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Finally, he sat down on a Regency settee and looked over at Nino. ‘So?’
‘So,’ Nino replied, bemused.
‘You came to talk?’ Joh
‘You wanted to talk to me.’
‘Oh yes,’ Joh
‘About Angelico Vespucci.’
Joh
‘I couldn’t find out much about him,’ Nino went on. The room felt overheated and stuffy, the towering Italian furniture dwarfing its modest proportions. ‘Is there anything I can read? Any books?’
‘Mostly hearsay.’
‘But?’
‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’ Joh
Wary, Nino looked at the notes. ‘I’m very grateful – but why are you helping me?’
‘I heard that you’d been hired to look into the death of Seraphina di Fattori. That’s why. Are you being paid well?’
Hesitating, Nino paused. He had used up the last of his savings on the Venice trip and was begi
‘I could use some cash,’ Nino admitted at last.
‘Then it’s yours,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone indifferent, as befitted a wealthy man. ‘I’ll give you a retainer now and you let me know how much you need as you go along. Oh, and keep this between us, will you? I’d rather people didn’t know of my interest.’ He shifted in his seat, his figure bulky on the elegant sofa. ‘Seraphina was my friend. She was very kind to me when I had a little … upset … with a gentleman in a bar. I mean, I’m gay.’ He regarded Nino for a moment as though daring him to challenge the words. When he didn’t, Joh
‘You think he had something to do with her death?’
‘No, but I think he had a lot to do with her life,’ Joh
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Seraphina went to London to get away from him. She loved him, but she needed a break. She was pregnant, you see, and worried about it.’
Nino made no show of having already known. ‘Didn’t she want the baby?’
‘She did. Tom didn’t.’
‘Did they argue about it?’
‘Constantly. Seraphina had been pregnant before, in their old apartment. She was never happy there, hated the place, but Tom wanted to stay there. Said it was impressive – but when Seraphina lost the baby she insisted they move. A little while later, she asked me to find out about the history of the old building.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. It had once belonged to the Moroni family. And – would you believe it? – Claudia Moroni was murdered. And partially ski
‘But you think there’s one?’
‘Mr Bergstrom, I’m not a fool,’ Joh
‘She didn’t strike me as the tearful kind.’
‘She wasn’t usually, but she was scared.’ He paused, looking back and remembering. ‘Eventually she told me about the painting …’
Nino blew out his cheeks.
‘… I haven’t told anyone else!’ Joh
‘Which was?’
‘When the portrait emerges, so will the man,’ Joh
‘How did she find out?’
‘I don’t know who told her. Her parents maybe.’
Nino frowned. ‘Why would they?’
‘Seraphina could have talked about the Titian she’d found and they could have offered up the family co
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joh
Without answering, Nino took the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it over. Frowning, Joh
‘I’m not a brave man, I think that’s obvious. I’m a rich, spoilt old queen, with no taste for danger. But I loved Seraphina and I want to know who killed her.’ He pushed the notes further towards Nino. ‘Please take the help I offer you, Mr Bergstrom. In those papers is everything I know about Angelico Vespucci. Everything I think there is to know about The Skin Hunter.’ His voice was insistent. ‘Take them. You don’t have to bring them back. I don’t want them back. Just read them – and remember Seraphina.’
Nodding, Nino picked up the notes.
‘I think this is just the begi
Venice, 1555
Did I tell you I was afraid of water?
The tide is rising now, higher than it has ever done, over the steps behind the houses, lapping on to the stone floors, making lazy pools under tables, silk rugs floating like bladderwrack. And with it comes the mist. The Doge is ill; some say it is another omen, some intimation of disaster coming with the freezing tides.
Not that Aretino feels any trepidation. He has a new lover, a woman as amoral as he. The Contessa di Fattori. A whore all Venice knows. Her husband encourages her excesses, wills her to try new lusts. It is said he derives his pleasure from the recalling of it. She is tall, this di Fattori, hair red as a night fox, eyes eerily blue under the triumphant arches of her brows. Cosseted by her husband’s wealth, she revels in her hedonism. Luxuries are imported for her, carpets from India, perfumes from France, and in her bedchamber there are flowers sent from Holland weekly, daring the winter tides.