City of Masks Page 13

  We looked for the monkey until the bells of St. Bride’s pealed their curfew, and we were forced to return to our inn. The next morning, I had an early meeting with the wool merchant, so I told my servants to renew their search. I even sanctioned a reward for the return of the creature. In truth, I felt as guilty as it is possible to feel. My foolishness in placing the monkey upon the windowsill had caused it to run away. It was my fault, and it could not survive long in the streets of London. It would either be set upon by dogs, starve in some corner, or be captured by a pack of mindless apprentices and teased to death. Its fate lay heavy on my conscience.

  Nothing was found from our searches. No traces of the monkey, so I delayed my departure for one more night. Already the story of the escaping beast was making me something of a laughingstock. The next day, we packed our bags, mounted our palfreys, and departed for Somershill. As my small party progressed along West Cheap, I decided to call again at the shop in the dark alley. I would eat my pride, and buy one, or even both, of the Barbary apes as the gift. But, as I turned the corner of the alley, past the mule and the mound of cabbage leaves, I saw it again. Its back hunched. Its fur matted. Its eyes cast to the floor.

  I burst through the door of the shop, causing the shopkeeper to jump. “Where did you find the monkey?” I demanded to know. The two Barbary apes shrieked and danced upon their perch, excited by my dramatic entrance.

  The man took a deep breath. “It came back here, my lord. Of its own accord.” He clasped his hands together. “I found it in the cage this morning.” He looked genuinely ashamed. “I thought about sending a message to your inn. But I thought you had abandoned the creature.”

  “That’s nonsense. Why would I do such a thing?”

  “I told you before, my lord. The monkey causes melancholia. People cannot stand its company for long.” He cleared his throat. “To be honest, it has the same effect on me. That’s why I keep it outside the shop.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “No animal would willingly return to such a foul coop. I think you caught it and had no intention of letting me know.”

  The shopkeeper was reddening, and his fists were tightening. “I did no such thing, my lord! It returned of its own volition.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Go outside then,” he said. “Go on. Look at the cage yourself. You will see that the door is unlocked. The creature can leave at any time, but it chooses not to.”

  I strode out of the shop, but knew already that he was telling the truth. The cage was, indeed, unlocked. The creature could leave, but didn’t. The monkey recognized me, but I did not receive the warm welcome I had envisaged. It flung its hands over its head and cringed in the farthest corner of the cage. It truly was the most dismal, melancholic, and pitiful of sights, and, for a moment, a great weight of despair bore down upon me.

  The shopkeeper was at my shoulder. His indignation was gone, replaced by a little of the resignation I felt myself. “You mustn’t blame yourself, my lord. You tried to save it.”

  My chest tightened. “What’s the matter with it? What have you done to it?”

  He puffed his lips. “Please don’t blame me, my lord. It was just as morose when I bought it five years ago.”

  “Have you tried to restore its spirits?”

  “Of course I have.” He threw up his hands. “A monkey like this would sell for a very good sum indeed, if it were in better humors.” He then heaved another of his long sighs. “But it will always be like this, no matter what we do. It cannot be cured.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “No. I’m afraid you’re wrong, my lord. I’ve tried and tried, but it never responds.” He paused. “So, do you know what I think?”

  “No.”

  “I think it prefers to be miserable.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “Being miserable is all that it knows.”

  I left London that same day, but for many nights after my return to Somershill, the monkey haunted my dreams. At first I felt all of the pity and compassion that I had experienced when first seeing the creature—alongside a certain amount of guilt that I had not tried again to save it. However, as the monkey continued to interrupt my sleep, turning up each night with a depressing and irksome monotony, I began to dread going to bed. I had only to close my eyes to see its matted fur, its hunched back, and its creeping, skulking gait as it moved across the room with its hands dragging on the floor. I could see its small, leathery face, and its dark, reproachful eyes, and I could feel all of its seething hopelessness and despair. I tried to retain my pity and compassion for the creature. I didn’t want to believe the shopkeeper’s assertion that it preferred to be miserable, but soon even the thought of the monkey made me feel sick. My sympathy had turned to dread, and then, in turn, my dread had turned to disgust.

  Chapter Eleven

  I might have convinced Giovanni that I didn’t believe in demonites, but I still had a hard job to persuade the man to leave my bedchamber. After promising, for at least the fifth time, that I was perfectly sanguine and had no intention of climbing back onto the windowsill, he departed—but not before promising to make visits at frequent intervals in order to check upon my well-being. When I could be sure that he had finally descended the stairs and was not likely to make a sudden reappearance, I decided to change my clothes and wash my face. The whole episode had exhausted me, though exhaustion was preferable to the agitated madness that had gripped me earlier.

