The Medici Secret

Chapter 10

Venice, present day 'No matter how many times I see this view, I still find it breathtaking,' Edie said as she gazed out of the windows of Jeff's sitting room. He was standing beside her with a hand on her shoulder; they had arrived in Venice only an hour earlier. It was approaching lunchtime and the crowds were already filling San Marco. Across the square, a small ensemble on a raised stage was playing a selection of Vivaldi and Mozart pieces. Closer to the Ducal Palace, clowns on stilts tottered around on the uneven paving stones handing out balloons to children, and clusters of masked pedestrians paraded about, some in ornate costumes. Carnivale was in full swing.

There was a commotion at the door to the apartment. Turning, they saw Rose and Maria laden down with bags. Edie raised an eyebrow.

'I gave her my credit card' Jeff explained. 'I felt bad about abandoning her yesterday.'

Edie gave him a sceptical look. 'Not over-compensating at all then?' She beamed at Rose. 'Well, hello there, young lady. I haven't seen you for… God, how long is it?'

Rose stopped fussing with her bags and looked coldly at Edie. Puzzled, Jeff was just about to say something when they heard a cough and saw a tall man dressed entirely in black leaning against the door to the apartment, a slight smile playing across his lips.

'We find Signor Roberto as we go in building,' Maria declared in broken English and bustled out past Roberto, making him stand up straight in the doorway. She was shaking her head and tutting as she waddled along the corridor towards the bedrooms.

Roberto stepped forward and took Edie's hand and kissed it theatrically. She flushed.

Behind Roberto, Jeff caught sight of Rose, her face like thunder.

'You two get acquainted,' Jeff said, and strode over to Rose.

He led her into the hall. 'What the hell was all that about?' She looked at the floor. 'Well?'

'You really don't know, do you?' Rose said. Her eyes were filling with tears. Jeff walked forward to embrace her, but she turned on her heel and ran down the corridor.

'Rose…' he said. But her bedroom door slammed shut. He would have to deal with this later. Feeling terrible, he returned to the sitting room.

Without taking his eyes from Edie, Roberto said to Jeff, 'How have you managed to keep us from meeting before now?'

'Oh, it's quite deliberate,' Jeff replied trying to sound jolly. Edie seemed completely at ease with all the attention and was appraising Roberto just as overtly. 'What brings you here anyway?' Jeff said. 'We have lunch booked at the Gritti, remember?' 'So we do. I'd completely forgotten.' 'But if you…'

'Roberto, come with me.' Slightly red-eyed, Rose was standing at the opening into the hall. She had a bag held up in front of her. 'I want your honest opinion of this jacket.' She walked over and snatched hold of his hand, looking daggers at Edie.

When the two had left the room, Jeff let out a heavy sigh. 'I'm sorry,' he said. Edie shrugged. 'Just her age, I guess, but I've obviously done something to offend her, even if I haven't seen her for over a year.'

'And Roberto has just made it worse. Rose has a huge crush on him.' 'Who is he?' Edie's eyes were sparkling.

'Roberto? He's just about my best mate here, an amazing guy. In fact, I think he might be able to help us. Would you mind if I told him about what's happened?' 'Why do you think he can help?'

'Roberto's the closest thing to a genius I've ever met. And I trust him implicitly.' Edie shrugged. 'OK.' They turned to see Rose in her new jacket holding Roberto's hand. 'Lovely,' Jeff said.

'Isn't it,' Rose replied darkly and sat at the far end of the sofa to look over the rest of her purchases.

'Actually Roberto, you're just the person I needed to see.' Jeff led him to a table and handed him a copy of Mackenzie's phone message. As he read it, Edie related how they had found the tablet and how she had received the call from her uncle the night he was murdered.

'So you're thinking he was murdered because of what you found?' 'It seems likely, yes,' Edie answered.

'Well, it's obvious why you've come to Venice,' Roberto said. 'But the three wavy lines makes it much more interesting. Together with the lion they make up the symbol of I Seguicamme.' 'Which is…?'

'Quite literally it means "The Followers". They were a group who broke off from the Rosicrucians. They met in Venice on a regular basis; their members travelled here from all parts of Europe. They first cropped up sometime in the mid-fifteenth century. The last anyone heard of them was sometime in the late eighteenth century.' 'What did they do, these followers?'

