Incantato (“Bewitched”)

by Tom Rynard

It seemed strange to Elena della Fiore that the old woman would start with a prayer to the Mother Mary. She was, after all, a witch and Elena had sought her out so she would work her black magic on Elena's behalf. It was revenge that Elena sought for a wrong done her. Prayers for revenge were not answered, at least not by the God that Elena otherwise prayed to.

The prayer over, the woman turned to the small window which stood beside the window. The window itself was shuttered part way, but enough light filtered in through the opening that the four persons gathered in the room could make out each other and the objects in the room. The woman had not bothered to light either lamp or candle for the same reason the shutters were partially closed. The window, on the second floor of the building, looked out over the narrow canal. More importantly, when the shutters were open, an unobstructed view into the room was provided to anyone standing in the rooms on the opposite side of the canal. Witchcraft was not a business openly practiced before an audience in cinquecento Venice .

Atop the table against the wall were a small basin and a pitcher. The woman poured water from the pitcher into the basin until it was half full. The basin was then carried over to another table in the middle of the room. Elena was sitting at this table and it was in front of her that the basin was placed. From a bag hanging from the cloth belt cinched around the woman's waist, she removed four rose petals, taking care to select whole ones – one white, one yellow and two red. They were dropped into the basin and floated on the water. A slight movement of air in the room moved the petals across the water as they were pushed by the air. Elena watched, mesmerized, as the petals seemed to move in a circular path through the water.

“Come, children, come,” the woman said softly beckoning with her hand. Two children, a boy and a girl, neither older than eight or nine years of age from their size and faces, had until then stood silently in one of the corners of the room. The ritual, if it could be called that, had begun shortly after the woman had allowed Elena into the room and pulled the shutters to the window partially closed. The children were already present when Elena arrived. At the witch's instruction, Elena had handed a goblet filled with a thick but clear yellow liquid to the children and each took a drink in turn. Having drunk from the goblet, the woman led them to the corner where they stood, appearing to be in a daze, while the woman went about her other preparations and then began her prayer. At her call, they now came forward to the center of the room. The woman guided each by the shoulder, placing the girl to the left of Elena and the boy to her right, each overlooking the basin of water in front of Elena.

“What is it you wish to discover?” the woman asked of Elena.

Elena hesitated momentarily but then gave her reply. At first, her words caught in her throat and came out as no more than a croak. The woman asked her to repeat her request.

“Children, do you see the answer?” the woman asked of the boy and girl after Elena had audibly voiced her request.

In their trance-like state, with their eyes widely dilated, the two looked into the basin and following the swirling petals as they moved across the top of the water. Five, ten, fifteen seconds, they stood transfixed before the basin. Then suddenly, as though blown by the wind (although no breeze had been felt in the room), the petals which had until then been floating separately were pushed together into a bunch on the side of the basin. The boy and girl spoke in unison – a name. The name of a person.

Elena gasped, her hand went to her mouth and she slumped sideways in the chair, teetering on the edge of falling to the floor. The woman moved quickly – much more quickly than one might expect for a person of her advanced years – and with a strength also seemingly unusual for her age, she caught Elena before she could fall and righted her in the chair.

Elena was dumbstruck. The children had spoken the name of a person she knew, a person she believed but could not be certain was responsible for the problems which led her to seek the services of a witch. There was no way that these two children, total strangers to Elena and ignorant of her past, would know the name they uttered in their trance or that the person who carried that name had any connection to Elena. There was true magic in what had happened in the room, black magic, and Elena was overwhelmed by it.

Elena's sudden gasp seemed to break the trance of the children. They looked around the room, at Elena, at the old woman, at the basin on the table, a look of questioning uncertainty on their faces. “You may go home now,” the woman told them. They picked up their cloaks from the adjoining room and made their way into the hallway, closing the door as they left. Their footsteps could be heard on the stairs as they descended to the first floor.

The old woman continued to prop Elena up while she caught her breath and recovered her senses.

“Better?” the woman asked as she took her hand off Elena, watching carefully to see if Elena would be able to maintain her upright position in the chair. Elena gave a slight nod with her head.

“Are you satisfied that you have the information you sought?” the woman spoke again. Again Elena affirmed with a nod. A long silence filled the room. When it was broken, it was Elena who first spoke.

“I would not be finished with your . . . services,” she said.

“What more would you wish to know?” the woman asked.

“I wish to know nothing more,” Elena said, “I wish to exact revenge, to curse the person who has brought me here.”

“Incantato?” the woman said – “bewitched.”

“Incantato,” Elena replied.

“I would not recommend it,” the woman argued in response. “You are young. You will forget. Life will go on. It is never good to go down the path you wish to take. And,” the woman's voice turned ominous, “there is danger in what you ask done. Once the black magic is released, one cannot control where it will go or how it will achieve the purpose you seek.”

“It is what I want,” Elena insisted. “It is what I will have done.”

Satisfied that Elena would not be dissuaded from the course she had set, the old woman resigned herself to being the instrument by which it would be achieved. If not me, the woman justified to herself, it will be someone else, perhaps someone who merely professes to have the magical powers without actually possessing them. She also had to eat and the only thing of value she had to offer was the witchcraft she practiced. There was more money to be made from casting spells than there was in telling fortunes or working visions. With the decision to do as Elena asked, the woman began to explain what would have to be done to cast the spell that Elena desired.

* * *

A week later Elena rejoined the old woman in her apartment. There were no children in the room this time, just Elena and the witch. Gone also were the basin and pitcher which had served as the woman's props in the prior meeting.

On the table in the middle of the room the woman had set out a plain clay jar, wide-mouthed, no more than six inches tall and four inches wide. Next to it were a clump of light brown hair, a green ribbon, a small piece of cloth, a light brown tuber, straw, and a piece of parchment. Some of the items the witch had obtained, others Elena had provided when she entered the room.

“You must be sure of this,” the woman told Elena. “The magic cannot be controlled once it is released. Only the result you seek is certain. The magic will seek its own path to that end. Especially when you seek the harm of another.”

Elena nodded and then added in a barely audible voice, “I am sure.”

“Before it is too late,” the woman pleaded one last time, “let me cast a spell of enchantment. One that will bring love into your life to replace the dark hatred that lives there now.”

“Whatever love there was or ever could be is gone . . . forever,” Elena answered. “Only hate remains.”

The woman clucked softly and shook her head, her eyes showing the sadness and reluctance she felt. It wasn't just that she was being asked to take part in harming another. The witch could not take responsibility for the harm that resulted from those spells. She would never admit it to anyone who came to her for her help in that way but the spells she weaved did not always work – the magic had its own sense of right and wrong. The witch's efforts were fruitless unless the person being bewitched was deserving of the harm. What was troubling Elena had nothing to do with witchcraft. She was sad at the way the cruelties of life had already seemed to have beaten her down and taken her over. She was young. She should be looking forward to life and what it had to offer. Instead, she was consumed with a hatred and desire for revenge. Yet, the old woman thought, I doubt that even if she gets what she wants from the black magic that she will be able to return to looking forward to the next day and the one after.

As with the first meeting, Elena was surprised as the woman began her ritual with a prayer, this time not to the Virgin Mary but to Saint Anthony. She prayed for forgiveness and for protection for Elena. She dared not pray for assistance, though, in the magic she was set to work.

A chill ran down Elena's spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the woman's eyes rolled back into her head and she began to chant in a tongue that Elena could not understand. Without being able to see what she was doing, the woman first placed the straw in the clay jar. Then by touch and not be sight, she picked up the root in one hand and the strands of hair in the other. She wound the hair around the root. The cloth was next as the woman wrapped the root in the cloth and then secured it with the ribbon.

Her eyes returning to their normal position, the woman reached out for Elena's right wrist. Elena, startled by the touch, sought to pull back her hand but the woman held tight to the wrist, then placed the small bundle in Elena's hand. With the hand not holding Elena's wrist, she closed Elena's fingers over the bundle. Holding Elena's hand closed, the woman took up another chant. Then, suddenly, her speech changed from a language that Elena could not understand to one that she could, “Place it in the jar and mix it with the straw.” Elena did as she was told.

