The False Virgin (18 page)

He licked his lips nervously, and I sought to reassure him.

‘Speak up, and I promise no one will know from me what you said.’

‘The master needed money because the domina had stopped giving him any.’

So Speranza, who no doubt had funds provided by her family, gave nothing to her husband to sustain him in his miserable exile. That of itself was interesting in terms of her immersion in the
Beornwyn virgin cult and of her devotion to Hugh. Perhaps the monk was receiving what Querini had lost. I returned my gaze to the man before me, and encouraged him to go on.

‘So how did your master sustain his style of life here?’

Antonis shrugged and remained tight-lipped. But I would not give up, though it took some time before I got the facts from him. It seemed that to supplement his income, Niccolo Querini had
resorted to clandestine piracy, along with some of the inhabitants of Sifnos, who were long used to making a living from the pickings of the sea. For many years small trading vessels were boarded
and robbed of their goods. Not enough was taken to cause a major problem, which would have resulted in someone like Giovanni Soranzo, in his days as Head of the Navy, cracking down on pirates. They
took just enough to feed and sustain a few men and their families. Querini’s role was mostly to discover news of the passage of vessels, but he also relieved his boredom with some active
participation too. Antonis was clearly hinting that there might have been a falling out of thieves on the beach.

‘Chlakopo beach is where the pirates bring their loot ashore, you see.’

That was the fearful servant’s last offering. It was going too far for him to offer names. After all, he had to live on this island after we had all gone. But there was one question I had
to ask.

‘When you found the body, Domina Speranza said there was a . . . cloud, I think she said . . . yes, a cloud of butterflies that rose up from it. Is that true?’

I had remembered in the meantime why her description had chimed with something in my mind. Katie had related to me Speranza Soranzo’s own account of the discovery of St Beornwyn’s
flayed body. It had apparently been modestly enveloped with blue butterflies. I was wondering if the miracle had been repeated. Antonis snorted in disbelief.

‘I told her the dogs disturbed some purple butterflies, and that to Greeks they represent the souls of the dead. But there were only two or three. Hardly a cloud.’

Not a miraculous cloud then, more like a figment of Speranza’s fond imagination. I dismissed Antonis, and he practically flew from the room, relief written on his swarthy face. My throat
felt dry, and I poured myself a quite palatable Cretan wine of Querini’s. I believe it came from Candia. I decided I would have to follow up Antonis’ information, and find out the names
of these petty pirates. The reason why I hadn’t pressed him for the names – besides not having him fear for his life – was that I was unconvinced that Querini’s death had
been due to a brawl between thieves. Querini’s hands bore no signs of bruises or scrapes such as he would have got in a fight. However, it was important not to dismiss the idea out of hand.
Someone could have crept up on him, and done him in. Besides, what other possibilities did I have at the moment? Katie might come up with something, but until she did, I decided my investigations
warranted a journey back to the harbour at Kamares. Querini must have had drinking companions there who could have loose tongues. And the only other avenue I had was Galuppi. If he really did have
any orders from the Doge that I was not party to, they may relate to clearing the husband from the scene in order to allow the daughter to return unencumbered. But that was going to be a hard one
to tackle. A sojourn in an unnamed tavern close to the harbour had greater appeal as a line of investigation. I would get Querini’s servants to saddle a horse for me.

In the end the horse turned out to be more of a mule, and that was being kind to its ancestry. Perhaps donkey was a more accurate description. Its broad back and recalcitrant
ways made the journey over the high back of the island long and sweltering. So I was glad to flop in the shade in one corner of the tavern where I had first seen Querini. In response to my demand
for a good red wine, the tavern-keeper brought a jug of something he called Xinomavro. When I poured it into the cracked goblet he provided, it looked as black as old blood. I drank the first
draught deeply and incautiously, and my mouth was sucked free of all moisture, leaving me thinking dried blood was an accurate description. I learned later that the name he gave it meant
‘sour black’, which was quite to the point. At first, I didn’t know if I was being played a trick on like some innocent traveller. But everyone else in the tavern seemed to be
drinking the same wine, and there were no furtive glances to see if I had been taken in. I poured a second goblet, and took it more slowly. Soon the taste began to grow on me. It was either that,
or I was getting drunk enough not to care. I smiled gently and looked around. Several of the faces were familiar from the time I had stormed in to confront Querini, and I wondered if they now knew
of his death. And if they did, was it because one of them had been involved in his demise? They all looked like brigands to me.

