Pause. "Who told you this bizarre story?"
The Maestro stretched his lips in a wicked grin. "Mostly your mother, although she was not aware that she was doing so. She mentioned to Alfeo that the Council of Ten did not interview her again after Zorzi fled into voluntary exile. That is extraordinary! If the Ten had wanted to know where he had gone, surely his mother would have been the first person to ask? Granted she is of patrician stock and they would treat her more gently than they would a woman of the lower classes, she still should have been questioned."
The brothers exchanged glances and Domenico said, "Keep talking."
"The timing of events requires that some specific incident triggered the recent murders, but there is no point in continuing this conversation if I am mistaken. Well, did Agostino Foscari send for you when he was dying, sier Bernardo?"
"He… Yes he did." It would have been easier to pull Bernardo's ribs out than information.
"And did you pass on the secret he told you to any other members of your family? Back in September, I mean?"
"That is irrelevant," Domenico said. "Surely?"
"No." The Maestro was making little effort now to hide his pleasure at taunting the two patricians. "Foscari was an inquisitor when your father was murdered, of course. Another of the Three was messer Giovanni Gradenigo, who departed this world only last week. Nearing his end he sent for me, which was a strange choice, because we had never met. Alfeo went in my stead but did not arrive in time to learn what the dying man had wanted to tell me. He did learn that Gradenigo had become upset upon being informed of the death of the courtesan Caterina Lotto. At first I suspected he may have known her personally. It seems that this was not his style, but she had been one of Zorzi's associates, so it is more likely that Gradenigo met her when the Three interrogated her at the time of Gentile's death."
"You are building castles in the clouds!" Bernardo said. "Zorzi 'associated,' as you call it, with half the harlots of Venice."
"But," the Maestro persisted, "two others were dead by then and Gradenigo had been informed of them also; that is a reasonable hypothesis, at least. There is no point in continuing this conversation if I am wrong, so I must ask you outright, sier Bernardo, did Agostino Foscari tell you that one such woman reported overhearing your brother confess to the crime of patricide?"
"Yes."
Surprise! I had expected Bernardo to refuse to answer. Either he could see that the Maestro would then ask how many more women must die before he would face facts, or else he was being especially forthcoming in order to distance himself from the fork-tongued Jacopo. For me, the eavesdropper, it was teeth-clenching time. If the Maestro's question were quoted to the Ten, they must suspect that he had bribed an official to reveal state secrets. If they suspected, they would investigate.
"Did he name this informant?"
Bernardo growled. "No. Doctor, is it possible that eventually, in the fulness of time, we may come to an explanation of this windstorm?"
"I hope so, messer. Foscari died in September. Let us move on to the curious events of December. Your mother keeps her confidential papers in a warded box. To open it one must know both the words and gestures of a minor spell. You, sier Bernardo, keep your 'political ledger' as you call it, in a similar box?"
Bernardo mumbled something I could not hear.
The Maestro did. "I thought so. Those caskets may seem secure to the uninformed, but in reality they are not. Any reasonably skilled practitioner of the dark arts could override the minor spell with a stronger. They cannot long withstand even a gifted busybody like your Jacopo Fauro. He must have broken your mother's code, perhaps years ago. At some time he overheard your words. At another, perhaps, he witnessed your actions. Last December he opened your casket in your absence and read through your diary. He learned Foscari's secret-and sold it to your mother!"
Domenico laughed. "Lustrissimo, you certainly have managed some high-class snooping of your own, but a lot of what you are spouting is mere speculation. If you are trying to befuddle us into telling you this supposed dark secret that the dying Foscari supposedly imparted to my brother, then you are wasting your time and ours."
"I already know the secret, clarissimo." The Maestro put his fingertips together, five on five, as he does when he plans to deliver a lecture. "The truth is that Zorzi Michiel never fled into voluntary exile. He never left Venice."
"Who told you this?" Bernardo growled. "And by asking that, I am not conceding that what you say has any merit."
"No? I told you earlier-your mother told me. Her favorite son vanished without saying farewell or dropping her a note. He did not warn either of you that he was going, or you would have started comforting her with forged letters right away, instead of weeks or months later. The Ten never questioned her as to where he might have gone. They announced his guilt rather than reveal how he had died. Do I have it right?"
The silence was answer enough.
This was the secret too dangerous for me to know.
It explained why the Ten was so determined to stop any reopening of the Gentile Michiel case, and it totally changed the range of possible motives for the courtesan murders.
"Revenge," the Maestro said softly, as if he had overheard my thought. "Eight years ago your brother was denounced as a patricide in an anonymous letter. A woman gave false witness and now someone is going around killing anyone who might be that perjurer. Four women dead, at least three of them innocent." He waited, but neither of his listeners spoke.
Why hadn't I seen this? He had guessed because his quatrain had prophesied blind vengeance.
"I do not know who that spiteful snitch was and I have been trying to convince the Ten that I have no interest in anything connected with the death of Gentile Michiel. That secret is safe with me. But the current murders must be stopped. That is what matters.
"Tonight, messere, this case has come to a head. An additional piece of evidence has come into my possession. One of the murdered courtesans, Caterina Lotto, was deceived by a note that purported to come from your late brother. The sbirri hunted for it, but it was not found until today and then it was brought to me. Obviously it should have gone directly to the Ten and I must turn it in right away. I will also testify that the handwriting is that of your half-brother, Jacopo Fauro."
Both brothers started to speak, and it was the orator's voice than won out.
"No, Doctor," Bernardo boomed. "Understand that we were in no wise cognizant of these deaths! We were not aware that prostitutes were being murdered until last Saturday, when your apprentice came around asking questions about Zorzi, followed not long after by a messenger from the Council of Ten. Jacopo knew, because he consorts with servants and lowlifes, which we most certainly do not. He took great pleasure in enlightening us. I was deeply shocked and distressed. I convened a meeting of the family on Sunday, including Fedele and Lucretzia, and even signora Isabetta."
"Jacopo?"
"We called him in a couple of times."
"Not your mother?"
"Our mother was feeling indisposed that morning. I had a long discourse with her later. At the meeting I suggested that we all demonstrate that we could not have been involved. Jacopo went and fetched a diary of his own, and we looked up the dates, so far as we knew them. We were not certain when the first woman died, but Jacopo had alibis for the three we did know about."
The Maestro had been shaking his head all through this. "I did not say that any of you committed these crimes in person. But Jacopo locates the victims, starting with the information in that old journal your mother kept of Zorzi's escapades. Jacopo baits the traps, as he did by writing the note I mentioned. He may even hire and pay off the bravo who does the actual dirty work, but just because there is no literal blood on his hands makes him no less guilty in the eyes of the law." He chuckled. "Did you happen to notice when he started keeping this convenient diary?"