La Morte della Cortigianna
(Death of a Courtesan)

by Tom Rynard

“I'm not a prostitute,” the woman said somewhat indignantly as she pushed away the man who sat on the edge of the bed next to her. He had been in the process of dressing, his tunic thrown loosely over his upper torso as he worked the hose onto his leg. The woman's push propelled the man off the edge of the bed and it was only with a quick movement to stand upright that he kept from falling to the floor. In standing, though, it was necessary to let go of his hose, which slid down his calves to his ankles. He showed no shyness in his state of undress as he stood before her.

“I have sex with you and I pay you money for the pleasure,” he answered. “What does that make you?” He sat back on the bed, lifted his feet off the ground and started the process of working his hose up his legs once again. Their nights together always seemed to come to this – the man finding some way to needle the woman, although you could not really call her a woman. She was, as the man knew, no more than twenty-four or twenty-five years old. He could not explain why he had to end his time with her on such unpleasant terms. It was not resentment for having to pay for his pleasures with her. Nor was it that he shared her with other men. There was, he suspected, some inner guilt or pang of conscience that drove him to it. If she was unhappy with him and he unhappy with her as they parted, then maybe he did not carry the memory of the evening's enjoyments beyond the threshold of her apartment once he crossed it in the morning.

“I'm not a prostitute,” she repeated. “ Meretrici , they are prostitutes. They sell their bodies on the calli of the city to any passing man who offers a few mocenigo to spend a moment with them. A meretrice would not offer all this.” The woman swept her hand around the apartment. It was not an overly large room but neither was it spartanly furnished. There were two rooms, the front room which one entered from the hallway, containing an ornate sofa and chairs, two in number, and two tables. One of those tables contained a tray partly filled with food and an empty wine bottle. From the bed where the two sat, they could not see this table, and the food and wine had long been forgotten. The bedroom itself appeared almost overfilled with the items of furniture which were found there. The bed, a four-poster bed with canopy stood against one wall, the exquisite cover cast aside on the floor at the bed's foot during the evening's lovemaking. A small table sat next to the bed. On it was found the two wine glasses which had been used to consume the contents of the bottle in the next room. A simple wooden chair was also nearby within reach of the side of the bed where the man sat. The remainder of his clothes were draped over the back of this chair. A matching chair was located on the opposite wall of the room between the room's only two windows. The shutters on the window were closed, less out of modesty than privacy. The woman's apartment was at the rear of the building and looked out over the small canal, rio , as the Venetians referred to these small waterways which wove through their city. The canal was not a wide one and the apartments on the other side looked directly into the woman's apartment. The final wall of the bedroom held both a large wood wardrobe for the woman's clothes and the washstand with its bowl and pitcher of water for washing. The chamber pot sat on the floor between the legs of the washstand.

“Well, you're not a cortigianna honesta ,” the man opined, standing as he said this to work his hose over his hips. “Signora Angelina di Santi, she's a cortigianna honesta . Signora Lisabetta Corfano is a cortigianna honesta . You are a prostitute.”

The woman thought quietly about what the man had said. There was some truth to it. She was not an “honest courtesan.” At least not yet. While she did not sell her body on the street, she found it necessary on occasion to spend time in the inns and rooming houses near the Rialto going off with men for a short period of time to their rooms and returning with their money. Technically, that made her cortigianna di lume , a courtesan of the inns, but she could take as much offense to that title as she would to being called a meretrice , or common prostitute. She did, after all, have her apartment with its well-made bed and separate room for entertaining. She may have lacked the palazzo of the more successful cortigianna honesta and may not have been as refined as the women who both bore that title and who might be found listed in unofficial lists of Venice 's most renowned courtesans. But neither could it be said that she made her living solely by the exchange of sexual favors for money among the patrons of the city's inns and rooming houses. In addition, she was frequenting those much less frequently.

The man also reflected on his comments. He found himself much less optimistic of the woman's chances for success in making her way to the top class of women companions in the grand city of Venice . She lacked one thing the true cortigianna honesta possessed. She lacked refinement. A cortigianna honesta did not just sleep with a man. Indeed, there were some, although very few, who sold their time not for physical pleasures at all but for the mere enjoyment of their presence. A cortigianna honesta was a man's companion for the evening – witty, educated, literate and cognizant of what was going on in the world around her. She provided a mental stimulus and, because of the difference in sex between the two, a physical stimulus, as well. The woman propped against the headboard of the bed next to him was deficient in those things that distinguished a prostitute from una cortigianna honesta . She spoke no Latin or Greek, only her native Venetian dialect of Italian. She had read no Greek or Roman classics, nor Dante or Petrarch either, for that matter. She did not write poetry or prose or letters that exhibited the superior nature of her mind. She could write, though, he knew that. Neither was she without intelligence. Under different circumstances, she would have made a good wife and mother who cared not for politics or economics or war or service to the Republic of Venice , but who was concerned with supporting her husband, raising her children, and serving her Church. She would, the man concluded, never be a cortigianna honesta . He just hoped, no he would pray, that she escaped the life that had ensnared her before age robbed her of her looks and her desirability and she was forced to become one of those meretrice she found so objectionable.

He quickly finished dressing, securing the belt around his middle and blossoming that part of his overshirt which was above the belt. He bent down and kissed the woman on her forehead. Then, as he turned to go, he first retrieved the brown cloth bundle which he had arrived with and laid upon the chair. He fixed the floppy bareta on his head, the side hanging down to partially conceal his face. While the shutters kept out whatever light there might be from between the buildings, the man knew that daylight was approaching and that he needed to be on his way while he could still be shielded by the darkness until he came to an empty building where he could exchange the clothes he was wearing for the robe of the religious order of which he was a member.

“Until later, Francesca,” he told the woman. “I will keep you in my prayers.”

Francesca smiled up at him as he left. “Until later,” she answered. She waited until the front door of her apartment closed before she added, “I will pray for you, as well, Fra Michele.”

* * *

Francesca della Francesca rested only shortly after Fra Michele left. She was tired from her long evening with the priest, although as he aged, his sexual prowess had diminished and she could count on three to four hours of an embraced-locked sleep before awakening to one final performance of sexual intercourse before he took his leave. She rose from her bed naked and went to her washstand where she used her chamber pot and then thoroughly washed herself from the basin sitting on top of the table. Both the washbowl and the chamber pot she emptied into the canal behind her house, opening the shutters and leaning slightly out of the window, still undressed, to perform this necessary function. It was early and dark, and while the small lamp burning on the table beside her bed might provide some illumination of her body to those who lived opposite her on the canal, it was unlikely they were up yet or interested in catching a fleeting glimpse of her breasts. She closed the shutters again as she replaced both wash basin and chamber pot and opened her wardrobe to select the clothes she would wear as she left.

She chose a simple dress, only one of two in her wardrobe that was not of the finest cloth (or did not appear to be of expensive material adorned with gold or silver thread) and which had not been tailored so that the low neckline revealed more of her breasts than the sumptuary laws of Venice allowed. It was a modest dress of a modest color. The type of outfit a woman of popolani birth or limited means would wear to Mass or to the market.

That was the advantage to an evening with Fra Michele, she mused. He left early enough that she could attend the early morning service at the Chiesa di San Matteo , the Church of St. Matthew , the local parish church set among the calli and canals of the Dorsoduro district of the city where Francesca lived. Bells from the city's numerous campaniles would soon announce the day's first hour after sunrise and shortly afterwards the young priest at San Matteo would call his parishioners to prayer. As she tried to do on many mornings, Francesca would be among those twelve to fifteen faithful few who took their place in the church for the early morning service.

Chiesa di San Matteo was also known by a different name, a nickname that came to Francesca's mind each time she entered the little church and dipped her right hand into the holy water font at the back of the church and made the sign of the cross. Chiesa di Il Bobbo was its other name – the Church of the Hunchback. There was no hunchback lurking within the walls of this church. Rather, the name derived from the two holy water fonts set into the walls and facing each other as one entered the church. The basins holding the water were supported by sculptures, two men stooped and hunched over with the fonts balanced on their backs. There was no protuberance on their back marking them as hunchbacks. Their posture merely gave them such an appearance. The sculptor of these works was unknown, although they were new to the church. New, that is, in the sense of being less than fifty years old. It was similarly unknown whether the two hunchbacks had inspired the Hunchback of Basilica di Sant' Anastasia in Verona, another holy water font perched on the back of a sculpted stooping man, in that instance intended to represent one of the mill workers from the nearby River Adige.

Francesca watched as the priest went through the service. Some mornings she tried to follow the service and to listen to the words of the priest. It didn't matter that the priest spoke in Latin or that Francesca did not understand a word of that dying language. She had heard the service throughout her life in this same language and could both say the words along with the priest as he spoke and give the appropriate response when it came time for her to do so. It didn't matter that she understood only those words which were the same or approximated her native Italian. On other mornings, her mind wandered and she thought of other things than what the priest was doing at the altar at the front of the church.

Today was one of those days. Maybe it was because she had just been with Fra Michele that her mind reflected that this young priest was of the same age or thereabouts as Fra Michele had been when she and her mother began attending the parish church in the Castello district where they were living at the time. Francesca was too young then to take up the profession she now followed and she was to those at the church in Castello , and to Fra Michele as well, no more than a young girl devoutly devoted to the worship of the Christ who had died on the cross for her and to service to the Holy Mother. Nothing had changed in this respect through the years. She came often to church to pray before the images of Mary found at the side altar of both the church in Castello and at San Matteo and set aside a portion of her income to the support of the Marin society of the parish of San Matteo dedicated to honoring the Virgin Mary.

The things she prayed for had changed dramatically, though, over the past two years. She now prayed for her mother, a woman in her late forties, laying in a hospital bed suffering from both the physical and mental ailments of the advanced stages of morbus gallicus – the French Pox – syphilis. Francesca's mother had herself been a cortigianna di lume and had been the one to introduce Francesca to the profession of selling sexual favors for money. In part, it had been an economic decision – the mother had aged and was no longer enjoying the meager, but livable, income she had enjoyed previously. The two needed a second income to continue to be able to afford a roof over their head and food for their stomachs. For a woman of her mother's profession, marriage was not an option. No man of any honor would have her. While Francesca's mother had been setting money aside as a dowry for her daughter's wedding, the fund had not grown fast enough to marry Francesca off before the mother's economic fortunes turned sour. She had suffered from a second disadvantage in this regard. There was no father to negotiate a wedding contract for Francesca and the mother had no male relative or benefactor who would do this on her behalf. No one would negotiate such a deal with a woman, especially one who was a cortigianna di lume . When Francesca turned seventeen, her mother put her to work. Francesca had no resentment or remorse over her fate. Her mother, she knew, had done her best for Francesca. The pot of money which had been insufficient to pay a dowry had been enough to procure the two room apartment where Francesca lived and entertained her guests.

