I woke up the next morning utterly disoriented, only half remembering where I was. The bedroom was dark except for a crack of light coming in where one of the shutters had pulled slightly open. I slid out of bed and padded toward it, cringing when I stepped off the soft carpet and onto cold tiles, and then flung back the shutter and its mate, revealing the splendors of Florence. Terra-cotta roofs glowed golden red in the sun, and the distinct sound of Italian church bells echoed against stone walls.
I opened the rest of the shutters and light filled the room, or at least made a valiant effort to do so. There were only three windows and the narrow streets below did not leave space for much sunlight to pour in, but the chamber wasn’t gloomy. Outside, yesterday’s rain had stopped, and I was filled with a rush of enthusiasm. I allowed myself to delay thinking about the murdered Signore Spichio long enough to silently murmur a prayer of thanks for finding myself in such a beautiful place.
Colin had left a note on the bedside table. He and Darius would be gone all day and did not expect to return in time for dinner, which meant there was no need for me to dress before seeking out Cécile, whom I found in the Sale Madornale on the first floor. This, and its counterparts on the floors above, had five enormous windows on the front wall, and, hence, more natural light than was found in the rest of the house. There was no view, however, as the windows were fashioned from lead-rimmed bottle glass. The furnishings looked medieval, though I assumed them to be reproductions; the hulking oak table in the middle of the room was in far too pristine condition to have weathered centuries. The walls were whitewashed, with tapestries hanging on them. Three Persian rugs covered parts of the floor’s octagonal terra-cotta tiles. All in all, it was a pleasant space, although I preferred the riot of color in the Sala dei Pappagalli.
Cécile was sitting near the fireplace with a book on her lap. Caesar and Brutus were nowhere to be seen, so I inquired after them.
“Fredo has taken them for a walk. I wanted to bring them to the Boboli Gardens at Palazzo Pitti, but your Baedeker’s tells me it does not open until noon. They could not wait so long. You slept late. Was that due to the attentions of your diabolically handsome husband?”
I raised an eyebrow and smiled, no longer shocked, but amused, when she asked such inappropriate questions. “I do hope Darius didn’t keep you up.”
“He is charming, but not interesting enough for that,” she said. “He returned to his lodgings soon after you retired. I do not consider it a disappointment. Other than your own Monsieur Hargreaves, English gentlemen are not universally appealing. They are too proper. The Italians are a more passionate people.”
“The appearance of being proper might be nothing more than a front, you know,” I said. “Did you breakfast?”
“Hours ago. Monsieur Benton-Smith arrived early and ate with your husband.” Darius had elected not to stay with us, explaining that he had rooms across the Arno, not far from the Palazzo Pitti, in the building the Brownings had once called home. His family had a villa on Lake Garda, to the north, and, when there, he made frequent trips to Florence in order to spend time in the city’s myriad museums. I did not altogether doubt his motivation, but Colin had made a few comments that led me to suspect his friend was more interested in privacy than art. There was, it seems, a lady. “They left before eight o’clock. The Laurentian Library opened at ten, if you’re still inclined to visit it today.”
I rang for tea and toast, ate it quickly, and then had Tessa help me dress. As she pulled my corset strings, I almost longed for one of Mr. van de Velde’s loose-fitting gowns, but it never could have matched the elegance of my navy silk Worth walking dress. The current craze for S-shaped silhouettes was not my favorite, but I found that a modestly puffed bodice could make the waist appear tiny without causing one to look like a pigeon. Why anyone would model fashion on a wholly unattractive bird was inconceivable to me.
The walk to the library was a pleasant one, taking us through the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II. The square, which for centuries had served as a public market—the Mercato Vecchio—had been renovated in the nineteenth century, following the unification of Italy. Gone was the Colonna della Dovizia—the Column of Abundance—that since 1431 had marked the location of the ancient Roman forum. A bronze equestrian statue of Victor Emmanuel II, united Italy’s first king, now stood in its place. Words carved on a new arch, built to look like a Renaissance rendering of something Roman, read L’antico centro della città da secolare squallore a vita nuova restituito—The ancient center of the city restored from age-old squalor to new life—but many Florentines considered the changes to the ancient space ruinous. I wished I had seen its previous incarnation.
We continued on, past the Duomo and north to the monumental complex of San Lorenzo, the Medici family church. The library within held more than ten thousand priceless ancient manuscripts (among them the codex of Virgil); an extensive collection of books that had been owned by the Medici family; and countless historical documents, including Dante’s letters.
We introduced ourselves to a librarian called Renzo Tazzera, who stepped forward to assist us. He recognized the Vieri family name as soon as I mentioned it. “You are living in their palazzo? Marvelous,” he said, his English flawless, his lilting accent mesmerizing. “It is, to my mind, the finest example of medieval architecture in the city. I prefer the innovations of the Renaissance, but one must have a firm understanding of what came before to understand the accomplishments of men like Brunelleschi and Alberti.”