The woman picked up the piece of parchment on the table, rolled it into a tight tube and handed it to Elena. Pointing to a candle on the side table, she indicated that Elena was to light the parchment and then set the contents of the jar afire. Again Elena did as she was instructed, lighting the paper, holding the burning end in the jar and looking to the witch for further instructions as the contents ignited and the flames climbed up the rolled parchment towards Elena's hand.

“Leave it to burn,” the woman told her.

Elena let go of the paper and watched as it was consumed by the flames reaching up from the interior of the pot. Slowly the paper sank into the pot and burned along with the straw. The two stood silently as the fire burned. It was not until it was out that the woman spoke. Throw the pot into the corner, she instructed Elena, making sure it breaks. Then with the heel of your left foot, grind the root into the floor.

The pot was warm, almost hot, when Elena picked it up. She looked inside and could see that the root still remained, although it was now blackened by the fire and smoke. The remainder of the contents had been consumed by the fire. Some ash had floated out of the jar as heat rose from the flames. That which had not escaped sat black and gray at the bottom of the jar. Elena did as the witch had instructed and threw the jar hard against the floor in the corner of the room. It shattered with a loud crash, the small root coming to rest among the broken pieces. Elena walked over and started to step on the root.

“Stop,” the woman said. “Your left foot. The heel.”

Elena changed position and ground the root with the heel of her left foot. The root was soft and pliable. It did not break under the pressure that Elena was applying. Still Elena could feel it flattening out on the floor.

The old woman took Elena by the hand and led her away from the corner. Looking down at the root and satisfied at the result, the woman dropped Elena's hand.

“It is done,” she said. “Now we will see how the magic will work itself.”

* * *

Reginaldo Morosini sat at the table that served as both his desk and dinner table and wrapped the blanket tighter around himself to try to keep in the warmth from his body. Behind him, the fire in the hearth burned steadily. If he had not been so intent on the book opened on the table, he would have moved his chair closer to the fire.

The cold had come in quickly but not unexpectedly given the time of the year. For two straight days there had been a steady rain on the canals and calli of Venice with the moisture and the clouds keeping the temperature above freezing. But then the wind had turned to blow from the east across the mountains of Eastern Europe , driving the clouds away from the city and causing the temperature to plummet. The day, and now the evening following the change in weather, brought a clarity to the horizon that was unequalled at any other time of the year. If one could withstand the cold and would make the effort to climb to the top of any of the numerous bell towers in the city the reward would be a view of the snow-covered Alps north of the city. It was not the kind of reward, however, that Reginaldo considered worth the exposure to the elements that was required. He would remain in his suite of rooms in the academy he ran in the city, study the writings of Cicero and prepare for his upcoming lessons.

It was the kind of bitter cold, Reginaldo reflected, that could cause the lagoon of Venice to freeze over in two or three days time and would allow the residents of the city to walk from the islands making up Venice to the mainland almost two miles away. Reginaldo suspected that already there were some smaller canals in the city with little flow that were already developing a thin film of ice on them, if they were not already covered with a greater thickness.

Reginaldo's rooms were on the piano nobile , or second floor, of the building which housed him and his servant. The door to his room was closed to keep in the warmth but that still did not always prevent voices and other sounds from entering the room from the hallway or stairs leading down to the street or up to the top floor where the student dormitory was located. It was the sound of his students in the hallway, voicing some extreme excitement, which broke Reginaldo's concentration. Reginaldo could hear the voices and discern the excitement but the walls and door sufficiently muffled the words so that he could not understand them. The voices were soon followed by the sound of thundering footsteps coming down the stairs from the floor above, shaking the floor boards as they traversed the hallway of the piano nobile , and soon disappearing as the boys ran down the stairs and out the door in the front of the building.

Reginaldo debated with himself whether to check on the cause of the commotion. Cicero ultimately prevailed and Reginaldo remained seated at his table. His concentration was broken again, however, when there was a knock at the front door to his apartment, followed by the door opening, and the voice of one of the academy's students telling Reginaldo, “Excuse me Dottor Morosini, I came back to tell you because I thought you might be interested. A body has been found in one of the canals near here.”

Reginaldo thanked the student for the information and began again to debate whether to follow his students to where this “body” had been found. He was on the verge of waivering on his resolve to complete the translation of Cicero on which he was working but then he thought again of the cold. His curiosity did not outweigh his desire to stay warm on such a cold day. He turned his attention back to his book. If there had been foul play involved in the death of this person and if the Council of Ten, or Dieci as it was called, needed his assistance in identifying a killer, then he could venture out in the cold. Otherwise, he was happy sitting at his table working on his translation.

* * *

No summons had been forthcoming in the two days since the boys of the academy had stormed through the hallway and down the stairs. Reginaldo had overheard comments from the boys, some in the library of the school, others in the classroom or hallways. As always such stories diverged widely, each according to what the child relating the story saw, thought he saw, or heard from another student. It had been a man that had been found. It had been a woman. It was a boy, a girl. An arm was missing; the head was missing; the body was completely unclothed. The children had arrived at the small canal as the body was being lifted from a small barge and handed to those waiting on the bridge that spanned the canal. They had neither seen the body floating in the water nor its being taken into the boat. An arm had flopped out of the tarp as the body was laid on the ground adjoining the canal. Reginaldo had heard this from one of his more serious and reserved students and, since it lacked the spectacle and embellishments of the other stories, Reginaldo was inclined to believe that it was the closest to the truth. But it mattered little to him. It was not his disposition to be curious and no one had come seeking his assistance.

No one, that is, until two days had passed since the body had been found. It was not Teodoro Dinari, segregario to the Avogadori di Comun , the principal criminal prosecutors and investigating magistrates of the Republic of Venice . Nor was Reginaldo's visitor bringing a summons from the Dieci . It was this fact which first gave Reginaldo pause as he weighed the request to investigate the death. When Reginaldo involved himself in the investigation of criminal matters, it was usually at the request of the Dieci . This would be a wholly private matter.

As Reginaldo's visitor disclosed early on in his request, a person had been taken into custody. The man was seeking Reginaldo's intercession on behalf of the person charged. That was the problem as far as Reginaldo was concerned. If the Avogadori had determined on a prosecution for the murder and the Dieci thought it best to not take part, it might not do well for Reginaldo to be conducting a private investigation that would go against their wishes or might embarrass them if it was shown the Avogadori was too quick to find someone to hold responsible for the crime. It was better for Venice that an innocent man be convicted than that the Republic's authority be undermined by doubts about its abilities. No, Reginaldo corrected himself. That was not entirely true. The Dieci , as ultimate guardian of the Republic's honor, would prefer that an error be avoided before a trial was held rather than having the mistake pointed out when it was too late to privately make a correction.

There was a second reason for Reginaldo's hesitation. Reginaldo's visitor disclaimed any personal interest in the matter. He was an intermediary, he claimed, sent to Reginaldo by a person who had not been named and who, it was understood by Reginaldo, could not be named. Nor was Reginaldo to know the real interest of the person who was seeking Reginaldo's services. There was a danger in this. Murder was a most unnatural act and to arrive at a decision to take the life of another required some failure of reason. The solution to murder was often found in the minds of those most closely involved with it. It was the why of killing which frequently provided the meaning to the other scraps of physical evidence surrounding a killing and tied them neatly together into a bundle. Yet, Reginaldo was being asked – directed – to not delve into a relationship which might be at the center of the murder he was asked to investigate. This insistence could just as easily exist to hide or distort the truth as it could be to bring it out into the open, a possibility hinted at by the relative position of the victim and the accused. The victim was nobili , a patrician. The accused was of the commonest class, popolani . Very likely, the person seeking Reginaldo's involvement was also of the nobili or, at worst, was moneyed cittadini , or middle class. There was something unnatural about the entire arrangement and Reginaldo could not but help experience a certain unease as he considered his visitor's request.

After a few moments reflection, he relented, but with a caveat. “I will look into the matter,” he said, “but I will have no bounds on where my investigation will go and whatever comes of the investigation will not be suppressed.”

* * *

Dottor Abraham Zaprudin turned and handed Reginaldo a glass of wine. Inside his home, Zaprudin did not wear the togata that identified him as a physician. Nor did he wear the yellow circle or yellow bareta that identified him as a Jew. Inside his home, the latter was not necessary. As required by law, the dwelling was located within the walls of the Ghetto, the former foundry of Venice , whose walls and limited access across its surrounding canals made the area perfect for segregating the Jews of the city from the Christians who lived and moved freely outside its walls. The Ghetto was already becoming crowded and cramped even though it had been in existence for only a short time. Dottor Zaprudin's dwelling was larger than most. As a well-recognized physician with his successful practice among Christians as well as Jews, he could afford it.