'No one knows exactly. Marsilio Ficino mentioned them in his De vita libri tres, and Giordano Bruno alluded to the group in his book The Ash Wednesday Supper, but these references are mostly mystical, barely comprehensible.'

'Ficino?' Jeff said. 'The mystic? He worked for Cosimo de' Medici, didn't he?'

'He translated a manuscript for him just before Cosimo died, Corpus hermeticum, a famous collection that described the ancient foundations of magic'

'But what's this got to do with the verse?' Edie asked.

'Well, that's the mystery isn't it? Jeff, this translation? It's accurate?'

Edie played the message again for Roberto's benefit.

'But what do you make of "the geographus incomparabilis" he asked, frowning.

Rose approached the table and stood beside Roberto. 'What are you doing?' she asked. 'Did I hear you mention the geographus incomparabilisT 'You did,' Roberto replied.

'That's what they called Father Mauro, the great map-maker. I've just done a class project about him.'

'Well, thank you, Rose,' Roberto said. 'Perfect taste, and a diligent student' Rose beamed.

'Father Mauro was a Venetian; well more correctly, he was from Murano. He worked in the convent of San Michele…' Roberto explained.

'On the Island of the Dead,' Jeff exclaimed. 'Of course.' They both could see Edie was confused. ' San Michele is the cemetery of Venice.'

'And the verse says whatever Mauro designed is there still.'

'I don't know much about Mauro, but he's most famous for his mappa mundi, his map of the world. It was completed just before his death in, when was it? 1465, 1470?' '1459,' Roberto corrected. 'But the map is in the Biblioteca Marciana, just over there,' Jeff added, and pointed towards the Piazetta.

'Well, whatever this verse is referring to, it's not the Mauro map in the museum,' Edie pointed out.

'Maybe, except, we don't know when the inscription on the tablet was made, do we? So, it could refer to something that was on the Island of the Dead some five centuries ago but has since been moved.'

'Good point. Had the body in the crypt been tampered with at all?' Roberto asked.

'If you mean had it been dissected before we exhumed it, then, no,' said Edie.

'So the tablet you found must have been put there at the time of burial or just before.' 'Definitely.'

'In that case, Jeff is right. If the person who wrote this verse is referring to Mauro's famous map then it could be in the Biblioteca Marciana and it would be almost impossible to get a close look at it.'

'Is it easy to get to San Michele?' Edie asked. 'Can we take a vaporetto?' Roberto smiled. 'Don't be silly.' Roberto's liveried chauffeur, Antonio, a remarkably handsome man with jet black hair and finely chiselled features, met them at the quay close to the Royal Gardens. He escorted them to Roberto's launch, a beautiful blue, steel and teak speedboat, which had been built around 1930. Jeff and Edie were helped aboard while Roberto stayed up front for a few moments explaining to Antonio where he was to take them. When he returned to the rear of the launch he was carrying a small wicker hamper.

'Antonio managed to get cook to rustle up a little something on his way out,' he explained. Jeff rolled his eyes. 'You old smoothie.' Edie gave Roberto the most radiant smile.

A few moments later, he was pouring Dom Perignon '96 into exquisite champagne flutes and the launch was swinging west out on to the Grand Canal They swept past gorgeous palazzi on either side and glided under the Ponte dell' Accademia before following the curve of the waterway. Just before reaching San Samuele on their right, Jeff pointed to a beautiful russet-coloured palazzo a short way ahead on the same side of the canal.

'That's Roberto's pad,' he said, before biting into a savoury pastry. 'What a dump,' Edie grinned.

Around the Rialto, the canal was busy with vaporetti and along the banks the restaurants were crowded with foreign visitors here for the Carnivale.

A little further on, just beyond the magnificent facade of the Ca' d'Oro, they came to a major tributary that led to the northern edge of Venice and the Canale delle Fondamenta Nuove. This waterway narrowed to little more than the width of a barge and the launch had to slow to a crawl. After they had passed under a succession of crumbling bridges, the canal widened again and they picked up speed. A few minutes later, they emerged into the Sacca della Misericordia, the private docking area where hundreds of boats lay moored. From here they swept east into open water.

