City of Masks Page 8

  “I was so sorry to hear of young Master Bearpark’s death,” he said, as he strained to look over my shoulder. “Is that his body?”

  “It is.”

  “May I see it?” he asked. When I hesitated at this request, he added, “I came to pray for his soul and to pin our most precious pilgrim’s badge to his chest.” Bernard waved a small pewter circle under my nose—a badge that carried the image of two bent-backed pilgrims leaning against their staffs as they trudged toward a distant shrine. “I chose this one, as I imagined that it looks a little like Margery and myself,” he said, before looking back over his shoulder. “Margery will be here soon. She’s bringing her miraculous water of Saint Thomas to douse upon Enrico’s face.”

  “Enrico is beyond a miracle,” I said tersely. “Unless this water has the powers of resurrection?”

  Bernard smiled in some confusion at my answer. “But Margery purchased this water in Canterbury, my lord. It contains a drop of blood from poor Saint Thomas’s wound.” He sighed. “Such an appalling crime. To be murdered in the house of God.”

  “I’ll leave you to your prayers,” I said, feeling irritated that Bernard was lamenting the murder of Thomas Becket nearly two centuries previously, when a young man lay dead in front of him in the present day.

  At my attempt to depart, Bernard’s face suddenly stiffened, and his eyes focused. “I understand that you’re investigating the murder, Lord Somershill?”

  “That’s correct,” I said, a little surprised that this information had already reached Bernard’s ears.

  “Have you discovered the identity of the murderer yet?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, almost wanting to laugh. “I’ve only just begun the investigation.”

  “Of course not. How foolish of me to ask.” He looked to the ceiling and began to bite his fingernails. “I’m just so concerned for my sister’s safety, Lord Somershill. As you must be for your own mother’s. To think that there might be a murderer in our midst.”

  “You need not worry. I’m sure that nobody else in the household is in danger.”

  He frowned. “I do hope so, my lord.” He then held his pilgrim’s badge aloft. “May I?”

  I decided to wait as Bernard lifted the silk from Enrico’s face and studied my friend’s mutilated features at length before placing his badge gently upon his chest. “When did you last see Enrico?” I asked, remembering that I had not yet interviewed Bernard.

  “Now let me see,” he said, scratching his head. “It must have been a day or so before Giovedì Grasso.” He smiled absentmindedly. “My sister and I kept very different hours to young Master Bearpark, my lord. Our paths rarely crossed.”

  “What time did you return with my mother from the carnival?”

  Once again he scratched his head, more vigorously this time, as if friction would spark a memory. “It was later than I would have liked, but there was so much that your mother wanted to see. Poor Margery was exhausted and could barely lift her feet up the stairs.”

  “What time, Bernard?”

  He stared at the ceiling pensively. “I believe it was after supper and before the bells struck for Compline, but perhaps you should ask your mother?” He gave a defeated sigh. “She was a good deal more lively than we, after a day at the carnival.”

  I smiled at this thought, for my mother was years older than these two. “Did you hear anything upon your return? Any disturbances in the house?”

  “Indeed not,” said Bernard. “Ca’ Bearpark was a peaceful sanctuary after all the commotion of the carnival. Margery and I went straight to our beds and didn’t hear a thing.”

  This was a fruitless conversation, so I bade Bernard good day and turned to leave—but as I walked into the passageway an unexpected draft of air tickled my skin and caused me to stop. Holding my hand aloft to trace its source, I found that it was seeping from the edges of a thick rug that was hung upon the wall to my side. I patted this rug, expecting to feel a hard surface beneath its woollen weave, but instead it gave way, and I realized that the rug was covering a void. I pulled back one of the edges and held my lantern aloft to see a short, dark passageway before me that ended in a door. A dank and fetid smell filled the air and explained why this passageway had been screened.