“Why concern yourself with this matter?” Zaprudin asked. “The authorities have someone. She has admitted to it.”

“Do you think she could have drowned him?” Reginaldo continued with his questioning.

“He was not drowned,” the doctor answered. “He was fished out of the canal, it is true, but there was no water in his lungs.” In addition to his ministrations to the living, Zaprudin was often called upon by Venetian authorities to examine those who had died under unusual circumstances and, when possible, to certify those deaths as criminal or non-criminal. It was for this reason that Reginaldo had come to see Zaprudin first before turning to the vigili officials who had investigated the killing.

“So was it even murder?” Reginaldo had not been aware of the cause of death, knowing only that the body had been taken from the canal.

“Most certainly,” was the answer. “A rope, small and thin but strong nonetheless, was secured tightly around his throat, undoubtedly cutting off his ability to breathe. He was thrown into the water after he was dead. Still, I checked the lungs. No water.”

“And the woman that has been arrested, do you think she was physically able to overpower the victim in this way?”

Zaprudin shrugged his shoulders. “I've not seen the woman, but Ser Carminato was not a big man, nor a strong one. That question may not be totally relevant here. There was no sign of a struggle. It doesn't matter whether she was able to overpower him or not. He did not appear to be overpowered. Just the victim of an unnatural death.”

* * *

Years before – although not that many – Teodoro Dinardi had been a student at Reginaldo's academy. He was neither a bright student, nor “ un asino ,” or “donkey,” as the lesser students were often referred to in both polite and impolite Venetian society. While a member of the nobili class, his family was not a wealthy one. As a result, Dinardi lacked the financial backing to invest in business ventures or to receive appointment to the more prestigious and profitable public positions open to young members of the nobili . This did not mean that the upper levels of the Venetian government would be closed to Dinardi as he grew older. It would just take longer for him to work his way up from one position to another. For now, he was serving as segregario to the Avagadori di Comun . It was a position for which Dinardi was well-suited.

Dinardi had not been comfortable with the arrest of Elena della Fiore for the death of Carminato but there had been a confession. There was little that could be done other than to turn the case over to the Avagadori di Comun and close the case from an investigation standpoint. There were other investigations he could, and should, turn his attention to at this time. Nonetheless, it did not bother him that his former teacher, Dottor Reginaldo Morosini as he still called him, had visited his office to ask questions about the case.

Dinardi had handed Reginaldo a copy of the confession that della Fiore had signed. It covered one full page and less than one-third of the second page, counting the woman's signature and attestation of the notary.

“This is not a strong confession, if a confession at all,” Reginaldo noted after reading the document. “There are no details about how she killed Carminato or how his body came to be in the canal. Are these her words?” He asked. “The text of the document and her signature do not appear to be in the same handwriting.”

“No, I think the officers taking the statement summarized what she told them and she signed the document,” was the explanation.

“Can she read and write beyond signing her name?”

“Yes, she seems to be fluent in both writing Italian and expressing herself. A number of letters she had written were seized from her room. Her prose is quite good.”

“But there is nothing here,” Reginaldo complained. “Her most damaging confession is that, ‘I wish to take responsibility for the death of Ser Carminato.'”

“I don't disagree that it is weak,” Dinardi conceded, “but what are we to do? We are in the business of arresting criminals. We can't go around telling people they can't confess their crimes.” He paused for a second and then added, “She gave her statement without coercion. There was no torture. She was distraught, I am told, visibly upset with herself. But she spoke freely and openly – and repeated time and again that it was her fault, that she was responsible for the death of Ser Carminato.” Dinardi paused for a second before continuing. “But I was not involved in the case. Nor have I spoken with her. I have been home ill and did not return until after the confession was obtained and the avogadoro who will prosecute her case had decided to press the matter.”

“It is thin, very thin. What else can you tell me about the matter? I'm not familiar with Ser Carminato or his family. Yet, I am led to believe that he is nobili .”

One was born into the noble class of Venice . It was in 1297 that the “Closing of the Great Council” occurred, in which the patrician class was limited to those families that had served on the Great Council prior to that year. In 1381, when Venice needed additional funds to carry on its war with Genoa , the class was opened again. Those admitted to the nobili at that time were referred to as the “very new” nobles. Membership was duly recorded in the Il Libro d'Oro (The Golden Book) in either the Book of Patrician Births or the Book of Marriages. In addition to their duties as public prosecutors, the Avagadori di Comun were also responsible for maintaining Il Libro d'Oro .

The Carminato family, Dinardi explained, were, in fact, nobili , but their membership was bestowed not because of birthright but for other reasons. The Carminato family had been part of a papal family and had been bestowed the status of nobili many years previously even though the family would not come to reside in the city for almost one hundred and eighty years. Ser Innocente Carminato, whose body had been found floating in the canal near Reginaldo's academy, had been the first Carminato born in Venice . His grandfather had moved to the city some years before, bringing with him his family and very little wealth. His hope had been that he could recover some of the family's lost estate and prestige by marrying his sons, three in number, into wealth. The strategy had worked to improve the family's financial position, although it could not be said that the three marriages had fully restored the family finances. Even so, each of the three sons had procured significant dowries.

Innocente Carminato was the third son of the third son of the Carminato who had moved his family to Venice . His father had not faired so well in his marriage as his older brothers (although well enough in terms of being able to support his wife and children) but inclusion of the family name in Il Libro d'Oro still had benefits for Innocente. As a member of the nobili , he could, like Dinardi, obtain positions in the Venetian government that would allow him to support himself. He assisted the Procuratori di San Marco .

“Doing what?” Reginaldo asked when Dinardi reached this point of his explanation. The Procuratori had a number of important duties related and unrelated to the Basilica of San Marco. Nine in number, they were responsible for the building, all of its belongings and the financial management of the church. They had other duties, as well, including acting as legal guardians for widows and orphans and as executors of estates. The Procuratori were powerful persons in the Venetian government with the doge often chosen from their ranks. Where there was power and money, there could also be problems of a criminal nature, Reginaldo thought, and those problems could lead to murder.

“He is one of the estate managers,” Dinardi answered.

“Indeed,” Reginaldo replied. Ser Carminato's work would merit looking into, he told himself. “And the woman that you have arrested? What is her involvement with the deceased?”

“She once worked for the family. And if her letters are any indication, she was in love with the deceased.”

* * *

“La solitudine e pesante su me,” the letter began. “The loneliness is heavy upon me.”

There were five letters in all that had been taken from Signorina della Fiore's small room. Suspicion had been cast on the young woman in the manner all too common in Venice – the bocce di leone . Someone had sought to accuse the signorina of the crime and did so by writing out the accusation and placing it within one of the boxes maintained throughout the city which were fronted by the face of a lion. The open mouth of the lion served as the slot for the denouncements. Each day the boxes were emptied and their contents read. Ultimately, those deemed worthy of action made their way to Dinardi's desk for investigation.

“Was the accusation signed ?” Reginaldo asked. Anonymous denunciations were treated differently from those that were signed and seldom came to be investigated. There were exceptions. The details of the letter accusing della Fiore and the fact the vigili had little else to go on had led to the investigation of this particular denunciation, Dinardi explained. They had no clues about who left the document in the mouth of the lion. Whoever it was, though, knew about the connection between Signorina della Fiore and Ser Carminato and, more importantly, about the letters which they found in the signorina's room. There was also the confession, Dinardi concluded.

Reginaldo read through the letters. They were addressed to Ser Carminato and were signed by Signorina della Fiore. They told a story of love, of loneliness, of despair and of sadness.

“ I walk the hills of Berici ,” the first letter continued, “in vain hopes that the beauty of the hills as summer turns to fall will turn my mind from the sweet memories of our time together. The leaves turning to gold, however, do not set my mind at ease, and the hills around me, beautiful as they are, have become my Wilderness of Loneliness. Oh, how I miss you and wish we were together.”