Directly ahead of them they could see the walled island of San Michele. Antonio opened the throttle and they sliced through the icy grey water passing parallel to the Fondamenta, the north-eastern edge of the city and around the southern tip of the Island of the Dead. The wind was fierce here and the air very cold. Edie pulled her coat about her and lifted the collar to shield her ears. She could feel the crisp sea air burning her cheeks and she began to long for the trip to end.

The chauffeur slowed the launch as they approached a corner of the almost square island and they caught their first glimpse of its impressive northern face with amber walls ten metres high. A little way ahead, they could see the tower of the church of San Michele and the domed bell tower. A vaporetto glided slowly into view, and docked. A large group of figures emerged on to the quay. They were widows visiting graves. The black cloth that covered them almost head-to-toe contrasted sharply with the bright reds and yellows of the flowers they carried.

'We are entering the kingdom of the illustrious dead,' Jeff said to Edie, clutching her arm and pulling a mock-horror face. 'Well I know all about them.*

'Indeed you do, but this place is pretty special, the final resting place of people like Ezra Pound, Stravinsky, Sergei Diaghilev and Joseph Brodsky.'

The launch curved away from the quay and entered a narrow inlet that ran almost to the centre of the island. About a hundred metres along the waterway, Antonio pulled the launch over to the bank and snapped off the engine. A few moments later, Roberto was leading them ashore. He pointed to the bell tower. 'The monastery where Mauro lived and worked is over there,' he said. 'It's not far.'

The archivist of the monastery met them at the entrance to the cloisters. He was a tall man in monk's habit. Although he was entirely bald, he looked exceptionally youthful and fresh-faced. But his eyes possessed a certain indefinable serenity incongruous with one so young. 'Maestro,' he said softly, offering his hand to Roberto. 'I am Father Pascini. The Prior sends his apologies for not meeting you personally and has asked me to help you in any way I can.'

'That's most gracious of him,' Roberto replied. 'These are my friends, Jeff Martin and Edie Granger.' The monk gave them a slight bow. 'Welcome.'

'Roberto knows everyone in Venice,' Jeff whispered in Edie's ear as Father Pascini gestured for them to follow him through the ancient cloister. 'How exactly may I help you?' 'We're interested in the work of Father Mauro.'

'Ah, our most illustrious brother. It seems suddenly everyone is interested in his maps.'

'Oh?' Jeff said. 'Who else has been making enquiries?'

'I had a phone call only this morning,' Father Pascini said. 'A historian in London, would you believe?'

They entered a small chapel. Crossing the marble floor, the monk led them through a doorway, down a flight of wide stairs into a long, dark, narrow room lined with ebony shelves stacked with ancient tomes.

'So what do you want to know about Father Mauro?' 'You mentioned maps,' Jeff said. 'The plural. I thought his mappa mundi was in the Marciana in the city.'

'It is. But Mauro produced more than one map in his career. We keep a lesser example of a mappamundi here in this library. It's on display to the public' He led them a few paces towards a freestanding glass cabinet positioned in the centre of the room.

The map had been beautifully preserved. It was about six feet square. A circle filled most of the area, and at first glance it seemed to be crammed with random images, huge crenulated biscuit-coloured shapes skirted in blue. The blue intruded into the lighter regions like ink spreading its fingers into water. But then, as they looked closely at the stunning object, the shapes seemed to shift, becoming slowly recognisable as a contorted map of Europe, Africa and Asia. Gradually, the map became less a piece of abstract art and more a scientifically designed work of craftsmanship.

'So how is this different to the map in the Marciana?' Edie asked.

'This was completed after Mauro's death,' Father Pascini replied. 'By his best pupils.'

'"The followers of the geographus incomparabilis",' Jeff quoted from the verse. The monk looked puzzled. 'Why this sudden fascination with Mauro? My caller today was most interested in this particular map. We have at least a dozen others here, but it was just this one he wanted to know about.'

'Is it too much to expect he left a name or anything?' Edie asked.

'He said he was calling from the History Department of University College, London. But gave no other details.' 'So, why is this map here?'

The monk turned to Jeff. 'It was considered inferior to the famous map now in the Marciana. It was commissioned by King Casimir IV of Poland, but he returned it, saying he was dissatisfied with it. In truth though, he had hit financial trouble, and to cover his embarrassment he claimed the map was substandard. So, we kept it here.' 'Good for you,' Edie said.

