Venice, present day Edie and Jeff were having a late breakfast at Jeff's apartment. Maria was off-duty for the day and Rose had refused to leave her room all morning. Jeff had barely seen her since returning from Roberto's. As they were polishing off the remnants of a full English breakfast the phone rang.
'It struck me early this morning,' Roberto said, 'we need to broaden our horizons a bit. Whoever killed Antonio and tried to abduct us is on the same trail as we are. We have to get a fresh perspective. That chap who came to see you…?'
'Mario Sporani? I'd forgotten about him, and I promised to call at his hotel. He's staying at The Becher.' Edie looked up at the mention of the name Sporani and gave Jeff a questioning look. 'Shall we meet there?'
'No, I really can't this morning, Roberto. I promised Rose…'
'Of course you did, Jeff, and I don't want to come between a father and his daughter. Is Edie up?' 'She is. I'll put her on.' 'Hi.' 'Good morning. You are well rested, I trust?' She laughed. 'I slept like the dead of San Michele.'
'We almost ended up there for real,' Roberto replied. 'So, what do you fancy? Traipsing around museums and galleries with Jeff or following leads with me? Plus lunch at the Gritti thrown in when we've had enough sleuthing?'
'I'll have to think about that,' Edie said and pulled a face at Jeff who was rolling his eyes. Rose's mood of the previous afternoon had not lightened. As they crossed St Mark's Square, Jeff could feel the weight of her silent resentment, but he had no idea how to get her to talk. Their first stop was the Basilica of St Mark, a short walk from the apartment. Rose had been there before but she had been too young to really appreciate it. Now, things were different. Rose seemed to have matured ten years in the past two, and not for the first time, Jeff winced at the thought of what damage her parents' acrimonious break-up might have caused. Looking at her as she gazed sulkily at the tombs and the splendid domed ceiling, it began to dawn on him what her black mood was all about. She had been okay until Edie had turned up; but surely Rose couldn't think…? It was so easy to believe that everything was fine with his daughter and that she had managed to cope brilliantly with the trauma of recent years, but how was he to really know? Everyone locked away some secret pain. Why should Rose be any different?
At the altar, they studied the ornate stonework and the remarkable mosaics depicting how, in the ninth century the body of St Mark had been stolen from Alexandria by Venetian merchants and brought to the city. 'This basilica was built especially to house the bones of the saint,' Jeff said, trying to spark some interest.
Rose shrugged her shoulders. 'What's so special about a bunch of old bones?'
Jeff smiled. 'Yeah, I know what you mean. It does seem daft to us, but a thousand years ago people placed great significance in such things.'
'I don't see how they could have known they were the bones of St Mark anyway.'
'Well actually, they didn't, but they wanted to believe that they were. Besides, there was no way it could be disproved, was there?' She shrugged again.
'Most relics were fakes. Indeed, there was a roaring trade in the bones of saints and other holy men. There used to be auctions in Byzantium. Sort of an eBay of the first millennium.' Rose cracked a faint smile. Jeff sighed. 'Come on. I think we need to talk.'
Following the crowds, they turned right outside the basilica and entered the maze of streets to the north of San Marco, past the designer clothes stores and shops selling souvenirs and trinkets mass-produced on Murano. From there they took a route back towards the Riva degli Schiavoni, the waterfront to the lagoon close to the Ducal 'Palace. Reaching the water, they sat down on the high wall with the canal lapping under their feet and watched the gondolas bob on the tide.
'OK,' Jeff said softly. 'So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?' 'What?' 'Rose, please.' She looked up suddenly. 'That woman.' Jeff looked confused. 'Your girlfriend, Edie.' 'My? Oh, so that's it'
'Oh Dad, please don't insult my intelligence. I know all about you and her. I've known about it for a long time.' Jeff shook his head and smiled. 'Don't patronise me!' Rose exclaimed angrily.
'Rose stop, just stop. You've got it all wrong.' He grabbed her shoulder and she turned on him, her face distorted with fury. 'Oh really.'
'Yes, really. Edie and I, we're friends. That's all we've ever been.' 'That's not what I've heard.' 'From whom? Oh, I see…' 'She told me everything.'
'Look, whatever your mother has told you, it's simply not true.'
'She told me you wrecked the marriage, that you had an affair with Edie.'
Jeff didn't know what to say. He simply stared at his daughter and suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that she had been strung a line.
'Oh Dad,' and she reached for him. Jeff pulled her close and for a moment he was transported back in time to when Rose was a toddler weeping into his shoulder after a fall from her bike or having been scared by the neighbour's dog. He drew back and looked at her face, the large moist eyes and full lips. He felt incredibly angry, furious with his deceitful bitch of a wife, his ex-wife. The woman had absolutely no scruples. She had lied and cheated in their marriage and now… But he had to suppress the bitterness, at least for the moment. He put his arm around Rose and they sat for a moment silently watching the vaporetti. 'Why would Mum lie like that?' Rose asked.
It was an impossible question to answer. Jeff looked at his daughter and made a conscious effort to choose his words very carefully. 'I guess, well, I suppose Mum couldn't face the guilt she felt. We're all human, Rose. Your mother and I, we were under a lot of pressure. It was painful for us and painful for you. Maybe she just thought it would be the easiest thing to do. I don't really know…' His answer petered out.
'Why did you and Mummy ever have to break up?'
Jeff took a deep breath. 'You have to understand that it's hard to cope with infidelity. A relationship can never be quite the same after that.' He fixed her with a hard stare. 'Is everything all right? At home I mean?'
'With Mum? Yeah, of course. But, well, it's not like old times.' 'No. I'm sorry, darling.'
They fell silent again. Then Rose said, 'Do you miss her?' 'I miss some of the old times. Like you.' 'I don't care for Caspian much.' 'Oh?'
'He tries to tell me what to do. He thinks he's my dad.' She stared intently at the water.
'Well, he's a sort of stepfather now, and I'm sure he has your best interests at heart.'
'We did have some fun, though, didn't we, Daddy? I used to love coming here for long weekends and holidays – you, me and Mum. You'd both pick me up from school and we would go straight to the airport. I could never concentrate on work those days. When we got here we'd catch a water taxi from Marco Polo; that first glimpse of San Marco as we came across the lagoon was always so exciting.'
She didn't look at him, and continued to stare at the water. Finally, she said. 'Do you remember the hidey-hole?' 'Of course.'