“It is only the grape on the vine, so very small though it is right now, that keeps me sane in my exile. So small and green and perfect, the grape grows everyday. Can I see it grow every day ? No, but it does, and as one week passes into the next, one does notice how it grows. Why you thought it necessary for me to leave, I cannot comprehend. But I have done as you commanded and while I wait and pray for you to come to me, I think often of how you could bring such pleasure to me, even with the slightest touch as we pass, even more so with your purposeful caresses in the time we are able to be alone together. I look for the day when we can bring our affections out in the open. I look for the day when the grape has reached the time when it is ready to leave the vine and we can enjoy its wonderness.”

“My love for you grows as the grape continues in its growth,” the second letter said. “There is a wonder in it as it moves in the wind, as it seems to take on a life of its own. It is the movement which tells of the promise the grape holds, as well as its blossoming plumpness. It is this promise which keeps me from tearing my hair and crying incessantly at our being apart and your failure to come to me or even to write or send just a simple note repeating those words you told me before, telling me how you wish to hold me, simply acknowledging that I exist. (Do not think I am unhappy. I am only hopeful. And while I may not cry all the time, there are times, many times, when the tears flow as I think of you and how we have come to be apart.)

“The hills have become cold and desolate,” the fourth letter said. “I found no more happiness in the streets of Vicenza than I had in the Berici as I have come to believe that you have forsaken me. I pray that it is not so, but as each day passes, and I neither see nor hear from you, I only see a feeling that is as desolate as the trees on the hills that are without their leaves. I see a heart that is as cold to me as days have been these past couple of months.”

“The time will come soon,” the letter continued, “when the grape must come from the vine. I could never have imagined that it could become so big and round and full of that life-giving sustenance that with proper care matures into wine. Oh, but that you will be here so that we can enjoy that time together. Please hurry. The time is near.”

“I had thought that I had known sadness before but it is nothing like the sorrow I feel now,” the fifth and final letter that Reginaldo was provided began. “I am all alone in this world. You will have nothing to do with me and I have no other. It has taken me these many weeks to write, to be able to write, to face the fact that the grape I had so much hope for has withered and died on the vine. I hope you understand what I am saying. I say it not for your pity or to bring you to me. Only to let you know how truly alone I am, even among those you sent me to be with and no matter what their efforts to console me. I am left with no other conclusion than that you never cared for me and that those things you said meant nothing to you but were only intended to endear me to you so you could have your way with me. A bitterness is growing in me, a hatred, and a desire to see that those who would send me here to this wilderness would suffer as much as I have.”

The fifth letter concluded, “I know not what else to do but to return in shame to Venice , penniless, without a job, and suffering the scorn of my family. I will write when I am well enough to leave. If you cannot return the love you stole from me, the least you can do is show some compassion in helping me when I return.”

* * *

“Was there a sixth letter ?” Reginaldo asked Dinardi when he had finished.

“Not that we ever found,” Dinardi answered, “and that was the only thing the denunciation in the bocce di leone had wrong. It mentioned six letters.”

* * *

The prisoner looked up when the door to the cell opened. From where she sat the sliver of light that entered the room fell across her face. She was seated cross-legged on the wooden floor, hunched over a plate with a meager meal in front of her. Her blouse, simple, unadorned and off-white hung open at her neck. She dropped the crust of bread in her hand and clutched the neck of her blouse together bringing the folds of cloth together at the little hollow at the base of her throat.

Reginaldo was backlit by the light streaming into the room from the hallway. The prisoner could not make out his face. Had she been able to she would have observed both a small tight-lipped smile and a look of mild surprise – the smile for the woman's act of modesty in covering her breasts and the surprise at her young age and attractiveness. She is not beautiful, Reginaldo thought. Still there is a look about her, his thought continued, that draws your eye to her and gives a certain feeling of pleasure to look upon her, inviting but not seductive. Reginaldo saw all this in her face and in her act of simple modesty, even though her face was dirt-smudged, her hair was matted and her clothes wrinkled. She has not the look of a cold-blooded murderer, Reginaldo concluded his assessment of her.

If the prisoner could not see Reginaldo's face for the shadow, she could at least see from the outline of his clothes that Reginaldo was nobili . She struggled to gain her feet and Reginaldo stepped forward to fully enter the room and take her arm to help her stand.

“Signorina . . . , or is it Signora, I am Signor Morosini,” Reginaldo introduced himself. “I would like to ask you some questions about why you are here.”

“I . . . I don't remember,” the woman answered.

“Don't remember?”

“I don't remember why I am here,” she added.

Reginaldo turned to both the jailer, who had entered the room behind him, and to Dinardi, who now stood in the doorway. Dinardi shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I don't know what's going on.”

Reginaldo addressed the jailer, “How long has she been here?”

“Three days,” was the reply.

The cell was cold, no source of heat to hold back the chill which hung in the air.

“Maybe if we take her to another room where it is warmer, let her clean herself and give her something better to eat,” Reginaldo suggested. This comment was directed at Dinardi rather than the jailer. The jailer would never allow such a thing simply because Reginaldo suggested it, even though he knew that Reginaldo was often working at the behest of the Council of Ten when he visited the cells of the prison. If Dinardi consented, it would be done.

“I agree,” Dinardi answered, nodding to the jailer his agreement with what Reginaldo had said.

* * *

It was almost half an hour later when the woman sat at a table on a regular chair across from Reginaldo. The plate of food before her was not a hot meal but the mixture of cheese, bread, and vegetables was more substantial than what she had left behind in her cell. She still wore her dirty, wrinkled clothes from the cell. Her hair was plastered to the side of her face, wet from being rinsed with clear water. Water dripped from the ends of the hair onto her neck. Her face was now clean and Reginaldo was able to better take note of it.

She did not appear to yet be twenty, most likely nineteen. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, as was her hair which hung only to the tops of her shoulders, although the darkness of the hair could be due in part to its wet condition. Three things really stood out about her. Her teeth were remarkably white and straight, something not often seen and even more rarely in a person of the lower classes. It was her nose that gave character to her face: not prominent but definitely curved much like the keel of a ship placed upside down. The third feature was her shoulders and neck. The neck was long and thin but her neck muscles rose gradually at an angle from her shoulders to her neck to produce a well-formed and pronounced triangle of muscle on each side of her neck. At first, Reginaldo thought she might have Jewish blood in her but quickly rejected the idea. Her family, at some time recent or ancient, must have come to Venice from the far side of the Adriatic . She might even be of gypsy stock, a nomadic people who had first made their appearance in the eastern end of Europe about a hundred years previously.

“It is Signorina,” she said to Reginaldo, referencing his earlier comment to her back at the cell. “I have never married.”

“Ahhh. One never knows,” Reginaldo answered. A short silence followed as the woman continued to eat from the plate in front of her and Reginaldo continued to examine her. When her eating slowed, Reginaldo began to question her.

“Signorina della Fiore, do you remember now why you are here? In this prison?”

“Ser Carminato is dead,” she replied.

“And you have confessed to killing him,” Reginaldo reminded her.

“Yes.” She sat quietly, saying no more. Reginaldo let a short silence fill the room before beginning again.

“How did you kill him ?” he finally asked. Reginaldo was not convinced that she had actually done the act, although he could not say precisely why he felt this way. It was possible that she was trying to protect someone. Or maybe it was something else.

“It doesn't matter how he died. And I don't know how it happened. But I am responsible. His death was at my doing. I went looking for evil and at my bidding evil was done.”

Dinardi had been standing to the side of the room, leaning against the wall. At the woman's revelation, he pushed himself away and came to stand next to Reginaldo at the table.

“You paid someone to kill . . . .” Dinardi stopped in mid-sentence. Reginaldo had placed his hand on Dinardi's forearm as a silent communication to not finish the question.

“Had Ser Carminato done something to you that made you want to get back at him?” In contrast to Dinardi's interruption Reginaldo's tone was both calm and measured.

“He sent me away,” she answered. Until this point her answers had also been calmly delivered, as though she was speaking of someone else even though she was using the first person. But Reginaldo now sensed a slight agitation in her voice, perhaps a concern or regret. “It was her doing, though. She made him do it.”

“She ? Who is she?” Reginaldo asked.

“The signora. It was her I wanted to hurt, to have suffer. And I got what I wanted, what I paid for, didn't I.” A short laugh, almost a snort, escaped from her. “She lost her husband. Maybe there is truth to the warning to be careful of what you ask for because you might get it.”

