The Rossetti Letter (v5) (38 page)

Bianca clutched at her. “No, my lady. You must not go there.”

Alessandra shook her off. She continued walking, slow but determined, down the steps on the other side and past the Doge’s Palace. Bianca and Paolo watched her with concern. The heavily clouded sky pressed low. The Piazzetta and the Piazza were deserted, and had that peculiar, forlorn feeling that always descended upon Venice the morning Carnival ended. Colored feathers and bits of costume lay on the ground and skittered about in the wind like bright confetti. The square was empty, except for the three dead men who dangled from the gibbet between the columns.

They had been hanged by their feet, the punishment for treason. As Silvia had said, they were already dead by the time they were strung up, but gravity had distended their faces, giving them a gruesome appearance and exacerbating the marks of torture that had been inflicted upon them. At each end, she was certain, were two of the men named in her letter, although she had never seen them before: one was a Spanish
bravo
with a silver hoop in one ear, the other a French corsair, a captain’s insignia on the breast of his leather jerkin.

And, hanging in between them, Antonio.

Alessandra’s knees buckled and she sank down onto the cold stone of the Piazzetta, her skirt billowing out around her. She was too stunned to cry or to cry out. A seabird hovered high overhead and its plaintive call seemed to echo within her, as if her very soul had shattered.

Years later, she would remember it just so: the three hanged men, herself on her knees, Bianca standing on the bridge, quietly sobbing, Paolo waiting faithfully in the gondola, the empty Piazzetta. As if she’d seen it from above, all of it together, frozen and unchanging, in an eternal tableau.

“W
E KNEW FROM
Venetian records that Antonio Perez was one of the men hanged that day,” Andrew explained to Maurizio and Gabriella after Claire’s lecture had ended. The four of them stood near the stage as the audience streamed out the doors.

“But his name isn’t included with the others in the Rossetti Letter,” Claire added. “In fact, Utrillo-Navarre was the only known conspirator who wasn’t mentioned, an oversight no previous historian had ever been able to explain. When we discovered that Alessandra and Antonio were acquainted, and possibly intimately involved, this omission seemed even odder. We concluded that Alessandra was trying to protect him.”

Claire looked around the room with satisfaction. She hadn’t fainted, hadn’t even faltered, once she’d gotten started. Then there’d been all that applause at the end, and not just the polite kind, either. This lecturing business might turn out to be fun after all.

“Which prompted the question: if Alessandra was trying to protect Perez, why would she write this letter at all?” Andrew said. “That, combined with the two-month discrepancy and the tone of the letter, led us to believe that it was dictated to her. The final piece fell into place when Claire remembered that there was more than one
bocca di leone
in the Doge’s Palace, and that it wasn’t outside in the courtyard, but inside, in the Sala della Bussola, the compass room right next to the Sala dei Tre Capi. When Alessandra wrote the letter, she was
inside
the Doge’s Palace, and most likely a prisoner. These discoveries seem to indicate that the Rossetti Letter was coerced; however, it’s also evident that Bedmar and Ossuna were planning something—although we may never know precisely what it was.”

“So, although we can say with certainty that there was a Spanish conspiracy,” Claire said, “there was also, as Andrew believed, a Venetian conspiracy to create a Spanish conspiracy. Girolamo Silvia knew that Bedmar and Ossuna were plotting against Venice, but he didn’t have enough hard evidence to prove it, so he created what he needed. At the same time, he blackened the reputation of his political rival, Dario Contarini. It was a huge political coup for him. It’s clear that Alessandra Rossetti was Silvia’s pawn,” said Claire, looking at Andrew. “An unwilling one, perhaps, but still a pawn.”

“It seems certain that both sides were culpable in the events of that year,” Andrew said, “but I think Claire deserves much of the credit for this deduction.”

“You can’t be serious,” Gabriella said. Her normally deep, sensual voice sounded peevish. “You’ve been working on this for months now, and suddenly she shows up and after a couple of days together, you’re willing to share your sources and credit her with your conclusions? Not to mention allowing her to give your lecture. What are people going to say about that?”

“Frankly, I don’t care what people say about it,” Andrew said.

Gabriella responded by shutting Claire out of the conversation with a turn of her shoulder and an appeal directed at Maurizio. “I think Andrew’s being much too charitable, don’t you?” When she didn’t get an answer from Maurizio, she turned to Andrew and for a moment looked as though she were going to demand an explanation for his largesse.

“I simply did what I thought was right,” Andrew said.

