Deadly injustice

TWENTY-FIVE

‘ He told me he had heard the Devil scratching at his door.’

We were all back together in the house allocated to us. Lin, Gurbesu, Tadeusz and I sat in a circle around the low table piled high with documents about this case. Jianxu was sitting in the late afternoon sunshine, revelling in its warmth, no doubt. I could hear her singing a lilting song in quiet tones. Tadeusz questioned my statement.

‘It must have been a rat or a mouse. Those prison cells have straw on the floor that has not been cleaned for weeks.’

I tilted my head, not quite so sure of his rational explanation. Normally, I would have agreed, but I knew what Sun had said next.

‘He said himself that he thought it was a rat at first, and told it to go away. When it heard his voice, it stopped scratching at his door. But then the noise began at the next cell door. The cell occupied by Wenbo. Sun claims he heard the murmur of voices.’ I looked at Tadeusz. ‘Do you know of a rat that can talk?’

The silversmith was still not convinced.

‘He probably heard Wenbo talking to himself, trying to talk himself into self-murder. Or maybe Wenbo imagined he was hearing voices, and was talking to thin air. Either way, the boy killed himself.’

‘I am not so sure.’

Lin was concerned about my story now.

‘You are not sure that Wenbo killed himself?’

‘No, I’m not. Though I don’t have a lot of evidence to back up my fears. Only the words of a half-demented doctor scared of his own shadow.’

Tadeusz indicated with a snort that he reckoned that was an accurate summary of Sun’s state of mind, and therefore he was not to be trusted. Lin, however, was still open-minded.

‘Tell us exactly what he said.’

I paused, recalling the terror in Sun’s eyes, and what he said next.

‘Then the whispering stopped, and for a moment there was silence. I heard a strange low moan. It was a man’s voice saying “no” over and over again. More and more insistent, as if whoever it was had been forced to do something against his will, and now he had changed his mind.’

Sun stopped speaking and stared down at the straw and packed earth that we both sat on. I could hear his breath coming faster and faster. I had to make him go on before he collapsed.

‘And then?’

‘And then the sound of the voice was cut off, as though a hand or a cord had been squeezed round the man’s neck, cutting off his air. I heard a wheezy gasp, then a drumming sound on the door like he was kicking it with his heels, or hitting it with his fists. It went on so long. I pressed my own fists over my ears but the sound just went on and on. Then I heard a gurgle, a sort of… death rattle, and all was still.’

The doctor looked me in the eye and asked a question.

‘Was it Geng Wenbo in the next cell?’

I nodded, grimacing. Sun groaned in despair.

‘Don’t leave me. The Devil will come for me next.’

‘Of course, I had to leave him, though I persuaded the gaoler to leave a light in his cell. Let’s just hope he doesn’t knock it over and burn himself to death.’

Gurbesu had been frowning during my retelling of Sun’s story.

‘It sounds as if he heard Wenbo being strangled against his will, rather than a self-murder. But then how would someone get into his cell to do that?’

‘No human could get inside without a key, so maybe it really was the Devil.’

She laughed at my suggestion, but it was a nervous laugh. Looking round, I felt we were all a little unsure about Sun’s evidence. In the courtyard, Jianxu’s spellbinding song, that had wound itself quietly through my recounting of Sun story, suddenly ceased. It was as if, though she couldn’t hear us, she too was perturbed by the story, and had lost the sense of happiness she had so recently found. I asked the obvious question.

‘If someone killed Wenbo, are we still sure we have found the real killer of Old Geng?’

A grim silence descended on us, which was only broken by a familiar voice.

‘What are all the gloomy looks for? Have you not solved the case?’

I sprang to my feet.

‘Alberoni, you are back.’

In the doorway stood the long, lanky figure of the friar, his shabby, patched black robe speckled with dirt. He had a broad smile on his face. I patted his shoulder and urged him into the centre of the room, where we all crowded around him. I could not wait for his news. Sure that his hunt for Prester John was a wild goose chase, I had been prepared for him to return more disconsolate than before. But he seemed to be happy enough, and he took my arm.

‘I can see, Niccolo, that you imagine my search was wasted.’

I held up my hands to signify a truce between us on the matter. But he had good news, from his point of view.

‘True, I did not find Prester John, but I learned much more about him. At the castle of Caichu I was told an intriguing story about Ung Khan.’

This was a name we had encountered before, which some thought synonymous with Prester John. Ung Khan had been the name ascribed to the old man who had given us the slip in Xanadu. Alberoni’s excitement communicated itself to us, and while Gurbesu went to fetch some food, we all sat down. The vexed matter of Wenbo’s death was momentarily forgotten. When Gurbesu returned with food, she put it before Alberoni, and he continued his story.

‘The castle was formerly owned by a man called the Golden King, who, it is said, had damsels not horses to pull him around in a chariot.’

Gurbesu laughed at such a fantasy, but I quieted her with a finger to my lips, and the friar spoke on.

‘This king was subject to Ung Khan, but there was a war between them because of the Golden King’s arrogance. Seven men of Ung Khan’s court said they could overpower the Golden King in return for great rewards. Prester John said he would be glad if they could accomplish this. So the seven men went to the Golden King and presented themselves as men from a faraway country who had come to serve him. He willingly took them in and they served him well for two whole years.’ The friar looked at me and smiled. ‘When I heard this, I was put in mind of you, Niccolo, and your clandestine dealings that rely so much on trust.’