“You paid someone to get back at Lady Carminato,” Reginaldo continued with his questioning. “Who was he and what exactly did you ask him to do?”

“It wasn't a him,” she answered very matter-of-factly. “It was a she.”

“A woman,” Dinardi muttered under his breath.

“Yes, a woman,” della Fiore answered, “a woman and a witch. I asked her to cast a spell on the Signora to bring bad fortune on her. And she did.”

“Mama mia,” Dinardi said, making the sign of the cross as he said this.

“And that is how you are responsible for Ser Carminato's death ?” Reginaldo continued with his inquiry.

“Yes . . . but . . . but, I also deceived the witch.”

“How so ?”

“I was to gather certain things related to the Signora, including a writing. I didn't. Instead, I had the letters I had written Ser Carminato while I was gone from Venice . When I returned, I sent a message that I had returned and wanted to see him. He refused. Instead, he sent one of the servants to me with the letters I had written him. I gave one of them to the witch to use when she cast her spell. She did not know.”

That explained to Reginaldo how della Fiore had come to have the letters in her possession.

“I have read your letters,” Reginaldo told her, “at least the ones that remained. Tell me, what is the meaning of the story of the grapes ?”

Della Fiore remained silent, as though she had not heard the question. Reginaldo did not repeat his question.

“Is she leading us on?” Dinardi asked Reginaldo once della Fiore had been taken from the room to be returned to her cell.

“Anything is possible. . . . But I don't think so,” Reginaldo replied. Reginaldo could not know whether the story of a witch and a spell was completely accurate. Yet, it had a ring of truth to it.

* * *

Reginaldo knew little of Annamaria Carminato except that she was now a widow, a mother of three and had employed della Fiore to care for her children at some time in the past. It was time to meet her personally. If the killer of her husband was not della Fiore, the answer lay elsewhere. Experience had taught Reginaldo that in Venice it was usually problems of family or business – or a mixture of both – which led to murder. Family would be his next stop, followed by business.

“The madam was never in robust health,” Reginaldo was told as he sat in the front room of the Carminato residence. Signora Carminato was not at the palace. Indeed, with the death of her husband she had gone to the house of her uncle and was now living there. Reginaldo was greeted at the door by one of the servants.

“But after giving birth to her fourth child, the one that died, she seemed to be in even poorer health,” the servant continued. “It wasn't just the death of the infant, mind you. All her pregnancies have been difficult but this one was physically harder than the others. She was in bed for weeks afterwards and for the first few days following the birth, the doctor couldn't say that she would live.”

“And how long ago was that?” Reginaldo asked.

“Six months, maybe five, but I will tell you, this pregnancy was harder on her because her life was in turmoil. Marriage problems, you know.”

Reginaldo had been at the house for half an hour when the conversation had turned to Signora Carminato's health and marital problems. The servant had much to tell him, and was eager to do so, a fact that Reginaldo noted as she continued with what would be considered gossip in some circles. For now, he was careful to listen without making decisions on the credibility of what the woman was saying. In his first half hour with her, he learned, among other things, that the servant had reason to speak ill of the family for which she worked. With the death of Ser Carminato, the woman was being let go, while the other two servants were being kept on. It wasn't a matter of money. There was no need for three servants once it had been decided that the signora and her children would move into the house where her uncle resided. Frankly, she threw in, she couldn't imagine the two would be there long. That house wasn't as big as the one Signor and Signora Carminato had lived in and the uncle had servants of his own. No explanation was given why she was being let go instead of one of the others, the woman said. When she asked, the question was ignored.

“There were marriage problems? How so?”

“She wanted too much of the marriage, if you ask me,” the woman continued. “Pffft. What can I say? Nobili .” She paused a second as she realized that Reginaldo wore the togata of that class she obviously held in some contempt. “Nothing against your class as whole but, dio mio , the way they marry. It's all about business or money or name or status. Never for love. Except the signora had romantic notions. To her, marriage was all about loving each other unconditionally.”

“And Ser Carminato? Did he not love his wife?”

“He wasn't faithful to her,” the woman explained. “Did that mean he didn't love her? No. They just looked at their commitment differently. Hers was total, undivided both emotionally and physically. He gave her servants, children, a nice house and financial well-being, in addition to the frequent, but not sole pleasure of his company. He had fulfilled his duty, as far as he was concerned and, having done that, he was free to enjoy other pleasures elsewhere.”

“And what of Signorina della Fiore? Was there a relationship there?”

“I couldn't say,” was the response. “Signorina della Fiore left suddenly. One day she was here. The next we were told that she had left Venice and would not return. That is all I know,” the woman told him.

“But you knew she had returned? Just recently.”

The woman did not answer immediately, weighing what Reginaldo had said and what her answer should be, her weight shifting from one foot to the other as she wrestled with her decision.

“If she had returned, I never saw her,” she finally answered. “I was not here the three days before Ser Carminato was found in the canal. I was in Chiogga caring for my mother who had taken ill. I returned as soon as I learned that the signore had died.” Reginaldo could not help but note that the woman had not answered the question that had been asked.

“But did you know she had returned?” Reginaldo insisted.

The woman shifted from one foot to another before repeating that she had not seen della Fiore.

There was one last thing Reginaldo asked the servant before leaving to find Signora Carminato at her uncle's house. Could she get a sheaf of paper and write her name and the names of the other two servants so he could have it for later. If I don't have them written down, he told her, I will forget them.

“I'm sorry, Signor, I cannot write,” she told him.

“Perhaps one of the other servants,” Reginaldo suggested.

“They're not here but even if they were, they can't write either.”

Where could he find the Signora, he asked. What was her uncle's name ? The answer came as complete surprise to Reginaldo.

* * *

“I thought Elena had been arrested for my husband's death. Did she not confess?” From the Carminato residence, Reginaldo went to the house of Signora Carminato's uncle.

“We are trying to learn more about Signorina della Fiore and the connection with your husband. She has claimed responsibility for the signore's death but we know nothing of why she would do such a thing.” Reginaldo was not ready to let the widow know that the confession and della Fiore's responsibility for the death was now in question. He did not want the woman to be defensive in her discussions with him or believe that she needed to be. Besides, Reginaldo had no reason to suspect her at this point, nor to be of the opposite opinion that she had no part in her husband's death.

“The girl was obsessed with my husband,” Signora Carminato began. “He did everything he could to dissuade her but to no avail. She would constantly brush up against him and bend over so that her breasts would be exposed to him, like a common meretrice , [street prostitute], selling her body for sex on the street. There was an intimacy in the way she touched him as they talked – her hand reaching out and resting lightly on his forearm. She had an affection for him. It was plain to see.”

“And your husband? Did he return the affection?” Reginaldo had asked this or similar questions so often in the course of investigating crimes at the request of the Dieci that he saw nothing embarrassing in it. Reactions to such a question could also tell him a lot, sometimes more than the answer he received. Signora Carminato had no discernible reaction.

“At first, he ignored her,” she explained. “But then it started being open. Too open, to the point where I was worried the children might wonder what was going on.”

“And you? Didn't this bother you?”

“I talked to Innocente. I told him what the girl was up to. But I didn't ask or insist that we let her go. She was too good with the children. I will say that about her. She would have made a good mother someday.” The woman paused as she thought on this fact. “He must have talked to her,” she started up again, her mind returning to what Reginaldo had asked. “The advances were less obvious. Like I said, she was good with the children and I felt that because of her age, she was simply experiencing an infatuation with the only man in her life who wasn't her father or a brother. I thought she would grow out of it. I was wrong.”

“But she left,” Reginaldo pointed out. “Was she asked to leave?”

“She stopped coming in one day. I don't know why. I don't know where she went.”

“There was no contact with your husband during this time?”

“None.”

“There were letters to your husband from her while she was gone. Did you know of these?”

The signora hesitated just long enough before answering that Reginaldo doubted the truth of the answer she finally gave. “No, I know of no such letters.”

“And did you know that she had returned to Venice ?”

“I didn't know she had left Venice ,” was the reply.

“Do you think she could have killed your husband?”

“I told you, she was obsessed with him. Yes, she could have killed him. She did kill him. She confessed.”

“Physically, I mean. Was she strong enough to kill him?”

“She confessed.”

* * *

“Incantato ?” Jacopo da Ferrara asked.