  I was curious, so I stepped through, making my way toward the small door at the other end, soon discovering that I was standing in a shallow puddle. I cursed out loud and was about to retrace my steps, but the door at the end of the passage had intrigued me. It was reduced in scale, as if it had been designed for a child. I looked for a latch, but found only the nails of an escutcheon plate and a large keyhole, into which I was able to squeeze my little finger. A push at the door only confirmed that it was locked. And then, somewhere in the distance, somewhere far behind this door, I heard a noise. It was a prolonged creak, like furniture being scraped across a wooden floor, followed by a slam. I pressed my ear to the surface, and tried to listen for more. Could I hear voices? The sounds were muted and warped, like listening to a conversation from behind a pillow. Was somebody locked in the chamber beyond? Or did these noises originate from upstairs in Ca’ Bearpark? I strained to hear more, but nothing came to me, only the thud of my heart drumming in my ears.

  It was time to leave, but as I turned, I came face-to-face with a pair of eyes that peered sharply at me through the darkness. I nearly yelled out, thinking that my shadow had tricked me at last—but these were human eyes.

  “Giovanni?” I said.

  He held up a candle to his face. “Lord Somershill?” He looked at me with a disapproving stare. “You mustn’t come down here. The air is foulish.” He faked a cough, in order to emphasize his point.

  “I was interested in this door,” I said, ignoring his linguistic error. “Do you have the key?”

  He shook his head. “No. And my master says you must come.”

  His brusqueness annoyed me. “Is that so?” I said, holding my lantern to the small door and surveying its construction with greater scrutiny. The door was made of oiled oak, and it fitted tightly into its frame, with no gaps about the rails.

  “Do you know what’s behind here?” I thumped the door, making a hollow thud.

  Giovanni frowned. “It’s a cesspit, my lord.” He then pointed to his feet. “See. The water sometimes creeps through into this passage. That’s why we don’t come here.” He turned to leave, as if expecting me to join him, but I wasn’t yet finished with this conversation.

  “You definitely don’t have the key?” I said, refusing to move.

  “Please. You must come. My—”

  “But you have the keys to every other room in the house?”

  “Yes. I have every key.” He then jangled the ring. “But this room belongs to the house next door. It is not the pit for Ca’ Bearpark.”

  “So why is there a door on this side?”

  Giovanni shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was once part of this house?”

  “So, you’ve never been in there?”

  Giovanni was becoming increasingly frustrated. “Why would I go in there, my lord? It’s a cesspit that fills with filth, until the high tides flood the chamber and take everything away.” He shuddered, as if imagining the contents of the room. “Now please. You must come to my master’s chamber.”

  I folded my arms. “Oh yes? And why is that?”

  Giovanni took a deep breath. “My master has a . . .” He put his fingers to his lips, as if this might help him to find the correct word. “An attack in his body. A compulsion.”

  “Do you mean a convulsion?”

  Giovanni flared his nostrils. “Yes. That’s what I said. A compulsion. A terrible attack.”

  I shouldered past him. “Just take me to him, Giovanni.”

  Chapter Seven

  Bearpark’s bedchamber was situated at the top of its own staircase, reached via a concealed door from the piano nobile—a door through which the old man liked to make a sudden and dramatic entrance, particularly if there was com
pany in the house. As I climbed the meandering steps behind Giovanni, I had the sense that we were leaving the confines of Ca’ Bearpark. My suspicions were soon proved correct—for when I looked out of a small window at a turn in the staircase, I realized that we were now standing above the first floor of the adjoining house. As ever, the crooked, jumbled architecture of Venice continued to surprise and confuse me. Bearpark must have purchased the floor from his neighbors and then built an access from his own home. Ahead of me, Giovanni waited impatiently at an elaborately carved door, as he fiddled with his ring of keys.

