Suicide Kings (8 page)

“I understood the nun’s death is a church matter.”

“She might have fallen from church property, but she fell onto the streets of Firenze.”

Niccolo might be an unreadable wall, but she didn’t need terrible insight into his mind to remain skeptical the Republic of Firenze would be eager to grasp a single murder out of the jurisdiction of the church. She considered him silently.

He helped himself to the stew. “Mmm, this is good.” He ate carefully, his manners impeccable. Sipping at the wine, he put down his spoon. “Cardinal Lajolo has officially declared the nun’s death to be an accident. A merciful gesture as her fall would, on first glance, appear more consistent with suicide.”

Diana felt the early tendrils of a headache approaching. She got them when she felt stressed, particularly when she was calming down from a bad moment. There were times when they drove her to darken her room, lest the sun itself drive blades of agony through her skull. She hoped this wouldn’t be one of those particularly bad ones. She breathed deeply, which sometimes helped, and continued eating. She decided not to speak yet. He’d asked her no questions, and protesting the nun’s murder hadn’t gotten her far the previous night.

Niccolo was quiet for a moment, spooning more of the stew into his mouth and chewing with deliberation. They sat in silence. At last he said, “There are some witnesses who say you claimed the nun was murdered.”

Diana felt a lurch in her chest as she recalled the memory. How long would it be before that image was pushed to the recesses of her mind? “I saw her pushed from the cupola. Most people seem to feel that I experienced a fanciful vision brought on by grief at my mother’s death.”

“Your reputation in the city is that of a young woman who sometimes violates the laws against vanity as well as the social norms regarding the conduct of a respectable lady.”

Diana felt her cheeks burn. “I permit myself to be seen and heard is what you mean.” Even as she spoke, she felt embarrassed she allowed herself to be goaded.

Niccolo nodded once. “Nonetheless, in most circles your name is spoken with respect. No one suggests that you are given to flights of fancy or visions.”

Diana regarded Niccolo warily. “You’re saying you believe me then.”

Niccolo waved his spoon slightly in the air as he spoke. “It’s not in my portfolio to examine suicides or accidents.”

Diana thought about that for a moment. “I didn’t get a good look at the person who pushed her. He was dressed in a dark robe that obscured his face.”

“Did you see anything in the nun’s manner that would suggest she knew her attacker?”

“She held a crucifix up to him as if he were a monster. Certainly in the robe he looked like a demon or a ghost. I don’t believe he was either.”

Niccolo raised an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve never seen a ghost or a demon. I’ve seen plenty of men who have committed murder. I’ve been at balls with some, dined with others.”

Niccolo’s pupils widened at that and he gave her a smile. “Well spoken.” He tapped the edge of his spoon with one fingernail. “I assure you I’ve committed no murders, government sanctioned or otherwise.” He leaned in, closer to her. “Your mother though…the sister told you she was murdered, didn’t she?”

His mentioning it out loud brought moisture to her eyes. She averted her eyes so he wouldn’t see it. It pained her to show him weakness. “Yes, that is what she said.”

“Do you know any reason why anyone would want your mother dead?”

“No,” she said and met his gaze, “I can’t imagine why anyone would. She said a man named Giuseppe Mancini di Milano might have done it. She led me to believe he would have done it for hire. I don’t know why anyone would hire him to do so.”

Niccolo nodded, spooning more stew as if this were an ordinary dinner conversation. “So, it is reasonable to assume if she knew about this Mancini, he might have known about her and killed her to keep her quiet. Too late though.” He pointed at her with the spoon.

All this talk about her mother as a victim of assassination…it was just so unreal. She could bear it when she kept it in her mind as an investigation, as a puzzle to be solved. When she found herself thinking about her mother, the person who had comforted her when she’d been down, intervened on her behalf with her father, who’d given her unconditional love, it all just seemed so surreal.

“I am sorry about your mother,” Niccolo said softly. Diana felt like she snapped out of a trance. She blinked her eyes a few times to bring herself back around. “Especially if she were murdered,” Niccolo said. “It must be difficult.”

She nibbled at her bottom lip. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m going to try to help you.”