“Incantato,” Reginaldo answered. “Bewitched. She claims responsibility for the death of Ser Carminato because she sought to have a spell cast and the death of Ser Carminato was the spell's unexpected result.”

“Certainly Dinardi does not expect to hold her liable for the death if that is all she did – have someone cast a spell."

“She refuses to name the witch. Out of fear, she says,” Reginaldo explained. “Dinardi has no way to confirm that such a witch ever existed. He is doubtful of her guilt, but for the moment he is remaining cautious. At most, he says, he can keep her in custody for practicing witchcraft but that charge will ultimately have to be turned over to the religious authorities if it is to be pursued.”

“And you,” Jacopo inquired, “what do you think?”

“As I told Dinardi, it is possible she is lying about the witch. But I don't think so. No . . . the balance of the humors in her mind is not quite right. When she fled or was forced from Venice , she left one person. Something happened to her while she was gone and she has returned someone completely different. Not a simpleton. But not a person fully possessed of her senses. The answer to that part of the mystery lies on terra firma . And the mystery of the witch lies here in Venice .”

It was from this discussion that Jacopo found himself traveling inland to learn what he could about Gentilia della Fiore's absence from Venice . Under normal circumstances, he might not have minded the diversion from his duties as the most recent maestro at the academy – not that he disliked the teaching. However, the academy was due to be closed for two weeks as work was being done on the piano nobile where the library was located, and the floor above where most of the classes were taught. In addition to his teaching, Jacopo did journeyman's work as a painter for many of the art studios in Venice . When the decision had been made to close the school, he had planned on seeking work at one of the studios during that period. His trip inland, to the area of Vicenza, specifically, would take up anywhere from four days to a week. Or even longer if he was unsuccessful in finding out something about the young woman being held for murder. His painting would have to wait.

The Veneto , the area of the terra firma that included Vicenza , had not escaped the cold that held Venice in its grip. Added to the cold was a heavy snowfall. While the water trickling across the cobble-stoned street where the snow had been removed and the sun on Jacopo's face suggested that the temperature had climbed above the freezing point, Jacopo still felt the chill. He gripped his cloak tighter at his throat in hopes of holding in the heat being generated by his body.

Della Fiore's letters had mentioned Vicenza on one occasion and the Berici hills outside it on others, but those had been the sole identification of any geographical area to which she might have gone. On that basis, Reginaldo concluded that she must have gone there. She was popolani , Reginaldo had also reasoned, and likely could not – would not – have left her home on her own. Reginaldo believed that she had been sent away from Venice by someone with money and influence; perhaps a successful cittadini but more likely a member of the nobili . Probably it was Ser Carminato.

Jacopo's first day had gone without success. No one knew the girl either by name or by description. The second day had also been unavailing. Jacopo had exhausted all the public and private places in the city of Vicenza where Reginaldo had thought the young woman might have been taken in. Perhaps he was wrong about his hunch on why della Fiore had left Venice . It was either that or she had gone to one of the villages near Vicenza . The number of villages overwhelmed Jacopo as he thought of them. He might have given up and returned to Venice except that della Fiore's letters had contained that one other clue: the mention of the Berici hills. Jacopo would begin with the villages nearest Vicenza that either stood at the feet of the Berici or interior to them. He would give his search three days, maybe four at the most, and then return to Venice feeling comfortable that he had made the most thorough search possible in the time he had.

It would not take that much time, however. Someone in the village of Longare thought he recognized della Fiore from the description Jacopo had given. A second person confirmed this, remembering the name, Elena, although believing that her family name was something other than della Fiore. Besides recognizing the woman, both had also agreed that she had been staying in the nearby village of Costozza . Jacopo headed to the village which was only an hour or less from Longare.

He was not in that village long before learning of della Fiore's visit to the village. Reginaldo, he discovered, had been correct in his surmise of why the girl had come to the village. Perhaps as importantly, he came away with an understanding of what had happened to her while she was in the village that had so affected her mind. Jacopo hurried back to Venice with his information.

* * *

How the body of San Marco had come to be smuggled out of Alexandria where it was being held hostage by the Muslims and brought to Venice was a remarkable one. The merchants of Venice had gone to Alexandria to rescue the saint's relics as word had reached Venice that the Muslims controlling the city were set on desecrating the relic. Secreting the body among a shipment of pork, a meat disgusting to the Islamic guards whose duty it was to inspect shipments leaving the city, the body was presented to the doge, laid to rest in Venice , and a great church built up around the final resting place. Perhaps even more remarkable was how the body disappeared during a renovation of the church, only to miraculously reappear years later encased in one of the pillars supporting the interior of the church.

Reginaldo paused as he always did to take in the gold-tiled mosaics that lined the outer arcade to the church and told the story of San Marco's delivery to Venice in picture form. Looking across the large open piazza before the multi-domed church, one saw only the exterior of what Reginaldo believed to be the most beautiful church in all of Italy . It was the interior of the church with its gold-tiled mosaics lining the walls and ceilings which set the church apart from all the others. To truly appreciate its grandeur, though, one had to see it when the interior was lit, usually reserved for times when a service was being held or a special celebration being made.

The church's interior would be dark this day, Reginaldo knew. It was the middle of the week. Only an occasional candle lit the gloom. The luster that might otherwise illuminate the interior as light reflected off the gold walls and ceilings was not present. One could still make out the multitude of figures and stories illustrated on the walls and interior domes but the detail that came only with the proper lighting was lacking.

Reginaldo made his way to the offices of the Procuratori of the basilica. It would have been here that Innocente Carminato would have performed his duties for those office holders of the church.

The basilica of San Marco was not just a house of worship. No, Reginaldo thought, brushing from his mind what some might think of as blasphemy, it was only that – a house of worship. Still there were two sides to the church. There was the side that praised San Marco and God and the side that let that happen. San Marco, as with all the churches in Venice , was more than a place where one could come for Mass or to praise the patron saint of the church or to seek special intercession to relieve the troubles in one's life. The churches were also monuments to the worship of God. And monuments cost money, not only to build but to maintain. There was never a shortage of funds to keep San Marco open and operating. Some gave money for indulgences for the remission of their sins or the sins of family who had gone before them. Some gave to have the memory of their family preserved. Others did it out of a simple religious fervor. Still others did it out of the love of Venice and a desire to participate in building and preserving such a wonderful statement of Venice 's dedication to its patron saint. There was plenty of money to keep the church going but the business of worship required that those funds be managed. That is what Ser Carminato had done at one of the small desks in one of the small rooms in the Treasury of the basilica. He was an executor, or estate manager, of the some of the various estates that the Procuratori were appointed to oversee.

“His work has been acceptable,” the Procuratoro in charge of the estates told Reginaldo. There was something in the way that suggested to Reginaldo that perhaps Ser Carminato's work had been something other than acceptable. On the other hand, the Procuratoro was a very important and busy person and it was possible that he did not feel it was a good use of his time to be discussing one of the members of his office with a stranger, even a fellow member of the nobili . While Reginaldo knew some of the Procuratori serving San Marco at the time, the one before him was not one of them.

“Acceptable but not exemplary, I take it,” Reginaldo offered, “but I'm not asking for a reference. I'm looking for a reason that someone might want to kill him.”

“I am aware of that,” was the answer. The man gave Reginaldo a tight-lipped smile and spread his hands as he walked towards the door to his office, herding Reginaldo before him. Reginaldo sensed the interview was over. If there had been problems with Carminato's work – if he was stealing from the estates he was handling – Reginaldo would not learn it from the Procuratoro . Embezzlement or mismanagement would be something that would reflect on the control this official held over his office. He would not tolerate such actions. He would not kill to eliminate the problem. He would, however, deal with it quietly and efficiently. There would be no public scandal.

Reginaldo had two other sources for the information he sought – the fellow estate managers who worked beside Carminato and the court records of the estates the deceased man had managed. It was the latter source which led Reginaldo to the information he sought.

* * *

“He stole from me, from my family,” Bernardo Orio told Reginaldo. Some twelve years earlier, Ser Andrea Orio had named the Procuratori as the executor for his estate and the trustee for his children. A small, but not insubstantial percentage of the income from the property and business of the estate was paid to the church of San Marco . The church also received the estate management fee established by Venetian law for the executor of the estate.

