her, just like this.” The cardinal shook his head and resumed his silent contemplation.
As slender as she was, Gemma’s corpse seemed to take up a great deal of space. After a moment, Cardinal Fabiani knelt and gently unwound the fatal length of silk from her neck. He examined it closely before directing his next remark to Rossobelli. “Did you find my mother?”
The abate answered with a brisk nod. “She’d hidden herself in the larder off the kitchens. If the fringe of her shawl hadn’t caught in the door, I’d be looking still.”
“Anyone about?”
“Only the footman at the front entrance. He didn’t seem to realize that anything was amiss.”
“And Matilda?”
“When I returned Marchesa Fabiani to her bed chamber, Matilda was sleeping in her chair by the fire.”
Still kneeling, Fabiani crumpled the scarf into a ball, molding the delicate fabric in his restless grasp. “You didn’t wake her, did you?”
“No. The marchesa sought her bed without a whimper, so I left Matilda as I found her.”
“Good man. With God’s favor, my plan may just work.”
Fabiani shot me a keen glance. “You seek to worm your way into my most intimate circle, Signor Amato. I cannot think of a better place for you to begin.”
“Your Eminence,” I stuttered. “I was sent to entertain, not—”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Time is too short to fence with words. It is already well past midnight. I know why Antonio Montorio made me a present of you, and I know all about your brother’s arrest.” He sighed. “Perhaps your depth of family feeling will give you some sympathy for my position.”
Rising, he unfurled the cloak, laid the length of coarse wool beside the bench, and rolled poor Gemma onto her back. “Help me, Rossobelli. She’s so small, her cloak will cover her form.”
The abate averted his face. “Hideous,” he whispered. “She was so young, so lovely.”
“I’ll grant you she was beautiful.” Fabiani stroked Gemma’s chin with his thumb and gazed at her contorted face for a long moment. “But she’s also dead, and we have work to do. Grab her feet, man.”
As Rossobelli moved to do as he was told, the cardinal addressed me. “Tito, I want you to run down the lane to the Via della Lungara. Do you know the Porta Settimiana?” He referred to the gateway to the Trastevere that Benito and I had passed through that morning.
I nodded.
“Right before the Settimiana, on the left side of the Lungara, you will find Atto Benelli’s hut. He’s an old woodsman who fishes the Tiber and tends a market garden by the river’s edge. Wake him. Tell him you are from the villa and need him to bring his boat round to the mouth of the old aqueduct. Tell him to bring some chains. Heavy ones.”
I didn’t answer. Gemma’s death mask had robbed me of speech.
“Well?” Cardinal Fabiani scowled. “Do you need an encore?”
I shook my head miserably. “No, I understand.”
“Go on, then. Down the first garden path to your left and straight out to the lane. Get back here as quickly as you can. You won’t have any trouble. Benelli will follow orders…I own the land where he grows his cabbages.”
I did as I was told. The night air was brisk and I had no cloak, but I don’t think I would have felt the cold, even if I had not been running. I might have been moving through a nightmare. I heard my steps pound the graveled lane as if from a great distance—likewise my ragged breathing—but my body was numb. The little maid who had seemed so full of pluck and vigor lay dead, strangled by another’s hand. Fabiani should have roused the household, summoned a magistrate, sent a messenger to Gemma’s family. Instead, he had hastened to conceal the crime and had drafted Rossobelli and me to help him. The reason was obvious: he believed the old marchesa had done the deed and wanted to protect her.
Protecting family I could understand. The face that floated before me, all through my
As slender as she was, Gemma’s corpse seemed to take up a great deal of space. After a moment, Cardinal Fabiani knelt and gently unwound the fatal length of silk from her neck. He examined it closely before directing his next remark to Rossobelli. “Did you find my mother?”
The abate answered with a brisk nod. “She’d hidden herself in the larder off the kitchens. If the fringe of her shawl hadn’t caught in the door, I’d be looking still.”
“Anyone about?”
“Only the footman at the front entrance. He didn’t seem to realize that anything was amiss.”
“And Matilda?”
“When I returned Marchesa Fabiani to her bed chamber, Matilda was sleeping in her chair by the fire.”
Still kneeling, Fabiani crumpled the scarf into a ball, molding the delicate fabric in his restless grasp. “You didn’t wake her, did you?”
“No. The marchesa sought her bed without a whimper, so I left Matilda as I found her.”
“Good man. With God’s favor, my plan may just work.”
Fabiani shot me a keen glance. “You seek to worm your way into my most intimate circle, Signor Amato. I cannot think of a better place for you to begin.”
“Your Eminence,” I stuttered. “I was sent to entertain, not—”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Time is too short to fence with words. It is already well past midnight. I know why Antonio Montorio made me a present of you, and I know all about your brother’s arrest.” He sighed. “Perhaps your depth of family feeling will give you some sympathy for my position.”
Rising, he unfurled the cloak, laid the length of coarse wool beside the bench, and rolled poor Gemma onto her back. “Help me, Rossobelli. She’s so small, her cloak will cover her form.”
The abate averted his face. “Hideous,” he whispered. “She was so young, so lovely.”
“I’ll grant you she was beautiful.” Fabiani stroked Gemma’s chin with his thumb and gazed at her contorted face for a long moment. “But she’s also dead, and we have work to do. Grab her feet, man.”
As Rossobelli moved to do as he was told, the cardinal addressed me. “Tito, I want you to run down the lane to the Via della Lungara. Do you know the Porta Settimiana?” He referred to the gateway to the Trastevere that Benito and I had passed through that morning.
I nodded.
“Right before the Settimiana, on the left side of the Lungara, you will find Atto Benelli’s hut. He’s an old woodsman who fishes the Tiber and tends a market garden by the river’s edge. Wake him. Tell him you are from the villa and need him to bring his boat round to the mouth of the old aqueduct. Tell him to bring some chains. Heavy ones.”
I didn’t answer. Gemma’s death mask had robbed me of speech.
“Well?” Cardinal Fabiani scowled. “Do you need an encore?”
I shook my head miserably. “No, I understand.”
“Go on, then. Down the first garden path to your left and straight out to the lane. Get back here as quickly as you can. You won’t have any trouble. Benelli will follow orders…I own the land where he grows his cabbages.”
I did as I was told. The night air was brisk and I had no cloak, but I don’t think I would have felt the cold, even if I had not been running. I might have been moving through a nightmare. I heard my steps pound the graveled lane as if from a great distance—likewise my ragged breathing—but my body was numb. The little maid who had seemed so full of pluck and vigor lay dead, strangled by another’s hand. Fabiani should have roused the household, summoned a magistrate, sent a messenger to Gemma’s family. Instead, he had hastened to conceal the crime and had drafted Rossobelli and me to help him. The reason was obvious: he believed the old marchesa had done the deed and wanted to protect her.
Protecting family I could understand. The face that floated before me, all through my
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