When I had consumed most of the blood wine, I waved the jug at the tavern-keeper, whose lack of a name made him as anonymous as his hostelry. He brought another jug over, and plonked it on the
table by my elbow, splashing some of the wine on my shirtsleeve. I half expected it to burn through the material, but it didn’t. Before he could leave, I grabbed his arm and asked him to sit
a while. Reluctantly he did so, casting a defiant glance around the low-ceilinged room in case any of his cronies was of the impression he was consorting with the enemy. I broached the subject on
my mind.

‘Querini. Was he a regular here?’

The stubble-chinned man scowled. ‘Why do you want to know? Going to pin his death on one of my customers?’

His Italian was good, which was fortunate. My Greek was execrable. But at least I had learned one thing quickly from his response. They knew Niccolo Querini was dead. I suppose I should not have
been surprised – on such a small island bad news would travel fast. It was either that or someone in the tavern had murdered him and boasted of it.

‘Not unless someone here is guilty of his murder. I did hear that he had some . . . dealings . . . with local sailors that might have resulted in a falling out.’ I looked around the
tavern. ‘Does anyone here fit the bill?’

The tavern-keeper let out a guttural laugh and spat on the rush-strewn floor.

‘Has Antonis been blabbing?’

I kept my mouth shut and my face impassive so as not to give the manservant away. So the tavern-keeper carried on.

‘You don’t need to say anything. He would spread any tale to divert attention from himself.’ He saw the surprise on my face. ‘Oh, yes, he’s dabbled in some offshore
fishing
, too, if you take my meaning. Him and that little pig-sticker dagger of his. But in answer to your question, there’s some here bold enough to steal, but no one with enough
balls to kill a nobleman.’

I nodded sagely. ‘That’s as I thought. But tell me, did Querini talk about his wife much when he drank here?’

Another gob of spit splattered on the floor.

‘That witch? God rot her and her little familiar that follows her around.’

I guessed by the witch’s familiar he meant Brother Hugh. It was not very complimentary for a man of God, but quite apposite. I thought I would stir the pot a little and see what
brewed.

‘They say the monk convinced her to deny Querini his rights as her husband, and to play the virgin.’

That amused the Greek, and he chortled deeply in his phlegmy throat.

‘She’s a fake virgin, if you ask me. But it’s true, what you say. Querini always used to boast how wild she was in bed, but recently she had denied him. He used to come here
and drink the jug dry and bemoan his fate. He said he wasn’t getting anything from her purse either, though he always paid his bills here.’

We were back to Querini’s illegal business again, and I felt there was nothing more the man could offer. So as I had learned all I was going to from the tavern-keeper, I gave him a coin in
way of payment for his information. He got up and shambled back to the corner of the room and his wine barrel, from where he presided over his domain. I too started to get up, but I had been
sitting so long, my knees were stiff. They almost gave way under me, and I had to grip the edge of the table for support. It was a toss-up between whether it was infirmity or the effects of the
Xinomavro. Whatever, I stayed where I was for a moment, and that slice of pure good luck meant I was not crossing the tavern floor when Galuppi entered. He had a black cloak on with the hood thrown
over his head, but I recognised him all the same. No one else in Kamares had the gait of a man with a rod up his arse. I sat back down sharply, and leaned over my jug like some drunken Greek,
hoping Galuppi wouldn’t spot me. I watched out the corner of my eye as he spoke briefly to the tavern-keeper. Then he was ushered through a door that presumably led to the owner’s
private quarters. I waited to see what would happen next and was rewarded by the swift arrival of another familiar face. It wasn’t a local, but the debtor who was working off what he owed by
being an oarsman in the galley that had brought us here. I racked my brain to recall his name, cursing age and poor memory, until it came. What was a common labourer like Stefano doing meeting up
with the patrician Galuppi in an anonymous Greek tavern?

I didn’t want to be in the tavern when Galuppi or Stefano came out of the back room, so I got up, paid my bill, and went out into the coolness of the early evening. Walking past the
boatyard, I watched idly as a gnarled old man worked on the beginnings of a boat. He drove long nails into the overlapped planks, then bent the nails’ end back into the plank on the inside. I
ambled past and, further along the quayside, I noticed a burly figure that I recognised. It was a ship’s captain I had used on a few
colleganze
– business enterprises overseas
to you. I called out his name.

