The screaming continued. I gripped the landing’s stone railing, leaned over, and saw Tessa two floors below, her high soprano reaching a pitch I feared might shatter glass. Colin and his colleague, having reacted more quickly than Cécile and I, were already most of the way down the stairs. Soon the entire household was in the courtyard, or, at least, sheltered in the gallery rimming it. Braving the rain, I joined my husband, who was crouched next to the body.
“What a hideous way to die,” I said.
“The fall didn’t kill him,” Colin said. “The back of his skull is shattered, but there’s no bleeding. He’s been dead more than a day.”
“At least.” Mr. Benton-Smith scowled. “Burman was right to be concerned. I only wish we had come to Florence sooner. Poor Spichio.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Yes, he was a font of useful information, although that makes it sound as if his contributions—” He stopped and swallowed hard, a pained expression on his face. “I would not want to minimize the importance of the work he did for us.”
Colin clapped his hand on Mr. Benton-Smith’s shoulder. “No one would ever accuse you of that. It was you who ensured his safety, again and again. This just proves the impossibility of perfect security.”
“Who is he and why did he need to be kept safe?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose the details,” Mr. Benton-Smith said. “His work can never be lauded, not publicly, despite the profound impact it had—and will continue to have—on us all.”
“I’ll make arrangements for the body,” Colin said.
“What about the police?” I asked.
“No police.” The gentlemen answered in near unison.
“I agree they’re often useless, but he’s clearly been murdered. It will have to be investigated,” I said.
“Cases like this are not handled by local authorities, my dear,” Colin said. “No one can know what has happened. His death will be recorded as an accident.”
I balked and looked at my husband in disbelief. “Oh, yes, an accident. One cannot walk half a mile without encountering a corpse who has flung himself off a roof these days. I have as little faith in the police as you do, but to suggest that a murder should not be investigated—”
“I never said that. Darius and I will handle it.”
“What about his family?” I asked. “What are they to think?”
“They, like everyone else, will believe he suffered a tragic accident.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“It’s part and parcel of the work,” Colin said.
I crossed my arms and scowled. “So if you were to die in the line of duty, what would I be told?” I knew his answer before he gave it, and while I could not object in principle, my emotions were another thing entirely. Every atom in my body felt as if it were being torn apart.
“Whatever would cause the least harm to the empire.”
“I’d rather know the truth.”
“Sometimes that is not possible.” He pressed his lips into a firm line as he met my eyes.
“I can be discreet.”
“I don’t doubt that. Most people believe themselves to be discreet, but it cannot be relied upon. You’re soaking wet, Emily. Go inside before you catch a chill. I won’t have you missing out on the delights of Florence.”
I opened my mouth but found I could not form words until he took me by the arm and led me toward Cécile. “Stop, right now. If you’re suggesting that I should play holidaymaker when a murdered man has turned up in your daughter’s house—”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.” He turned to my friend. “Will you please take her inside, Cécile?”
“Oui, bien sûr, Monsieur Hargreaves, but—”
“Please, Cécile. This is not the time for questions.”
Signora Orlandi stepped forward and ushered us toward the stairs, Tessa following. Fredo stayed behind with the gentlemen.
“Your luggage is in your room, signora,” the housekeeper said, “although Tessa has not quite finished unpacking. You will want a warm bath, yes? We will get the water ready as quickly as possible and in the meantime bring you tea.”
Recognizing that I would not get anywhere trying to change my husband’s mind at the moment and no longer able to ignore the fact that I was shivering with cold, I had to admit a bath was an excellent idea. The chamber on the second floor assigned to Colin and me contained an en suite bathroom, a pleasant surprise, as medieval buildings do not lend themselves to modern plumbing. The facilities were small but more than adequate, even if the copper tub had to be filled by hand, a task handled ably by Tessa, whose lithe figure disguised her strength.
Warm and dry after my ablutions, I was grateful for the girl’s assistance with my hair, which, if left to me, would never be controlled. She attacked the task with evident skill and steady hands, but I could see from her pale face that she was upset.
“It’s a dreadful thing to see so violent a death.” I spoke to her in Italian. “I’m more than sorry you had to face it.”
She answered in English. “This house is supposed to be a place of safety. How could this happen here?”
“Your English is flawless. Why did you pretend otherwise?”
“It is bad of me, I know, but I find it useful to let people think I cannot understand them.”
“Yet you’ve shared your secret with me.”
“I like you, Lady Emily. I knew immediately I could trust you. This is a place where I must be careful. Secrets abound.”