“Why?” She shook her head. “Why should I trust you? You work for Savonarola.”

His pupils narrowed at that. She’d hit an unexpected nerve. Although his expression never changed, she had enough intuition to gauge he cared not at all for the Mad Friar who ruled Firenze. “You’re right,” he told her, never breaking his gaze. “You’ve got no good reason to trust me. It’s a good impulse to be suspicious of everyone.”

“I hope one day I won’t have to be.”

“There is wisdom and there is trust. You’ll find you’ll have to pick one.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I am not sure I would like to live in the world you seem to inhabit, Signore Machiavelli.”

“There is only one world. We may not love it, but we must endure it.” His eyes dropped. “Please, call me Niccolo.”

“Niccolo,” she repeated softly.

He gazed back up at her. “I’ve heard it said that you have an interest in studying medicine at Salerno.”

She felt heat rising in her cheeks once more. “Is there anything that you don’t know about me, Niccolo?”

He fell silent for a moment, looking away. His voice was soft as he answered, “I’m only beginning to learn about you.” His eyes met hers again. “Does your father approve of your goal?”

She didn’t look away, answering simply, “No.”

He broke eye contact, silent. She could tell his eyes were on her hair, on her neck. She was used to men looking at her, appraising her as an object of their lust. It gave her pleasure to know she had such power over men, while at the same time her respect for such men inevitably diminished. This was different somehow. His appraisal lacked the lust to which she was accustomed, replaced by something more refined, more respectful. He looked at her like he might a fine painting or classical sculpture. He regarded her with respect and she found she liked his eyes on her in this way.

Her mother though…it was inappropriate for her to have such thoughts at this time. “You should go,” she whispered.

His eyes locked on her for a moment, then he stood. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I learn anything.” He moved to let himself out, and then twisted to half face her. “It has been my honor to meet you, Lady Savrano.”

She nodded, remained silent.

He turned and left.

****

Blinding lights pulled Diana from sleep like a baby from the womb. She sat upright in bed startled and alarmed. Tendrils of rapidly fading dreams escaped her mental grasp. She blinked and looked around.

Siobhan tied back one of the heavy curtains. Sunlight poured into Diana’s bedroom. Diana fell back against her pillows, hands rubbing her eyes. How dare a servant awaken her when she was not prepared! Grumpily, she mumbled, “Your services in this household are no longer required.”

“Begging your pardon, Lady,” Siobhan chimed in a tone that suggested she didn’t take Diana’s comment the least bit seriously. “I thought it best to wake you if you were still intent on investigating the nature of your mother’s death. Your father has already left to check on his businesses.”

A long yawn stretched across Diana’s face. At least her headache had vanished. As Siobhan went along tying back the rest of the curtains, Diana managed to roll lazily out of bed. “What is the time?”

“Nearly midday, lady,” Siobhan answered without the slightest hint of reproach.

Diana stood and walked to the window. The city outside, most of which stretched below her window, was dusted with a fine layer of white. Diana’s pride in her city swelled a bit at the view. The world seemed so beautiful in a cold and lifeless way. In a different year, she might have been tempted to go outside and enjoy the snowfall. There would be little enjoyment today.

Siobhan helped her get out of her nightclothes and attend to her morning hygiene. For clothing, Diana did her best to learn the lessons of the last two days. She selected a reasonably sturdy woolen dress to wear as well as a good pair of hunting boots. This was the best she could procure as an athletics outfit. At least the dress would be less inclined to bunch up around her feet than her previous choices. Siobhan helped her don the clothes with great consideration.

Offhand, Diana commented, “It always amazes me how the house servants remain awake until the family is asleep and are awake again earlier when the family breakfasts. How do you survive on so little sleep?”

Siobhan, in the process of helping put on a boot, looked up and met her eyes. “The alternative is prostitution or starvation.” She went back to sliding the boot up Diana’s leg.

Diana mulled that over, rubbing her tongue over one incisor.

Without looking up this time, Siobhan noted, “I saw you had a rather handsome visitor last evening.”