“Exactly what did you do to make him act so generously?” she asked, turning a withering gaze on Claire. “I hope you can prove that your dissertation is based on your own research, and I mean yours alone. I don’t think examining committees look favorably on people who ‘borrow’ from other historians. I’m sure the head of your department will be very interested to learn that both of you were working in the Marciana at the same time.”

Claire was so shocked that she was at a loss for words, just as Maurizio and Andrew seemed to be. Gabriella’s insinuation was obvious: that Claire had seduced Andrew into giving her more credit than she deserved. Maurizio looked at Claire and Andrew as if considering whether there was any truth to Gabriella’s accusation. She couldn’t blame him completely. After all, he’d seen them show up together rather late at his house the night before, and then he’d witnessed Andrew give up the limelight to her—not a common occurrence, she was sure. Andrew appeared stunned for a moment, then roused himself.

“You really are going too far, Gabriella,” he said. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it was like, then.”

“We were working together.”

“Working? Is that what it’s called?”

Claire had heard enough. “It’s curious that you think Andrew would be so susceptible to being used in that manner,” she said. “We were simply working together. If you can’t accept that, then I’m sorry for you. And”—Claire knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t resist—“sorry about your show being canceled, by the way.”

Before Claire turned away, she saw Andrew look at Gabriella with complete surprise. So he hadn’t known. She left them and walked out of the salon.

Claire stopped on the landing at the top of the staircase. Her confrontation with Gabriella had left her shaken, but whether it was from anger or apprehension she wasn’t sure. Clearly Gabriella’s need for Andrew Kent to succeed was immense. It would have been sad, even pathetic, except that Gabriella could do her serious harm. Just the suspicion of unethical behavior could be damaging. The competition for jobs, and the subsequent pressure to produce a spectacular dissertation, was so fierce that some people did incredibly foolish things: she’d heard of a student whose paper was based almost completely on sources that turned out to be of her own invention, another who stole archival documents and sold them online to help finance his degree. The examining committees had heard it all before, and Claire suspected that they were inclined to believe the worst. All Gabriella had to do was make a phone call or mail a letter.

She took a breath and felt her anxiety subside a little. It wasn’t all that likely that Gabriella would do something so spiteful, was it? In any case, it certainly wasn’t something Claire wanted to worry about today. Indeed, she had a lot to celebrate. She’d completed her research, she’d given a successful lecture, and now, she firmly decided, she was going to forget about it and enjoy herself. She had in mind a leisurely lunch and, as a surprise for Gwen, a gondola ride. All she had to do was collect Gwen and find Giancarlo and they could be away from here.

She spotted Gwen walking across the foyer and then outside, carrying Claire’s tote bag over her shoulder along with her backpack. Strange, she thought as she descended the stairs, that Giancarlo had left before her talk was over. She’d noticed him at the beginning of the lecture and a few times while she was speaking, then suddenly he wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps he was out on the patio, where Gwen had just gone.

Claire walked outside. A few small groups had gathered on the patio, but neither of her companions was among them. She turned into Calle Foscari, the lane that bordered the university building, and nearly ran into a man embracing a tall, beautiful woman with long black hair.

It took her a moment to realize that the man was Giancarlo. When her confusion had cleared, her first impulse was to turn and walk away. Then the couple noticed her, and drew away from each other.

Giancarlo turned to face her. “Claire, I’m sorry, this isn’t what—”

The woman said something in Italian, so fast that Claire couldn’t catch it, although it was obvious that she was upset and angry. And then, to Claire’s surprise, she ran off.

“Oh my god,” Giancarlo said. “This is not…Natalie is not…I mean, she’s very…” He looked down the lane after her. “I’m sorry.” Then he ran off, too.

Well. This day was turning out to be spectacularly different from what she had expected, and now her date for the afternoon had abandoned her for his erstwhile fiancée. Claire turned around and walked back to the patio. Gwen stood on the opposite side. She spotted Claire and waved frantically.

“Claire!” she called. “Don’t go over there!”

Too late for that, Claire thought, and began walking toward her. Gwen ran across the patio just as Maurizio, Andrew, and Gabriella were coming out the door. Claire couldn’t see if Gwen tripped or collided with them, but she did see what happened next: Gwen’s bags went flying, and all their contents spilled out—Claire’s notebooks and pens and guidebooks, Gwen’s hair gel and makeup and candy—and Gwen ended up on the ground, unhurt but embarrassed. Claire helped Gwen stand up as Maurizio and Andrew retrieved the scattered items. Alessandra’s diary had landed at Gabriella’s feet. Gabriella looked down curiously for a moment, then bent over to pick it up. She opened the cover and flipped through the pages, her expression becoming more indignant the longer she looked at it.

