“The doge was one you had shown the books to?” the Maestro asked.

“And his agent was there. I never expected him to come in person! He didn’t stay long.”

“And the foreign couple who spoke French?”

Imer shook his head. “I have no idea. They seemed to think it was a public gathering. When I realized…I ordered them to leave. The man was abusive, but they left.”

“You offered three wines.”

“There were to be others at supper. Karagounis provided the retsina. He said it was better than any in the city. Vile stuff. I never touch it.”

I was careful not to show any reaction and the Maestro certainly did not, but he chased the ball.

“Who else drank retsina?”

“How should I know?”

“What happened to wine that had been opened and not finished?”

“I expect the servants stole it. They usually do.”

“What do you know about this Karagounis?”

The attorney squirmed. “Not very much. He is planning to marry a local girl, so he can become a resident. He is taking instruction in the Catholic faith and plans to abjure the Greek heresy…So he says. I warned him it would be better if he did not come to the viewing, but he turned up anyway.”

“Has he chosen a bride yet?”

“I believe so.” The attorney colored, which suggested that the bride was part of the deal, some niece or cousin, no doubt. He was not old enough to have marriageable daughters to dispose of.

But that seemed to be that. The rest of the Maestro’s questions produced nothing of use. Imer had been dashing back and forth between his books and the main party and could not say who might have been close enough to tamper with the victim’s drink. If he was representative of the Republic’s attorneys, I hoped I would never need to sue anyone.

“Well, we may be worrying needlessly,” the Maestro said. “I must track down the procurator’s physician. My boat is at your disposal, lustrissimo. Alfeo will come with you as a witness when you question your servant.”

“Benzon? Why?”

“If we learn that other people drank from the same bottle as the procurator, we can eliminate one unpleasant hypothesis.” The Maestro stretched his lips in a smile.

The attorney grimaced as if he had a serious toothache.

Giorgio rowed us back. He sang a couple of romantic ballads in case we wished to talk confidentially, but Imer said absolutely nothing, except to tell me Karagounis’s address when I asked for it.

The moment we entered his chambers, he ordered the old clerk to fetch Giuseppe Benzon, an order that obviously surprised the old man. This time I was invited to sit in a client’s chair. Moving like an old man, Imer walked around the cluttered desk to his own.

“If we frighten Benzon so much that he runs away, we shall be in grave trouble.”

This was precisely why the Maestro had specified that Imer ask the questions, not me. I said, “You are entitled to interrogate your own servant, lustrissimo.” If the servant did flee, that admission of guilt would rescue the Maestro from suspicion, but might not help Imer much.

Benzon was about my age, a stocky, honest-looking lad with a smear of jewelers’ rouge on his hand to suggest that he had been cleaning silverware. He looked reasonably scared already by the unexpected summons. He bowed and was told to shut the door, but not told to pull up the third chair.

“As you know,” Imer mumbled, “one of my guests took ill two nights ago. All he had consumed in my house was some wine, and the doctors are wondering if there was something wrong with that particular bottle. Do you happen to remember which wine the procurator chose?”

“Yes, lustrissimo. He laughed and said he would take the retsina.”

I was already impressed by Benzon. His eyes were quick and he did not fidget.

“Thirty-two guests and you remember what every one of them drank?”

“No, lustrissimo. But he was only the fourth or fifth to arrive, and I never served a procurator before.” Procurators wear marvelously ornate purple robes and tippets.

“Did anyone else take the retsina?”

“Three or four, lustrissimo. I had to open a second bottle.”

Imer’s glance at me was a comment that the first bottle was therefore not available as evidence, and I nodded.

“Pulaki brought six bottles. Where are the others?”

“His master told him to take them when they left.”

“Well, apprentice? Have you any questions to ask?”

I could think of several. Being neither a state employee nor a doctor in the case, I had no right to ask any of them. Procurators do not joke with other men’s menservants.

“My name’s Alfeo, Giuseppe.”

Benzon eyed me uncertainly. “Yes, lustrissimo.”

“Just Alfeo. How many glasses could you fill from a bottle?”

“About six, if the glasses were all empty. Topping them up, I would get more, of course.”

“That’s good. Thank you. You said the procurator laughed. Did he come alone, or who was with him?”

“A young lady.”

“Hot?”

Lechery flickered in his eyes. “Fiery!”

“Courtesan?”

“No, er, Alfeo.”

I met Imer’s frown. “Any idea who she was, lustrissimo?”

He shrugged. “I forget. Granddaughter? Niece?”

“No further questions, thank you.”

I told Giorgio the Karagounis address, which was close by, in the Greek quarter of San Giorgio dei Greci. The Greek ought to be even more susceptible to bullying than the attorney had been, but I had very little hope that these interviews of the Maestro’s were going to do any good at all. Had I been present at that book viewing and seen two people exchange glasses and one of them had then died, I would not admit to noticing anything at all-not at this late date. Had I poisoned one of the glasses myself and switched them deliberately, I would be even more taciturn. But an apprentice does what he’s told. Maybe my master would come to his senses in a day or so.

When we arrived at the door-Giorgio knows every building in the city-I shouted up to a woman drying her hair on a second floor balcony.

“Top floor,” she said.

“You watch out for her, sonny,” said one on another balcony. “She lies in wait for the young ones.”

The first countered: “No, you stop in at her place, handsome. She’s the one who gets lonely.”

“You can share me,” I suggested, earning whoops of approval from spectators at other windows.

Giorgio said, “Good luck. Their husbands carry knives, you know.”

“Husbands or not,” I told him. “I won’t be long.” There were other gondoliers waiting nearby, so I knew he would not lack for conversation.

The stairs were dark and narrow, smelling of urine and unfamiliar cooking, as tenement stairs usually do. I met no husbands and no one lay in wait for me. Top floor was four up, and I slowed to a walk for the last flight, so I would not be short of breath when I arrived. I had a choice of three doors. The first did not answer my knock. Nor did the second, but a woman shouted from inside it, and then told me to try the one opposite, which was the one I had already tried.

Either Alexius Karagounis was out trying to sell his books elsewhere or he had already fled from the Republic. I went back down again. No lonely housewives or knife-bearing husbands detained me.

When we returned to Ca’ Barbolano, the Maestro had already retired for his midday nap, having skipped or just forgotten dinner, as he often does. I carried an armful of books into the dining room, where Mama delivered enough food to feed a galley crew after a long day: marinated anchovies in caper sauce, rice with peas, and tuna with polenta. Then she asked what dolce I wanted.

“I cannot possibly eat all this,” I complained. “I had that pidocchi earlier, remember?”

“Eat it! You are too skinny!” Compared to her, everyone is too skinny.

“I am not as skinny as Giorgio.”