Giorgio was waiting for us when the noon bells rang. As we were rowed swiftly along the Grand Canal, Violetta and I chewed over the Honeycat problem. That nom de guerre was made famous by Erasmo of Narni, one of the greatest of the condottieri who ravaged Italy in the intercity wars of the quattrocento. Toward the end of his career Erasmo led the armies of Venice with some success, although he is mostly remembered for being honest, a rarity in his profession. After his death in Padua, the Republic commissioned an incredible equestrian statue of him by Donatello to stand in that city. Bronze statues do not go around strangling women.

"It must be a nickname," I declared profoundly.

Minerva gave me a pitying look. "Did you work that out all by yourself, darling, or did Matteo drop you a hint? But not just an idle pet name, I think. Caterina knew it at once and called him an old friend. That sounds as if it was generally used. Other people might have known him by that name also."

"You're jumping to conclusions," I protested. "The other victims may have had completely different names for him. You need to find someone else who knew him as Honeycat before you can make such assumptions."

"Me," she said, frowning in annoyance. "I remember stories about a man called Honeycat. He was reputed to be very generous and quite dashing. It was a long time ago, though, when I was just starting out, and I don't know his real name."

I was encouraged. "We can find out what it was, though! Lucia and Caterina were both, um, mature women. You have a long-ago memory. Now that could be a pattern!" And Battista had said that Giovanni Gradenigo had known Caterina Lotto "years ago."

Minerva nodded impatiently, as if she had seen that ages ago. "I'll ask Alessa."

Alessa is one of her business partners, part owner of Number 96. Alessa still supervises the brothel, but has retired from active male entertainment. She is a very shrewd woman, who had the sense to get out while she still had her health and money. I like her, and she would still be worth a serious cuddle.

I swung opened the door of the apartment for Violetta and followed her in. To my pleased surprise, the Maestro was halfway along the salone, just about to enter the dining room. He was leaning on his two canes, but at least he was mobile again. He waited for us, leering a welcome.

"Did you sign the contract, madonna?"

"I did. Send Alfeo around to collect the expense money."

"I will. Did you learn anything?" he asked me.

"We have a name for the killer, the nickname Caterina knew him by."

"Excellent, that will help. Now let's have dinner."

He began to tap his way painfully forward. I exchanged surprised glances with Violetta, for only very rarely does he express any interest in food. I was even more surprised when I followed her in and saw the guest waiting there-Alessa, no less. I had never known her to visit Ca' Barbolano before.

I suppose he really is a wizard.

We all sat down and Mama Angeli came bustling in with loaded platters of her superb Tagliolini ai Calamaretti.

"We found Matteo-" I began.

"No talking business at table!" Nostradamus decreed.

Either he was just being perverse, because he loves to talk business at table, or he did not want Alessa to know what we had been doing. Either way, I was quite happy to start eating. I got one mouthful of octopus down before he started in on me.

"Alfeo, yesterday you began explaining to me how the Venetians elect their doge. I am still anxious to hear more about this fascinating procedure."

Everyone in Venice knows this. Alessa and Violetta smiled politely to hide bewilderment. Talking and eating at the same time is a skill I have yet to master, but I get a lot of practice when the Maestro is in that sort of mood. I detest cold food, though.

"The Grand Council chooses thirty members by lot," I said. "The thirty then reduce their number to nine, again by lot. The nine elect a committee of forty, and the forty are reduced to twelve. Twelve elect twenty-five, reduced to nine; the nine elect forty-five, reduced to eleven; the eleven elect forty-one. And the forty-one elect the doge." Quickly I scooped a loaded forkful into my mouth.

"We were discussing things that make or do not make sense at the time, I recall. You can explain the sense of all that Byzantine tomfoolery?"

"What I have always assumed," Alessa announced bravely-and in a slow, deliberate tone to give me time to chew-"is that the wise ancestral fathers of the Republic wished to avoid the dangers of faction. How terrible it would be if the Grand Council split into two or three contesting groups! That is what would happen, or might happen, if they merely relied on election. And likewise, if the choice were made solely by lot, then we might find ourselves with some incompetent idiot as head of state."

We have done that a few times anyway, but it would be criminal sedition to say so.

"It must go further than that," Violetta said in Aspasia's dry, calculating tones. "Not factions, I suspect, but a matter of the 'ins' and the 'outs.' The inner circle, the handful that like to think of themselves as 'the First Ones,' are certain to have matters arranged so that the next doge will always be chosen from among their own number. All this electing-then-reducing rigmarole allows them several chances to take hold of the process. Once they have a majority on any of the electing committees, they can make certain that only 'sound' people are chosen in the next round. From then on they have the election under their control."

I nodded to show that her analysis made sense, but I noticed the Maestro smirking as if he had another explanation for what is certainly a bizarre procedure. I was sure he wouldn't tell me if I asked, and Alessa changed the subject.

"The food is admirable," she said, "and the ambience quite commendable. I shall marry Alfeo so I can come and live here."

I choked on a throatful of octopus.

The Maestro soon tired of the idle chat and began to fidget, because he really did want to talk business. It may be that the three of us dragged the meal out a little just to turn the tables on him, but eventually we finished our dolce. Mama brought in cups of the newfangled and expensive drink called khave, and we leaned back in our chairs.

I was ordered to report, so I did.

When I had finished, Alessa was visibly tense.

"Madonna?" the Maestro inquired waspishly. "Did you know any of these wretched women?"

Alessa's plump fingers kept playing with her pearls. "All of them slightly, none of them well."

"All about your own age?"

"One must never ask a woman her age, Doctor, especially a courtesan." Even she could not smile at her joke.

"You have nothing more to say?"

"No, Doctor." She shook her head vigorously. "Except the obvious one, that this is a very horrible affair."

Nostradamus bristled. "Paraphrasis!"

"What?"

"Double-talk! I invited you to dine, madonna, because I knew from donna Vitale that the murdered woman Lucia da Bergamo had retired from her profession. Information from a man I questioned this morning suggested that Caterina Lotto may have had some undetermined interaction with a prominent patrician politician eight years ago, and I knew that she was living in San Samuele, an area favored by second- or even third-class prostitutes. In other words, I had reason to believe that two of the three victims that we know about were of roughly your generation. I ask you again, madonna, have you ever met, or heard of, a man known as Honeycat?"

Stony-faced, Alessa shook her head.

"Can you think of any man-a wealthy man, clearly-who patronized courtesans about eight years ago, who might have decided to start murdering them off? Or any reason why he should?"