When Rose was five, he and Imogen had remodelled the interior of the apartment on San Marco. The builders had put in a 'secret' little room especially for Rose. Hidden away at one end of the apartment, it could only be reached by a concealed door in the smallest bedroom. She had loved it. 'It's still there,' Jeff added. 'I will always keep it.' Suddenly Rose burst into tears and threw her arms around her father's neck. He let her cry and gently stroked her hair.
A few moments later, she pulled away, looking embarrassed, tears still streaming down her face. He put a finger under her chin and kissed her forehead. Then he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. She forced a smile. 'I know exactly what we need right now,' Jeff said, pulling Rose to her feet. 'What?'
'A super-duper, triple-decker chocolate chip gelato with all the extras. And I know just where to get them.' They had just stepped out of the ice-cream parlour when Jeff's mobile rang.
'Hi, Edie,' he said, recognising the number on the screen.
'Jeff,' she sounded hyped up. 'You have to come here as soon as you can.' 'I'm out with Rose, Edie. Remember?' 'I know.' 'Where are you anyway?' 'Mario Sporani's hotel room. Please come now… alone.' He looked at Rose who mouthed, 'It's OK.'
'All right,' he said wearily into the phone. 'I'll be there in fifteen minutes.' Jeff dropped Rose at the apartment then raced to Sporani's hotel. The Becher in Campo San Fantin was a mid-price hotel, rough around the edges and claustrophobic. The front door was ajar. There were six uniformed policemen in the reception area. One was talking to the receptionist and taking copious notes in a small leather book. Two others were going through papers piled on to shelves on the rear wall behind the desk, a fourth stood at the entrance to the lift and two others were pacing at the foot of a narrow staircase. Jeff approached one of the officers at the stairs. 'What's going on?' 'And you are?'
'Jeff Martin. I had a call on my mobile to meet some friends here.' 'I'm afraid no one is allowed beyond this point, sir.'
Jeff was about to protest when he heard a voice booming down from the first floor landing. 'Let him up.'
Jeff took the stairs two at a time. Aldo Candotti met him just outside Room 6. The door opened on to a narrow, dark corridor leading to the room beyond. 'What's happened?' he asked Candotti.
'I was hoping you and your friends might enlighten me on that matter, Signor Martin,' he replied and placed his palm in the small of Jeffs back, gently guiding him inside.
A mean light seeped from the narrow window that looked out on to a rear yard dominated by a wall of grey plasterwork stained with water from a broken gutter. The room was packed with people. Close to the window stood Edie and Roberto, talking to two men in uniform. Next to the narrow bed was a hospital trolley. A body lay on it, covered by a sheet. But Jeff could see long white hair exposed above the sheet. Then he noticed a length of frayed rope dangling from a large hook high up on the wall above the bathroom door. On the floor close to the bed there was an upended chair.
Jeff felt his stomach turn. He stepped back as a paramedic almost ran over his toes with the trolley. The man eased it around the tight corner into the short corridor leading to the landing and quickly disappeared from view.
Edie came over, took Jeff's hand and led him across the room. He caught abrief glimpse of himself in the mirror of a cheap dressing table against the wall. His skin looked almost drained of blood. The floor was strewn with clothes and papers, Sporani's suitcase had been upended, everything ripped from the wardrobes. A bar of soap lay at the end of the bed and a bottle of brandy had been smashed, the shards scattered over the worn, heavily patterned carpet. The whole place stank.
'They think Sporani's been dead for at least twenty-four hours/ Edie said quietly. 'Roberto and I had come to see him. The concierge told us there'd been no sign of him since early yesterday. He brought us up here. When there was no reply, he used the house key. We called the police straight away.'
Roberto looked intently at Candotti. 'Deputy Prefect, do you have any idea who could have done this?'
Candotti signalled to the two officers to leavef. When they were gone, he began to pace in the small space between the bed and the wall, hands clasped behind his back.
'Signor Armatovani, Roberto,' he began. 'I am beginning to worry about you and your friends here. Death seems to be stalking you. I have heard from colleagues in Florence that Dr Granger may be a witness to a murder in the Medici Chapel.'
'I'm not a witness…' Edie began, but Candotti raised his hand.
'Please, I'm not accusing anyone. I am simply commenting that wherever you go, people keep dying.' 'The murder victim in Florence was my uncle.' 'I'm well aware of that.'
'So what are you driving at exactly?' Roberto said, his voice uncharacteristically hard.
'I do not have the manpower to interrogate you or your friends,' Candotti said, 'and I have no evidence to implicate any of you in any of the sudden deaths that now occupy all my waking hours. I have known you, Roberto, for very many years, and I knew your father very well, but please do not abuse our relationship. If there is anything to link the deaths of Professor Mackenzie, your driver Antonio Chatonni, and Mario Sporani I will find it and I think it would be better for all of us if you, or your friends,' and he flicked his eyes towards Edie and Jeff, 'decided to pay me a visit first. You know where to find me.' He turned on his heel and left the room.
A moment later, the two uniformed officers returned to escort them out of the room to the stairs. Roberto sat down between Jeff and Edie at a wooden table at the back of Bar Fenice, a small and quite empty wine bar close to The Becher. He slid a glass of red towards Edie and one of two Pinot Grigios to Jeff. 'I really wouldn't advise telling Candotti anything,' he said. 'God no,' Edie said quickly. 'He might be an old friend of your family, Roberto, but he gives me the creeps.'
'I suspected Sporani knew a great deal more about this whole thing than he let on to me.' Jeff took a sip of wine.
'And the state of the room,' Roberto said. 'Why would he wreck the place before hanging himself? Candotti's forensics team will probably come up with some useful clues, but we won't hear about them, that's for sure. But we have one little advantage over the police.' Roberto pulled something from his pocket and placed it on the table. 'I liberated this before Candotti's boys got there.'
It was a Polaroid. Taken in the hotel room, Sporani was holding in his left hand a rectangle of white card approximately the size of a photograph. In his right hand was a strange pen-like object, which he was pointing at the card.
Edie clapped her hands together. 'How did you…?'
'When you went out with the concierge and called Jeff, I had a couple of minutes to myself. I put on my gloves and had a quick poke around. This was in Sporani's jacket pocket. Whoever killed him missed it'
'What's that thing in his right hand?' Jeff picked up the Polaroid. 'Do you see what it says along the side?'