“You are quite right, monsieur,” Cécile said. “Brunelleschi would be the first to acknowledge it was the study of ancient buildings that made his own designs possible. Did he not visit the Pantheon in Rome before constructing the dome of the cathedral?”
“He did indeed. I should like to speak with you more about this, signora, but first, please, make yourselves comfortable. I will bring you all the records we have pertaining to both the family and the structure. Then, perhaps we may return to discussing architecture.”
The Reading Room was a glorious space, with sunlight streaming in from windows on both sides and an inlaid marble aisle dividing rows of carved walnut benches and lecterns. Cécile and I sat down and I pulled a notebook and pencil from my handbag.
“He is most attractive, this Monsieur Tazzera, is he not?” Cécile asked. “Far more interesting than that colleague of Colin’s. And his voice. A perfect tenor. There can be no doubt he sings. All Italians do. How else are they to effectively express their ardent natures? I should like to know him better.”
Judging from the way the librarian looked at Cécile when he brought our materials, it was obvious the attraction was mutual.
“If it is not too forward of me to make such a request, it would be my greatest honor to take you on a tour of the library, Signora du Lac,” he said. “Michelangelo designed it, you know, and it is arguably one of the most important examples of Renaissance architecture. Your earlier comments led me to believe this is a subject of interest to you.”
“I have a great passion for it,” Cécile said.
“If your friend would not object—”
She interrupted him. “Kallista would never be so tactless as to stand in the way of me continuing my studies.”
Continuing her studies? I might have rolled my eyes if anyone else had behaved in such a way, but not Cécile. She would never feign interest in a subject to gain the attention of a man, no matter how attractive he was. That heretofore I was unaware of her fascination with Renaissance architecture was irrelevant. I couldn’t claim to know everything about her.
“You are very kind, Lady Emily,” he said. “I do hope your research will not suffer without Signora du Lac’s assistance.”
“I shall do my best to soldier on without her,” I said.
“I am most grateful,” he said and then turned to Cécile. “Signora, if you will come with me, we will start at the staircase you climbed to reach this room. Michelangelo’s plans for it caused quite a stir. After we examine it, I will show you his original drawings.”
“Monsieur Tazzera, I am at your disposal.” She slid to the edge of the bench, offered her hand to him, and took her leave from me, a wicked grin on her face. Cécile never shied away from admiring a handsome man, but only those whose intellectual or artistic leanings interested her had a chance of becoming, shall we say, close to her. The librarian was well on his way to making a most favorable impression.
I turned to my books, starting with an overview of Florentine palazzos that gave the date of construction of Kat’s house as sometime in the mid-fourteenth century. The Vieris, wealthy merchants, built it, conducting business from the ground floor loggia. It stayed in their hands until 1838, when Bartolomeo di Vieri, the last member of the family, died without an heir, and it sat empty until the middle of the century, when a banker bought it and started renovations. The project fell to the wayside after he lost his fortune. There was no mention of what happened next, but I knew from the legal documents now in Kat’s possession that her mother had purchased it in 1886.
The next volume in my stack was a history of Florence written in the sixteenth century. In it, I found a reference to Agnolo di Vieri, a spectacularly wealthy silk merchant who was a confidante of Lorenzo the Magnificent. In a time when other rich Florentines were building new and bigger palazzi, Agnolo chose to stay in his family home. The author offered no explanation for this decision, but another work, written more than a hundred years later, mentioned a priceless treasure—still unfound at the time—hidden in its walls. Had Agnolo remained, searching in vain for it?
I came across one other mention of the treasure, in a letter written by Bartolomeo di Vieri two years before his death. It was the only pertinent piece of information in the large archival box of family correspondence Signore Tazzera had brought me; and while it was intriguing, even I could not argue it shed any light on Signore Spichio’s murder. Regardless of the secrets to which Tessa had referred, I had found nothing to suggest the palazzo had a nefarious history.
A quick glance at my watch told me I’d been buried in research for more than three hours, yet Cécile had not returned, and despite searching the public spaces of the library, I could not locate her. Perturbed, I went back to the main desk, where a librarian greeted me by name.
“Lady Emily Hargreaves?”
I nodded.
“Your friend has left a message for you. She will be indisposed for the rest of the afternoon and says she will see you for dinner this evening.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve a rather large stack of materials Signore Tazzera fetched for me. Shall I bring them back to him?”
“Signore Tazzera has left for the day—he fell suddenly ill—but you can leave it to me. I’ll return them to the stacks. I do hope you found what you were looking for.”