Francesca did not take communion during the service. She could not bring herself to individually confess her sins to the priest. Instead, like so many others, she waited until the Sunday Mass when a communal confession and absolution was part of the service. At the appropriate time, the congregation would confess their sins en masse , the volume of one's recitation of the sins being confessed being in inverse proportion to the seriousness of the infractions. Francesca rarely spoke above a whisper in making her confession, concerned that those around her would have their ears straining to learn something of her sexual endeavors.

On this morning, as with every morning, the Mass ended shortly after the sacrament of communion was celebrated. Following the service, Francesca did not immediately leave but neither did most of those who had been present. Now that the group worship was over, individual prayer and supplication could begin before the four lesser altars that were placed along the sides of the church. Francesca joined three others at the altar dedicated to the Immaculate Conception. Placing a coin in the box before the painting of the Virgin Mary that hung over the altar, Francesca lit a votive candle. On this day she said two prayers: one for the relief of her poor mother. The other for the soul of Fra Michele.

From the parish church, Francesca made her way to Ospedale San Angelo located in the Dorsoduro district on a small canal halfway between the Campo Santa Margherita and the fondamente that lined the Canale della Giudecca , the body of water separating the southern end of the main islands of Venice from the island of Giudecca . Francesca approached the hospital on foot, however, making her way down narrow calli and over small bridges spanning the small and large canals of the district. While the city had come to life by time the church service was over, she passed few people on the back calli she traveled. It wasn't until she emerged into the Campo Santa Margherita that she encountered large groups of people and the hustle and bustle of the day. Turning south from the campo , she soon found herself in semi-isolation again, passing only an occasional person on his way to work or a mother and her children heading for market.

Entrance to Ospedale San Angelo from the land was through the narrowest of calle . Few people visited the hospital operated by the order of Augustinian nuns who had recently taken residence in the Convent of San Marta in the Dorsoduro district. For those who did, the preferred entrance was by water. Eventually, however, one of the nuns answered the knock of Francesca at the small door in the calle and allowed her entrance to the hospital.

Ospedale San Angelo was a hospital for the incurabili , those inflicted with incurable but non-contagious diseases. The greater part of them, like Francesca's mother, suffered from the morbus gallicus . It was a strange mix, Francesca reflected every time she visited: prostitutes being punished with venereal disease for their sins of the flesh and the Augustinian nuns condemned to works of charity among such ill-begotten women. That was one thing that Francesca had to be thankful for – her mother had not placed her in a convent. Many of the convents were rife with sexual misconduct between the members. As a courtesan, Francesco at least got paid for the sex in which she engaged and she did not have to suffer through the more disagreeable duties of caring for the infirm.

“The doctor was in to see your mother first thing this morning,” the nun told Francesca. Francesca came often to the hospital and was personally known by all those who worked there.

“Did he have anything to say?” Francesca asked. From the hallway leading to the back door, the two came out into an open ward containing twelve beds, six to a side. They continued through this room, through a set of double doors at the far end of the room, and made their way to the front entrance on the canal side of the building. A set of stairs was just inside this double doorway and the two began their ascent. The hospital covered three floors. The bottom two held twelve patients each. The top floor contained the kitchen for preparing meals, a small office and an open area with beds for the nuns who were on duty although these were usually only used by those who worked in the hospital through the night.

“A week, no more than two and she will have to be moved downstairs. I'm sorry,” the nun said. As a patient's condition worsened and she neared death she was moved downstairs for no better reason than to have her closer to the door for the removal of her corpse when she died. It was because the sickest women were on this floor that the canal entrance was the one most often used. A visitor to the hospital could avoid the scene that awaited him or her on this floor by coming through the front water door and could be spared knowing what awaited the patient being visited until the patient was literally on death's door. By then, the patient's visitors had usually stopped coming to visit.

Francesca's mother was in a bed close to the room's entrance. A chair sat next to the bed. Francesca moved it quietly away from the wall and turned it so she would be facing her mother. Her mother's eyes were closed and she looked to be at peace. At least from what little was visible of her face. A white cotton veil covered her face from below her eyes. The disease had started to ravage her face and, as it often did, had eaten away at her nose. It was now gone, replaced only by two elongated holes above her mouth. Her face had also become pock-marked so that the veil covered this blemish to a once attractive face. Francesca quietly breathed a sigh of relief on seeing her mother resting peacefully with her eyes closed. Her periods of dementia had lately come to outnumber her periods of lucidity, both in number and length.

But Francesca's mother was not asleep and although Francesca had made no noise whatsoever in moving the chair away from the wall and sitting in it, her mother had somehow sensed her presence. Her eyes flickered open and she reached her hand out to her daughter.

“Francesca,” her voice came from beneath her veil.

“Mama,” Francesca answered as she took her mother's hand in one hand and patted it with the other. Francesca quickly and quietly thanked the Virgin Mary. Her mother was lucid this morning.

“The doctor was in this morning,” Francesca's mother told her.

“Yes, I was told.”

“Francesca, don't let me die downstairs,” her mother pleaded with her. “Anything but that.”

“What can I do, mama. I can't take you home. I can't take care of you. You know that. If they tell you, you've got to go downstairs, what choice do we have? But let's not talk about this. It's not our concern right now,” Francesca lied, “you won't be leaving this room anytime soon.”

“I don't think that is what the doctor thinks,” was her mother's reply.

Francesca sat with her mother throughout the morning. At times, the two talked quietly. At times, her mother slept. And at times, the dementia took over and the mother talked incoherently. As Francesca made ready to leave, her mother's eyes opened again.

“Francesca, I don't want to go downstairs. Save me from that. Please,” she pleaded with her daughter one last time.

Francesca fought back her tears and put on a brave face.

“Mama, let's not worry about that until the time comes.” Francesca bent down and kissed her mother on the forehead and left the room. As she walked through the ward on the building's first floor to exit through the rear door, she truly saw the ward for the first time.

Leaving Ospedale San Angelo , she made her way home where she would first sleep for a few hours then rise to eat a small meal before preparing her apartment for her scheduled visitor for the evening – not Fra Michele but another client. Another night of freedom from selling her body at the inns and boarding houses along the Rialto . For tonight she would be a cortigianna honesta again.

* * *

Reginaldo Morosini sat in the Savaranola chair at the middle of the long table that served as both his dining table and his desk. On this day, as on many days when he was working on his research, one end of the table had been cleared so that Josef, his servant, could place Reginaldo's breakfast before him while the remainder of the table contained the books, papers and writings on which he was working. The dishes from the morning meal had not been removed yet. Josef would wait to put the table in order after Reginaldo had gone next door for a day of teaching at the academy he operated.

Reginaldo was at a stopping point in the history he was writing on Doge Dandolo and his role in the Fourth Crusade waged against the Christian city of Constantinople . His chair was pushed away from the table, his body leaned back, his feet thrown out under the table and crossed before him. Reginaldo sat with his eyes closed, not sleeping, but listening to the sounds of everyday life that were going on in the small campo on which his academy and home were located. The pleasant temperature of the early fall day allowed the doors to the balcony to be open. The voices of the women gathered at the campo's carved well-head and the noise of their young children playing in the square carried their way to Reginaldo inside his rooms. These sounds of everyday life brought a certain peace to Reginaldo as he momentarily escaped from the thoughts of Doge Dandolo. The noise of life on the campo was suddenly punctured, though, by silence. The women quit talking and the children quit playing. This, Reginaldo knew, signaled that someone had entered the campo from one of the calli leading into it. The silence was only momentarily. “Ciao, Signora,” “Buon giorno, Signora,” indicated that the women at the well-head recognized the person entering the campo . “Ciao,” the person responded in turn, a woman's voice, a voice that Reginaldo immediately recognized as belonging to Lisabetta Corfano.

He stirred and stood to go to the balcony to greet her himself, thought better of it, and returned to his chair, although he did not slouch as he had been doing when he heard her enter the campo . Shortly, there was a double rap at the door to the front room of his apartment and the door opened. Reginaldo turned as Josef entered the large room where Reginaldo sat.

“Signora Corfano is here unannounced. She wishes to speak with you, although I suggested that you would be shortly leaving for your morning class and would not be long. Shall I show her in?” Josef said.

Reginaldo wanted to smile at both the thought of Josef suggesting to Signora Corfano that Reginaldo might not see her and also asking Reginaldo whether she should be allowed entry to his rooms. As though Reginaldo could, or would, say, no. He suppressed the smile, but could do nothing to hide the twinkle in his eye which equally expressed his humor at the situation.

“Is she accompanied by anyone? Or is she alone?” Reginaldo inquired.

“Master Roberto is with her, as well,” Josef answered. That he knew, would all but open the door of the apartment to Signora Corfano, even if there had been the slightest possibility that his employer would not have agreed to meet with the woman. Josef did not wait for further comment or instruction from Reginaldo. “I will show them in,” he said, then turned and left the room. In less than a minute he had returned and announced the presence of Signora Corfano and Master Roberto who stood in the doorway behind him.

“Thank you, Josef, and one other thing,” Reginaldo said before the servant had an opportunity to exit the apartment.

“Yes, Ser Morosini?” Josef said.

“Find either Dottor Piti or Dottor da Ferrara and ask them to assign one of the older boys to watch over my class until I can get there.”

“Yes, Ser Morosini,” Josef answered. He then turned and passed out of the apartment.

As Josef left, it was if the shackles had been loosed from the boy who had accompanied Lisabetta Corfano to the Accademe di San Paolo. He immediately launched himself at a full run towards Reginaldo.

“Papa!” he cried. Reginaldo had risen and turned towards the boy and his mother as they had entered the room behind Josef but he lowered himself, one knee on the floor, to take the charge of his son. The boy flew into his father's arms and the two embraced.

