‘Perhaps,’ Seraphina whispered, ‘we should get rid of it. After all, who would know? Only the three of us have seen it. If we say nothing, no one else will find out. Perhaps it would be better to throw back into the Thames?’
Taken aback, Nino glanced at her, then looked at Gaspare. He could see that the old man was trying to cover his agitation, but his face had taken on a sickly pallor.
‘It’s too late, Seraphina. It’s been found now. And we can’t destroy it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was painted by Titian. One of the world’s greatest artists. The painting is famous – infamous. It’s been written about, studied through engravings, dreamed about, feared for centuries. Despite the character of the sitter I couldn’t destroy it – or condone such an action.’ Gaspare turned back to the portrait, thinking aloud. ‘It was Titian’s closest friend, Pietro Aretino, who organised the commission in October 1555. At that time Angelico Vespucci was a wealthy merchant with a beautiful wife, an ambitious man who had made a fortune from trade. With his enormous wealth he could afford to hire Titian.’
‘And Titian agreed to do it?’
Gaspare glanced back at Nino, shrugging.
‘Why not? When the portrait was begun, Angelico Vespucci was just one more wealthy patron. The painting took months to complete, throughout the bitter Venetian winter of 1555. In November, Vespucci’s wife was found murdered, so badly disfigured that she was unrecognisable. He was suspected of being her killer.’
‘Why would he kill her?’ Seraphina interrupted. ‘For what reason?’
‘She was unfaithful,’ Gaspare replied, ‘and he couldn’t bear it.’
‘So why wasn’t he punished?’
‘Suspicion fell on someone else and Vespucci was allowed to continue with his normal life. He had always been a close friend of Aretino’s and his notoriety deepened their bond. Then, over the period of November, December and January, three other women were killed and skinned – all during the time the portrait was being painted.’
Blowing out his cheeks, Nino looked at the old man.
‘Three other women killed in the same way? How could they not think Vespucci was guilty?’
‘Like I say, they had another suspect.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. That’s the part of the story no one knows.’
‘What about the skins?’ Nino pressed him. ‘You said Vespucci was called The Skin Hunter, so what did he do with them? Anyone going to enough trouble to flay his victims would have a reason.’
Seraphina’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. ‘Don’t killers keep trophies?’
‘Some do. Serial killers anyway … Perhaps Vespucci held on to the skins. Maybe he would have wanted to enjoy them, relive the killings.’ Nino turned back to Gaspare. ‘Were the skins ever found?’
The old man shook his head.
‘No. If Vespucci kept them, he hid them so carefully they were never discovered … They say that after the fourth murder he went insane. But he was sane enough to go about his business, and sane enough to escape capture. Sane enough to let another man take the blame. When the portrait was finished it was exhibited in the church where Vespucci had always worshipped. Two days later the church was destroyed by fire, but the painting survived.’
Silent, the three of them stared at the portrait on the table, Seraphina pulling the throw around her body as though to protect herself, Nino’s eyes fixed on the unreadable gaze of the sitter. The collection of artefacts and curios which surrounded them seemed suddenly to shrink into insignificance, the caramel cherubs lifting their painted feet higher from the image below. The picture’s malevolence curled around the bookshelves, slid under chairs and tables, smeared the flyblown mirrors, and hung its cobweb malice on the chandelier above.
After a pause, Gaspare continued. ‘Absurd stories started to circulate. That the portrait could turn bass metal into gold; that it could take a woman’s virtue and make men sterile. That a rival could pray to the image to have his competitor die and it would happen. The evil worshipped the portrait; the virtuous feared it. It was said that one woman looked on it and gave birth to a deformed child.’
Shivering, Seraphina moved over to the fire. ‘What happened to Angelico Vespucci?’
‘He disappeared. Nothing was ever found of him. No body. Nothing … The portrait was all that was left of him.’
Fascinated, Nino stared at the painted face: the long nose with its narrow nostrils, the breadth of forehead, the unremarkable mouth. And then he gazed at the eyes: slightly bulbous, watchful, gazing intently into the London room as once they had gazed into Titian’s studio.
‘So this is a portrait of a serial killer?’
‘Yes. The first of its kind,’ Gaspare agreed. ‘Soon after it was completed, it disappeared. Some people presumed it had been hidden. But no one knew where—’
‘Why wasn’t it destroyed?’ Seraphina interrupted. ‘Surely someone should have burnt it?’
‘I’ve told you – it’s a masterpiece. The likeness of a monster, immortalised by a genius. No one would destroy that. But maybe they would hide it … The connoisseurs and historians only knew of the original through old engravings – Titian had made no copy. And so, gradually, everyone forgot about Vespucci. In time The Skin Hunter sank into oblivion and became little more than a myth. Forgotten – even in Venice. Only a few in the art world remembered.’
A moment passed. Nino was the first to speak.
‘What are you going to do with it? Sell it?’
‘Sell it?’ Gaspare repeated. ‘Yes, I could sell it and make a fortune. I could trade it, pass it on to a dozen collectors. We could – all three of us – become rich. But at what cost?’ His tone darkened. ‘This portrait is the art world’s Macbeth. For centuries no one mentioned it, for fear of bad luck. No one talked of Angelico Vespucci, or his victims. No one mentioned The Skin Hunter.’ He turned his back on the image. ‘I can’t sell it. I can only hide it. Put it out of harm’s way. Make sure it’s never seen again …’ He stared at both of them intently. ‘The three of us must make an agreement, here and now, never to speak of this to anyone. Never to mention that the painting has been found.’
‘You can’t expect—’
At once, Gaspare cut her off. ‘Seraphina, go home to Venice and forget everything that’s happened here—’
‘But—’
‘Listen to me!’ the old man shouted. ‘I’m trying to protect you. Both of you.’ He turned to Nino. ‘What I said to Seraphina applies to you also. Forget you ever saw this portrait. It’s dangerous—’
‘Dangerous?’ Nino countered, studying Gaspare Reni. He had never seen the dealer unnerved before. Full of bluster, many times. Overambitious and charming, often. But afraid, never. And he wondered about the story, about how a black rumour could prey on an old man’s mind.
‘It’s just a painting. What can a painting do?’
‘I don’t know, but I fear it,’ Gaspare admitted. ‘And I have good reason. You see, it was said that if the portrait of Angelico Vespucci ever emerged, so would the man.’
Venice, 1555
From where I am sitting I can see the painter, Titian, and walking beside him that most bestial of men, Pietro Aretino. He is pompous with his fame, thinks Destiny suckles him. All of Venice reads his work, licentious, vicious and immoral, but clever. He whores with the courtesans and eats until his girth hangs over the tops of his legs, his cloaks cut wide to cover him. And yet the artist loves him. Loves him like a dog with a history of malice, which is fed nonetheless.
They say Aretino attacked his mother and was forced to flee his birthplace. They say he was exiled from Rome for scurrilous libels and sordid writings. They say the Kings of France and England cosset him to quieten his pen. They say Aretino has many women in Venice. And more boys. And still the painter loves him.