I knew he meant how I cheated people using underhand trickery. But I was so glad to see him again, I allowed him his small reprimand. Gurbesu caught my look, and mouthed a phrase silently. I understood it straight away. A long firm. My name for a particularly long-winded scam. The seven men of Ung Khan’s court were building up trust, before making use of it for their profit. Alberoni finished his tale.

‘One day, when the Golden King and his seven courtiers were out for his sport, they seized him and took him to Ung Khan. Prester John enslaved the king for a time, but then released him and reinstated him to his former glory. Having convinced the Golden King he could always be taken, he returned him to his kingdom a wiser man.’

‘And did this get you closer to Prester John?’

It was Lin’s question.

‘I think I know a little more about him, Master Lin. And, reassured of his existence, I feel I am hot on his heels. I will not now give up my search, as I was going to do in Khan-balik. Prester John’s land is said to be west of the Golden King’s.’

Gurbesu busied herself pouring some wine for everyone, and even the friar indulged. As we relaxed and chatted, I was briefly aware of Jianxu appearing in the doorway with a strained smile on her face. But before I could say anything, she slipped away, having assumed, I supposed, that she did not fit in to our reunion. And as the drink went down, I forgot about her, I regret to admit. It was much later in the night, when everyone else had retired, leaving Alberoni and me alone, that I fell to thinking about Venice. I must have been silent for some time because suddenly the friar stirred from where he had been happily slumped and tapped my arm.

‘Are you thinking of Venice again?’

Am I so obvious a soul that both Alberoni and Gurbesu can see right through me? She always knew when sweet Cat was on my mind, and now here was the friar reading me like some illuminated manuscript. I sighed deeply, because he was correct.

‘This case we are investigating and all the tales of murder, attempted murder and poisoning, has brought back the death of Agostino to me.’

‘Your father.’

Alberoni always corrected me in the same way when I spoke thus. I could never bring myself to call him my father, only referring to him by his given name. It made me tetchy every time the friar corrected me.

‘Yes, yes. You know who I mean.’

‘And what is it about his death that still bothers you?’

I took a deep breath.

‘I cannot convince myself that my mother didn’t kill him. And I think that she did it for my sake, before I went and got myself in trouble by killing him myself.’

Alberoni gasped, then began to chuckle. I turned on him angrily, my face ablaze.

‘What are you laughing at?’

The friar managed to control himself, with difficulty putting on the solemn look that served him well in the confessional.

‘You think that Rosamund poisoned your father?’

‘Yes. Or at least I fear so. And that she did it because I would have killed him otherwise for all his violent acts against her. That’s why I feel guilt about his death even now.’

Alberoni patted my arm comfortingly.

‘Then set your mind at rest. You were a child when Agostino died, and you saw the world through childish eyes, if I may speak plainly. And despite their stormy relationship, your mother always loved your father. And he loved her in return.’

I did not like what I was hearing from Alberoni. I had long convinced myself that my father was a brute and deserved to die violently. But I was aware that the friar had been the confessor to the Zulianis for many years. When I was a child, he had seemed a very old man, and yet now he looked no older than fifty. I realized he must have been quite young back then.

‘Then who did kill him? And why?’

‘As ever in these matters, it was over money. Do you recall Guido Sarpi? He was a cousin of yours.’

I frowned, trying to remember those long-ago times.

‘I remember a tall man with a trim beard, who used to play rough games with me.’

‘That is the man. I think he had been a suitor of Rosamund’s before your father stole her away. He visited Agostino more often than his family relationship warranted, probably because he was not able to give up his interest in her. Then one day he formed a colleganza with your father.’

Alberoni used the familiar word describing the sort of business partnership that many Venetian merchants entered into with each other. I myself had pulled together many a colleganza to fund my enterprises. Often they worked, and the partners walked away with the spoils. Sometimes they failed, and were the cause of acrimony and argument over what had been lost.

‘Sarpi and my father lost money?’

‘Yes. And Guido accused Agostino of cheating, making a profit and stealing the proceeds all for himself. The argument got quite heated, and Sarpi stormed out threatening vengeance. I thought he had cooled off because it was weeks before… Agostino’s death.’

‘But I recall my mother and father arguing on the day before his death. That is what convinced me it was all to do with her.’

‘Yes, I think your mother, typically, was trying to pour oil on the troubled waters of his dispute with his cousin. But Agostino would have none of it.’ He sighed. ‘You know how pig-headed your father was. After all, you have inherited that trait of his.’

In other circumstances I would have berated the friar for suggesting I had inherited anything from my father. Least of all an unwelcome character trait. But tonight I wanted to learn the truth.

‘You think Sarpi poisoned my father?’

‘I know so. An anonymous denunciation was made against him. He was arrested a few days later, tortured and confessed in the Doge’s prison. He was executed for his deed.’

Once again, torture and confession reared their ugly heads.

‘Why did I never learn of this?’

‘I suppose your mother did not want you — a child — to be tainted with the sordid nature of the matter. Family killing family over money and possessions. She did it for the best of reasons, I am sure. It is a shame that it left you for all these years with a false picture of your father. And your mother. Now I must say goodnight. I am dog-tired after a long journey to get back here.’

I waved a hand, and watched the friar drag his exhausted limbs across the courtyard and into the room that had been set aside for him. Slowly my wine-befuddled mind began to turn over everything that had been said that evening. Of family disputes over money, and of Prester John’s knights, who had planned a long-term strategy to achieve what they wanted. Gradually, a picture began to emerge out of the threads we had left hanging when Alberoni burst into our conversation earlier concerning Old Geng’s death, and that of his son. I knew what I had to do, and realized I would have a busy night ahead of me. There would be no time for sleep.