“Roberto, I know I did not come by this morning to see you, but you didn't have to travel all this way to make up for it. I was, after all, there just yesterday. And the day before, as well. I will also visit with you tomorrow morning.” As he was saying this, Reginaldo was looking at Lisabetta and addressing her as much as he was Roberto. Every morning, Reginaldo attended the first service at the Chiesa della Madonna , a small church where Reginaldo went to worship Mary for the miracle her image had worked on Reginaldo as a youth. Most mornings, when the service was over, Reginaldo traveled the short distance to the small palazzo owned by Lisabetta Corfano to greet his son as he woke and to spend an hour or so of the day with him before returning to his academy. It was very rare that Roberto, or for that matter Lisabetta, would come to Accademia d' San Polo . Such a visit meant either that Lisabetta had something important to tell Reginaldo or had a favor to ask.

“I'm here to ask you to look into something for me,” Lisabetta said, having followed Roberto into the room, although at a much slower pace. It was as though she had read his mind but then that was not unusual. The two were close, although the physical part of the relationship which had produced their son was ended and had been from the time that Roberto was born. Marriage between the two had always been out of the question. The relationship had blossomed into a sexual one once Lisabetta's husband had died, but Reginaldo was nobili and she was cittadini , and had no dowry to bring to the relationship. Regardless of Reginaldo's personal desires, a member of the Morosini family, even one such as Reginaldo who was one or two steps removed from the part of the Morosini family which played such an influential role in Venetian politics, could not marry under such circumstances. Both Reginaldo and Lisabetta also knew that Lisabetta would chafe in the role of dutiful wife to a member of the nobili . She had already begun to feel a lack of fulfillment from her marriage to a member of the cittadini and, while she did not rejoice at the death of her husband, she came to appreciate her freedom once she overcame his untimely demise.

Still, Reginaldo had been and continued to be drawn to her. There was a refinement about her. She was intelligent and educated, although largely self-educated. She was a beautiful woman and possessed grace and social skills. If Reginaldo could not marry her, he could help her, though. Both also knew that as a widow and with her husband's brother succeeding to the business, Lisabetta had only one career option open to her that suited her intelligence and education. With Reginaldo providing financial support in the beginning and remaining available throughout the time he knew her, Lisabetta undertook to be a cortigianna honesta . The physical part of their relationship was over but the two remained close. The only tension between them was an unstated one that looked off in the not too distant future. The day was coming when Roberto would be old enough to enter his father's academy. At that time he would leave his home with Lisabetta and take up residence with his father.

“Francesca della Francesca was found dead in her room this morning,” Lisabetta continued. The blank look on Reginaldo's face told her that he did not know who Francesca was. Had she thought it through, she would have realized there was no reason for Reginaldo to know her. Lisabetta was still acting under the shock of learning of Francesca's death, however, and had not been thinking clearly. “She aspired to be a cortigianna honesta . I had been helping her some – occasionally sending a patron her way or just talking with her.”

“Is it not something the vigili could handle. Maybe Ser Dinardi's office?” Reginaldo was merely making suggestions. He knew that, in the end, he would do whatever Lisabetta asked of him.

“No,” she answered. “The vigili at the sestieri have ruled her death a suicide. There is no further investigation by them or the Avogadori .”

“And you have reason to doubt them?” Reginaldo asked.

Lisabetta had wanted to answer the question in the affirmative. She had heard Reginaldo complain on numerous occasions about how inept the vigile from the districts could be. But she did not answer right away as she gave thought to Reginaldo's question. She really had no knowledge of the killing, the vigili coming to notify Lisabetta that morning of the death after finding a letter from Lisabetta in the room of Francesca and not finding anything further to identify a member of the family or a friend who might be willing to claim the body. They had told her of the death of Francesca, that it had been a suicide, and where the body had been taken. The statement concerning the cause of death had a simple purpose. If Lisabetta was the one to claim the body, she would need to know that the death was by suicide. Both a church mass and burial in consecrated ground would be denied Francsesca as a result.

“No, I don't know one way or another,” Francesca answered truthfully. “I'd like to believe her life wasn't so unbearable that she had to take her own life.” She added, “Reginaldo, who knows why a person commits suicide. I don't. . . and I don't want it to be that Francesca della Francesca killed herself.”

Roberto remained in the room, standing at the hearth at the back of the room, moving the ashes around to see if any embers remained from the fire that had been burning there the evening previously. He worked the embers silently, listening to Reginaldo and Lisabetta talking of the Francesca woman he did not know, and not understanding what it all meant. He had been forgotten by his parents as they talked but Reginaldo suddenly remembered him.

“Roberto, come here,” he called out to the boy. Roberto replaced the iron poker and went to his father. Reginaldo reached out his hand and placed it on the boy's shoulder. “Go outside and play with the children in the campo . Your mother and I will not be long.” The boy turned and ran from the room. Reginaldo and Lisabetta had not had time to restart their conversation before they could hear the boy's voice in the campo below calling out to the other children in the small square.

“There wasn't anything we were going to say that he couldn't have heard,” Reginaldo said in explanation for sending Roberto from the room.

“I know,” Lisabetta said, smiling as she added, “You were just worried he was going to burn your school down playing in the fireplace.” Reginaldo smiled back at her.

“No, I didn't want him to see his mother so worried.” The smile had left Reginaldo's face as he returned to the topic of Francesca della Francesca. “Why does this woman's death trouble you so, Lisabetta ?”

The two classes of courtesans and common prostitutes occasionally faced violence from their partners. The meretrici and cortigianna di lume faced this problem more often than the cortigianna honesta . The clients of the meretrici and cortigianna di lume were typically not wealthy or sophisticated and there could sometimes be arguments over the fee charged or the quality of the services provided. Sometimes the violence went too far and the woman ended up dead. When something like this happened, the word quickly spread through the community of courtesans and prostitutes. The reaction, though, beyond the outpouring of support, if any, for the family of the woman murdered, was one of thanks for not being the victim. Such incidents were usually so isolated that the women did not overly fear the violence would continue. There had been one or two cases during the history of the City of Venice in which the same person was believed to have murdered a number of prostitutes over time. It was these cases which drove the fear of the courtesans and the prostitutes into wondering whether such a killer was loose in the city again. Lisabetta was not concerned on this account. She was troubled by something more personal.

“I knew her. . . I was trying to help her . . . They can find no one else to claim the body . . . I will have to bury her if no one else can be found . . . She deserves better than a suicide's funeral.”

“I cannot do this as consultore ,” Reginaldo told her. “But I will look into this woman's death”. The title of consultore , or counselor, was not a permanent one. It was a title (and not an office, Reginaldo liked to say) that was bestowed on Reginaldo by the Council of Ten whenever it thought it necessary for Reginaldo to investigate a matter at its request. When acting in that capacity, Reginaldo would have special powers and authority issued him from the Council to carry out his duties. This delegation of power would be absent in this instance.

* * *

The police authorities in Venice were composed of overlapping layers, from the local vigili at each of the six sestieri or districts comprising the city, to the barca longha who were also organized along sestieri lines and patrolled the city's canals in their police barges that were little more than floating arsenals, to the Signori di Notte or men of the night who were responsible for keeping the peace during the night time hours, to the Avogadori di Commun who were the city's principal prosecutors and, ultimately, to the Council of Ten.

Lisabetta had been correct that the Avogadori di Commun was not interested in the death of Francesca della Francesca. Reginaldo had first gone to the office of Ser Dinardi to make sure he had no interest in the death. Segregario to the Avogadori di Commun , Ser Dinardi had his own group of vigili , the polizia giudizaria , who worked with him in the investigation of the more serious crimes of Venice . These usually came in two varieties: murders involving nobili as either victim or perpetrators and crimes directly against the Republic of Venice . As Reginaldo knew, suicide would not be one of the crimes that Dinardi's office would be called in to investigate unless the victim had been a member of the nobili and there were unusual circumstances surrounding the death or the person was particularly prominent. Francesca's death had involved neither. This left the handling of the matter with either the sestiere police office or the office of the Signori di Notte , depending on when the death was discovered. Lisabetta was not able to identify the vigile who notified her of the death of Francesca as one or the other. Reginaldo soon discovered that Francesca's death had not been handled by the Signori di Notte but by the vigile of Sestiere di Dorsoduro .

Signor Guiulio Matteni was known to Reginaldo. Just like the vigili of the sestieri were more corrupt and, some would say, coarser than their counterparts on the Signori di Notte , the vigili of the Dorsoduro were considered more corrupt and coarser than the vigili from the other five districts in the city. And, although Signore Matteni could not be considered coarse by any means, he was considered more corrupt than his counterparts on the district's police force. Corruption had not been an impediment to Matteni rising through the ranks. He was the head of the vigili of the district, the capo .

Reginaldo walked next to Matteni as they went from the capo's small office in Dorsoduro to the building where Francesca della Francesca had kept her apartment and where she had died. Matteni, as noted earlier, could not be considered coarse in either appearance or demeanor. In his late thirties, slightly taller than average height, of medium build without the softness of body of one approaching his fortieth year, and with blue eyes that suggested a prior ancestor from the northern reaches of Europe , Matteni was articulate, quite affable and attractive to women. The secret to not coming under his spell, Reginaldo knew, was to lessen the exposure to his charms, either by avoiding him outright or by not allowing him to control the discussion. This latter course of action, Reginaldo knew was often easier in conception than in practice.

At the doorway to Francesca's building, Reginaldo and Matteni were met by another vigile of the sestiere , the one who had been on duty that morning and had investigated the death. Like Matteni, the vigile wore the dark blue uniform of his office, the forearm of the right sleeve decorated with three silver stripes denoting his assignment to the vigili of Dorsoduro. Matteni's uniform differed in only one respect – his left sleeve was similarly adorned with stripes to designate his position of capo of the district's police force. The man was introduced to Reginaldo as Guidobaldo Fini.

The three entered the building and climbed the steps to the second floor apartment where Francesca had lived. As they climbed the stairs, Fini explained how he had just reported to the office that morning when a woman entered the station, sent by her husband. She couldn't be sure, she said, but she thought that a woman was dead in the building behind her. Why did she think that, Matteni had asked the woman. She was laying on the bed, totally naked, unmoving, no sign of her breathing, the woman answered. Did you check to see if she was breathing, Matteni asked. The woman explained that she or her husband had not entered the room. Their rooms looked into the dead woman's apartment from across the canal. Her husband had first seen the body when he opened the shutters of the window at the back of their apartment to empty the chamber pot into the canal. He called his wife over to look and together they decided there was something unnatural about the way the body was laid out, so peaceful. Matteni had sent Fini along with the woman to check on the woman on the bed. It had not been easy, Fini explained to Reginaldo. Fini and the woman had approached the row of buildings from the calle that accessed the building from the land. The woman was not familiar with the buildings on the calle and could not say which of the three fronting on the calle was the one where she had seen Francesca that morning. The two had visited five apartments before finding the correct one. The woman and her husband had been correct. Francesca della Francesca was dead, totally naked, laying on top of her bed.