“What are you doing with this?” she asked Gwen.

“It was in my bag, not hers,” Claire said.

“This belongs to the Marciana.” Gabriella’s eyes flashed triumphantly at Andrew. “I told you she couldn’t be trusted.”

Surprised and confused, Andrew turned to Claire for an explanation.

“It was an accident,” she said. “It got mixed up with Gwen’s diary. We didn’t mean to take it out of the library, of course.” While Claire was trying to explain exactly how it had happened, Gabriella disappeared into a small
carabinieri
office just across Calle Foscari. Everyone looked up with surprise when she came back with a young officer in tow.

“Gabriella, I think you’re being a bit hasty,” Andrew said.

“Are you going to deny the evidence before your very eyes? Something like this doesn’t get into someone’s purse by accident. I say she can tell her story to the magistrate.” Gabriella turned to the
carabinieri
officer and began speaking in Italian. Claire caught most of it: priceless Italian artifact, the recent rash of thefts from Italian libraries, foreigners responsible. The policeman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, laconically nodded his small, flat head in solemn agreement. He seemed so accustomed to taking orders that he did her bidding without protest, as if a woman commanding him to arrest another woman happened every day.

He turned to Claire. “You must come along with me,” he said, and motioned her toward the
carabinieri
office.

Gwen didn’t say a word, but Claire saw her eyes grow wide. Then she bolted from the patio.

“Gwen!” Claire started to run after her, but the officer held her back.

Andrew leaned down to speak into her ear. “Stay here and talk to the police. I’ll get her.” Then he ran off, too.

C
LAIRE PEERED THROUGH
the grimy windows of the tiny
carabinieri
office in vain: outside, Calle Foscari was empty. She’d assumed that Gwen and Andrew would be showing up within minutes, but at least twenty had crawled by without any sign of them. She resisted an urge to pace and took a seat next to one of the policemen’s desks, her thoughts whirling. Why had Gwen run off? And why hadn’t Andrew brought her back yet?

She told herself to stay calm. Gwen had a guidebook and the hotel business card with her; she knew that if she were ever lost, she should ask for help getting to the hotel. But why did she run? Because she was afraid? Had she thought Claire was serious when she’d made that remark about Gwen taking the blame for her? No, surely not. Perhaps she went to call her father. Claire wondered if she’d even be able to reach him; he was en route from Nice to Paris today. She had mixed feelings about getting him involved, anyway. It was true that a rich man like Edward Fry could come in handy in these sorts of situations, but she would be mortified if he found out about this. Claire wasn’t even sure how to refer to it: arrested? apprehended? held? Whatever it was called, Claire reckoned she’d be lucky if she got out of this stuffy little office in time to catch their evening flight out of Venice; the wheels of justice turned slowly in Italy. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she and Gwen weren’t at the Paris airport to meet Gwen’s father and his new wife.

At least Andrew had a phone with him. Claire decided to call as soon as Maurizio and Gabriella stopped talking long enough to give her his number. They’d both been glued to a cell phone from the moment they had all walked in the door. Claire had no idea who they were talking to, but she caught a few of Gabriella’s words: “…our heritage…international problem…enforce the law…Rome, also…”

The police station was so unassuming that if it weren’t for the rather medieval, iron-barred cell in the far corner, no one would ever know that it was anything other than a nondescript office, one containing a few gray metal desks and a row of battered file cabinets. A couple of ancient floor fans whirred and swung laboriously from side to side without doing much to disturb the close air. The two young policemen sat quietly at their desks.

Maurizio hung up and came over to perch on the desk near Claire. “I was just speaking to the director of the Marciana,” he said quietly. “He told me that taking a book out of the library carries an automatic fine.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand euros.”

“Oh, dear.” She wasn’t sure she had that much in her bank account, and somehow she didn’t think this would be covered under Edward Fry’s miscellaneous expense fund. She might need Meredith’s help after all. “If I pay it, will I be free to go?”

“The director says he can’t make the decision as to whether or not to press criminal charges.”

Criminal charges?
“But you don’t believe I took the diary on purpose, do you? It was stupid, yes, but I didn’t steal it.”

“I’m afraid that what I believe doesn’t matter much. If it weren’t for this rash of thefts, it wouldn’t be such a problem. But as it is…”

“But I’m not involved with that. I can prove it.”