'Penna Ultra Violetto? It's a kid's toy. I remember Rose had something like this years ago. But what…?'
'He's telling us to use ultraviolet light. Those toy pens show up invisible ink, don't they?' Edie said.
Roberto drained his glass and stood up. 'I'll be back in five.'
It actually took him twenty minutes. Striding into the bar, he slapped a garish purple and pink object on the table. 'I had to go to four different toy shops to track down that bloody thing!'
It looked like a fat pen for a ten-year-old girl, but, when Edie picked it up and twisted its base, a puddle of purple light appeared on the surface of the table. 'Cool,' she said. 'Can I have the Polaroid, Jeff? ' Roberto asked.
Jeff took it out of his pocket and placed it face down on the table. Holding the pen a few centimetres above the surface of the photo, Roberto flicked it on and there, in tiny writing in the middle of the picture, they could see two lines of handwriting: msporani.com.it Thethreeofus On the way back to Roberto's palazzo, they stopped to pick up Rose. They were taking no chances. Someone had tried to kill them. It was obvious Mario Sporani had been murdered, perhaps by the same person. Rose was happy to watch TV in the drawing room while the three adults gathered in the library.
Edie and Jeff stood either side of Roberto, who sat at his Mac, typing in the web address from the back of the photograph. A moment later, a password request appeared. He keyed in 'Thethreeofus' and two folders appeared, labelled simply T and '2'. Clicking on T a file named 'notes' was displayed. Opening this produced a page of Italian text. Roberto translated as he read: NOTES: COSIMO DE' MEDICI: I've learned very little from journal. I know Cosimo travelled east in 1410. Destination: Greece, or perhaps Macedonia. I know he found something of great significance there. What exactly, remains a mystery. CONTESSINA DE' MEDICI: Cosimo's wife. Visited San Michele soon after her husband's death. I think it was to speak with Father Mauro's disciples and to arrange for a map to be designed. GIORDANO BRUNO: The great mystic and occultist spent some time in Venice and Padua during 1592. He had been travelling throughout Europe and must have heard something important about Cosimo de' Medici and his circle. I think he formed a group in Venice to conceal this information, this 'Medici Secret'. Bruno's group was somehow connected with the early Rosicrucians, an occult group well known in Europe by this time. I'm quite sure Bruno tampered with Contessina's clue and planted a second. It's in the city archives and makes illuminating reading. THE MEDICI CHAPEL: The nexus. I believe there is something there, but I don't know what it is. The secrets of Venice lead to the secrets of Florence which lead to the secrets of where? Macedonia? It is something very important – important enough to kill for. 'You were right, Jeff, he was several steps ahead of us,' Edie said. 'He knew something about the secret the clues are protecting.'
'Which makes sense. Finding the Medici journal in the crypt forty-odd years ago was the pivotal moment in Sporani's life. It was obvious whatever he had found was important; why else would anyone send a couple of thugs after him and threaten to kill his family?' 'So you think he's been trying to unravel this mystery all these years?' 'Why not?'
'I think Sporani was following a similar trail to us,' said Roberto. 'He didn't have the clue on the tablet found in Florence; in fact he didn't even know about that, but he somehow knew something about the Mauro map.' 'How could he have?'
Roberto shrugged. 'As you said yourself Jeff, Sporani's discovery in the crypt, Cosimo's journal, was a pivotal moment in the man's life. He obviously did his research, and followed a trail that convinced him that Cosimo's wife came to Venice and called in on Mauro's apprentices in 1464. He must have inferred from this that she planted a clue on San Michele to keep hidden what he calls the "Medici Secret".'
Jeff nodded. 'Yeah, but hold on. Cosimo died in 1464, and the clue refers to the Rialto Bridge, finished in 1591.'
'So,' Edie responded, 'either we have the clue all wrong, or the version we read in the library on San Michele is not the original.'
'I don't think we have the clue wrong,' Roberto said. 'It's just that the story isn't as straightforward as it seemed to be at first. Contessina may well have visited Mauro's disciples and she may have left a clue, but years later, Giordano Bruno learned of a mystery surrounding Cosimo de' Medici. He formed a group to protect whatever this secret might be. For some reason, he took it upon himself to replace the clue Contessina left, and according to Sporani at least, Bruno's clue leads to another created deliberately by him too.'
'Why would Bruno do that? Why change the clue?' Edie asked.
'It's typical of the man. Giordano Bruno Was an egomaniac. He thought he was some sort of prophet, fancied himself as the founder of a new religion. He was planning to set one up when he was captured in Venice. It doesn't surprise me at all that he would interfere, he probably loved the idea he had gone one better than a Medici.' 'So what exactly is Sporani telling us?' Jeff asked.
'It's there in the section about Bruno. If Sporani knew about the clue on San Michele, he would have the same verse as us. He says Giordano Bruno tampered with it and planted the second. Clearly the clue on San Michele was Bruno's because of the timeframe. As we know, the Rialto was completed in 1591, not long before Bruno was in Venice. We know that's true because he was arrested here in May 1592 and tried by the Inquisition.'
'So, we were barking up the wrong tree going to the bridge itself,' Jeff interjected. 'The clue is in the city archives.'
'"It is hidden there with the lines, beyond the water, behind the hand of the architect",' Edie quoted. 'It must mean the architect's drawings. How cunning!'
'And the plaque in the wall of the bridge was a red herring.' Jeff looked at his watch. 'Will the archives still be open?'
'We don't need them,' Roberto said. 'I think Mario Sporani is our guardian angel and has already done the leg work.' He flicked back to the original screen and opened the folder marked '2'. Two more documents appeared. They were scanned-in pages of parchment covered in tightly written text. Beneath these they could see a typed version in Italian and English. The first document began: Friday, 2 May, The Year of Our Lord 1592. Palazzo Mocenigo, Campo San Samuele. I am Giordano Bruno, who some men refer to as 'The Nolan'. This is for my brothers of I Seguicamme, and this is my story.