‘Captain Doria! What are you doing here?’

The grey-bearded, old sea dog looked up furtively from making a written record of the goods being loaded on his boat. He looked very concerned that someone had recognised him. Then he realised
it was me.

‘Niccolo Zuliani, by the Devil. I might ask the same of you. I noticed that sleek vessel in the harbour, but I would hardly have associated it with you.’

His own vessel was patched and the wood grey and worn. But I knew it to be seaworthy, having trusted my money in it more than once. I gave him a vague explanation of my apparent improvement in
fortune.

‘I wish it were mine. It’s borrowed, as I’m on some business for a big man in La Serenissima. But why all the muscle on your ship?’

I had noted the two finely honed men staring disdainfully at me, as if I were a dog turd on the sole of their boots.

Doria cocked a thumb at them, and whispered in my ear, ‘Oh. I’ve got quite a lot of gold on board. The deal has been to buy cheap gold from the Saracens with silver coins. The Doge
is behind most of it.’ He tapped the side of his nose, and laughed. ‘Soon, there won’t be any coins to buy goods with anywhere in Europe. It will all be in the hands of the
infidels. Not that it will matter to the English. They say the English king is so far into debt with the Peruzzi and Bardi banks, he won’t be able to pay them in the end anyway.’

Doria’s chatter sent a shiver down my spine. What money I had was in those banks, and he had just told me a good recipe for their crashing soon. I asked him to do me a favour when he
returned to Venice, and took the quill from his hand. On his bill of lading, I quickly scrawled him an authorisation to arrange the removal of my money from both banks. I cursed the Doge for
engineering the crisis, and for keeping me in Sifnos when I most needed to be home.

‘Take this and hold my money for me until I return. There will be a percentage for you.’

Puzzled but compliant, Doria took my note and strode back to his ship. I hoped to God he realised the urgency of the document I had given him. So, what with all that distraction, I think I must
have missed Galuppi and Stefano’s emergence from the tavern. I hovered by the end of the cobbled street where the tavern lurked, but it got later and later with no sign of either man.
Finally, even the boat-builder gave up his work for the day. The sun was sinking, and I had to get back on my donkey and make for the other side of the island before it got completely dark. I
didn’t want to fall over a cliff like I had been told Querini had. My late arrival at the Querini mansion meant that I didn’t know that Katie had not returned until the following
morning.

I got anxious when she didn’t appear for breakfast. I thought she would be up promptly in order to tell me what she had found out the previous day from the domina and
Brother Hugh. So when she wasn’t, I became concerned. So concerned that I didn’t even talk to Galuppi about being in Kamares the previous day. That would have to wait until I discovered
where my precious granddaughter was. And the obvious place to start was the monastery at Mongou.

I hurried across the open fields surrounding the monastery, sweating in the morning sun that was already getting hot. The sound of a doleful bell carried across the valley, and despondency
clenched my heart tight. I had a bad feeling about what I might find at the monastery of St John the Theologian. The bell had stopped ringing when I reached the main gateway to Mongou, but it still
swung backwards and forwards, and the rope that worked the bell was swinging too. Someone had just left it and disappeared. The doors to the church inside the walls of the monastery were open and I
could hear monotonous chanting coming from inside. I peered into the gloom, and saw for the first time the black-clad monks that occupied the monastery. For once they weren’t avoiding me. The
heavy aroma of incense hung in the air, and clouds of it drifted on the breeze through the open doors. As a Venetian, I was familiar with the Orthodox heresy. I was old enough to remember tales of
Venice’s role in the shambles that was later called the Fourth Crusade, when the Latin Church invaded Constantinople and ousted the Roman Empire and its faith. Venice profited mightily from
its fall. That state of affairs didn’t last long, though, and in my youth the Greek Emperor and the Orthodox Church took it all back. Being Venetians, we made deals with the Emperor in the
same way we had with the Latin crusaders sixty years earlier. So the bearded black monks were a familiar sight to me, but I had not seen such fervent prayer as was presented to me that morning. I
felt awkward about disturbing them, even though I feared that they might be praying for Katie’s soul. I turned away to try and find either Brother Hugh or Domina Speranza, but was blessed
instead by the happy sight of Katie Valier rushing across the open courtyard towards me. She almost bowled me over, and hugged me hard.