Fini, Matteni and Reginaldo entered the apartment. What's been moved since you found the body, Reginaldo asked. Fini assured him nothing had been taken from the apartment. Except for the body, of course, he added. Reginaldo gave the vigile a sideways glance. Fini was the epitome of everything bad said and believed of the vigili of the sestiere of Dorsoduro. Overweight, his uniform too tight, stained and soiled, the effects of excessive drinking obvious on his face and his breath at this late hour of the afternoon, Fini looked the part of the corrupt and inept police officer. It was impossible to believe that he would not have helped himself to something of value from the room. Reginaldo's hope was that he had not removed anything that would help him understand the death of Francesca.

Reginaldo looked around the front room of the apartment. It was obviously designed to serve the purpose of a parlor for entertaining clients. The furniture was well-cared for although not new, probably purchased second hand. There was nothing special about it. Reginaldo did take note of the table which stood against one of the walls. Atop the table were two trays. One held an empty bottle of wine, neither an expensive nor cheap wine, probably purchased from a nearby wine shop. The other held cheese and fruit, although the tray also gave the appearance of having once held more food than was presently on the table. On the shelf below were stored four wine glasses and four plates. Satisfied that he had seen everything to be seen in the room, Reginaldo moved with the two vigili into the bedroom.

“How did you decide the woman committed suicide?” Reginaldo asked. Matteni had already told him some of this as the two walked over from Matteni's office but Reginaldo also wanted to hear from Fini.

“We found the package containing the poison on the table next to her bed along with her wine glass,” the vigile answered.

“And you knew the package contained poison?” Reginaldo followed up.

“It was written on the package,” Fini responded, “and a very small amount remained inside. Why are you so interested in how the prostitute came to die, Ser Morosini?” When Matteni had introduced Reginaldo to Fini, he had not mentioned Reginaldo's occasional work for the Council of Ten as consultore on criminal matters or Reginaldo's status as a medical doctor. Matteni interjected at this point.

“Ser . . . no, Dottor Morosini is special consultore to the Council of Ten. The Council thinks little of the ability of its vigili , especially us vigili of the sestieri . They call the dottore in to investigate the deaths or crimes the Council thinks are important.” The tone of voice with which this was said showed that Matteni resented the work that Reginaldo did for the Council of Ten. It also evidenced the low regard Matteni had of the Council of Ten as well.

Reginaldo ignored Matteni's comments and addressed himself directly to Fini.

“As I explained to Signore Matteni, I am not here at the request of the Council of Ten. Someone has asked me to help in arranging Signorina della Francesca's funeral.” Reginaldo hesitated at this point to see if it was necessary to continue in his explanation. Neither of the vigili responded so he continued. “The cause of her death interests me,” he said, “for the obvious reason. If she committed suicide, we cannot bury her in consecrated ground.”

“Even a common prostitute deserves some dignity in death,” Fini answered, showing some compassion that surprised Reginaldo. Maybe it shouldn't have been so surprising, though. Venice regulated its courtesans and prostitutes, recognizing the inevitability of such a trade in a city that served as Europe 's hub to the trade of the East. From his appearance and given his position, Fini also likely had ample contact with the meretrice who roamed the calli of Dorsoduro, offering a relaxed enforcement of the restrictions on the prostitutes in exchange for their services at no cost. Fini's personal contacts with the prostitutes of his district likely left him seeing the prostitutes as people and not society's undesirables simply to be tolerated.

“That's true,” Reginaldo answered, “but the Church has its own rules about suicides and those rules must be observed.” The two policemen nodded their heads in agreement.

“Perhaps,” Matteni suggested, misunderstanding what Reginaldo had said as a suggestion, “with the proper compensation, we could reconsider the cause of death. It occurs to me as we are standing here that we might have been too hasty in our judgment as to how Signorina della Francesca came to die. It would take some money to re-conduct the investigation but it seems further investigation would show that her death was accidental. Maybe she took too much of the henbane in error and that is what killed her. Would your patron be interested in funding our review of the circumstances of the death of the signorina?”

Reginaldo did not take the bait, at least not at this point. The option of a bribe to Matteni would always exist should he not find something to show that Francesca's death was something other than suicide. He would tell Lisabetta of what Matteni had offered and she could decide if she wanted to pay the bribe to have Francesca laid to rest within the church. Besides, given the reputation for greed and corruption that was attached to the vigili of Dorsoduro, it occurred to Reginaldo that the vigili had arrived at their conclusion on the cause of death less from the facts before them and more from the what could be gotten from the family of the deceased.

“What you suggest – that the woman died from an accidental overdose – is as easily explained by what you have said so far as is the conclusion that she committed suicide,” Reginaldo countered. “Why should it be necessary to re-open your investigation to conclude otherwise from the facts you already have?”

“The dottore agrees that it was suicide,” Fini countered.

“Dottor Zapudin has looked at her death?” Reginaldo asked. Venice required that unnatural deaths be reviewed by a physician to determine if there was evidence that foul play was involved and Dottor Zapudin was often – more precisely, almost always – the doctor called in for the examination. Highly competent and respected by the city's police authorities and the other physicians in the community, Dottor Zapudin's opinion on the cause of death could not be, would not be, ignored by Reginaldo in his inquiry into the death of Francesca della Francesca. Reginaldo held Dottor Zapudin in too high esteem for that.

Matteni cut in before Fini could answer.

“We don't need any Jewish dottore in our sestiere telling us our business. We used one of our own.” Underlying Matteni's comment were two facts about Venice and her Jewish population. First, as recently as 1516, the Jews were restricted to their own residential area of the city, the Ghetto. Formerly the foundry area in the sestiere of Cannaregio, the Ghetto was surrounded on all sides by canals and enclosed by buildings and walls effectively isolating the Jews on their own island in the city of islands. Further, they were prohibited from carrying on trades outside the Ghetto except for some very limited professions. The medical profession was one of those exempted trades, although Dottor Zapudin was not relieved of the need to wear the yellow circle on his togata identifying him as a Jew. Reginaldo suspected that there was more to the choice of doctor than a desire to have a Christian perform the examination. Dottor Zapudin would not be willing to kick back a portion of the fee he would receive for performing the examination. No doubt, there were other physicians that could be found in Dorsoduro who were less scrupled.

“It was Dottor Cambano,” Fini offered. For some reason inexplicable to Reginaldo, Fini appeared to be more interested in cooperating with Reginaldo than did his superior. Reginaldo knew Dottor Cambano. He was a young doctor, competent, although a little inexperienced. He wasn't sure how searching his examination might have been, but he could be expected to talk openly and candidly with Reginaldo about it.

“There was more,” Fini continued. “Her mother had been very ill for a long time. The French pox killed her. She died three days ago and was buried the day before the signorina took her own life. She was extremely upset over her mother's death. And we talked to the apothecary where the henbane came from. He confirmed that the signorina herself had purchased what would have been a fatal dose of the substance if taken all at once.”

“How were you able to identify the poison as henbane and identify the apothecary shop where it was purchased?” Reginaldo wondered.

“That was the easy part, Ser Morosini. The apothecary packaged the henbane in a wrapper and had written both its contents and the date it was sold on the outside. We went to the local apothecary and he identified the package as his own. There was also a small amount of the substance remaining in the package.”

Reginaldo looked around the bedroom, walking around the bed and examining it, the other furnishings in the room and the floor. The window overlooking the canal had been closed when they had entered the room but Matteni had opened it to allow the room to be illuminated. Reginaldo looked out and identified the building and window opposite which gave the best view of the bed where the body had been seen that morning. Next to the bed, on the side away from the window, there was a wine goblet matching those on the bottom shelf of the table in the front room along with a small plate, empty except for some small crumbs, and a candle. Reginaldo picked up the goblet. It was empty, the residual wine in its bottom having dried. There was also a small table on the side of the bed next to the window. The only thing held by this table was a candle matching the one on the bedside table opposite it. When he opened the wardrobe, Fini looked uncomfortable and shifted uneasily. It contained a plain dress, clearly not one worn by a courtesan while entertaining her guests and one other outfit that would serve a courtesan well. Absent were the platform shoes that were so fashionable in Venice or, for that matter, any shoes at all. Reginaldo looked down at the floor of the wardrobe where the footwear should have been and then up at Fini, arching his eyebrows to silently ask the question, where are the shoes? Fini flushed and turned away from Reginaldo, unable to meet his gaze. Undoubtedly, Signora Fini was already enjoying some new additions to her own wardrobe. Reginaldo only hoped that the shoes fit. The washbasin on its own table near the window was half-filled with water, the pitcher next to it empty. The chamber pot stored below contained a little water, suggesting to Reginaldo that it had been used and rinsed out before being returned to its place.

Reginaldo finished his examination of the room and turned to questioning Fini on how he had found things when he arrived. He pointed to where the body had been, slightly off center of the bed, closer to the table containing the wine goblet and plate. The contents of the table remained as they had been found. The only thing missing was the package that had contained the henbane which Fini had taken with him in his efforts to locate the apothecary from which it had been purchased. Fini pointed out where the package had lain on the table. The only other change to the room, Fini noted, was that the candles on the tables next to the bed had been burning when he arrived. Both candles, Reginaldo asked. Both, Fini confirmed. The window had also been opened. Was the lighting sufficient from the open window to see when you arrived, Reginaldo asked. Yes, Fini answered and apparently anticipating Reginaldo's next question, he added that it had been light for about an hour before they arrived. Fini also had the package which had previously contained the henbane with him. Reginaldo inspected it, noting that its contents, “Henbane,” and the date of purchase were written on it. The poison had been purchased three days previously. Reginaldo also asked where the body had been taken – it was being held at the hospital around the corner until someone could claim it – and whether anyone had cleaned the room since Fini had arrived that morning – no, it was in the same condition as that morning.

“Have you talked with the others living in the building?” Reginaldo asked. “Was anybody with her last night?”