I am now in the house of the nobleman Giovanni Mocenigo, a most loathsome man. Against my better judgement, Mocenigo persuaded me to return to Italy. I have been hounded by the Roman Inquisition for many years. Mocenigo, my patron of noble blood, promised me protection, but I know the forces against me are moving in for the kill, and my days of freedom are numbered. I fear I shall not leave Venice alive. Mocenigo wished to learn the Secret Arts of which I am an Adept (as I have proven in my many acclaimed works). But now, this man, who it transpires has no mind for the Hermetic Arts and is a fraud, has trapped me here in his palazzo and all the borders of this city are watched. My enemies are waiting for me to attempt an escape.
This then is a message to the future, a message of hope.
Twenty years ago I came by a most intriguing document. The details of how I acquired it do little for my reputation but I must confess all. I won the treasure playing cards in the backroom of a tavern in Verona. My card-playing adversary had lost all his money and insisted the parchment he was offering me was a genuine antique and that it had been handwritten by no less a figure than Contessina de' Medici, the wife of the great Florentine ruler, Cosimo the Elder. At first, I believed that the parchment was entirely without value. I almost threw it back at him, but when I looked a little closer I became intrigued and accepted his token.
Later, I managed to study the document in great detail. It was a fragment of a personal letter which alluded to the presence of a great treasure. At the end there were two lines of a riddle. At first, the clue made little sense, but gradually I managed to fathom some of its meaning and this revelation took me to Venice; more specifically, it took me to the home of the monks of San Michele, the Island of the Dead. There I found a map revered by the monks of the island, and again, after exhaustive effort and employing all my scholarship, I found another clue, a verse that led me to the next stage.
But all my efforts were in vain. The document, although genuine, led only to a blind alley. The clue in the letter and the others I unearthed on San Michele directed me to a tomb at the exact centre of the island. There, with the aid of my trusted servant Albertus, I unearthed a large leather casket. Inside lay just one thing, a metal plate on which had been etched the words: ALL MEN ARE TREACHEROUS.
At first, I assumed that this was some sort of elaborate hoax. But as time passed and I learned more (about which I dare not speak even now). I came to understand that although I had failed in my efforts, Contessina de' Medici really had hidden a great secret. Quite simply, I had not been wise enough to find it. For twenty long years I have continued my search. I have learned much, but not the core truth. My failure causes me so much pain I am barely able to countenance the thought of anyone else succeeding in the quest. To this end, I will hide the letter of Contessina de' Medici. Only the most determined may discover the hidden truth. I have just sufficient humility to say that whosoever does succeed in discovering the nature of the Medici Secret is a truly great man. May he also be honest and wise. The second document was shorter. It read: Thursday, 28 February, The Year of Our Lord 1593, Venice. I am Albertus Jacobi. My master, the great scholar Giordano Bruno has been transported to Rome in chains and I fear that soon he will die. My master entrusted me with many documents and papers, including a manuscript of his latest work. Most valued however is a document he discovered some two decades ago, about the time I began my association with him. Only the great shall be able to see this thing, and only the great will unlock its secrets. The twins, the founding fathers. In the street where they dispose of men like me, Five windows over a balcony. The point that touches the sky; a hemisphere above, and a hemisphere below. Edie, Jeff and Rose stayed the night at Roberto's. Rose had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Jeff woke her gently and escorted her to a room prepared for her on the first floor. Vincent then led Jeff and Edie to their rooms along the corridor, a grand galleried area at the top of a broad flight of marble stairs. Roberto stayed in the library to see what he could unearth.
From the windows of her room Edie had a magnificent view along the Grand Canal, The water looked like treacle. On her left, the canal curved away to the south. A gondola lit up with lanterns slid silently into the shadows. A fog was descending on the scene. Soon, she thought, Venice would be enveloped in a damp shroud, contorting light and quickening sounds.
Edie found it hard to believe anyone still lived in such opulent style. The bed was a huge four-poster, with silk drapes. A log fire blazed in the grate, ancient rugs lay across the stone floor, each positioned with perfect carelessness. Glass globes hung from the walls casting a gentle light. The ceiling was high and covered in hand-wrought mouldings and coving.
She ran a hot bath and lay in the bubbles for a long time, soaking up the romance of it all. After she was dry she put on a silk nightdress and kimono that had been laid out for her on the bed. Sitting on the floor in front of the fire, she stared into the flames and let her mind drift. So much had happened to her during the past few days, and there had been so little time in which to assimilate it all.
Less than four days earlier she had been working in the crypt of the Medici Chapel conducting the kind of research she loved doing. Then, abruptly, everything had spun out of control. She was scared. They had almost been killed. And then there was the poor old man, Mario Sporani, and Antonio. And what did she make of Roberto? He was brilliant and handsome, rich and charming. Too good to be true, really. But he was also Jeffs friend; Jeff trusted him and Jeff was as close as a brother to her. Jumping up, she tightened the belt of the kimono and headed for the door.
Out on the landing, it was dark, but there was a faint glow coming from the library, and she could hear the strains of a piano sonata. Roberto was sitting at a leather-topped desk poring over a massive, ancient-looking book. Edie gave a small cough and he turned round.
'A night owl, like me?' His look of surprise quickly turned to a warm smile.
'Not usually,' she said. 'What are you reading?' She peered over his shoulder at a leather-bound tome, the pages covered in fine print in a strange font. The paper was dry and yellowed.
'Trying to work out what the hell Giordano Bruno was going on about. I could do with some help. Would you care to join me in a brandy?' 'Only if it's Paulet Lallique,' Edie smiled. Roberto's expression did not even flicker.
A few moments later, Vincent deposited two huge globes and a bottle of one of the most expensive cognacs in the world on the round table beside the desk.
'What's the book?' Edie asked, while Roberto poured.
'It's one of seven volumes, Records of the Venetian Inquisition Between 1500 and 1770. They've been in the family for a long time. I was just reading about Andrea di Ugoni, a writer friend of Titian's who was tried for heresy in 1565 and escaped punishment. Then there's the case of Casanova who was arrested almost two hundred years later and imprisoned for "contempt of religion". I thought we might find something to help explain what Bruno meant in his clue.'
'Bruno was put on trial by the Venetian Inquisition then?'
'His message must have been written immediately before he was arrested. Mocenigo certainly did betray him. He was snatched in the middle of the night from his room in the palazzo by hired thugs, and thrown in the Doge's prison.'
'I thought he was imprisoned in Rome. Isn't that where they executed him?'
'But he was first interrogated in Venice. The Venetian Inquisition was far more liberal than their Roman counterpart. The head of the Roman Inquisition, the Pope's right-hand man, was a radical cardinal named Robert Bellarmine, he had the nickname: Hammer of Heretics.'