“He represents the Republic. He’s apparently investigating my mother’s murder as well.” She paused for a moment. “Did you really find him to be handsome?”

“He was willowy, had unblemished skin and all his teeth. In Ireland, a man such as that is an ideal of beauty.”

Diana laughed a little. “I don’t know how much he could be trusted. Even if he tells the truth about working for the Republic, there are so many factions…”

“You think he works for Friar Savonarola?” Her tone was clear to Diana. Even if Savanarola wasn’t involved in her mother’s murder, and there was no evidence he was, he could only be a sinister presence. The Mad Friar’s shadow never seemed to bring benefit to those upon whom it fell.

Diana shook her head. “When I mentioned Savonarola’s name, I got the impression he disapproved.” She stood, tested out her movement in this attire and decided she was satisfied. Overall, she felt rather better than the previous day. Perhaps that was how it was with the loss of a loved one, each day a little better than the last. Undoubtedly a little breakfast would help too.

“Where will we be off to today?” Siobhan asked.

God bless her, Diana thought, the Irish girl was unstoppable. “I would like to visit the church at Piazza Madonna delle Grazie. My mother’s note suggested she met someone there who might know something about why she died. Perhaps the priest in attendance might have seen who that is.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “I would like to know how the nun received that letter into her possession. I wish I could have spoken to her longer that night.”

Siobhan grasped her shoulder in that informal manner of hers. “What is done can’t be undone. We can only press forward.”

With a moment’s hesitation, Diana touched Siobhan’s arm and gave her a smile. “Let’s get going.”

****

At midday the Church at Madonna delle Grazie was only lightly occupied. Though built to hold several hundred, it was small by the standards of Firenze. Nonetheless, it was of exquisite design, the cross behind the altar radiating with gold and silver, a showering display of opulence to backdrop the suffering of Christ. Each of the small chapels lining the nave displayed commissioned paintings by well-regarded Florentine artists. Among them a Madonna by the rising star Michelangelo, now in unofficial exile in Roma. Diana didn’t recognize the names of the other artists, although the quality of the paintings was exquisite, even if they tended to focus on themes of suffering, martyrdom, and loss. This church remained darker than the Basilica of Zenobius, the windows too small to let in enough light. The funerary sculptures of rich benefactors loomed like spirits. Marble skulls grinned seemingly at every corner of the church. Upon one chapel altar, a reliquary held the skull of the church’s patron saint, one Regina di Lucca who, it was said, had ended the Black Death outbreak of 1348 by absorbing the demons that spread it into her body.

A dozen hunched figures clustered at the front of the nave near the main altar. Each of them radiated years of regret, as if there was little left but a husk of a human being that longed for nothing more than the eternal peace death would soon grant them. One of the penitents, a woman, led the rest in the recitation of psalms in Latin.

“Now this,” Siobhan whispered, “is more like the Ireland I remember.” She looked up and around admiringly. “Except I don’t remember glass windows.”

Diana looked at her like she was mad. “I suppose we should find a priest.” She actually wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to ask when she found one. For the moment, none were in view.

Siobhan fingered the teeth on one marble skull. “What do you have to do to get buried inside a church?”

“Donate lots of florins,” Diana answered absently, “or do something particularly noteworthy. If you do something noteworthy your body will draw in countless others who will donate the florins for you.”

“Hmm,” Siobhan nodded. “What about you? Do you want to be buried inside a church wall, or under the floor where people can walk all over you?” The Irish girl did a small and utterly inappropriate jig.

Diana waved at her to stop. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

“You should, you know.” Siobhan thought out loud. “Women our age die all the time. Childbirth of course, but even if we survive that, there’s always plagues, wasting diseases, consumption, poxes, rape during war, beheading if your side gets the worst of some political conflict, and of course the syphilis if you dally with the wrong gentleman caller.”

“In what manner is this conversation intended to benefit me?”

“I’m just giving you good advice. Once one of those things finally gets the better of you, you better have your slice of some church set aside.” She nodded sagely.

“Oh dear God.” Diana ran one hand through her hair. Looking away, she spotted a flash of white. The robes of a priest. “Come on.”