Bernardo had been the first to come of age among the Orio children who were the beneficiaries of the estate. His interest in what would become his final share once his siblings also came of age caused him to take an active interest in how his inheritance was being managed by Ser Carminato.

“He wasn't stealing outright, though ?” Reginaldo asked. Theft of the funds of the estate would have been difficult to conceal, at least in the long run. Annually, an accounting would have been demanded of Carminato from the Venetian court overseeing the estate. Even if Carminato could have fooled the court at these annual justifications, the scrutiny at the closing of the estate was even more intensive. Any theft would have been discovered. On occasion – although apparently not in the case of Ser Carminato, at least as relayed by Bernardo Orio – the executor might “borrow” from the estate to meet short term, often unexpected, shortfalls in personal funds. They always intended to pay the money back. Many did without anyone knowing the better. But this was not always the case.

Bernardo accused Carminato of something more dishonest. Carminato, he claimed, had been paying inflated prices for services done on behalf of the estate or for goods related to the business ventures operated for the estate. In exchange, Carminato was receiving either direct kickbacks in cash or credits for his own account from those doing business with the estate.

“It was the wedding contract for my sister, though, that tripped him up,” Bernardo explained. “He was so greedy that he demanded that the father of the husband share part of my sister's dowry with him. The amount he paid under the contract was outrageous, even for an Orio. Did he think we were stupid ? That we would not find out?”

If Carminato had been lucky before in concealing his under-the-table dealings, that luck had run out with the dowry. The new husband-to-be died before the marriage could take place and two weeks after Bernardo had reached the age of majority. The Orio family was entitled to the return of the entire amount paid to the groom-to-be's family and it fell to Bernardo as the elder male of the family now of age to make the demand for the return of the money on his sister's behalf. There was a definite shortfall offered up to Bernardo, a shortfall attributable to what had been paid to Carminato. The groom-to-be's father was easily forthcoming in giving up Carminato for his role in demanding that part of the dowry be paid to him.

“You understand that you have just told me why you had a motive to kill Ser Carminato,” Reginaldo explained.

“Perhaps,” Bernardo conceded, “but he died before I had the chance (not that I had contemplated doing any such thing) or before I had the opportunity to do anything beyond demanding that he return the money and telling him I would go to the Procuratoro to have him removed from any further association with my family's money.”

“And did you tell the Procuratoro of what had happened ?” Reginaldo asked.

“I did and I am satisfied with what will be done to make things right. But it was only after Ser Carminato had died that I was able to meet with the Procuratoro . In fact, it was only the day before yesterday.”

* * *

With the information from Bernardo Orio, Reginaldo had a complete picture of what had transpired in the death of Innocente Carminato. Elena della Fiore had no responsibility in that death, Reginaldo was now convinced. Her guilt lay not with any involvement in the demise of her former employer and it would not, or should not, be the Venetian criminal courts which tried her for her actions. She could be, and probably would be, answerable to the court of the church for her heresy in turning to black magic. But in Venice , the church seldom saw reason to impose a capital punishment for such actions. In some ways, Reginaldo could see that Elena della Fiore might have been acting under the influence of an unstable mind at the time. Jacopo had confirmed that on his return from the Veneto . Reginaldo suspected that the girl was still not right. All the same, the Church could not ignore the heresy. God's law must be enforced.

The Church would certainly fend for itself, Reginaldo assured himself. His concern was with seeing that Signorina della Fiore was released from custody on the criminal charges leveled against her. Reginaldo made his way to Dinardi's office to tell Dinardi of what Reginaldo had concluded. Once that was done, and Elena was released, Reginaldo and Dinardi would have a short trip to make. There was an arrest to be made in connection with the death of Innocente Carminato.

* * *

Signora Carminato's servant had not misspoken. The residence of the signora's uncle was inferior in size and grandeur to the one she had lived in with her husband. It could be a temporary arrangement – the signora and her children taking up residence there until the shock and grief of her husband's death had worn off. Reginaldo did not believe that she would be moving back anytime soon. There was a memory there that would live in the house for a long time. It was that memory that brought Reginaldo and Dinardi to the house of Ser Girolamo Tron, Signora Carminato's uncle, along with two vigili from Dinardi's office. The vigili remained outside the house with the gondola that had delivered the four to the canal-side entrance to the house. Reginaldo and Dinardi were shown inside to wait for Signora Carminato. She joined them shortly, accompanied by her uncle. There was an awkward silence as the four faced each other.

“You have released Signorina della Fiore?” the uncle said. It was both a question and statement.

“Yes. She is no longer a suspect,” Dinardi replied.

“Preposterous. She confessed,” Signora Carminato pointed out.

“True, but she had no part in your husband's death,” Reginaldo interjected.

Dinardi cleared his throat.

“Signora, we have come to arrest you,” he told her.

“Me?! Arrest me? For what?” she asked.

“For making a false accusation concerning your husband's death. For hiding the truth concerning that death. For causing the Republic to investigate the death and to arrest a person you knew to be innocent in the matter. Perhaps there will be other charges as we look into this deeper. Perhaps there will be others arrested.” Dinardi had finished with his explanation.

There was little reaction from Signora Carminato, nothing beyond a short step backwards. Her uncle's reaction, however, was different.

“What is the meaning of this,” the uncle protested. Spittle flew from his mouth as the words erupted from him. “This is the result of your investigation? You are accusing her in the murder of her husband?” The outburst was directed as much at Reginaldo as at Dinardi. It was Reginaldo who answered.

“There was no murder,” Reginaldo answered. “But I think you know that better than anyone. Your nephew, her husband, he killed himself. There was no murder.”

Signora Carminato started to protest but before she could say anything of significance her uncle reached out and took her by the arm.

“You have nothing to say,” the uncle said.

“Your husband killed himself,” Reginaldo began as he started to explain. The silence from both the signora and her father-in-law told Reginaldo and Dinardi that Reginaldo had correctly deduced what had happened.

Ser Carminato had returned home from the Basilica of San Marco where he had gone after his fateful meeting with Bernardo Orio. He had gone through the papers relating to the Orio estate, looking closely at the documents, trying to judge whether he could hide what he had done. The records, he concluded, would not stand scrutiny. They would tell the truth of Carminato's embezzlement. It would not do well to destroy the documents, either. Their destruction would point to Carminato once Orio came around to the Procuratoro making his accusation. For a very brief moment, Carminato considered the way out of his dilemma would be to kill Orio before he could meet with the Procuratoro . But Carminato was no killer. He did not even think of himself as a thief, even though his embezzlement would have qualified him as one. It had just happened. Business dealings had gone bad and he needed money to repay some moneylenders. After the first time, each successive time became easier. As Carminato considered his options, one other thought struck home. The Orio estate would not be the only one which he handled which would be audited and investigated. There would be problems with those, as well.

Accepting responsibility for what he had done was as quickly rejected by Carminato as was the option of killing Orio. The shame of everyone knowing what he had done, the shame of being paraded through Venice as part of his punishment, the shame that would be brought on the family name and would follow his children for the rest of their lives was too much. There was only one option truly available to Carminato. It was that option he chose.

Ser Carminato had returned home from the Basilica of San Marco, greeted his wife and children, and then climbed the stairs to the small attic area above the top floor of his house. In his hands he carried a stack of records which he had brought home from the office. There was just enough room there for him to tie one end of a rope to one of the rafters and the other end around his neck without his feet touching the floor once he kicked over the stack of records. Fittingly, they were the files relating to the Orio estate.

Someone had found Ser Carminato later that evening – maybe his wife, maybe one of the servants. It was likely they had gone looking for him, perhaps when he didn't come down to supper. Carminato had not shut the door to the attic area. When they had gone looking for him, it was only a matter of time before finding him.

“You sent for Ser Tron, your uncle,” Reginaldo nodded in the direction of the man standing next to Signora Carminato. He nodded in return, seemingly agreeing with what Reginaldo said. Reginaldo continued. Ser Tron came to his son's house immediately. With the aid of the servants, he took down Carminato's body. Perhaps they were at a loss about what to do at first. But they soon made up their mind. The suicide would be a secret. The body was loaded into a gondola, taken to the far end of Venice and dropped in the small, slow-moving rio where the body was found the next morning.