'To the Hammer of Heretics.' Edie raised her glass, and took an appreciative sip of her brandy. It was deliciously smooth and warmed her whole being. 'So were the Venetians going to let Bruno off?' she asked.
'I don't know if they would have gone that far. They didn't like the Pope interfering in their more liberal society. In fact, the entire city was excommunicated several times over the centuries. The Venetian Inquisition were far more tolerant of occultists like Bruno. But unfortunately for him, the Doge bowed to pressure from the Pope, and after a few months in Venice, the authorities here extradited him to Rome where he was eventually burned at the stake.'
'So when Bruno says: "In the street where they dispose of men like me",' you think he's talking about the place where subversives were executed?'
Roberto flicked carefully through a few pages. 'Curiously, during the two centuries of the witch trials fewer than two hundred cases were brought before the Inquisition here and only nine people were prosecuted, none of them was executed. There were other sorts of subversives: spies, political activists, seditionists. From what I gather from this record, there were two places in Venice where executions of "undesirables" took place. Look.'
Edie leaned in and Roberto showed her a selection of reports. Between 1550 and 1750, six hundred and seven citizens labelled as 'dangerous' by the state police, the Council of Ten, were executed. They were hanged, away from public gaze, in one of two places: Calle della Morte, 'The Street of Death', or in Calle Santi. Edie shuddered involuntarily.
'You're cold,' Roberto said putting an arm around her shoulders. 'Come, let's sit nearer to the fire.'
They sat down facing each other cross-legged on an ancient Khotan rug. Through the broad leadlight window tendrils of fog were drifting on to the Grand Canal.
'I don't suppose anyone has ever told you that you have quite a place here,' Edie said.
Roberto laughed. 'It's all in the genes,' Roberto said. 'I gather your parents were archaeologists.' 'Good old Jeff,' replied Edie.
'I wouldn't take offence. He's a great admirer of yours.' 'So did he tell you they were killed on a dig, in Egypt? I was there.' 'I'm sorry.'
'It was a long time ago.' She took an appreciative sip of her brandy. 'He hasn't told me much about you. How did you and Jeff meet?'
'About five years ago, he was still at Cambridge. He had come over on his own for a couple of weeks to research a book. He knocked a drink out of my hand at The Cipriani.' Edie laughed.
'We started chatting, we got on, and well… And you?'
'At college. Jeff was a year ahead of me at King's and already quite a star. I was eighteen and totally in awe of him… I still am.' 'So, did you…?' Roberto asked after a moment.
Edie grinned. 'Jeff had a girlfriend when we met. By the time they broke up, I had a boyfriend. Then Jeff met Imogen and, I don't know, it never crosses my mind now. It would be like having a sexual relationship with your brother. Anyway, what about you, Roberto? You must have the ladies lining up.' He looked embarrassed.
'Wow!' Edie said. 'You're actually blushing! Well?' 'Well what?' 'The ladies.'
'I've been in love twice. Both times it ended in tears.' 'Such is life.'
Roberto caressed her cheek. Edie leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. Neither of them saw Rose in the doorway, watching them. But both of them heard the front door slam. The tall, black-haired man lit a cigarette with the faint red stub of the previous one, then flattened it on the marble floor, and peered into the binoculars he had mounted on a sturdy tripod.
The vista from the window was one of extraordinary beauty, views that could be seen across the globe on postcards, chocolate boxes and in the windows of travel agents, but he was not interested in these. He was focused on a building across the Grand Canal, a russet-coloured palazzo, the home of Roberto Armatovani. He had seen someone arrive by barge and offload groceries, a cable repairman had been and gone. And that was about it. Three hours had dragged past very slowly indeed. He was growing tired and increasingly frustrated. The day before he had almost got lucky on the launch, but in the end he had barely escaped with his own life. It had taught him a very important lesson. These people might seem like amateurs, but he could not afford to underestimate them.
Suddenly the front door of the palazzo flew open and the girl, Rose Martin, rushed out of the building. A moment later, Armantovani appeared. But in Venice a person can vanish in the blink of an eye. Roberto went back inside. However, the black-haired man had seen where the girl had gone and followed her with his binoculars. In a few moments she reached Ponte Dell' Accademia, and – he could hardly believe it – she was crossing the bridge to his side of the river. 'Rose must have seen us,' Edie said to Jeff. She flopped into a chair positioned under a gigantic gilded mirror and stared at the dark marble floor. 'We were kissing.' 'Brilliant.' Jeff's face was grim.
'I'll send out some people,' Roberto said. 'Vincent can help. Do you think she might have gone back to the apartment?'
'Christ knows. Call Maria, but I have to get out there.'
The night air was freezing. Jeff ran along the path beside the canal and then turned left into the maze of passageways clustered around San Samuele. The fog had become thick and heavy, blotting out everything more than a few metres in front of him. The torch Roberto had given him offered little help. Exiting from a passageway that opened out on to Campo Francesco Morosini, to his left, he knew, lay Campo Sant' Angelo. To the right was Ponte dell' Accademia. He stopped, took several deep breaths and tried not to let the sense of total panic overwhelm him. The black-haired man saw the girl turn away from the Grand Canal and take a left skirting the Gallerie. He had left his lookout point and was following her, keeping his distance, conscious of how every sound was magnified in the fog.
He saw her duck into an alley. She slowed for a minute, unsure of the way. Then she stopped to get her bearings. He slipped into a doorway as she swept her eyes across the campo and then he almost lost her in the gloom when she suddenly ran down a narrow passage. She was heading towards the tip of the Dorsoduro, a spit of land that curved round to almost meet up with the San Marco district where the most southerly part of the Grand Canal opened out into the Basino di San Marco.
The fog was thicker here and he almost lost her again as they emerged on to Dogana E La Salute, a broad path that ran along the southerly edge of Dorsoduro. To their left lay the workshops where gondolas were built. They were all shuttered now and the place was deserted.
To their right, water slapped against stone. A gutter running along the low roof of a workshop had snapped and water had frozen into a treacherous sheet of thin ice across the entire width of the path. The girl slowed and negotiated the obstacle, then sped off the other side disappearing around the bend at the very tip of the peninsula, at Dogana di Mare, the Old Customs House, a severe colonnaded building, topped by two huge Atlases each holding aloft a golden globe.