'Would it be possible to remove the map from the case?' Roberto asked hopefully.

Father Pascini shook his head. 'I'm afraid that is impossible, Signor Armatovani, but I could set up a magnifying lens for you, if you wish.' 'That would be splendid.'

Father Pascini disappeared and returned a few moments later with a large lens on a floor stand. He pushed the stand to the midpoint on one of the long sides of the glass cabinet and manoeuvred the lens over the top. 'I'll leave you to study' he said and retreated to a desk at the other end of the room. 'It's absolutely beautiful,' Edie said.

'An amazing piece of workmanship; incredibly detailed. Look at the writing. There's hardly a scrap of space between captions.'

The illustrations depicted castles and towers, some topped with magnificent multicoloured flags; knights in armour on powerful steeds; strange beasts, serpents, gryphons; abstract patterns and strips of rainbow colours. The more closely one looked, the more detail there appeared to be; it was a microcosm of exquisite beauty and staggering artistry.

'The verse says "At the centre of the world,'" Jeff said, positioning the lens to a point approximating the centre of the map. 'But all I can see is a tangle of words and images. Where would this be on a modern map?' Edie peered through the magnifying lens. 'Somewhere around Turkey? Iraq, maybe?' 'Any idea what we're looking for?' 'None at all.' 'May I?' Roberto and leaned forward to survey the critical area. 'Anything?' 'Nothing other than labels for regions. It is Persia, by the look of it. I can see the Euphrates and the mountains of the South. It was a region the Venetians knew quite well, even in the mid-fifteenth century, thanks to Marco Polo and others.' 'But there's nothing unusual on the map there?'

'Doesn't appear to be.' Roberto stepped back, frowning. Then suddenly his face brightened. 'Of course.' 'What?' Edie and Jeff asked in unison.

'The centre of the world. It isn't meant literally. To the people of the fifteenth century, the centre of the world was the Holy City… Jerusalem.'

Roberto pushed the magnifying lens to the left. Here the map was covered in writing and illustrations that were even more densely packed and elaborate than in the region of Persia. There seemed to be a subtle but unmistakable glow to the parchment in the region of the Holy City; Jerusalem was represented with shining towers and domes surrounded by men at arms. It was clear the creators of the map wanted to honour this place above all others.

'I can't see anything unusual here,' Roberto said after a long pause. 'Take a look.'

But Edie too drew a blank. Stepping back, she watched Jeff take his turn.

'No, it's hopeless,' he said, straightening up. 'This must be the map, it fits perfectly with the verse; made by "the followers of the geographus incomparabilis". And then there's the fact that Casimir returned it; the followers: "designed something no one wanted". But, we don't have a clue what we're looking for, and without being able to take the map out…' 'Success?' Father Pascini appeared at his elbow. 'Not a glimmer,' Roberto said. 'There is one other mappa mundi.' 'There is?'

'It's a very poor example, a practice piece you might say. And it has been damaged in places. It too was rejected by the person who commissioned it.' 'May we?' 'Of course, follow me.'

Father Pascini led them along a corridor to a locked door. 'This is one of the archives,' he said as they entered. 'We keep our documents in these special boxes.' He pointed to metal shelving built into the wall. 'Each document is kept in an acid-free, humidity and temperature-controlled environment. To view the map you'll have to go into this room.' He waved to a glass enclosure in the corner. 'I'll supply you with gloves and tweezers.'

A few minutes later the three of them were sitting at a table in the viewing room with the map between them. It had been covered with a protective transparent plastic sheet, over which Father Pascini had positioned another large magnifying lens.

The edges were ragged and it was badly torn, a jagged line ran across about a third of the map and the illustrations were far less detailed than the mappamundi in the main room.

Edie examined an area approximating to the Middle East and manoeuvred the lens a little closer to the map until she found an illustration representing the Holy Land. 'Well, how about that,' she exclaimed and stood aside to allow Jeff and Roberto to take a look.