“Can you prove it in the next hour or so?”

“Probably not, but no one can prove that I am.”

“Italian criminal procedure is much different from American. We don’t require proof of a crime for someone to go to jail. Sometimes suspicion is enough, and then the case is investigated once the suspect is…” He trailed off, not wanting to say the words.

“Behind bars?” For the first time Claire felt afraid. Maybe Gwen had done the right thing, running off like that.

Gabriella sauntered over to them. “He’ll be here momentarily,” she said.

“Who’ll be here?” Claire asked.

“The investigating magistrate,” Maurizio replied. “He’ll talk to you and decide if there is any reason to issue an arrest warrant.”

“Oh.” Her voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched.

“I think it would be best if you postponed alerting your colleagues in the press, Gabriella,” Maurizio said. She looked up from her perusal of her cell phone’s personal directory. “At least until after the magistrate’s decision. It might not turn out like you think.” He spoke calmly but there was a warning in his tone, and Claire had the impression that he was reminding Gabriella of some past mistake. Whatever it was, it worked, and she snapped her phone shut, frowning petulantly.

Claire asked Maurizio for Andrew’s phone number. She knew Gabriella had it, but she was loath to ask her for anything. If not for Gabriella, she wouldn’t be in the police station, she was sure. Andrew and Maurizio may have been surprised, even shocked, to discover that she had taken Alessandra’s diary from the Marciana, but she felt sure—well, pretty sure, anyway—that they would have believed her explanation and then allowed her to discreetly return it. Even though he hadn’t uttered a word in support of her innocence, and had by all appearances remained completely neutral, Claire suspected that Maurizio was sticking around to make sure that Gabriella didn’t make things worse than they already were—by calling the six o’clock news, for instance, with a late-breaking story about an international theft ring and, of course, a heroic retelling of how she had apprehended one of the thieves.

“Gabriella?” Maurizio said. She dutifully handed over her phone, with Andrew’s number already up on the screen. Claire pressed a button and it dialed automatically.

“Yes?” Andrew’s voice was barely audible, what with the static and the sound of a revving motor in the background.

“It’s Claire. Where’s Gwen?”

“She’s right here with me. We’re on our way back.”

“Back from where?”

“Be there in…” His last words were lost in static and noise.

“I like my Saturday lunch best of all,” said Armando Corregio, the investigating magistrate, his voice tinged with a querulous sense of loss. “On Sundays, Signora Corregio insists on cooking roast beef. Her roast beef is like shoe leather. I like my Saturday lunch best of all.”

Honestly, Claire thought, Signor Corregio looked as though he’d never met a lunch he didn’t like. He wasn’t obese so much as stupendously solid around the middle. The suspenders holding up his summer-weight slacks were stretched to their limit; she imagined that when he took them off, they went flying across the room like a huge rubber band. The magistrate’s face was round and smooth, with a thick layer of fat under the skin, like an ocean-dwelling mammal. He wore his dark hair slicked neatly back, and sported the slender mustache of a Victorian-era dandy.

“We’re very sorry to have interrupted your meal,” Maurizio began.

“My
Saturday
—”

“Yes, your Saturday meal…but if you can give us just a few minutes of your time and listen to Miss Donovan’s story, I’m sure you’ll find”—his eyes briefly went to Gabriella—“that there’s no reason to begin proceedings.”

“Signor Magistrate!” Gabriella interrupted. “That woman was discovered with this book, a priceless artifact of Italian history.” She held up the diary as if it were a Bible and she were about to lead an evangelical service.

“Yes, but it seems to have been an honest mistake,” Maurizio argued.

“Quiet, please.” Corregio sighed and shifted grumpily in his chair, which was about half the width necessary for his girth. He nodded at Claire. “Can you make it quick? If I can get back in less than fifteen minutes, I won’t miss the soup.”

Claire searched his face, unsure of where to begin. Corregio didn’t look like someone with a sense of humor. She suspected that he’d just as soon tell the officers to take her away if it would expedite his quick return home. “Well, you see, it was just an accident, really. I was working with the diary in the Marciana, and—”

Just then, Andrew, Gwen, and Francesca rushed in the door, slightly out of breath, as if they’d been running. Andrew quickly took in the scene: the two policemen, Claire in a chair facing the magistrate, Maurizio and Gabriella looking on.

“Before you begin any questioning, you should know there’s been a terrible mistake,” Andrew said.