  It was as I untied my belt and my purse fell to the floor with a heavy thud, that I was suddenly reminded of the coins within. I picked the purse up cautiously and then opened the strings a little, but only enough to see that the coins were still there, settled together like a clutch of golden eggs in a nest. Seeing their glinting perfection did not cause any excitement this time; instead I was struck by a short rush of guilt, so I quickly retied the strings and then hid the purse in the bottom of my oak chest—placing it first inside one of my old socks, and then adding a second, before making sure to turn the key. I had no energy left to consider what I would do with them, other than to know that they were safe inside my locked chest.

  After this I lay upon my bed and must have drifted off into some much-needed sleep until being woken by a commotion from outside. This was more than the shouting and cheering of a carnival, so I quickly went down the stairs to the piano nobile, bumping into Bernard as he flew across the room with a bowl of water in his hands, and some lengths of linen draped over his sleeve.

  “What’s happening?” I said. “I can hear crowds outside.”

  Bernard was panting and took a moment to compose himself. “There is peace with Hungary, my lord! Venice has signed the treaty.”

  “Has Venice surrendered her Dalmatian ports to Hungary?”

  Bernard continued to puff. “Yes. I believe they are lost. But at least the ships can leave now.” So, this explained why we had seen a merchant galley in the lagoon earlier that day. It must have been sailing for the Adriatic the moment that peace was announced.

  “How has this been received?” I asked, but my question appeared to confuse Bernard. “Are the Venetians happy with the treaty?” I asked. When he continued to frown, I said. “I could hear a commotion outside. Is there some trouble in the city?”

  Bernard gulped, as if my three questions had arrived in his head in a single delivery. “No, no, my lord. The Venetians are relieved, I believe. They can trade again, and there will be food for the poorest.” He let out a long and expressive sigh. “It is mine and Margery’s deepest wish that the suffering of the poor should be alleviated.”

  I had yet to see evidence of this allegiance to the poor, as Bernard and his sister seemed more interested in visiting shrines and buying indulgences—while the destitute of Venice had to make do with their prayers. “Are you unwell?” I asked, pointing at the bowl of water and the lengths of clean linen.

  “Oh no, my lord,” said Bernard quickly. “There’
s nothing wrong with me.”

  I pulled at one of the linen strips and gave a short laugh. “Are you helping to deliver a child?”

  Now Bernard’s brow puckered again with confusion. “A child, my lord? Goodness me. I . . . um—”

  “I’m just teasing you,” I said.

  His face relaxed into an awkward smile. “Ah! I see.” He moved back almost imperceptibly—just far enough that my hand could no longer touch his arm. “Then, let me bid you good day.” He bowed quickly to me and then retreated toward his own bedchamber, continuing to bob his head until he assumed that I was no longer watching him. When he reached the center of the room, he broke into a run toward the door of the bedchamber that he shared with his sister.

  “Oh Bernard,” I said, deciding to give chase, as there was something questionable, even suspicious, about his behavior.

  As I reached him, he quickly stood in front of the door to block my entry. “Please, Lord Somershill,” he whispered. “I can’t stop. I must see to my sister.”

  “What’s going on, Bernard?” I asked, trying to look over his shoulder.

  He wiped some perspiration from his brow. “Please, my lord. Don’t ask me to explain.”

  I pushed the man aside and opened the door, to find Margery lying in near darkness. At my entrance, she hurriedly pulled her blanket to her chin, but even so, I could still see that her face was wounded and bloody.

  Now Bernard behaved with some aggression. “Please Lord Somershill. You must respect Margery’s modesty. You are a man, and this is her private chamber, so I must demand that you leave!”

  I stood my ground. “What has happened to your sister, Bernard?” The man remained stubbornly mute. “I’m not going to leave this room until you tell me.”

  He heaved a long sigh, and then dropped the linen to the bed. “She was set upon by two men. They threw her to the ground and beat her.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “We were in an alley, making our way home from mass at the church of San Giacomo di Rialto.”

  “Why didn’t you walk along the Merceria?”

  “Margery is afraid of the crowds, my lord.”

  “So you walked down a dark alley?” I looked at him reproachfully. “You know how dangerous that is.”

  He wrung his hands. “I know, my lord. I know. But Margery has a dread of being crushed. Cities do not suit her constitution.”

  “Then I might ask why you chose to visit the largest city in Europe.” He looked at me blankly. “Did you see your attackers?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “Dark?”

  He nodded. “Yes.” Then he fixed me with a sudden gaze, losing all former meekness. “We were followed, Lord Somershill.”

  “Followed? From where?”

  He looked about the room. “This house,” he whispered, drawing closer to me. “Somebody is trying to murder us all, my lord. Every single one of us in Ca’ Bearpark. First it was Enrico. Then it was to be my sister. If I hadn’t roused some passersby, then poor Margery would be dead.”

  “Are you sure it was not just a robbery?” I said, causing Bernard to squint a little, as if unable to understand my train of thought. “Did they steal anything from Margery?” I asked more plainly.

  “Well yes,” he admitted. “Her purse was stolen. But even so—”

  “Then I think their motive was theft, not murder.” Before Bernard could argue with me, I tried to walk around him and approach the bed. “I need to see Margery’s injuries,” I said.