“Florence?” I asked.
“This house. Do you know much about it?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You’re lucky,” she said.
“What did you mean by saying this is supposed to be a safe place?” She was too young to have worked for the countess. I wondered if the palazzo was more than my stepdaughter’s would-be home. Did it serve an official purpose? One made use of by my husband and his colleagues?
“Only that the mother of Signorina Katharina is said to have made it so. To keep her daughter safe. It is not wise to let a young lady live alone somewhere that is easy to violate.”
Most would argue it was not wise to let a young lady live alone in any circumstances. Regardless, whatever measures the countess had taken, they could not be explained by concern for a daughter whom, at the time, had almost no connection to her mother and certainly had no plans to live in Florence. “Did you recognize the man who fell? Signore Spichio?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen him before. He must have slipped, but why was he there? How could he get on the roof?”
I didn’t tell her what Colin had said about the poor man being dead before the fall. I had liked her from the first, but didn’t entirely believe her explanation as to why she thought the house was safe. And what did it matter if we knew she could speak English? Were her colleagues aware of her fluency? “I haven’t the slightest idea, but the gentlemen will figure it all out.”
She snorted. “You English are no different from us Italians. The men always keep the fun to themselves.”
I could not help but smile. Perhaps she did deserve my trust, at least provisionally. “Then it is down to us to change that. Do you think you could find out anything about Signore Spichio? His profession? Who his family is?”
“I can certainly try. Florence is a small place. But this house…”
I waited, but she did not continue. “Yes? What about it?”
“This house holds its secrets. It always has. If the signore’s death is part of that, we will never learn anything.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“It started in the days of Savonarola, the monk who preached against the Medici four hundred years ago. I cannot say more now, as I must get back to work, but we will speak again and I will tell you everything I know. Signora du Lac is in the room where you earlier took tea. She will be waiting for you.” She made a little curtsy and left the room. I went to Cécile and recounted for her my conversation with the maid.
“What are you saying, Kallista? That this wisp of a girl is a spy?” My friend was feeding bits of sandwiches to her dogs, Caesar getting three for every one given to Brutus. Although she loved both little creatures and would never allow harm to come to either, on occasion she doled out what she believed to be a small measure of justice against Brutus’s namesake. The dog accepted this with equanimity.
“I’m not sure I’d go that far, but she’s awfully well educated for a maid.”
“It’s not unusual for servants on the Continent to speak good English, and a city like Florence is full of British travelers.”
“I think it’s more than that,” I said. “We are told the countess secured the house. Would she not also have installed a staff suited to the requirements of her work for Austria?”
“Such measures would be sensible, oui, but she has been dead for more than ten years. Signora Orlandi was in her employ, but not Tessa nor Fredo. They are both too young. And given that Katharina only recently learned of her mother’s work, she would not have had cause to screen her servants accordingly.”
“We don’t know who hired them.”
“Could Monsieur Hargreaves enlighten us?”
“I wouldn’t expect him to be sharing any information for the foreseeable future,” I said. “He’d like us to explore Florence as if nothing has happened.”
“He knows you too well to expect any such thing.”
“Quite, but I must accept that the nature of his work requires my exclusion. That does not, however, mean we must content ourselves with doing nothing. We shall find out whatever we can about Signore Spichio, employing every ounce of discretion we possess. So far as the gentlemen are concerned, we will be carefree holidaymakers. Should we stumble upon something that might help their own investigation, we can then offer our services.”
“I’ve never known you to stumble, at least not accidentally,” Cécile said. “And what about Tessa?”
“I’m confident she will prove an able assistant, although we must proceed with caution. We don’t know how far we can trust her.”
“Does she speak languages beyond Italian and English?” Cécile asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I never would have suspected her to mention Savonarola and the Medici. She’s better informed than one would expect. I’d like to know why.”
“I shall make it my business to learn everything I can about her. No one is better able than I to uncover the truth about servants. It is why I have so little turnover among my own staff.”
“Because they’re terrified you’ll reveal their secrets?”
“Pas de tout. That would be gauche. They know I respect them, and that my respect comes from knowing even their secrets. That, Kallista, breeds loyalty.” Brutus howled. She bent down and patted his head. “Yes, you poor beast, anyone with your name must lament every mention of loyalty.”
“I’m curious as to her comments about the house keeping secrets. I wonder if there’s any record of its history.”
“Better still, a diary with a complete account of its mysterious past, written in turn by each of its owners. Volume after volume, a new one started the moment the previous was filled.”