“It’s all my fault,” Francesca chimed in. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Terrible mistake,” Gwen echoed.

Dumbfounded, Gabriella, Maurizio, and Claire stared at the three of them. Maurizio was the first to recover his poise. “This is Signor Corregio, the investigating magistrate,” he said. “Perhaps you should explain further. You could begin,” he said to Francesca, “by telling us who you are.”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled. “I am Francesca Luponi, head librarian at the Biblioteca Marciana,” she said to Corregio. “You see, Gwen was showing me her diary…”

Eager to help, Gwen took her diary from her backpack. “See? It looks a lot like that old one, ’cause I spilled Coke on it once, and I dropped it in the road a couple of times, and once this guy on a bike ran over it—”

Andrew gave Gwen a warning glance and she abruptly stopped speaking.

“Gwen was showing me her diary,” Francesca continued, “then Claire brought her materials to the desk and somehow when I was putting them all away, I mixed up the diaries and gave them the wrong one.”

“But she said that she and this girl mixed it up themselves.” Gabriella pointed at Claire while addressing the magistrate. “She already admitted that she took it!” She turned to Andrew. “Do you actually believe this?” she asked, waving her hand at Francesca.

“It seems that there’s been a…a terrible mistake,” he said. “When I caught up with Gwendolyn here, she told me what had really happened, but she said that Claire told a different story because she didn’t want Francesca to get in any trouble. I thought that it was best for us to proceed to the Marciana to inform Francesca of what had transpired, and being the very nice person she is, she insisted on coming here to put things to rights. So, apparently, it was all just a—”

“Terrible mistake,” Gwen and Francesca said.

Good god. Gwen and Francesca had concocted this ridiculous story, and somehow managed to convince Andrew Kent to go along with it. Three faces—Andrew’s, Gwen’s, and Francesca’s—looked guardedly hopeful; two faces—Gabriella’s and Signor Corregio’s—looked as though Francesca’s confession hadn’t quite registered yet, and the questions they sought to form remained formless. Maurizio seemed to be smiling, rather enigmatically, to himself. Claire kept her face as blank as possible lest someone notice that the terrible mistake was actually a terrible lie.

Corregio looked from Francesca to Maurizio. “Does the director of the Marciana know about this?”

“Yes, I spoke to the director just a few minutes ago,” Francesca said. “Once he heard that I was completely to blame, he said that he would like to extend his apologies to Miss Donovan, and said that he would be very sorry if an American was arrested or in any way slandered because of a mistake made by an employee of the Marciana, as it could become an international incident and reflect badly on us all.” She smiled prettily at Signor Corregio.

“Yes,” the investigating magistrate muttered. “Yes, indeed. A very bad reflection that could be.” He stood up, checked his watch, and rubbed his ponderous belly. “Well, well. I think we’re all done here. A terrible mistake. If I leave now I might get home in time for the pasta.
Arrivederci.
” He eased his bulk out the front door and walked off down the lane.

Gabriella turned to Andrew, openmouthed with rage. “How could you? You know very well they’re lying.”

“Gabriella, what does it matter? The diary’s going back to the library. It was a mistake. There’s no reason to carry on like this.”

“How would you feel if English historical documents were being stolen? If someone took your precious Magna Carta out of the British Museum?”

“This hardly compares to that. And it wasn’t stolen, it was an accident. Why don’t we just let it be?”

Gabriella looked around the room defiantly. “We’ll see about that.” She flounced out of the office.

Andrew and Maurizio exchanged a glance. “I’ll take care of it,” Andrew said, and walked out after her.

The moment they were gone, the atmosphere in the room lightened considerably. Claire looked at Gwen and Francesca in amazement, and they smiled back broadly. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Claire said. “But, Francesca, I don’t want you to get in any trouble. Perhaps I should speak to the director myself.”

“It isn’t necessary,” she replied.

“But you took the blame for all this, and it’s not your fault.”

“There is no need to worry,” Maurizio said with a smile. “I don’t believe Signor Luponi will fire his own daughter for making a little mix-up like that. Would he?” he asked Francesca.

“Oh, no.”

“What do you mean, daughter?” asked Claire, confused.

“My father is the director of the Biblioteca Marciana,” Francesca confirmed. “As was my grandfather before him. I have excellent job security, although I would hate for this to happen again.” She smiled, but her eyes were serious.

“It will never happen again,” Claire promised.

“I think it’s best for us to leave here quickly,” Maurizio said to Claire. “I’ll take you back to your hotel, then go with Francesca to return the diary to the library.”