  Bernard stepped in front of me with deftness, and nearly had the gall to push me away. “I’m afraid I cannot allow that, my lord.”

  I cleared my throat and straightened my cloak. “I was trained under the infirmarer in a monastery, Bernard. I know how to wash wounds.”

  “But Margery is the most pious of women,” he said. “She would not want be touched by any man but her brother. It would only add to her misery.”

  I looked over Bernard’s shoulder to see that Margery had covered her head with the blanket, and was now curled up into a ball on the bed. “Very well then.” I sighed. “I wouldn’t want to cause your sister any farther distress, Bernard. Though it’s important that the injuries are properly cleaned.”

  He bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord. I will make sure of it.”

  “Do you have some salt?” I asked, as he directed me toward the door. “It will help to clear any corruption.”

  “I do.”

  “If her wounds become infected, then you should apply some lard to draw the pus.”

  “I will,” he promised, nodding his head profusely. “I am most honored at your concern for Margery,” he said. Then, as he opened the door, he whispered, “But will you find the murderer, my lord? Poor Margery is so nervous.”

  I tried to give a confident smile. “Of course I will.”

  There was a meal in celebration of the peace that evening, though it was hardly a festive affair, given the attack on Margery and the state of Bearpark’s health. It was far too early for any imported food to have reached the markets, so the meal itself did nothing to lift our spirits, as the cook served a heavily spiced stew of fish from the lagoon. The heads of these silver fish bobbed about as if they were coming up for air, and the empty shells of the clams floated about the water like butterflies. Looking at this stew, I thanked the Fates that I had lost my appetite.

  Mother complained about the seasoning and smell of the dish. Filomena once again seemed too uncomfortable to sit in one position for long, and soon took her leave of the table to sit upon a more padded chair in the corner. When Mother gave her usual refrain that Filomena should be confined to her bedchamber in readiness for childbirth, Filomena pretended not to understand a word that Mother had said. I caught Filomena’s eye, and a spark of understanding, even amusement, passed between us.

  This thrill did not last for long, however, as Giovanni joined us toward the end of the meal with news that John Bearpark’s condition continued to deteriorate. The old man was now refusing food, and had spent most of the day sleeping. There were now only two desires that were keeping him alive—to see his new son born, and to see his grandson’s murderer brought to justice. For the second time that evening I shared a secret glance with Filomena, but this time it did not induce a surge of amusement. Instead we shared an unease, for the weight of expectation lay heavily upon both our shoulders.

  Before I slept that night, I tried to write down my findings in my small notebook. The candlelight spread its orange glow across the parchment and picked up the indentation of the writing that had previously covered the page. For a while, I found myself trying to decipher what these old words said—but this was not the mystery I needed to solve. I washed my face in the basin, noting that the water had not been changed since the morning, and then I forced myself to concentrate my thoughts upon Enrico’s murder. My efforts only resulted in two words. Two words that I circled three times—Adolpho Bredani.

  Chapter Twelve

  I rose at first light and sought out Giovanni, giving him instructions to assemble as many men as could be spared from among the servants, and then to meet me in the kitchen. When I joined him shortly after, I was disappointed to find that Giovanni had managed to muster only three men—a trio who could hardly be described as the most able from the household. One stooped like an aged hunchback, one squinted as if he could barely see, and the last one held his head at an angle, as if he were trying to rid his ear of water.

  “Is there nobody else?” I asked Giovanni, in English.

  “My master is near death, Oswald. No other servants can be spared.”

  “I need you to find me some more men. Three will not be enough.”

  Giovanni bowed his head, before giving me a sidelong glance. “There is nobody to spare.” He reddened. “With my master ill, the servants are already moving to new houses. Or even the palaces along the Canal Grande.”

 
; It was an undeniable truth that the household of Ca’ Bearpark was shrinking. I had noticed that there were fewer and fewer servants about the place, and I had even been obliged to air and then straighten my own bed the previous day.

  “Very well,” I said, with something of a sigh. “They will have to do. Please tell them that I need them to look for Adolpho Bredani.”

  A look of surprise, or possibly disbelief, crossed Giovanni’s face. “You want these men to search for Bredani?”

  “Yes. That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Giovanni attempted to answer, but I spoke over him. “It’s not a difficult task,” I said. “Please ask them to visit the taverns and inns of the city, or anywhere else where Bredani might be hiding.” Giovanni tried, once again, to interrupt, so I spoke even more loudly. “If they see Bredani, they must not approach him. Do you understand? I simply want to know where the man is.”

  Giovanni remained silent for a few moments, toying with the keys at his belt. “Is this wise, Oswald?” he said, after a long pause. “I think we should follow my master’s instructions today and search for Enrico’s . . . friends.” This word dropped from his lips as if it pained him.

  “Adolpho is still my main suspect,” I said. “I’ve told you that before.”