He crept along, watching her slow as she turned back around the other side of the building. She stopped suddenly and sat down on the edge of the path, wrapping her arms about herself, and peering out into the fog across the expanse of water towards San Marco. He was so close he could hear her sob. As he took a silent step forward he felt the familiar, delicious thrill of anticipation. Running past the amorphous Guggenheim Museum, Jeff weaved his way along the quickest route he could find, ignoring the ache in his chest. He was pretty sure now that he knew where Rose might be going. It was a place she had loved, a place they always returned to. To his left, Palazzo Dario tumbled into the fog, and he emerged on to Campo Salute, its northern edge providing one of the last sections of canal bank before the Grand Canal opened out into the Bacino. Another hundred yards and the steps of the Church of Santa Maria della Salute materialised out of the grey gloom. And then he was there. The billowing fog girdled the colonnades of the Old Customs House. And his heartbeat slowed as he saw Rose sitting crossed-legged staring out towards San Marco. 'Hey.'
She spun round, her eyes filled with terror. But seeing her father, her whole body relaxed.
Jeff sat down beside her. For a moment he couldn't talk, he was gasping for air. Then suddenly he felt Rose fling her arms around him and she buried her head against his chest and cried as though her heart would break.
'This isn't really about Edie, is it Rose?' Jeff said after a while. She pulled away so she could see her father's face.
'You're angry with Edie, but she's really a scapegoat' Rose shook her head. 'I don't…'
'You're setting Edie up as the baddie, but really you're just angry with your mother and me. You blame us for messing up your life, and you're right. People shouldn't have children if they're not mature enough to keep a marriage going. I'm sorry, darling, I've let you down terribly.' 'Oh, Daddy…' Rose started to cry again. For a second, Jeff looked away to the shrouded splendour. Venice lay there somewhere. It could be reached, just as the memories of what had once been could be reached, but only through a dense fog.
'Come on. Let's head back, yeah?' Jeff got to his feet. The black-haired man slipped the gun from the holster and moved away from the column. One step on to the quayside and he sensed rather than saw someone approach along the path. Spitting a curse, he slipped back silently as Jeff came into view. He watched him greet his daughter then settle down beside her.
The fury took him by surprise. He had been trained to kill without compunction and knew how to pull back with clinical detachment when the situation demanded it. Closing his eyes for a second, he took several deep breaths. His finger tightened on the trigger.
A hazy white beam of light probed through the murk as a police launch came into view. Diving behind a column, he watched in disbelief as it pulled up against the canal bank and two officers leapt on to the quay. Roberto was waiting on the steps of his palazzo. Jeff carried Rose, wrapped in a blanket and took her straight to her room. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. Downstairs, he accepted gratefully a large balloon of cognac from his host. 'Jeff, I'm really sorry…' Edie said. He lifted a hand to stop her. 'There's nothing to be sorry about. I think we're all right,' he said. 'God, I'm glad I'll never be fourteen again.' 'Ditto.'
'Changing the subject,' Roberto said. 'Edie and I made something of a breakthrough.'
'That's what they call it these days is it?' Jeff asked.
Roberto ignored the joke and turned to the page from Records of the Venetian Inquisition Between 1500 and 1770. 'I'm glad Rose is safe,' he said. 'She could not be dearer to me. But we three still have work to do. And I feel time is running out.' 'OK, Roberto. I'm listening.'
'There were two main sites for executions,' Roberto explained. 'Calle Santi, which is not far from here, close to the Accademia, and Calle della Morte, the Street of Death, which is to the east of the Ducal Palace, just off Campo de la Bragora.'
'Can I interrupt?' Jeff said. 'When I was searching for Rose, the only thing in my conscious mind was finding her. But I remember catching a glimpse of the top of the Old Customs House breaking through the fog – two figures of Atlas holding a golden globe.' 'What's that got to do with anything?' Edie asked.
'Some people say the figures of Atlas are twins. The line in the Bruno verse. "The twins, the founding fathers"… it must mean Castor and Pollux, the twins from Greek mythology, offspring of Leda and the god, Jupiter.'
'Why? What's that got to do with Venice for God's sake?' Edie sounded exasperated.
'Quite a lot. The earliest settlers in the lagoon were refugees from Rome, who were fleeing the invading Barbarians. They brought with them many archaic Roman religious rituals, including the traditional worship of Jupiter and his offspring, Castor and Pollux. There was a cult of the twins centred on a pair of islands that saw some of the earliest settlements here in the fourth or fifth century. There are images of twins all over the city, including the twinned Atlases.'
'So you think the verse refers to Calle Santi? It's a stone's throw from the Old Customs House.' Roberto said.
'No, I don't. I think it's the other place, Calle della Morte. It all came back to me in the launch. I visited a church in the area years ago. It's called San Giovanni and it's located on the Campo de la Bragora; and "Bragora" derives from the word "b'ragal" which means "two men".'
'That's brilliant.' Roberto shook his head. 'Or completely crazy!' Jeff was on to his second coffee when Edie walked into the breakfast room. ' Sleep well?' she asked. 'Surprisingly. You?' She stifled a yawn. 'Hardly a wink.'
'Here, this will perk you up.' He poured her a cup of strong coffee. 'Listen Edie,' Jeff began and stopped as Roberto was preceded into the room by Vincent who was carrying a tray holding two tall silver jugs and a cup and saucer.
'I was about to say to Edie,' Jeff said. 'After last night* I think I should stay with Rose today.' 'Of course.' 'I disagree,' Edie said. 'I think you two should follow up the clue and I should stay with Rose.' 'But 'No buts, Jeff. I've already spoken to her.' 'You have?'
'Don't look so surprised. She and I were friends once, remember. I'd like to get things back on an even keel.'
Jeff raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Tine with me.' The temperature had plummeted overnight and the campo was cold and deserted. A few straggly trees lined one side of the square and the odd pigeon, far from the hungry flock in San Marco, waddled over the uneven paving stones. Jeff and Roberto stood in the centre of the campo wrapped up in thick winter coats and scarves.
'Although this was indeed a site for executions, there is a lighter side to its history,' Roberto said. 'Vivaldi was baptised in the church over there, the church of San Giovanni.' He pointed to a fagade that had clearly evolved through a succession of muddled renovations and extensions. 'And there,' he went on, 'is the most interesting building in the campo, the Palazzo Gritti Badoer; or as we know it now, Hotel LaResidenza.'