Immediately beneath an image of a citadel with blazing red flags atop a pair of towers, they could see tiny, faded handwriting that did not match the other markers and labels across the map. The nature of the caption was also quite incongruous, a five-line verse in Italian. Roberto translated as he read it aloud, 'Reaching across the water, the man with the perfect name: a sad man, deceived by the Devil. It is hidden there with the lines, Beyond the water, behind the hand of the architect.' By the time they left the monastery it had grown dark, and a dense fog had descended on the Island of the Dead. Walking along the path to the monastery earlier in the afternoon, the sun and the crisp seaward air had made San Michele seem very much like any other part of Venice, but now, in the inky darkness it had been transformed into a place of shadows and nameless fears.

Gazing back as they passed through the outer wall and headed along the cobbled path en route to the launch, the monastery looked like a cut-out in black card. There were very few lights in this part of San Michele, and those close by cast almost no illumination. Indeed, the brightest light came from the pinpricks of countless stars, the Milky Way, a trail of glitter scribbled across the moonless firmament.

Edie had never been here before, and even though she worked with the deceased almost every day, she had found the Gothic character of the place quite overbearing, even in daylight. Now, all she could do was think of the countless dead all around her, the famous and the ordinary who had lived and died and been forgotten by all but the worms. Every cheap horror flick and prurient fairy tale seemed to have a home here in the dark. The wind had dropped, but the soft lapping of the lagoon was ever-present. It sounded like a lament.

The launch lay in deep shadow, bobbing gently in the water hard up against the wall of the cutting. Without wasting a moment, they stepped into the boat. The driver fired up the engine and flicked on the headlights sending two splashes of lemon into the water.

'Take us straight home please, Antonio,' Roberto called, and he threw himself into the soft leather upholstery of one of the aft passenger seats. A moment later they felt the boat accelerate and swing round in the channel before speeding off towards the open water.

They sat in silence, each mulling over what they had learned, each content to watch the shadows of San Michele dissolve into the water. For a few minutes they headed directly south towards Fondamenta Nuove and the lights of the city; but then, without warning they felt the launch veer to port. For a second, Roberto didn't react, then Edie and Jeff saw him go forward to talk to Antonio. As he did so, the driver spun round to face them. He had his cap low over his brow and was wearing dark glasses. In the opaque night they could barely make out his features, but it was clear that it wasn't Antonio. The man was holding a gun, pointed directly at Roberto. 'Please sit down, Signor Armatovani.' Roberto paused for a moment.

'Sit down. I will not repeat this. I only need one of you. I am not famed for my patience, and believe me, shooting two of you would make this journey so much easier.' 'What's happened to Antonio?' Roberto demanded 'Oh, he went for a refreshing swim.'

The launch slowed and they headed for a point further south along Fondamenta Nuove, away from the main route to the Grand Canal. The driver kept the gun trained on them and appeared to have little difficulty steering the launch with one hand and glancing ahead only occasionally.

Within a few moments they were approaching the quayside. Directly ahead ran a grey stone wall, a narrow path and a row of houses. On the path they could see a few people hurrying along, collars turned up, breath streaming from their nostrils into the cold night.

'Now, I'll ask you to keep still and quiet,' the driver hissed.

Edie was looking ahead at the approaching canal wall when she spotted Roberto easing something out from under his seat with his feet. With startling speed, he lifted a black cylinder. There was a sharp crack and a stab of orange light. Roberto fell to the floor, knocked off his feet by the recoil, and the flare shot the length of the launch, ricocheted off the control panel at the helm and zigzagged erratically over the prow.

An intense flash of light cut through the darkness as the flare exploded just a few feet away and the stunned gunman was propelled backwards against the throttle. His gun fell behind him and slid across the polished wood of the prow and into the canal. The launch almost leapt out of the water as the engines roared. Edie and Jeff tried to steady themselves, but they were flung forward against the chairs in front of them. Jeff was sent sprawling across the bottom of the boat, his knee striking Roberto's head.

Out of control, with the throttle open, the launch span round and bucked in the water before it smashed sidelong into the quay, sending chunks of teak and brass into the air. The last thing Jeff heard before feeling the freezing cloak of water envelop him was the grinding of metal against stone, and in the distance, the sound of Edie screaming. Strong arms were pulling him on to the quay; rough stone pressed against his abdomen. He gasped for breath. Rubbing the water from his eyes, he could see Edie kneeling beside Roberto, dabbing his head with a bloodied cloth. She turned to Jeff, a look of relief on her face. He crouched down beside her trying to catch his breath. Roberto grimaced up at him. 'I'm OK.'