“You loved your husband deeply,” Reginaldo continued, “and you could not bear to see him remembered for taking his own life. Maybe he left a note explaining why he did what he did. Maybe you guessed at why he took his own life. Maybe your uncle came up with the idea. It doesn't matter. The world wasn't to know that your husband had hung himself.”

“It was my idea, my decision,” the elder Carminato interrupted. Reginaldo had believed as such. The uncle was more concerned with the disgrace and dishonor from both the suicide and what he believed was the cause of Carminato's actions. However, as Reginaldo also believed, the uncle was only interested in protecting the family and the family name. There was no reason to blame another, and he had no cause for implicating Signorina Elena della Fiore. The spell that Ser Tron sought to weave was complete when the body was found in the canal. The world only needed to believe that Ser Carminato had been murdered. It was not necessary to offer up a murderer for them. It might even be better if the murder had gone unsolved, investigated for awhile, and then forgotten in time by all except the family members.

“Everything you've said so far is how everything happened, or so near as not to make a difference,” Tron admitted. “We did try to hide the true cause of Innocente's death. But that was it. What would we benefit by accusing someone and having the death more intensely investigated ? Why would we want the della Fiore girl punished ? The idea is absurd.”

It was all true, Reginaldo thought, at least as far as Tron went. Indeed, under the circumstances, Reginaldo was as certain as he ever had been that the gentleman had nothing to do with, or knowledge of, the accusations made against della Fiore. During the entire course of the conversation at the uncle's residence, there had been something significant that had gone unstated between Reginaldo and the elder gentleman and Reginaldo saw no reason to reveal the matter if Tron likewise remained silent on it. It had been Ser Tron who had originally come to Reginaldo seeking his help in seeing that Signorina della Fiore was not punished in the death of her former employer. Reginaldo had not known of the distant relationship by marriage between Tron and Carminato through Tron's niece. Had he known of the relationship earlier, Reginaldo may have come quicker to his resolution of the case.

Knowing from his own knowledge of the cause of death of his niece's husband and della Fiore's innocence, it was not within Ser Tron's character to stand by while the innocent woman was held in custody, tried, convicted and punished. In his position of influence, Tron was well aware of the injustices that were sometimes perpetrated when violent means of persuasion were applied in the course of interrogating a prisoner. Ser Tron would not be a knowing participant to such an injustice.

“The Signora, your niece, had her own reasons for seeing Signorina della Fiore accused, Ser Tron,” Reginaldo continued. Reginaldo believed it unlikely that Tron suspected, much less knew, that his niece was the one responsible for della Fiore's arrest. He would not have sought out Reginaldo if he had thought blame of some sort might come back against his family.

“Signora Carminato had her own reasons for seeing the girl blamed in her husband's death,” Reginaldo explained. “The della Fiore woman, you see, had been romantically involved with Ser Carminato and, while there had been other women in and out of his life during his marriage, Signora Carminato found herself able to forgive her husband for those indiscretions and to ignore the existence of his other sexual partners. With one exception, that is. Signorina della Fiore was that exception. She was different, or so Signora Carminato saw her as being different.

“Perhaps there was a basis for seeing Signorina della Fiore in a different light. She did, after all, become pregnant with child as a result of her liaison with Ser Carminato and was sent away to the hills of Berici to give birth to the baby away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

“But she also would not let go of Ser Carminato and had the temerity to attempt to continue the relationship with him from afar through her letters. And then she returned to Venice .”

The talk of della Fiore was having its effect on Signora Carminato. Her face became flushed, a scowl contorted her mouth, her eyes flashed disgust and a small, perceptible shaking took hold of her body. She remained silent, though. For the moment.

“I do not think you accept that your husband's death resulted from his desire to avoid the shame and humiliation of his embezzlement becoming publicly known,” Reginaldo continued. He paused a second. Signora Carminato filled the void, her voice trembling softly.

“He gave his heart to her,” she said, “and then her final letter came and she wanted nothing to do with him. She returned to Venice but refused to have anything to do with him. He couldn't live with that.”

“She blamed your husband for sending her away and abandoning her,” Reginaldo offered in way of explanation. “She blamed you for turning him against her. But she also blamed him, as well. It was no small matter, either. The child – Signorina della Fiore's child with your husband – was stillborn. Neither she nor the child was of any importance to your husband. The infatuation went only one way. She loved him but your husband cared neither for her nor for their child. He killed himself because he couldn't bear being branded a criminal, not because the della Fiore girl refused to be a part of his life anymore.”

“No !” Signora Carminato interrupted. “She bewitched him. He was under her spell and when she would have no more to do with him and would not release him from her magic, he took his life.” A long silence followed before Signora Carminato spoke again. Having seemingly gained control of herself, she asked calmly, “But so what if I believe my husband killed himself over the rejection of another woman ? That doesn't mean I falsely accused that woman or had her falsely arrested.”

“No, standing by itself, it doesn't,” Reginaldo agreed. “But it isn't everything. There are the letters Signorina della Fiore wrote your husband. No one outside your house and Signorina della Fiore would have known of those letters. Yet, the message left in the bocca di leone told the authorities to look for the letters in the signorina's possession. It had to be someone here who put that message in the lion's mouth and pointed the blame at Signorina della Fiore.”

“Why someone here ? You just said that that woman had them. The vigili found them in her room, didn't they ?” she countered in protest.

Dinardi interrupted, for even he had noted the earlier statements by the woman which contradicted her protest.

“Signora, even if we did not have other evidence that the letters had been here, you have admitted as much. You told us that the letters had arrived and that it was the last one which sent your husband into his ‘deep depression.'”

At the realization that she had trapped herself, the signora went silent, crossed her arms across her chest and slumped back against the wall, the fight gone out of her. A resignation to the inevitability of the truth coming out came over her.

“But you had other evidence, as well,” Ser Tron rejoined the discussion, whether out of interest in knowing the whole story or out of a desire to protect his niece now that she had abandoned her own defense.

“Signorina della Fiore retrieved the letters, or rather, had someone do it for her. One of the servants found them and gave them to her.”

“And somehow you think that my niece knew that the letters were returned and that it was Signorina della Fiore who had come to the house to get them ?” Tron argued. “Why not the servant – co-workers have jealousies, arguments, disagreements. Why couldn't the envy of one servant for the other be behind the false accusations ?”

“Bocca di leone.” Reginaldo paused for a second to let the idea sink in and also to highlight the significance of the way in which the accusation was made. “The servants could not read nor write. Of those who knew of the existence of the letters beyond della Fiore and Ser Carminato, the only one who could write was the signora.”

“He is right in what he says,” Signora Carminato admitted, her words coming softly and with little force of breath behind them. With emotion she continued, “But she – that servant – killed him as though she herself put the rope around his neck, tied him to the rafters and set him dangling in the air. She killed him when she took away his desire to go on living . . . and she deserved to be punished for that.”

* * *

Reginaldo lit a second candle at the side altar of the Virgin Mary and offered up a separate prayer. The first candle and first prayer were an everyday ritual as Reginaldo stopped off at this small church for the early morning Mass en route to the house where Reginaldo's son lived with the boy's mother. The first candle and prayer were one of thanksgiving and gratitude for the miracle the Virgin Mother had worked on Reginaldo's behalf when he had been a boy, saving him from a crippling and life-threatening illness.

On this morning, the second candle and prayer were for Signorina della Fiore. Not for her soul but for her recovery from the sickness which afflicted her mind. “I pray for Signorina della Fiore on two accounts,” Reginaldo told the painting of Mary that hung above the altar. “I pray that the imbalance in her mind will be cured and that she will see that witchcraft is not the way to deal with the feelings she harbors against Signora Carminato.

“And I pray for her on the second account,” he continued, “so that when she returns to her senses, she does not turn to more violent and direct means to carry out her animosity.”

It was later, as he was talking with Lisabetta, the mother of his son, that Reginaldo was also confronted with what he thought should become of the witch that had cast the spell. “You brought justice to the poor servant girl,” Lisabetta noted, “but would you not also bring justice to the witch who took advantage of her.”

Reginaldo thought for a moment and decided it was not the time for a serious philosophical discussion on the heresies that witchcraft presented.

“This is Venice ,” he said lightheartedly, throwing his hands in the air. “‘ Prima veneziano e poi Crisitiani ' (‘We are Venetians first, then Christians'). Have we ever stood in the way of a person trying to earn a living ?”