'Which has five windows over a balcony,' Jeff observed and repeated the second part of Bruno's clue: ' "Five windows over a balcony. The point that touches the sky; a hemisphere above, and a hemisphere below." And this was here in the 1590s?'
'Most definitely. It's fourteenth century. You can tell by the shape of the windows and the design of the loggia. So your idea wasn't crazy after all.'
Jeff was looking up to the roof. 'Never doubted it for a second. But there's no "point that touches the sky" though, is there?' 'Unfortunately not,' Roberto replied.
They walked across the campo towards the palazzo. On the wall of a narrow passageway they could see a sign that read Calle della Morte.
The entrance to the hotel led directly into a vast echoing hall. There was a large reception area to the left, with heavy plasterwork around the tops of the walls; seventeenth-century paintings, all brooding dark colours and ravaged figures; clusters of antique chairs and tables. At the far end of the room stood a group of workmen arranging lights and hanging decorations. One of the men was perched precariously on a wooden stepladder. He was reaching up to the high ceiling attempting to attach a string of small white lights.
A middle-aged man in a dark green concierge's uniform appeared. He had dyed, jet black hair and was wearing pince-nez. 'May I help you?' he asked.
'Good morning,' Jeff said. 'You're hosting a function?'
'Indeed we are, sir. Tonight in fact. May I assist…?'
'We were just passing. My friend, Roberto Armatovani here, remarked how lovely the fagade of the building is and that he had never been inside.'
'Signor Armatovani?' The concierge's back straightened. 'Of course. My apologies for the mess, the decorations should have been up hours ago. May I offer you both coffee?'
'That's kind, but no thank you,' Roberto responded. 'May I ask the nature of the function?'
'Certainly, signor. It's a gala carnival evening organised by the Vivaldi Society. It's a private function, but I'm sure I could have a word with the president.' 'That's very kind of you, er…?' 'Gianfrancesco… Francesco.'
'Francesco… I know the president, Giovanni Tafani, well. I'll get one of my people to call him.'
The concierge gave a slight bow and they turned to leave.
Outside, they stood together looking up at the beautiful rococo stucco over the main entrance.
'You really do know everyone in Venice, don't you?' Jeff exclaimed. 'Don't knock it, it comes in very handy.' 'So what now?' 'Well, we obviously have to get up on to the roof somehow and I'm rather hoping the charming president of the Vivaldi Society will assist us.' ? When Jeff, Edie and Roberto arrived at the Palazzo Gritti Badoer, it was already bubbling with masked party-goers in their finery. A string ensemble was partway through a robust performance of Schubert's String Quartet No. 9 and liveried waiters glided around the room with trays of champagne.
Jeff had been concerned about leaving Rose behind, but she had promised not to step outside the palazzo under any circumstances. And Roberto had convinced him that Vincent would be no slouch as a bodyguard.
Roberto wore a classic Savile Row dress suit which he had inherited from his father. His mask was that of an eagle with black feathers and a short beak. Jeff, who was taller and broader, had hired a more modern tux from Roberto's regular tailor on Via XXII Marzo, and had chosen a plain, elegant silver mask. With Rose's help, Edie had tried on at least a dozen gowns in some of Venice's most exclusive shops before settling on a dark green silk sheath and an ornate gold mask.
An usher met them, asked their names and immediately led them to the host of the evening who was standing with a small group close to the musicians. Giovanni Tafani was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties wearing a tiny gold mask that did little to conceal his features. He took Roberto's hand. 'I'm so glad you could make it, maestro,' he said.
'These are my friends, Jeff Martin, an eminent historian from England, and Edie Granger, a palaeopathologist of great repute.'
Tafani gave Jeff a slight bow, then took Edie's hand, brushing the back of it with his lips. 1Enchanted Straightening, he added, 'Now, I must introduce you to some of my associates.'
It was almost an hour before Jeff and Edie found the opportunity to slip away, leaving Roberto to hold the fort as planned. After they had left the reception area, a short passageway led to a courtyard. Beyond that was a large, empty dining room cast in darkness. They skirted the edge of the room emerging unnoticed into a hallway. Ahead stood a flight of stairs.
Edie led the way but was struggling in her tight-fitting gown. 'Damn it,' she said after a moment. Slipping off her shoes she hitched the dress up around her hips. 'I say!' Jeff mocked. 'Eye on the ball, Jeff; eye on the ball.'
They reached the top floor without encountering another soul. It was oddly quiet. The noise of the party had drifted away. At the top of the stairs was a corridor with three doors on each side, presumably leading to bedrooms. They could see an emergency exit at the end.
The door was unlocked and opened on to a plain grey stairwell. A metal handrail spiralled down four floors to the basement. The faint echo of voices and the clang of metal told them they were almost directly above the kitchens. Looking up, the stairs took a final half turn to a door which opened on to the roof.
The cold hit them immediately. Jeff took off his jacket and put it around Edie's shoulders.
'We didn't plan this very well, did we?' she said as they picked their way along a narrow walkway between two elevations. Ahead, the path opened on to a square about ten metres on each side. In the centre stood an ancient weather vane.
It was about five metres high, bronze and discoloured with age. A central pole supported the vane itself, an arrow mounted on a disc. Halfway up the pole there was a metal hemisphere about the size of a large wok. Jeff stood on tiptoe to study the hemisphere. It too had tarnished and was covered in green oxide and streaks of black.
He walked slowly around the vane. On the far side he noticed a mark in the metal. 'There're some letters on the hemisphere,' he said, and with a tissue from his pocket he tried to clean away some of the stains, but they were deeply encrusted. Gingerly, he levered himself up on one of the supports at the base of the vane to get a closer look. 'Anything?' Edie asked.
'I can make out a large "V", a gap, another small "v" and then… no. Hang on.' He tried scratching the surface with a nail. 'A letter "i".' 'Vivaldi,' Edie intoned as Jeff stepped back down.
'Makes sense. This was the man's manor after all. But why?'
Edie shrugged. 'And there's only one hemisphere. If this is the one above, where's the one below?'
The moon appeared as a slither in the northern sky partially obscured by stringy clouds.