Off to their right they heard cries coming from the quayside. Jeff straightened up to see a mutilated body bobbing in the water; one blackened leg knocked against the stone wall of the quay. It was Antonio, the chauffeur. He had been tied to the stern of the launch. A rope was still knotted around his wrists, the other end attached to a cleat.

Jeff suddenly became aware of just how cold it was. He shivered and averted his eyes from the hideous sight, feeling outraged and impotent. A police launch and an ambulance sliced through the freezing water towards them, and came to a dead stop, covering the final few metres with the engines stilled. There was no sign of Antonio's murderer. 'Hi Rose. Yes, I'm so sorry, darling. We had a little accident… No, nothing serious… we're all OK. I'm at Roberto's place, but I'll be home later. Look… No, listen. Don't stay up. We'll have a day out together tomorrow, I promise. Yes, yes… Maria is up watching it with you, is she? Yes, that's good. OK sweetie… I'll make you breakfast in the morning and I'll show you the sights… OK, bye.'

It had been an exhausting night. Roberto's head wound was treated at the scene then all three of them were escorted to the police station, an ugly, squat building on Ponte della Liberia, the causeway linking Venice to the mainland. There, they had been separated. Jeff had answered questions and made a detailed statement, and was about to ask for a lawyer when he was led from the interrogation suite to a conference room where he found Roberto and Edie talking to a man in a very natty police uniform. They had left the station soon afterwards.

The officer was the Chief of Venice police, Aldo Candotti, and he was now sitting at one end of a parcel-gilt eighteenth-century settee, holding the stem of an empty Schott Zwiesel sherry glass. He was a powerfully built man; a former rowing international gone to seed thanks to his love of fine wines and too much tender venison. He had ruddy cheeks and a broad nose upon which was perched a pair of Dior spectacles.

At the other end of the settee sat Roberto. He had showered and changed. But his hair was still wet, and a piece of gauze covered the cut he had sustained earlier. Edie was swirling a single malt in a tumbler. They were in the ground floor library of Palazzo Baglioni, the Venetian home of the Armatovani family since the fifteenth century. Facing the Grand Canal, the palazzo was the epitome of faded grandeur. Four storeys high, rows of Byzantine windows and crumbling colonnades made it as beautiful as a Titian or a Byrd motet. Inside, each room was filled with antique furniture, some of which had been in the building since their purchase centuries earlier. The library was a vast, high-ceilinged room, lined on all sides, floor to ceiling with rosewood shelves containing thousands of books, a collection that had grown with each generation. The books ranged from a priceless seventeenth-century edition of Hobbes' Leviathan to signed, leather-bound first editions of Hemingway. Several of Roberto's antecedents had been flamboyant bibliophiles and the Armatovani library was considered one of the finest in private hands.

'Well, I'll leave you and your guests now, Roberto,' Candotti said, pushing himself up from the settee and placing his glass carefully on a marble-topped occasional table. 'One of my men will call on you tomorrow to give you an update. Tonight I shall begin the search for the mysterious stranger. You will speak to the unfortunate Antonio's family?'

Roberto nodded. Aldo Candotti shook hands with each of them and was then led away along the wide hallway by Vincent, the rake-thin and extremely distinguished butler who had served Roberto's parents and came with the house.

'An eventful evening,' Roberto said. 'And what have we learned, apart from the fact that our lives really are in danger?' 'You can remember the exact wording of the inscription on the map?' Edie asked, sitting in the place vacated by Candotti.

'I can do better than that,' Roberto replied. 'A little frayed and smudged perhaps, but just about legible.'

And he unfolded a crumpled and soiled piece of paper, smoothed it down as best he could and read aloud the lines of verse he had transcribed from the map on San Michele: Reaching across the water, the man with the perfect name: a sad man, deceived by the Devil. It is hidden there with the lines, Beyond the water, behind the hand of the architect. 'What do you make of it?' Jeff asked his friend.

'That's all I've been thinking about between answering police questions and trying to be nice to the Chief of Police.' 'And?' Edie asked.