  After we had knocked three times at this door, a servant admitted us with the hushed reverence of a monk leading an Easter procession. We stepped inside to find an airless room, even though its proportions were nearly as large as Bearpark’s piano nobile on the floor below. The shutters were closed, and the curtains about the bedstead were half drawn. Somber candlelight illuminated the gold-leaf motifs that were embossed into the dark red leather of the walls. And there, in the middle of this dark and strange theater, was Filomena, propped up beside her husband like an iron firedog in a hearth—straight-backed, forward-facing, and perfectly still.

  I nearly gasped at seeing her face, for it was almost beatific in this low, shimmering light—the luminous, unmoving mask of the Virgin, staring at me through the dim, candlelit gloom. Behind her, the intertwining bowers and leaves of gold crawled across the walls and made this room feel like a mysterious, warped Eden. It was so strange and dream-like that I felt like turning to leave, but suddenly my mother was at my shoulder, and there was no escape. Then a servant pulled back the curtain of the bedstead and I was called to Bearpark’s side. The old man held out an aged hand, and I could not refuse to take it—though it felt like the cold, hard claw of a corpse.

  “So, Lord Somershill,” he said. “Are you still willing to undertake the investigation?” He was weak, and his voice was difficult to hear, but I saw nothing of the convulsion I had been warned to expect. Bearpark’s face was animated on both sides and did not appear to be suffering from any form of palsy. The candlelight about the bed was thin and flickered from the faces of the gathered company. Filomena didn’t join the others in looking down upon her ailing husband, however. Instead, she scrutinized me with dark eyes that never seemed to blink, in a gaze that made me feel both uncomfortable and strangely flattered.

  “Of course I want to continue the investigation,” I said to Bearpark, before hesitating, for my next statement would sound avaricious, even contemptible, in the circumstances. “Though we’ve yet to agree on my fee, of course.”

  Bearpark pulled me closer, putting his hand on mine with a grip that was surprisingly strong. “You’ll get your fee, Lord Somershill. Don’t you worry about that!” He then let go of my hand. “But first you must know the true nature of this investigation. In case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind,” I said. “I can guarantee it.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Oh you might do, when you hear what I’ve got to say.” Bearpark then squinted at the crowd that had gathered about his bed. “Get rid of them,” he said. “All of them.” Following his instructions, I encouraged Filomena and the various servants to move to the other end of the chamber, though Giovanni and my mother were harder to remove from the bedside—and it was only when Bearpark gathered the strength to bellow at them that they complied with the request.

  I then pulled up a stool and sat beside the old man, trying to remain upwind from his breath. “So, Bearpark. What is it that you want to tell me?” I said, feeling like a priest at confession.

  He motioned to the side table. “Pass me my spectacles.”

  I did as he asked and helped to settle them upon his nose—waiting as he blinked until he was able to focus. “Enrico was a good boy,” he told me, his voice still shaking. “I loved him dearly.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He dropped his voice and looked about to make a final check that this conversation was private. “But he also had secrets,” he said. “Dangerous ones.”

  “Oh yes?” I said, feeling a prickle of unease. “What manner of secrets?”

  Bearpark cleared his throat. “I will tell you, Lord Somershill. But only because it matters to your investigation, and not because it is any business of yours otherwise.” He paused. “But it might help you to understand why I cannot inform the authorities of Venice about Enrico’s murder.” He peered at me through the spectacles. “I know my refusal to alert them troubles you.”

  “I just thought it was unusual,” I said. “That’s all.”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You will understand my reasons well enough, when I tell you this secret.” He continued to hold my gaze. “But first, you must promise not to tell a soul.”

  I nodded.

  He ran his tongue between his lips and gums before speaking. “Very well then,” he said at length. “I can tell you this. Enrico did not like women. He was a—” He sighed. “No. I will not use that word. Enrico loved men. Do you understand me?”

  I thought back to my many nights out with Enrico, and was certain that I had seen him dancing and laughing with women. Then again, I had never seen him hold a woman, nor kiss her. “Are you sure about this, Bearpark?” I said.