'Unless,' Jeff said suddenly and pushed himself up.'That has to be it'
'What?' Edie asked, but Jeff was already heading back to the door. 'Where are you…?' 'Follow me.'
He held the door open for Edie. 'This leads straight down to the basement,' Jeff said. 'I think we should check it out.'
As they approached the ground floor the sounds of the kitchen grew louder. Someone was calling out orders for the guests at the reception. Stealthily, they slipped down the final flight of stairs that led to a series of dark storerooms. To one side, double doors opened on to a broad passageway leading to a wooden jetty used for unloading supplies to the hotel
Jeff quickly pushed Edie into a recess as one of the kitchen staff carrying a whole cheese appeared at the door to one of the larger storerooms.
'There must be another hemisphere down here somewhere,' he said, when the man had gone.
'If there is, it'll be directly below the weather vane. Where would that be?'
Jeff gazed along the passageway towards the doors leading out to the jetty, then back the other way. 'Down there, to the right.'
The last door directly off the passageway was unlocked. They eased it open and Edie found an old, chunky bakelite light switch. It was a large room, damp and malodorous. On the far wall a narrow, grimy window at head-height looked out on to a damp, mossy wall. Light filtered in from the campo above. On the left, rows of metal shelving held a collection of cases and crates. To the right were towers of boxes each with the image of a large toilet roll and bearing the brand name 'Dolce Vita' written in red, white and green.
Edie sat down on a pile of crates, hands on her knees, and surveyed the room. Jeff sighed. 'It must be here somewhere.' He grabbed a couple of boxes lying near the back window. Dumping them in the centre of the dirty concrete floor, he climbed up to reach a large, rectangular plastic cover in the ceiling. Holding two sides of the cover, he passed it down to Edie who tossed it on to one of the metal shelves. In the ceiling to one side of the light fixture protruding from the plaster, was the bottom section of a metal hemisphere. 'Hallelujah!'Jeff cried.
It was tarnished, but much cleaner than its twin that was exposed to the elements on the roof. Etched into the surface of the metal were two Roman numerals, IV and V. Just discernible below this there was a line of musical notation, a series of notes on a finely etched stave. And, at the bottom, a single word: SUNSET.
Footsteps echoed in the passageway. Jeff pulled a pen from his pocket and copied out the inscription on the palm of his hand, taking care to include all the musical directions. 7 'Quickly,' Edie hissed, grabbing his sleeve.
The door swung open shielding Jeff and Edie from view, and two men stepped into the room. The old door had a long, thin crack running from the top to a crosspiece at hip height, through which, Edie and Jeff could just see. One of the two men was a waiter, the other an older man in dirty, blue workman's overalls. The waiter was unhappy about something. He paced to the centre of the room and growled a barely audible instruction, then strode out.
The workman swore under his breath as he prised open a plastic container. Fumbling inside, he pulled out a sink plunger, and headed for the door.
'Did you get everything written on the hemisphere?' Edie asked after a moment or two. 'Yes, but it doesn't make any sense.'
'We'd better go back in separately,' Edie said when they had made their way back to the reception area. The sound of laughter bubbled up over the chamber music. Jeff looked at his palm. Beside him was an occasional table with some hotel stationery placed neatly in a leather presentation box. He snatched a sheet of headed paper from the box and quickly copied out what was written on his hand, folded the paper and shoved it into his breast pocket. A few moments later, he was squeezing through the throng looking for Roberto and Edie.
They made it outside as soon as they could without drawing attention to themselves. Roberto sent a short text message to his new driver, Antonio's replacement, and they headed towards a prearranged meeting point. It was very still. Hardly a sound broke the cold night. 'Success?' Roberto's breath was white and warm in the freezing air. 'Maybe,' said Jeff.
There was a sudden shuffling sound behind them. Spinning round, they caught sight of a figure darting into a doorway about ten yards away. Without a word, the three of them started to run.
A dark, covered passageway lay directly ahead. Jeff led the way. At the end they came to a T-junction. High up on the wall was a yellow sign, an arrow pointing west with'S. Marco' written beneath it. The plan was to meet the launch on a narrow waterway called Rio San Martin.
Edie glanced back as they turned right. There was a dark shape, a man, his cloak flapping behind him. He was wearing a black mask that covered most of his face. Long black feathers swept back at the ears. He had a gun in his hand.
The three of them entered a small cobbled square. A single bedraggled tree stood in a small plot at its centre. Edie fell behind for a second as she kicked off her shoes and hitched up her dress. The gunman arrived at the entrance to the campo just as she caught up with Jeff and Roberto on the far side. He raised his gun and fired.
The shot was muffled by a silencer. The bullet smashed into the wall a few centimetres above Roberto's head. It ricocheted along the passageway taking chunks of plaster with it. 'Come on… Not far now!' Roberto shouted.
The gunman fired off another a shot. A chunk of plaster hit Edie in the arm and she screamed but kept running, her head down. As they reached the path adjacent to the canal, another bullet whistled past Jeffs ear.
About a hundred yards ahead, a barge was travelling north. On the other side of the canal a small rowboat was heading towards a tributary; the oarsman had his back to them.
They sped along the path towards Ponte Arco where they were supposed to meet the launch. The gunman was gaining on them. There was another muffled shot, and Roberto lurched forward as though he had tripped on a cobblestone. Blood jetted from his left arm. A second shot spun him round. He crumpled in midair and tumbled into the canal.
'No!' Edie screamed, and faltered. But Jeff grabbed her and pushed her on. There was no time to think. He was acting on impulse, animal fear forcing him on.
They turned left, then left again… straight into a dead end.
Jeff tried to shield Edie behind him as the gunman slowed to a leisurely walk. He was tall and well built. Even though he was in costume, there was no mistaking who he was. It was the same man who had killed Antonio and held them at gunpoint on the launch. He stopped and raised his gun to eye level, holding it steady with both hands.
'Give me the clue, now, or I'll shoot you. Give me the clue and I may shoot you anyway.' Jeff reached into his pocket, stalling for time. 'Slowly.'
Jeff was about to bring out a piece of paper when he saw a tiny glint of light in the darkness of the alleyway, and then a black object appeared above the gunman's head. With a groan, he crumpled to the stones, his weapon clattering away from his outstretched hand.
A short, heavyset figure in a ripped overcoat and old boots tied with string knelt down to see what damage he had done. 'Dino,' Jeff said, in total disbelief.