“I checked with the other residents,” Fini said. “No one heard the signorina last night . . . leave or come home. For all they know, she was home all night.”

“Anybody come in ?”

“Nobody heard anything, but that doesn't mean anything. The woman across the hall was out tending to a sick father. The people downstairs wouldn't have heard anything. Or so they say.”

“Did they know whether the signorina had any regular visitors?” Reginaldo thought he had probably learned everything of importance there was to know from Fini. Still, for all his appearances, and the reputation of the vigili of Dorsoduro, Fini's investigation had been surprisingly thorough and competent. Maybe he had also inquired about regular visitors to Francesca's apartment.

“None they knew by name,” Fini answered, surprising Reginaldo that he had thought to inquire about this matter. “There were three or four that have been here often enough that the neighbors had passed them in the halls or on the stairs more than once. One was a merchant – cloth goods, the neighbor thought – with a shop on the Mercerie. Another, the neighbors simply called the ‘brown bundle man.' He always seemed to have a brown bundle under his arm, whether he was coming or going. And a bareta on his head, even inside the building. Another one was a nobili . He never wore his togata in the building, they said. But you could tell.”

“Thank you for your time and information, signor,” Reginaldo told Fini as he walked from the room and left the apartment. The three parted company at the calle outside the building, Reginaldo going in one direction and Matteni and Fini going in the other.

* * *

Reginaldo's next stop was at the apartment of the couple that had reported Francesca's death to the police. The door was answered by a woman that Reginaldo guessed was in her late fifties or early sixties. The leathery look to her skin suggested a life spent in the sun. Her stooped walk and shrunken appearance indicated a hard life, either one of physical labor or multiple childbirths. When she spoke, it also became obvious that she was not originally from Venice . The accent identified her as from somewhere on the western coast of the Adriatic , although Reginaldo could not pinpoint exactly where. She must have spent sufficient years in Venice now for her native accent to have taken on a polyglot of her native tongue, northern Italian and the distinctive Venetian dialect. As Reginaldo suspected before the door even opened and he became aware that the woman was not born or raised in Venice , his togata would have a definite impression on the residents of the small apartment where the nobili might have never set foot before. The woman opened the door wide to allow him entry and worked hard to answer his questions the best she could.

She had little to tell him, though. Her husband was out at his job where he worked as a carpenter for un squero , that is one of the many small boatyards in Venice that constructed the gondolas and other small craft that made their way up and down the city's canals. He would not be returning home until shortly after it started getting dark. It had been the woman's husband who had first noticed Francesca's lifeless body. The truth be told, the woman told Reginaldo, her husband often watched for Francesca to appear at her window, although he did not know that his wife was aware of what he was doing. The woman knew what Francesca did for a living. It wasn't that Francesca opened her apartment to view for anyone who wished to watch her and her lovers. That much she was very good at – the windows were always shut during the night when she was entertaining. It was in the morning, when she was cleaning herself that she would appear ever so briefly at her window to empty her washbasin and chamber pot and show an ever so brief glimpse of herself at the window. That had been the only unusual thing about seeing her that morning. The window had been left open and Francesca was laid out on her bed. That was how the woman had known something was wrong. That wasn't something that Francesca would have done and she certainly would not have allowed herself to lay naked on her bed in the pose her body was found in and with her window open. Where the neighbors were concerned, Francesca truly was modest.

* * *

Dottor Cambano was exiting his building, carrying with him his medical instruments in a bag, at the same time that Reginaldo was arriving. I can't talk right now, the young doctor told Reginaldo, explaining that he had been sent for to help with a difficult delivery. Reginaldo offered to accompany him to assist in any way.

Dottor Cambano could not be more than twenty-five, Reginaldo reflected as the two hurried along the calle towards the house to which Cambano had been called. He couldn't remember where the young doctor had studied his medicine or even if he had studied medicine at university at all. Reginaldo had become familiar with Dottor Cambano a year earlier when he was introduced to the young man and told that he had recently started to treat patients in the city. Their paths had crossed a few more times over the year but all that Reginaldo could say about Dottor Cambano was that he seemed competent in what he did, even if his lack of experience still left him a little naïve in his approach to his patients.

“I know nothing of the woman we are going to see,” Dottor Cambano explained as the two walked, “or of the difficulty in her birthing. The mid-wife she has hired has sent for me before when she had encountered difficulties or felt the mother was in danger. Most likely because of the cheap fee I charge for my services,” he added.

“Perhaps that was the reason the first time,” Reginaldo answered him, “but she would not keep calling on you if you were not skilled. It is not in the interest of a mid-wife to call in a doctor who cannot save a mother in danger from the rigors of childbirth. A dead mother will not give birth again and have no occasion to call on the services of the mid-wife for future children.”

“Nonetheless, it will be good to have along someone who has been practicing medicine longer than I have,” Dottor Cambano countered one kindness with another.

They arrived at the house not soon afterwards. The building was located on a small campo much like the one on which Reginaldo's academy was located. The only real difference was that this campo was of packed dirt, a real campo or field, and not paved over with stones as Reginaldo had done with the one outside his academy. The buildings were also not as well-maintained as the buildings that shared the campo with Reginaldo's two buildings. A number of people were gathered near the door to one of the buildings fronting on the square. That would be the place we are heading, Reginaldo thought. Dottor Cambano recognized the boy who had been sent to his apartment to ask for him to hurry along to his mother's house. He was standing in a small group of both children and adults.

Inside, Reginaldo and Dottor Cambano were greeted by an eerie silence. A man, obviously the husband and father of the family, sat in a darkened corner, his body leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his head resting on his hands. It really was not possible, but on seeing this, and observing the silence that permeated the rooms, the two doctors appeared to increase their pace as they headed to the back of the house. Inside the bedroom where the mother was to give birth, the two were met by the mid-wife. Dottor Cambano had arrived too late to save either mother or baby. Both were dead, the mother laying motionless on the bed, her eyes having been closed by the mid-wife and her stillborn child wrapped in a towel and laying lifeless on her stomach. The mid-wife, herself, seemed to be recovering from the double tragedy. Dottor Cambano went to the woman and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Some things can't be prevented,” Cambano told the woman. “There wasn't anything else you could have done to save her.”

The mid-wife must have felt otherwise as she answered, “I should not have waited so long to call you in, Dottore.”

“I'm not sure there was anything you could have done to save the woman even if you had been there when she began her labor,” Reginaldo told Dottor Cambano later. After the two had examined both the dead mother and her stillborn child, they had sought out the woman's husband to give him comfort and to inform him of what had killed his wife. The mid-wife, on the other hand, remained in the bedroom, removing the bloody linens from the bed and cleaning both the mother and her child. The mother was clothed in a dress from her wardrobe and laid out on the bed once fresh sheets were placed over the straw mattress that she and her husband had shared for sleeping and lovemaking for the past eleven years. The baby was wrapped in its own linen cloth, completely covered from head to toe, and laid next to his mother on the bed. Reginaldo and Dottor Cambano left before the mid-wife had finished her preparation of the two bodies. Neither of the doctors had eaten their evening meal. Reginaldo offered to buy Cambano his dinner and the young doctor accepted.

“She and her husband had one child too many,” Reginaldo added. He sat across from Cambano in the small trattoria . The table was a simple one, as was the restaurant. The two were waiting for their meal to be delivered, a glass of wine before each of the men and a plate with breadsticks sitting in the middle of the table next to the candle illuminating the two. There were a total of seven tables in the trattoria , three others of which were occupied. It was after the first course of the meal had been removed and the second course placed before them that their discussion turned towards the death of Francesca della Francesca.

“All the signs pointed to poisoning by the henbane that was on her bedside table,” Cambano explained. “It had been a peaceful death, no convulsions, no vomiting, no sweating. Her face showed the utmost peacefulness, the only exception being that, in death, her eyelids had opened and her eyes had taken on the empty stare of death. There was nothing else to suggest that she died from anything other than poisoning. No marks on her body to indicate a violent death. No evidence of any serious illness. She took the henbane, went to sleep, slipped into her coma, and never came out.” It was unnecessary for the young doctor to explain further.

Reginaldo was well aware of the effects of henbane and from what Cambano had said, Reginaldo was in agreement that Francesca had died from a fatal dose of the poison. Taken in a sufficient dose, it produced a deep sleep from which there was no waking. Unlike other poisons that could be easily obtained from an apothecary, there usually were no convulsions, vomiting, fever or freezing of the face into a grimace of death when henbane was the substance taken. That did not mean it was necessarily a pleasant death, although no one had come back from a fatal dose to tell of what they experienced. For those who had taken less than a fatal dose, they woke to report of a troubled sleep full of nightmares. But the doctor's conclusion as to the instrument of death did not answer the underlying question of what set that instrument into motion. Henbane was sold at the local apothecary not for its poisonous qualities but for its healing ones. It could be taken as a painkiller or to overcome insomnia. Reginaldo had also heard anecdotal stories of surgeons using it to induce unconsciousness in their patients as they underwent surgery.

“What led you to conclude the woman died from her own hand ?” Reginaldo asked.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “I said suicide was the most likely cause of death,” he said, a tone of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “That's what the facts suggested. She had obviously taken a fatal dose of the substance. The package was empty except for the residue remaining in its bottom. I don't think a person would have taken the entire package unless death was the intended result. Now, if there had been a regular dose or partial dose left in the package, I might have thought her death was an accident. But the death was definitely intentional. At least as far as I was concerned from what I saw.” Neither Reginaldo nor Cambano said anything but Cambano quickly broke the silence, reflecting on his final statement. “There was also nothing to show that someone else had been there with her. Well, I should qualify that somewhat. There was dried semen between her legs.”

“Did you check for other evidence of sexual intercourse ?” Reginaldo interrupted Dottor Cambano.

“Yes,” Cambano answered but his response had come so quickly that Reginaldo questioned whether the young doctor was being entirely truthful or whether he was simply uncomfortable discussing such matters, even with another doctor. “I inspected her private area and her thighs between her legs and the bed where she was,” he continued, “and found no other semen. From the way she was laying, there should have been some seepage if she had had sex recently.”

“And the spots you did find ? What was your conclusion there ?” Reginaldo wanted to know. Dottor Cambano had reddened a little as he had described his examination of the woman's naked body. It may be, Reginaldo thought, that he found the subject awkward, not that he was being less than truthful.