  The old man screwed up his nose at me. “You think I would lie to you about such a thing? It is dangerous to have Enrico’s tastes in this city. You’ve seen the fires that the Signori di Notte light in the Piazzetta. You know what they do to such men!” His anger at my question had induced a fit of coughing that took a few moments to subside. “Now are you quite so keen to investigate? Still willing to put yourself in peril?”

  What choice did I have? I still had a debt to repay, regardless of this new complication. “Yes. I’m not deterred,” I said.

  Mother called to me from the other end of the room. “Is everything all right over there, Oswald? Do you need some help?”

  “Stay where you are please, Mother,” I said. “There’s nothing to be concerned about.” Giovanni then repeated my words loudly and self-importantly to the others in the group, as if this command had been his own.

  Bearpark pointed weakly to the bowl of wine that rested on the table beside the bed. I lifted the thing to his lips, as if it were a silver chalice and I were offering him the blood of Christ. The wine dripped onto his chin and then pooled in the wrinkles of his neck, but when I tried to wipe the spill, he pushed my hand away. “Does my story shock you, de Lacy? Do you call Enrico a sinner?”

  I shook my head. “No, Bearpark. I do not.”

  “Will you run to the Signori now and tell them our secret? Causing trouble and shame for the name of Bearpark?”

  “No, I will not.”

  His face broke into a weak smile. ‘“Then you are the perfect man for this investigation. I would struggle to find Enrico’s killer, but you are young, just like my grandson was. You can infiltrate his group of friends and bring me his murderer.”

  “You think Enrico was murdered by a friend?”

  “Not a friend, Lord Somershill. His lover.”

  “Do you have evidence against this man?”

  Bearpark hesitated. “I know that he and Enrico frequently argued. And their quarrels often turned into fights.” He gave a shrug. “You know what young lovers can be like. Their passions are easily inflamed.”

  “What’s this man’s name?”

  Bearpark shook his head. “That’s my problem, Lord Somershill. I don’t know.”

  “Yet you know that he frequently argued with your grandson?”

  Some color crept into Bearpark’s face. “Enrico could be very secretive, but there were times when he confided in me. He told me how this man could be jealous and vengeful.” Bearpark heaved a great sigh of regret and tightened his fists as if preparing for a fight. “I should have forced Enrico to tell me his name. Then this mystery would be solved.” He suddenly relaxed his hands and appeared almost tearful again. “I would search for the
fellow myself, but I’m an old man and well known in this city. My investigation would only succeed in attracting the attention of the Signori di Notte.” He pointed his finger at me—its tip as rounded and flat as a wooden spoon. “Those brutes would not care about finding Enrico’s murderer. They would only be grateful that I had provided them with another victim to persecute. And I will not feed their filthy bloodlust. I will not assist their vile campaign against their fellow man!”

  I bowed my head. “That is to your credit, Bearpark,” I said, surprised and heartened by his outburst. “But what happens when I find the murderer?” I asked.

  “We will inform the courts, of course. Just as you wanted in the first place.” He coughed. “Though we will not mention the other thing.” I went to answer, but he cut across me, anticipating my question. “Oh, don’t worry. The man will not mention it either. A murderer will hang in this city. But a sodomite is always burned.”

  I scratched the back of my neck. “And you can tell me nothing more about him?”

  He shook his head solemnly. “Nothing, I am afraid.” The old man pulled me closer, and I was unable to avoid the pungent eddy of decay that always laced the puffs of his breath. “Giovanni will help you with the investigation. He knows Enrico’s secret, so you need not worry about betraying confidences.”

  The prospect of working with Giovanni did not appeal to me in the slightest. “No, no. I’ll work faster on my own,” I said quickly.

  “Nonsense. Giovanni can help you. Especially with the language.”

  “But I speak good Venetian,” I said.

  Bearpark laughed and then made an effort to peer at me through his spectacles in disbelief. “Your Venetian is terrible, de Lacy.”