A bolt rattled and she opened the door. I remembered her as a tall and grand lady, flaunting the fine clothes she wore when her husband held office on the mainland, although in retrospect I suppose they had been remarkable only by the standards of the barnabotti. She was shorter than me now and the fine garments had no doubt long vanished into the pawnshops of the Ghetto Nuovo. She had the light at her back as she inspected me, but I could see the sagging flesh of her face and the hump of age only too well.

“Yes, I remember you. It won’t be good news brought you, I vow.”

“No, madonna. It is not.” My conscience rebelled at the prospect of letting Gritti continue standing there, eavesdropping on her sorrow. “May I come in?” Let him reveal himself if he wanted to hear.

“No,” she said. “I have work to do. Tell me and begone. What has he done now?”

I opened my mouth to ask Who? and the contempt in her eye stopped me. “He…was in a fight, madonna. Danese was.”

“He’s dead you mean?”

I nodded. “God rest his soul, ma’am.” I crossed myself; she did not.

Indeed she shrugged and I thought she was going to try to close the door in my face. Clearly she was not going to weep, certainly not where I could see her and perhaps not at all. She was a daughter of one of the great families, but of an impoverished branch. Life had long since wrung all the weeping out of Agnese Corner that it was ever going to get.

“How?”

“We don’t know. He was stabbed with a rapier,” I said. “It must have been very quick,” I lied. “He…You do know that he was married?”

Finally I won a reaction from her-she laughed. “To a wealthy widow three times his age?”

“No, madonna. Wealthy, yes, but young. Grazia Sanudo, daughter of sier Zuanbattista and madonna Eva Morosini. You did not know this?”

She shook her head as if trying to rid her mouth of a bad taste. “I have not heard from my son since the day I found out where he was getting his money and how he earned it, and that was before he was shaving. I don’t know if any of his sisters stayed in touch because I forbade them ever to mention him in my presence. So don’t expect me to pay for his funeral. Nor mourn him, either.”

She could not have known that Gritti was listening. She must have known that neighbors were; she wanted them to hear. Her words roused ten years’ sorrows like ghosts in the dusty hallway.

“His wife’s family will attend to the rites. Danese did tell them that he had told you of his marriage.”

She laughed again.

“He did not come to see you last night?”

“He did not knock at my door and I would not have opened it if he had.”

I was sweating. I had never had a worse conversation with anyone and the knowledge that a state inquisitor was lurking just around the corner was not making me feel better. “Madonna, do you know anyone who might have had reason to want your son dead?”

“Any husband, father, or brother in Venice. Any woman or mother. I’ve heard good things of you, Alfeo. Thank you for coming.”

I removed my foot before she discovered it was there and the door closed.

The one behind me closed also. Bolts were shot simultaneously.

I went down three steps and found Gritti blocking my way.

“She already knew?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just don’t know.”

“It’s possible?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s possible. Please let’s go before the priest comes.” I was in no state to face Father Equiano’s reproaches.

G iorgio rowed us to the end of Rio di San Barnaba and turned north along that finest of all the great streets of Europe, the Grand Canal, a parade of splendid palaces on either hand. The huge waterway was only slightly less busy on a Saturday morning than most days, quite busy enough. North and east we went, under the crowded arch of the Rialto, swinging around to the northwest, skirting the bustling vegetable and fish markets on our left and Cannaregio on our right, until we turned into the narrower ways of the Rio di Noale.

As we glided in toward the watersteps on the Rio di Maddalena, I noted the Sanudo house gondola moored there among some others, including a government boat, but I saw no signs of the fanti. Women on the fondamenta stopped their chatter to watch Gritti disembark, although the vizio ’s red cloak probably impressed them more, for his visit could not be social.

Vasco thumped the brass anchor knocker. The door was opened instantly by the young valet, Pignate. His face was fish-belly pale, so he had been told of the murder, probably also been warned that the visitor he was waiting for was an inquisitor. He bowed us in.

That was the fourth time I had seen the great book collection in the androne, and each time it had progressed farther along the road from packing cases to shelved library, yet I had never seen anyone working on it, as if the books rearranged themselves at night when people could not see. I concluded that ordinary porters could not sort books properly, so the work was being done by clerks from the family publishing business, brought in at odd hours. No one would ever find time to read such a collection, but libraries like that are not intended to be read, only envied. I fervently hoped that my duties would not require me to go through it volume by volume, looking for spiders.

We mounted the staircase to the piano nobile, where Giro awaited us. Having shed his official robes, he was again no more than a private gentleman wearing oddly drab garments. He made no offers of welcome or pretense that our visit was social.

“My parents are with Grazia,” he said conducting us to the salotto . “This is a very painful time for us.”

“Of course it is,” Gritti said, “and your ordeal shall be as brief as I can manage. I will talk first with the servants, if you please.”

Today the balcony doors were closed against the rain and the garden looked glum and dank. The inquisitor chose a chair that put his back to the light, such as it was, and I picked one nearby, from which I could study the Michelli wedding portrait. Andrea Michelli is also known as Andrea Vicentino, the Andrea from Vicenza. That must be what the Maestro’s hint had meant, for I had told him of the unusual wedding portrait. Why had a dead man intruded on my pyromancy? I had seen his wife struck down also. My mind shied away from the implications.

Vasco chose a chair where he could watch me, but did not get a chance to sit on it.

“Vizio,” Gritti said, “take a look around the neighborhood and the garden down there. Look for traces of bloodstains.”

Vasco departed. Giro returned, remaining just inside the door.

“The servants have all been told of the tragedy?” Gritti asked.

“Certainly. Come in, girls.”

Three young woman shuffled in, lined up, and then stared in horror at the demon inquisitor. To be accurate, they stared at his feet, avoiding his eyes. Giro presented them: ladies’ maid Noelia Grappeggia, cook Marina Alfieri, and housemaid Mimi Zorzin, all uniformed in aprons and head cloths as if interrupted in cleaning chores.

I had watched Ottone Gritti in action before, so I was not surprised at the ease with which his benevolent smiles and cooing voice won them over. They did want Danese’s murderer caught, didn’t they? They would like to help, wouldn’t they? All three nodded like drinking chickens. Two of them he eliminated very quickly, because neither Marina nor Mimi lived in. They had left for home at sunset, so they could contribute no information about Danese’s movements. Noelia slept on the mezzanine level, but yesterday she had been given time off because her mother was sick. Her father had come for her at sunset and brought her back before curfew. Pignate had let her in and she had gone straight to bed. None of the three had any idea who might have killed poor sier Danese. There had been no quarrels or threats. Gritti did not ask them if they had liked Danese, because “yes” would make them seem flighty and “no” suspect.