“The sex had not been recent. Her partner had removed himself after he was finished and continued to lay on top of her. She simply had not done a good job of cleaning herself afterwards.”

“Any thoughts on how long she had been dead ?” Reginaldo turned to matters that might be less embarrassing for a young doctor.

Dottor Cambano did not have a firm opinion on the time of death. Touch had not given him any firm conclusion on the body's temperature. Rigor mortis had also started to set in when he arrived. The only estimate he could make was that she had been dead for a couple hours, but this conclusion had not been based totally on his observations of the body or even principally on those observations. It was, instead, the still burning candles in the room, the open window, and the time of day when Cambano arrived which led him to his conclusion that Francesca della Francesca had died sometime during the night while it was still dark but no later than five o'clock that morning. Of all the conclusions and opinions that Dottor Cambano had drawn, Reginaldo had the greatest confidence that this one was correct.

* * *

“I don't know, yet,” Reginaldo told Lisabetta the next morning as he sat across from her at the table in her kitchen. He had attended the morning service at the little church not far from her palazzo and had come by as he did so many mornings after the service to awaken his son and spend the early morning hours with him before returning to the academy for his day of teaching. “Everything points to suicide, but it's not conclusive. There is something not right, something that doesn't fit with that conclusion. I just haven't figured it out yet.”

For Reginaldo, the solution to the kind of problem he faced in unraveling the death of Francesca della Francesca often did not appear obvious to him. Instead, it would come to him of a sudden, often as his mind was on something entirely unrelated. As he analyzed the process, he had come to conclude his success in such matters was the result partly of properly ordering the problem, partly by submerging the facts in his inner mind to allow his mind at some level below consciousness to work out the connections between the disparate facts, and partly by divine inspiration brought about by his entreaties to the Holy Mother to aid him in his work. The three parts had not come together yet but Reginaldo was hopeful that they would do so shortly.

* * *

Reginaldo asked Dottor Piti and Dottor da Ferrara, his fellow instructors at the academy, to excuse him from their normal time together during the mid-day hours when the students were excused from their studies to take lunch and rest up for the afternoon. He chose to return to the sestiere of Dorsoduro, this time by gondola, his destination being the apothecary where Francesca had obtained her henbane. Jacopo da Ferrara had offered to accompany him, partly for the exercise of propelling the gondola along the canals of the city and partly because he often assisted Reginaldo in his investigations. Reginaldo gladly accepted the offer of company.

Jacopo was slightly taller than Reginaldo and some fifteen or so years younger. Approaching the age of thirty, Jacopo sported the close-trimmed beard that currently was so popular among the men his age in Venice and northern Italy . His clothing also set him apart from Reginaldo. Not being a member of the nobili and his title “Dottor” signifying his education at the university rather than any medical training, Jacopo did not wear the black togata . His dress consisted of the typical outfit of the cittadini – hose, tunic, jacket, cape and bareta although the bareta worn by Jacopo was more stylish than the simple black round one worn by Reginaldo.

The apothecary was located near the building that Reginaldo had visited the day before when he talked with the old woman who had gone for the vigili after her husband had seen the body of Francesca through his rear window. The apothecary was down an extremely narrow walkway, not even wide enough to be a calle , the approach and doorway in a perpetual state of semi-darkness. The door was closed and the single window shuttered when Reginaldo and Jacopo arrived but Reginaldo had expected this since it was the lunch hour and merchants across the city were almost universally closed. Reginaldo had sent a message to the merchant who operated the shop earlier in the day asking him to make himself available during the mid-day hours. Reginaldo knocked, announcing himself as Dottor Morosini. He and Jacopo could hear someone approaching the door from inside. The door cracked open and an eyeball peered out. Noting the togata of Reginaldo, the man opened the door wide and welcomed the two into his shop.

It took only a second before the man understood that Reginaldo was not there to see him as a medical doctor. Reginaldo immediately told the merchant that he was there to ask about the henbane which had been sold to Francesca della Francesca. The police had been there asking about the sale the day before, Reginaldo explained, when his initial inquiry was met by a blank stare by the apothecary. Recognition dawned on the man's face when Reginaldo explained it this way.

“What is your interest ?” the man asked. “I've already spoken to the vigili and told them everything I know.” Reginaldo explained that there was some thought that the woman had used the substance to commit suicide. Her burial was being held up until Reginaldo could inquire fully into the circumstances of her death.

“There's really not much to tell,” the man explained. “She knew what she wanted when she came in. She asked for the henbane.”

“Did she say what she wanted it for ?” Reginaldo interrupted him.

“She did,” the man answered. At first, he said no more and Reginaldo thought he wasn't going to elaborate. But then he continued. “She explained it was for her mother who was ill, in pain, and that her physician had suggested she try henbane.”

“She knew that much about it ?”

“She did.” The man stopped again but Reginaldo could tell that this time the man was thinking hard on something. Reginaldo did not interrupt him. The apothecary continued. “She had been here before, now that I think about it. I never knew her name. But she came in before – three, maybe four times. She didn't like to ask for information. Instead, she would check the reference book for herself and either help herself to the substance, measuring it out, or she would have me do it.”

While Reginaldo and the apothecary discussed Francesca's purchase, Jacopo made his way around the shop, half listening to what the other two were saying. The apothecary stood behind a counter at the back of the room facing the door, Reginaldo on the opposite side of the counter facing the shop's back wall. The remainder of the walls were taken up by a combination of shelves, drawers and open bins. The shelves held round clay containers, tightly lidded, and labeled on the outside with the name of the substance written out in both its common and Latin names. The drawers, set on tables and arranged in four rows, were also labeled. Against one of the side walls, nestled between two of the tables containing the sets of drawers, was a desk with a large book centered on it. Jacopo stood at the table reading the book which was a compendium of known herbs and drugs. He had leafed through the book until he had come to the page which described the herb henbane, its uses, recommended doses and dangers.

“This was the first time she bought henbane.” Reginaldo did not ask this as a question. It was simply a statement.

“Yes,” the man answered.

“What had she bought the other times she was here ?”

The man took a second again before answering. “Woman's problems,” he answered simply, not naming any particular herb or substance, but describing the types of maladies for which she was seeking relief.

From where he stood reading the description of henbane, Jacopo interrupted with his own question.

“How much did she purchase?” Jacopo asked. “Did she know how much she needed?”

“That,” the man said, speaking slowly as he thought of what he wanted to say, “that much she wasn't sure of when she came in. We talked about whether she wanted henbane roots, leaves or the plant. ‘What's the difference?' she asked. I explained that the roots were the most potent and that she wouldn't need to buy as much as the leaves or the whole plant. She agreed on the roots but still wasn't sure how much she needed. We discussed her mother's size and medical condition, what it was she was hoping it would do for her mother. I told her what I thought would be the proper dose. ‘How much would be too much,' she asked, adding that she was concerned with giving her mother too much and killing her. I told her two doses might do it, but three for sure would be too much, but I also offered to wrap the doses separately for her if it would ease her mind. She asked for three doses and asked me to grind it into powder for her, which I did. She also had me wrap the doses separately as I had suggested.”

Neither Reginaldo nor Jacopo could think of more to ask of the merchant, having exhausted their inquiry into Francesca's purchase of the poisonous substance. Jacopo, though, was curious about the man's shop, so he stopped to ask the question that was on his mind about how an apothecary shop stuffed into a narrow passage in Dorsoduro came by its supply of goods. Some, the man explained, really a small amount, he grew on the roof of the building. Most, though, he purchased either at the Rialto markets or from the monastery and convent gardens that were located throughout the city.

“One more inquiry added to my list of inquiries,” Reginaldo said as he and Jacopo poled their way across the Canal Grande en route back to Accademia di San Paolo .

“What's that ?” Jacopo asked, not following what Reginaldo was saying.

“The hospital,” Reginaldo answered. “Now I need to see if Francesca was actually buying the henbane to relieve her mother's pain or if that was just her explanation for the apothecary's sake.” Later that afternoon, when he had finished with his afternoon class, he would visit the hospital. Assuming, of course, that Lisabetta knew the hospital where Francesca's mother had been staying when she died.

* * *

The young priest, Prete Cherubino, would be back shortly, the bent, elderly woman told Reginaldo. Lisabetta could not help Reginaldo with the name of the hospital he was seeking. She suggested he try Prete Cherubino at Chiesa di San Matteo . Lisabetta had at least known the name of the church which Francesca had attended and the priest who usually presided over the early morning services there. The woman had been at the church busy sweeping the floor when Reginaldo arrived. A widow, living alone in her single room above the campo in a building that faced the little parish church from across the plaza, the woman's life was taken up with attending Mass multiple times during the day; cleaning the church in between those services; thinking of her long dead husband and the three children they had raised to adulthood; taking her lunch with the other widows in her building who shared her same fate; and sitting alone in her room preparing her evening meal, praying, and waiting for exhaustion to overtake her so she could retire to her bed to rest for the next day. Sometimes at night, as she sat waiting for the time to change into her nightclothes and go to bed, she wished that she had learned to read so that she could spend her lonely nights reading the bible. For the woman, Reginaldo's visit to the church provided her a break from her daily existence, even if only for a few minutes. As the two waited for the return of Prete Cherubino, the woman continued to sweep and clean but that did not prevent her from also carrying on a conversation with Reginaldo. She told him a little of her life, as well as what she had known of the life of Francesca.

None of the regulars at the little church would have known that Francesca was a meretrice from what they had observed of her the three to five mornings a week she joined them for Mass. She dressed very conservatively. Except for the sacrament of communion, she fully participated in the morning services, contributed money to the church, and prayed as devoutly before the side altar of Mary as any one of the others who attended the Mass with her. The regulars at the morning services might not have ever become aware of Francesca's profession except that one morning, as was common from time-to-time, someone new attended the early Mass. This person knew of her profession and had no qualms about letting others know something about Francesca that they had not known and had not cared enough to know. The worship at the early morning Mass was a wholly private matter, each person retreating into their personal shell as they offered up their prayers. They could have gone on indefinitely not knowing anything about Francesca's life and, even after being told this singular fact of her existence, they seemed to soon discard it. The small number of those attending the early morning service at Chiesa di San Matteo did not engage in gossip among themselves. What mattered, the old woman told Reginaldo, was that Francesca worshiped the same as they did. It was up to God to judge her, not the members of the little parish church.

“So you didn't speak to her ? At all ?” Reginaldo asked.

