”
“So you do not ask me to look for the treasure?”
“No, Signora du Lac is already bent on doing that and there’s no reason for two of you to waste your time on what is bound to be a futile task. Instead, I would like you to look at the graffiti. Beyond that, I would welcome anything further you can learn about Marzo.”
“That is easy enough,” she said. “I will do as you ask.”
I gave her my notebook and left her to her work. She insisted on finishing dusting before studying the graffiti. There was nothing for me to do in the house, so I decided to go for a walk. Fresh air always cleared my mind. I set off from the house, heading north, in the general direction of the Archaeology Museum, which stood on the corner across from the Ospedale degli Innocenti, a foundling hospital designed by Brunelleschi decades before he was chosen to build the famous dome atop the city’s cathedral. His plan for the portico, supported by Corinthian columns, marked a departure from the old medieval architecture, returning to the perfect proportions of the classical era. At the time, it was so revolutionary, people gathered in the piazza to watch the construction.
As I crossed the street, the sky, which had grown gradually more cloudy as I walked, opened up, pounding the city with a sudden rain. I tugged at the museum’s door, but it did not budge. A handwritten note tacked to it announced that the museum was closed, offering no further explanation. Having been seduced by the earlier sun, I had not brought an umbrella with me, and my hat, designed for style, not protection from the elements, did very little to fend off the deluge.
I ran back across the street into the piazza and took shelter under the vaulted ceiling of Brunelleschi’s portico. The rain showed no sign of stopping. I considered my options and decided to go to the Mercato Nuovo, where Tessa had learned Marzo’s surname. I, too, might find illumination there. And if not, at least an umbrella.
It would have been a sound plan if the market weren’t nearly a mile from the Ospedale. I walked as quickly as I could, but it was impossible to avoid getting soaked. As my planned destination was only a few minutes from Kat’s palazzo, I decided to return there, dry off, and collect an umbrella. I unlocked the heavy front door, stepped into the loggia, and brushed as much water as I could from my coat before taking off my hat and shaking it as I crossed through the iron gate into the courtyard. There, I heard heated voices coming from above.
“You cannot tell her anything.” Signora Orlandi was speaking.
“She is too smart to be easily put off. That was obvious when she asked me about the graffiti this morning. We have got to—”
Fredo interrupted Tessa. “You are not the one to be ordering us around. Let’s go back into the kitchen before Cook wonders what we’re arguing about. We will meet later, in the usual spot, and formulate a plan.”
“What if we can’t get her to do what we want?” Tessa asked.
“Should it come to that, I will deal with her.” Fredo’s voice had taken on a hard edge.
“Let’s hope that’s unnecessary,” Signora Orlandi said.
I stayed where I was until I heard the kitchen door open and close. They were talking about me; I no longer felt safe in the house. Unsettled, I crept silently upstairs and changed out of my wet clothes on my own, not wanting Tessa’s help. I rescued my pompadour as best I could, pinned a new hat atop it, pulled on a gabardine coat, and collected an umbrella. Then I slipped out of the house, dismayed, shocked, and more than a little angry at what I’d overheard the staff saying.
I was still upset when I reached the Mercato Nuovo, so took a moment to collect myself. Standing in front of the market’s famous fountain—Il Porcellino, a wild boar sculpted in bronze—I rubbed his snout and dropped a coin from his mouth to the grate below, ensuring my return to Florence. That done, and my mood slightly improved, I snapped closed my umbrella and stepped into the sixteenth-century covered loggia. I made my way through the stalls slowly, playing the curious shopper, examining the goods offered and buying more than strictly necessary, all the while conversing with the merchants in Italian, gently probing to see who among them had known Marzo.
I was careful not to arouse any suspicion, inquiring in general terms about the man who had died in the tragic accident at a house nearby. All of the merchants had heard about Marzo’s death. It was the main topic of gossip, at least according to an elderly couple selling flowers.
“The city is generally quiet,” the man said. “This brings some excitement.”
“Do not judge my husband for sounding cavalier,” his wife said. “We take no pleasure in Marzo’s death, but that he would die in an accident was no surprise. He was always careless.”
“You knew him?” I asked.
“Sì, signora,” the man said. “Not well, but he bought flowers from us for his sweetheart, every Tuesday, to bring them to her at noon, right after he left us. I don’t know why Tuesdays, but it was a kind gesture.”
“You think he was kind,” his wife said. “I think he was always apologizing. There was never joy in his eyes when we saw him. And he never chose the flowers himself, always left it to me to decide what he should buy.”
“Young men are not as sentimental as you women would like,” the man said. “He bought her flowers every week. Can’t you be satisfied with that? Why does he have to do more?”
“Now he’ll do nothing and the poor girl will be all alone.”
“Are you acquainted with her?” I asked. They were not. “You mentioned that he was careless. What made you believe that?”
The man shook his head, but his wife answered. “He was clumsy. I can’t count the number of times he knocked over displays.”
“It happened often?” I asked.
“Often enough that we girded ourselves when we saw him approaching,” the man said. “Not that we held it against him. As I said, he was a kind man.”
“Would you say he did it every other time or every third time?”
“There was no regularity to it, signora,” he said. “He was clumsy, that’s all. Maybe he should have paid better attention, maybe he couldn’t help it. Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
Three people had lined up behind me, waiting to buy flowers, so I didn’t linger. I purchased a bouquet of bright red blossoms and thanked the couple before moving on. I learned nothing new until I reached a booth where three young women proffered a variety of woolen goods. Before I could gently segue from complimenting what they had on offer to inquiring about Marzo, the tallest of the girls, who introduced herself as Vittoria, addressed the subject directly.
“I hear you are asking about Marzo,” she said. “Did you know him?”
“A little,” I replied. “Did you?”
“More than I would have liked, but at the same time, not as much as I would have liked.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
The other two girls started shouting at her, speaking too rapidly for me to follow. She barked at them, then turned back to me. “My sisters never liked him. They aggravate me, but their instincts about him were right. He was trouble. Mind you, I did not know he was engaged to be married when we met.”
“You had a relationship with him?”
She shrugged. “Of sorts. He liked to flirt. So do I. I saw no harm in it. He asked if he could call on me, and I said yes. Why not? We would go for walks near my parents’ house, but nothing really happened between us. He was funny and kind, handsome enough, but he never wanted anything more than those walks.”
Not all flirtations develop into things more serious, but the way she told the story revealed something that went beyond ordinary romantic disappointment. Her tone and the furtive way she kept glancing back to see if her sisters were listening struck me as odd.
“That sort of thing happens often enough,” I said.
“It does,” Vittoria said. “He gave every appearance of enjoying the time we spent together, but now I think he was using me to get to someone else.”
“To make his fiancée jealous?”
“No. To murder our neighbor.”