“Things like that, Cécile, only appear in conveniently plotted novels. I’m afraid we’ll have to rely on drier documents.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never been one to abandon hope.”
Cécile’s optimism had no impact on reality. I summoned Signora Orlandi—who took the appearance of the corpse in the courtyard in such easy stride that I was convinced she had been more colleague than servant to her original employer—and asked for her assistance. Household records, she explained, were kept in the ground floor storerooms. She took us downstairs and directed us to two enormous dusty volumes filled with rows of figures and half a dozen boxes stuffed with old papers, none of which could be described as useful to our purpose.
“Do you know anything about the family who originally lived here?” I asked.
“Their name was Vieri and I believe they were connected to the Medici in some way. You could go to the Laurentian Library and ask there. There may be mentions in the old histories of the city.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion. Thank you.” She left and Cécile and I decided to search the palazzo, in as inconspicuous a manner as possible, letting Colin and Mr. Benton-Smith think we were doing nothing more than exploring our accommodations. They were still outside in the courtyard with the body—a sheet now draped over it—hardly noticing us as we passed them on our way to the stairs. We climbed to the roof terrace that on a clear day would have provided a stunning view over the city, but could not have made a useful point of entry for whoever had flung the corpse into the courtyard. The eaves hung too far over the railing. On the opposite side of the landing from the terrace was Fredo’s room.
The three floors below all shared the same basic layout: one large hall that ran the width of the front of the house, one good-sized rectangular room perpendicular to the hall, with a studiolo coming off the opposite end, and one trapezoidal bedroom jutting from the back corner. Each of the halls had at least one attached annex. On the ground floor, the storerooms—two of them—and the loggia could be accessed from the courtyard.
Cécile and I methodically made our way through each of the spaces in the palazzo. The house was a glorious example of medieval architecture, and I’d half hoped for a secret compartment in the walls or a hidden door leading into an unknown chamber, but we found no such things. Nor did any of the objects in the rooms, furniture or otherwise, prove revealing. Finished, we trudged back up the stairs to the first floor. There, I slumped against the half wall of the gallery landing and sighed.
“I ought not feel this frustrated,” I said. “It’s absurd to believe a house holds secrets. I let Tessa’s ideas influence me too much.”
“Don’t your investigations generally include early failure? If not, they would end almost the moment they started,” Cécile said. “One must begin somewhere, and at this moment, we have very little to go on.”
She kept talking, but I was no longer listening. I had not noticed it before, but graffiti was scrawled on the wall across from me. There was something that looked like a date, 8 di zuge 1509—I did not recognize zuge as an Italian word, but perhaps it was old dialect—then vene le nuove di Pisa a ore 18½. Something about the city of Pisa, presumably. Below that, the name Tomaso Pasera, under which 1509 was repeated. Scrawled at the bottom was Non de ponte.
“Not the bridge…” I spoke the words as I contemplated what they might mean.
“Bridge?” Cécile asked. I pointed her to the graffiti. She stepped close to read. “Mais oui, eighth of June 1509, during the Italian Wars, when Pisa surrendered to Florence to avoid continued starvation after a long siege.”
I looked at her with amazement. “How do you know that?”
“I was briefly entangled with a gentleman called Riccardo who was a scholar of Renaissance history. We spent a fortnight in Pisa. The city’s tower may lean, but nothing of Riccardo’s ever did.”
“Cécile!” I could feel my cheeks color.
“Don’t pretend to be shocked, Kallista. It demeans you.” She brushed the graffiti lightly with her fingers. “I cannot understand why anyone would allow writing on the wall of his house.”
“The Romans did. This could be the natural extension of that.” The letters had faded over the centuries, but it was not too difficult to make out. Closer examination revealed much more of it along the length of the wall: dates, names, and the occasional phrase. Some had been rubbed almost clean, others were easier to read. One stood out, partly because the handwriting was neat and elegant, reminiscent of the fonts developed by the humanists of the fifteenth century. More striking was that the language was Latin, not Italian—or, rather, dialetto toscano—like the rest.
“‘Quod nequeunt oculis rerum primordia cerni.’” While I had a decent mastery of ancient Greek, my knowledge of Latin was limited. Or, as Margaret insisted, an absolute disgrace. Fortunately, I knew at least enough to translate this sentence. “The first beginnings of things cannot be distinguished by the eye.”
“Prescient?” Cécile asked.
“Let’s hope so.”