“Not really,” the woman answered. “I can't think of any time we actually had conversation.”

“She's dead. Did you know that ?” Reginaldo also asked.

“Prete Cherubino announced it this morning. He said nothing else. Nothing about her funeral or how she died.” The woman did not ask for information but Reginaldo sensed that she wanted to know this information. At the least, she wanted an explanation for why there would be no funeral service for Francesca at the little church.

“They say she committed suicide,” Reginaldo told her. She took a quick breath at this announcement. “That isn't a final pronouncement on the matter,” he told the woman. “Is there anything you can tell me about her mood the last two or three days ? Did she seem upset, depressed, preoccupied in any way?”

“You could tell nothing about her, really. She came to church, prayed to the Virgin Mary and left. I couldn't tell you what her mood was on any day that she was in church. She was here a few days ago, I guess the day she was found dead,” the woman said. “It wasn't different from any other day – she came to church, sat where she normally sits, celebrated Mass, took communion, prayed at the altar of Mary and left.”

The woman paused as something she said gave her cause to think a moment. “I guess there was one thing different that day. She took communion. Usually she did not take communion in the middle of the week. That was different.” She looked at Reginaldo to see if that meant anything to him, whether it would be information that would help in deciding if Francesca's death had not been by her own hand. Reginaldo did not comment on this information, merely processing it in his mind and noting the possible implications it held for his investigation. Taking Reginaldo's silence as indicating the information was not helpful to Francesca's cause, the woman made the sign of the cross. “I'll pray for her soul,” she said, as she leaned her broom against the wall of the church and moved to the side altar dedicated to the worship of Mary. Reginaldo was left alone as he waited for the young priest.

Prete Cherubino, when he arrived, was able to tell Reginaldo immediately that Francesca's mother was being treated at the Ospedale San Angelo when she died. He also gave Reginaldo directions to the hospital, although Reginaldo was already aware of its location and the principal illness it dealt with. Since Reginaldo was not wearing the togata of the medical doctor, however, the young priest had no way of knowing that Reginaldo was a physician.

“I visited the mother twice,” the priest informed Reginaldo. “Signorina della Francesca had not asked me to do it. I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to relieve the woman's suffering or help pave the way for her entry into the afterlife. The two visits were pleasant and the woman was surprisingly devout. Or maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised at her devotion,” the priest added after a slight pause. “At least, the mother's devotion gave me some idea of where the Signorina acquired her own.”

“You didn't find that surprising? That a prostitute could be religiously devout,” Reginaldo asked.

“No, not really, although don't ask me to explain why. I don't think I can.”

“So why only twice?” Reginaldo had returned to the topic of the priest's visits to Francesca's mother.

“The hospital had its own religious staff,” the priest answered. “Signorina della Francesca's mother seemed satisfied with them. And they were used to dealing with the problem afflicting the woman. She had started to slip into short periods of dementia when I had gone to see her. It could be unnerving.” Reginaldo could picture the young priest struggling to deal with the conduct of a demented patient. At least he tried, Reginaldo said to himself. That is the true strength of our church, he reflected – the young parish priests who struggle on a day-to-day basis to bring meaning to the life of their parishioners. No matter how hard the church's leaders in Rome tried, they could not undermine the good that was being done in the parishes.

“Francesca confessed her sins the night before her final day and took communion the morning of her final day, Prete Cheributo” Reginaldo commented.

“I cannot speak of what goes on in the confessional,” the priest answered.

“I'm not asking what was said in the confessional,” Reginaldo explained. “I'm just looking for confirmation that she had confessed the day before she died.”

The priest considered what his duties were before providing his answer. “If that is all you are asking, then I can say, yes, she was able to take communion on her last day because she had confessed her sins to me the evening before.”

“And that was out of the ordinary, wasn't it ?” Reginaldo continued the line of questioning. “She had some reason to confess when she did ?”

“That,” the priest informed Reginaldo, “would involve revealing what was actually said in the confessional. I cannot go that far.” Reginaldo realized that he might have gone too far in asking the question and that it would not be productive for him to pursue the matter further.

Reginaldo made ready to go when the priest stopped him.

“One cannot obtain absolution for a sin one is intending to commit at some point in the future, no matter how definite it is going to occur. To absolve one of her sins that are yet to occur is to condone the commission of those sins. Do you understand what I am saying?” the priest asked.

Reginaldo stood silently pondering what had been said. “Yes,” he finally answered. “Yes, I do.”

“Ospedale San Angelo ,” the priest reminded Reginaldo as he headed to the doors that led to the campo that stood before the church.

“Ospedale San Angelo ,” Reginaldo repeated.

“You remember how to get there ?” the priest asked.

“Yes,” Reginaldo answered. “Yes, I can find my way.”

* * *

Reginaldo returned to Chiesa di San Matteo after visiting with the Augustinian nuns at Ospedale San Angelo . The sisters had been very helpful in explaining Francesca's devotion to her mother. She came often, he was told, and often stayed for the better part of the day, either conversing with her mother to keep her spirits up, comforting her in her pain, or soothing her when the bouts of dementia took control.

“She was like a saint, the way she suffered silently as she watched her mother suffer while never faltering in her love or the strength of her caring,” one of the sisters had said to describe Francesca.

“Was she present when her mother passed away?” Reginaldo had asked another. No, had been the response. Francesca had stayed with her mother through her noontime meal, as she often did, taking the food and drink from the nun who served the mid-day meal and helping her mother with it. Her mother had not been well that day, both in terms of the dementia and in her general physical well-being, the nun continued. The signs were there that the mother was slipping away, giving up hope of recovery and giving into her dread of what she saw as the sure sign of the closeness and inevitability of her death. The doctor who treated Francesca's mother had told both Francesca and her mother that the time had come to move the mother to the ward on the lower floor of the hospital. This had been the day before her death. The mother had pleaded for one, possibly two more days on the upper floor. The doctor relented and agreed she could stay two more days. It was, the nun concluded, a final act of will on the mother's part. She would not die the agonizing death she believed waited for those moved to the first floor to wait out their final days. As between the two choices open to her, she chose the death that was more acceptable – she died peacefully in her sleep on the second floor of the hospital and was spared the indignity of going to the first. Francesca, the nun added, as she seemed to remember the question that Reginaldo had originally asked, had left shortly after her mother fell into her slumber.

The elderly woman who had been cleaning the interior of Chiesa di San Matteo had gone when Reginaldo returned. Prete Cherubino was attending to the confessional, although there was no one present seeking absolution when Reginaldo arrived. He found the young priest standing outside the booth where he relieved his parishioners of their sins and cleansed their souls so they could stand fully again with Christ.

“Did you find what you wanted at Ospedale San Angelo ?” the priest asked.

“I did,” Reginaldo answered. “Signorina della Francesca did not kill herself. For her, she will get her deserved rest and resting place. As for me, it is time for me to find her killer.”

“I had come to that same conclusion myself that she had not taken her own life,” the priest told Reginaldo. “I visited the offices of the vigili to claim the body and give her the last rites that have been denied her these past couple days.”

“Good,” Reginaldo agreed.

“Someone else had already claimed the body when I got there,” the priest continued. On being told this, Reginaldo assumed that Lisabetta had claimed Francesca's body from the vigili and that she would be along soon to see Prete Cherubino to arrange for the funeral and burial.

“A woman?” Reginaldo asked.

“No. They said it was another priest. One who claimed to know the family from years ago when Francesca was a young girl. Fra Michele, they said was his name. From the monastery in Castello.”

“And his intentions?” Reginaldo asked. The vigili , he knew, would not have released the body without some assurance that proper arrangements would be made for its burial. He hoped that the priest had thought to ask where and when the burial would take place, if for no other reason than Lisabetta would want to know that this had been taken care of and it was no longer her concern.

“He is to hold a Mass for her tomorrow and bury her afterwards. It will be a pauper's grave but at least she will be laid to rest in consecrated ground.”

* * *

The why of murder, Reginaldo believed, was unimportant. What mattered, what one really had to prove, was that one person killed another and that he or she did so intentionally. What ultimately motivated the killing did not make the killing anything less than murder. Indeed, to Reginaldo's mind, murder was an unnatural act, something that ran counter to reasoned, rational thought. The motivation for murder was the product of this irrational thought and, thus, should have no bearing on the commission of the crime. Reginaldo now knew that Francesca della Francesca had been murdered and he knew who had killed her. He lacked the why, though. Perhaps, he thought, that would be revealed on the morrow when he confronted the killer once Francesca was laid to rest. In the end, however, it wouldn't matter whether he knew the reason or not.

* * *

The funeral service had been held at a small chapel on the grounds of the monastery of San Domenico. Lisabetta, Reginaldo and Prete Cherubino entered the grounds from a small gate at the back of the monastery and made their way to the chapel set among the gardens of the grounds. The chapel was located amid the monastery's extensive herb garden. Inside they found the simple wood plank coffin bearing the body of Francesca della Francesca and Fra Michele dressed in the vestments in which he would say the funeral Mass. The service had not started yet, Fra Michele standing at the casket and laying the late-blooming fall chrysanthemums from the garden on its lid. The monk seemed surprised but not taken aback that someone was attending the little service he had planned. He had, after all, been required to tell the vigili of Dorsoduro of both the time and place of the funeral service before they would release Francesca's body to him.

“I'm Fra Michele Buonpico,” the older priest said as he advanced to the front of the chapel to meet the three. “I wasn't expecting anyone but you're welcome.”

“How did you know the signorina?” Lisabetta asked.

“I had been the parish priest at her church when she and her mother lived in Castello back before I joined the brotherhood here. I knew both well, the daughter better than the mother. When I had heard of her death and the circumstances surrounding it and that she no longer had anyone to bury her, I claimed the body.” Lisabetta's question, Reginaldo thought, had not asked for such detail but the priest seemed compelled to provide it and relieved when he did.

Once Mass was over, the coffin was loaded onto a barge and, once the four from the church were also loaded into it, it was rowed across the lagoon to the island of Lido where the body was to be buried along with the rest of the penniless paupers of the city. A few words by the hole that had been dug for the coffin and the four returned again to the main island of Venice by the same barge that had ferried them across to Lido . It had not been an elaborate service, nor was Francesca's final resting place well-situated within the cemetery. However, Reginaldo reflected, in the end she had not been denied either her Christian funeral or burial. Fra Michele said goodbye to the three at the door of the chapel where he had performed the funeral Mass for Francesca, giving his blessing to Lisabetta and thanking Reginaldo and Prete Cherubino for also attending.