I may have made a small bit of progress, but it was clear that Cécile had found exactly what she sought. I didn’t begrudge her the distraction. Signore Tazzera was rather handsome, not to mention an educated, interesting man. Beyond that, he had to be at least forty-five, so well within the bounds of potentially fascinating. I didn’t believe for a second that he was ill.
I exited the library and returned to the palazzo, heading straight to the room on the third floor near the kitchen, which I’d decided to use as my study. I asked Tessa to bring tea there for us both. She had coffee instead, into which she dipped a long, hard biscuit.
“I have not learned much, Lady Emily,” she said, “but I hope what I tell you proves to be of some use. Marzo Spichio lived with his parents and brother near the church of Santa Croce. I can direct you to the house. He was thirty-two years old, not married but engaged, and had a reputation for having a short temper. He worked doing repairs to buildings.”
She’d abandoned all pretense of not being fluent. If anything, her English was even better than the last time I’d talked to her. “How did you find this out?”
“I went to the Mercato Nuovo. Do you know it? It is the market very near this house. I know many of the merchants who sell their wares there, and two in particular are always acquainted with the latest gossip. They both knew that a man plummeted to his death from your roof, and one knew his family.”
“How had they heard anything about it?” I asked.
“This morning, your husband notified Signora Spichio of her son’s death. The unusual nature of the circumstances made the story spread like fire.” That Colin couldn’t share with me these details infuriated me. It was so inefficient, my having to have a maid poke around for half a day to learn something he could have told me in an instant.
“Do you know the family?” I asked.
“I do not,” she replied and then stopped speaking, glancing at the door. A moment later it opened, and Signora Orlandi entered.
“Tessa, you must get back to work.”
“I’m afraid I must keep her for a bit longer,” I said. “Her English is much better than you led me to believe.”
“We all have our secrets,” she said. “Please don’t keep her too long, Lady Emily.”
When she’d retreated, I turned back to the maid. “I will visit the family tomorrow. Before you go, I wanted to ask you about the secrets you mentioned yesterday. Those hidden by the house. You promised to explain.”
“There are many stories about this palazzo. It is older than most in Florence, and hence full of ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” I like a good ghost story as much as the next person, but had hoped for something more concrete than ethereal spirits unlikely to have murdered a man.
“Not the souls of the dead, but the memory of what has happened here. Do you know about the little friar, Savonarola?”
“Some, though I cannot claim extensive knowledge,” I said.
“He hated the excessive luxury of the Florentine people and preached doom and judgment, claiming that Florence was to be the next Jerusalem and that Our Lord Jesus Christ would soon return to earth. Within two years of Lorenzo il Magnifico’s death, Savonarola controlled the government. The Medici fled, and the city once again became a republic. The details are unimportant. As is so often the case, what is critical in one moment is irrelevant later.”
“What has Savonarola to do with this house?”
“The family who lived here opposed him. There are stories that they were tormented by his Bands of Hope—boys who roamed the streets in search of people ignoring the friar’s newly imposed rules. They stripped women who dressed in luxurious fashion, confiscated items they deemed to be sinful possessions, and generally caused trouble. They were thugs. Violent thugs.”
“How did that lead to this house keeping secrets?”
“Many things happened here that shouldn’t have, but no one, not even Savonarola himself could prove any of it,” she said.
“What sort of things?”
“That I do not know. It was many centuries ago. My great-grandmother also worked here, for the last surviving member of the family who built the house. She told me that her master was plagued by trying to uncover something hidden in the palazzo. Every time he came close to finding it, something happened to stop him. A shutter fell off its hinges and nearly killed him when it hit his head. The well flooded. A fire broke out in his bedroom. It nearly drove him to madness.”
“For what was he searching?”
“That I cannot say.”
She might not say, but neither did she deny knowing. “What did Signore di Vieri think caused all of this?”
“You know his name?” she asked.
“Was it meant to be a secret?” She obviously knew it.
“No, of course not. You just surprised me, that’s all. To answer your question, Signore di Vieri said the house caused all of his ills. Not a ghost, the house.”
“Do you believe that?” I asked.
“No, signora, I do not. A house is not alive. But Signora Orlandi told me a story about the countess who lived here. She, too, believed the house protected its secrets. That is why she wanted it for her daughter. I must go now and help Cook with your dinner. We will talk more later.”
Grateful though I was for the information she provided about Signore Spichio, the rest of what she said was decidedly odd, as if she’d constructed it deliberately to mislead me. On the surface, it was innocuous enough. What did it matter if I—or anyone—believed superstitions about the house? Yet my instinct told me there was some thread of truth in her story. The sources in the library confirmed that something had been hidden here, something I suspected Tessa did not want me to find. I would tread carefully, knowing I could play the game of misdirection just as well, if not better, than she.