Lisabetta, Reginaldo and the young priest from Dorsoduro had not gone far, just far enough to be out of sight of the chapel, when Reginaldo stopped.

“Father,” he asked, “can you escort Signora Corfano home? I have other business to attend to near here.” The priest agreed. Lisabetta and the priest went in one direction. Reginaldo went in the other, heading back in the direction of the chapel. As he crossed the dirt path that led back to the gate in the wall of the monastery's wall, he was joined by three others who emerged from the doorway of a building fronting on the plaza.

Fra Michele was emerging from the small chapel as the four arrived. He had changed out of the priestly vestments and was now dressed in the simple brown robe of his order. He was surprised to see Reginaldo again so soon and taken aback by the official dress of the three who now accompanied him. The three were easily recognized – Ser Teodara Dinardi, segregario to the Avogadori di Commun in his official togata denoting that office and the two vigili assigned to his office in their uniforms.

“Fra Michele,” Reginaldo greeted the priest. “We wish to speak with you.”

“About?” the priest's voice was strained.

“The death of Francesca della Francesca,” Dinardi answered.

“It was a suicide,” Fra Michele responded. “That's all I know of it.”

“And knowing that,” Reginaldo began, “you defiled this chapel and the cemetery where she now rests?”

“That is not your concern. Nor the concern of these gentlemen.” The priest nodded in the direction of Dinardi and the two vigili with him. “That is a church matter.”

“True, that is not our concern,” Dinardi interjected. “But murder is. And we believe that Signorina Francesca was murdered.”

Fra Michele's eyes widened at the statement and he fell back a step before recovering himself. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“You are her killer,” Reginaldo announced.

“Preposterous,” the priest retorted. “The vigili of Dorsoduro said otherwise. They said she poisoned herself from the poison she had bought from the apothecary in her neighborhood. You have no proof either that her death was other than suicide or that I was responsible for it.”

Reginaldo held out his arm, his palm upraised, indicating that the group should enter the chapel to discuss the matter. The five filed into the little church, Fra Michele first followed by Reginaldo and the three others.

“There is ample evidence that her death was not suicide,” Reginaldo began as the group situated themselves on the bench that was lined along the side wall of the chapel. “I did not see all the signs at first, or more precisely, I saw them but did not recognize their significance. There was, initially, the matter of the wine glasses. Six plates, six forks, six knives but five wine goblets. One was missing. Someone else had been there on the evening of her death and, more importantly, did not want that fact to be known. Very likely, if we took the time to drag the bottom of the rio that passes beneath her window, we would probably find the missing goblet.

“We also get the hint of someone else being present from the evidence of sexual activity by the signorina. Whoever had been with her had intercourse with her. She was, after all, a cortigianna di lume and made her living providing sexual pleasures to men. Concerned that this would be obvious on examination of her body once it had been discovered, her client, or maybe I would do better to describe him as her lover, removed his member from her before finishing and had his release on top of her. Perhaps he continued to lay on top of her once finished or, more likely, he got up, picked up the signorina's wine glass and filled it from the bottle in the other room, placing the poison in her glass at the same time. While he was gone, she got up to wipe herself clean – someone had used the washbasin – but was not as thorough as she should have been. A spot was missed and that spot, although dried by the time she was examined by the doctor, was our second clue that the signorina had not been alone.

“There is likewise the matter of the package of henbane from the apothecary that was found on the table beside her bed. A single package marked with the substance and the date of purchase. A small amount remained within it. Why is that important, you might ask ? Because the apothecary had given her three doses but each was individually wrapped because he thought the signorina was concerned with overdosing her mother. There should have been three packages in her room, not one. And the single package would not have held enough of the henbane to produce anything more than a deep but troubled sleep.

“There was also another troubling aspect surrounding the purchase of the poison. Signorina della Francesca, it was presumed, was distraught over the death of her mother and had bought the poison to relieve that distress. The problem was the timing was wrong. She bought the henbane before visiting with her mother in the hospital. She had told the sister in charge that she would be back the next morning and asked that they not move her mother to the ward below until she was there to help. If the signorina purchased the poison to end her own life, she bought it before knowing she had cause to be distressed.”

“But, then, why did she buy the henbane, if not to poison herself?” one of the vigili accompanying Dinardi interrupted the flow of Reginaldo's narrative to ask.

“Fra Michele knows the answer to that,” Reginaldo replied. “Signorina della Francesca had not obtained the henbane to kill herself. In a sense, she had bought it to use in the very manner that she had told the apothecary she would be using it – to relieve the pain and suffering of her mother. But the pain and suffering of her mother that she sought to relieve was a mental one, not physical. The signorina poisoned her mother out of what she believed was an act of mercy to spare her mother from the final stages of the morbus gallicus with which she was inflicted. Which is yet further proof that the signorina did not take her own life. There was an insufficient amount of the poison that Signorina della Francesca had bought remaining for her own death after she gave it to her mother. In fact, the little amount that was found in the package beside her bed was all that had remained after her mother was poisoned.”

“Gross speculation,” Fra Michele objected.

“No, not really,” Reginaldo answered. “Francesca's mother slipped into a deep coma before dying – consistent with being given henbane. Her doctor and the nuns at the hospital will also agree that, while their patient's condition was deteriorating, she still had weeks to live, absent intervention from some outside source – in their opinion, the strong will of Francesca's mother. There is also the strange circumstance of taking communion. Signorina della Francesca took communion during the middle of the week. She never took communion during the week, preferring the anonymity of the communal confession on Sunday to the individual confession. But something changed that on the night her mother died. Something beyond the sins of the flesh which were her common fare. Something bigger than that. Something that weighed on her mind, that had to be unburdened in a one-on-one confession and that would not wait until the Sunday service. Francesca understood that her mother's death might have been done out of mercy but it was killing, nonetheless, and the commandment says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.' And, if necessary, we can examine the mother's body. She has not been buried too long. Her body can still tell us some things about how she died.”

“So what! So someone poisoned Francesca,” the monk retorted. “What does that have to do with me?”

“You were her lover, won't you?” Reginaldo's tone softened as he asked this question. “There is no good in denying it. We can take you to her apartment where the other residents will identify you even though your robe was carried in a bundle under your arm and your tonsure was concealed under a bareta .”

A look of resignation came over the monk's face. We just may get him to admit his deed, Reginaldo thought as he noticed the change in the man's demeanor.

“Yes, it's true,” Fra Michele said. “I used her services.”

“No, I think it was more than that,” Reginaldo replied, “more than just paying to have the pleasure of her company. I would not say that you killed her out of love, not the kind of love that led her to end her mother's life. But you killed her with a love in your heart for her. That showed in the means of death you chose – one that would involve no suffering – and in the way you laid her out afterwards to admire her body, not in a lustful sense, but in the sense of one who loves another wholly, their mind, their company, and their body.”

“You've proven nothing,” Fra Michele reiterated. “There is nothing in what you have said which could convict me in a court of law.”

“Little perhaps from what occurred before today. That is true,” Reginaldo agreed. “We can prove you were her lover. We can prove that Signorina della Francesca did not poison herself. We can prove that you had access to henbane from the supply being grown in the monastery's garden and that you were familiar with its uses and proper dosage. Today, though, you gave us the remaining proof we needed. Right here in this room, this small chapel, you condemned yourself by a simple act of kindness and compassion and maybe even a little conscience. You could not deny her a Christian burial because you knew her death had not been the result of a suicide. The only way you could have known that was if you had killed her yourself.”

Reginaldo could not tell whether he had broken down the defenses of the priest sufficiently to convince him to admit to what he had done. There was certainly enough for Dinardi and his men to take Fra Michele into custody. Regrettably, because Venice loved her justice swift and sure, there were ways to extract a full confession from him. Suddenly, the priest broke the silence that pervaded the chapel.

“I killed her. I loved her but I had no choice but to kill her,” he confessed.

“Wait! Please say no more,” Reginaldo interceded. The priest fell silent. Dinardi and his two vigili registered shock on their faces from Reginaldo stopping the priest in his explanation. “I don't want to know more,” he continued. “You'll ruin the moment.” Everyone was perplexed by Reginaldo's comments, everyone but Reginaldo, that is. The method chosen for the killing had been a noble one. The reasons for the killing could never live up to those noble means. We don't need to know the why of murder, Reginaldo reminded himself, for it can never justify the commission of the act. And the why could never be rational, so that in knowing the why and in understanding its irrational nature, one takes one step closer towards forgiving what should be unforgivable.

* * *

Four days later, Reginaldo was summoned to Palazzo Ducale. The Council of Ten wished to employ his services as consultore again to investigation another death in the city. Reginaldo had come by gondola up the Canal Grande and moored his little craft along the fondamente at the Molo , the small plaza area that stood outside the doge's palace. The hallmark of the Molo was its two columns, the symbols of Venice perched atop them – the winged lion representing San Marco on one and the statue of San Teodoro, his foot crushing the neck of a dragon on the other. The columns also often served another purpose, as well: a reminder to the residents of the city that Venice was a republic of laws and justice. Reginaldo could see even before he landed his gondola at the fondamente that there was a rope strung between the two columns and that a body, secured by the legs, was hanging upside down from that rope. Another criminal meted out the ultimate punishment of death and put on display for the benefit of those passing through or near the Molo . It was not until he had tied off his craft and made his way towards the Molo that Reginaldo realized that the body hanging between the two columns was that of Fra Michele.

Swift and sure is our system of justice, Reginaldo reflected. The trial held one day, the execution held the next or, at the most, two days later, depending on how long it took for the conviction to be reviewed. Reginaldo did not necessarily see anything wrong with this, at least in the case of Fra Michele. There was, after all, no doubt about his guilt. With a sigh, though, Reginaldo thought of how this public display of his body did not comport with the dignity and misguided compassion with which he killed Francesca della Francesca. Of all the ways he could have chosen to kill her, he chose the most merciful. While Venice could not show him mercy in handing out a punishment that fit the crime, there should have been nothing preventing it from showing some mercy and dignity in what it did with the body once the punishment was accomplished. Reginaldo shook his head as he passed by the twin columns and headed towards the Porta Carta where he would gain entrance to the Palazzo Ducale and the inner chamber of the Council of Ten.