'The first part is quite obvious, but the last two lines are a little more enigmatic' Roberto looked'at their puzzled faces and smiled. 'The man with the perfect name? It must be Andrea Da Ponte.' 'The man who designed the Rialto? Of course.' 'Reaching across the water, the man with the perfect name,' Edie said half to herself. 'Ponte, bridge… neat. But, why "a sad man, deceived by the Devil"?'

'Ah, well, that's a little less obvious,' Roberto leaned over to offer Edie a refill before passing the bottle to Jeff. 'Late in 1591, as Da Ponte's deadline for the commission approached, cracks kept appearing in the main structure of the bridge and it was only the scaffolding that saved the whole thing from crashing into the Grand Canal. Legend has it that one night, the designer was walking alone beside the canal when the Devil appeared before him. The terrified Da Ponte froze to the spot and the Devil smiled cruelly before telling him that he could help solve all his problems with the bridge. The designer was so desperate he listened to what the Devil had to offer.' 'No doubt, he wanted his soul?' Edie interrupted.

'No, he didn't actually. He wanted the soul of the first person to cross the bridge.' Roberto took a sip of his drink. 'Da Ponte obviously thought this was a great offer and he quickly accepted. A few weeks later, the bridge was completed successfully. The night before the official opening, Da Ponte was putting the finishing touches to an ornamental stone at one end of the bridge while at home his pregnant wife Chiara was waiting for him to return. There came a knock at the door of Da Ponte's house. His wife answered and was confronted by a young builder from the site who told her that she must come quickly, her husband had been hurt. Chiara Da Ponte rushed from the house, and thinking that Andrea was on the far side of the canal, she stepped on to the Rialto and ran as fast as she could towards the other side. It was only after she had traversed the bridge that her husband saw her and at the same moment he heard a terrible, cold laugh from behind him. He turned, but no one was there. Terrified for his wife and unborn child, he rushed on to the bridge and took Chiara home.'

' A month later, Chiara was struck down by plague and she and the baby died. Da Ponte was inconsolable, and it is said that to this day, on the anniversary of Chiara Da Ponte's death, her ghost and that of her baby may be seen wandering over the bridge, lost, looking for rest that will for ever elude them.' Edie drained her glass. 'Nice story, Roberto.' 'Thank you.' He smiled and held Edie's eye for a moment.

'So, that explains "the sad man", etc. But what about the rest? You don't seriously think the next clue is really hidden in the bridge itself, do you?' Roberto shrugged.

'I suppose, "with the lines" might refer to the lines of mortar between the stones that support the bridge,' Jeff said. 'But what about "beyond the water, behind the hand of the architect"?'

'Only one way to find out,' Roberto said, standing up. At 2 a.m., the banks of the Grand Canal around the Rialto were almost silent. Approaching the bridge in a rowboat, Jeff, Roberto and Edie saw a solitary drunk swaying his way home. Past the bridge and further along the canal were brightly lit windows, and from far off came the faint throb of a bass drum drifting through the night.

Roberto guided the boat slowly along the canal. The traffic had fallen away to nothing and the vaporetti had stopped running. They passed slowly under the bridge and Jeff helped Roberto manoeuvre them towards the point where the wet stone met the water of the canal. Jeff took over steering the small boat. Roberto held a powerful flashlight and Edie helped to search the walls. They saw broken stones, ancient hooks and rusted iron, but nothing that resembled a hand or the mark of the man who had constructed the bridge over four centuries earlier.

After doubling back once, Jeff rowed them across the canal towards the far wall. It arched over their heads in the gloomy night. There they repeated the search, and one third of the way along the wall on the south-eastern end of the bridge, they found it, a small brass plaque, no more than a few inches square. It contained a single, simple image, a human hand, held palm outwards.

Jeff kept the boat steady by clinging on to a large iron ring a few feet to one side of the plaque and Roberto held the torch level with the image. 'The hand of the architect,' Edie said.

'Fascinating. I've never even noticed it before and I must have passed under this bridge a thousand times.'

'But I don't see what good it does us,' Jeff said. 'It's been built into solid stone. We can hardly start chipping away at the Rialto, can we?' 'No,' Roberto sighed. 'So what now?' Edie stifled a yawn.

'There's nothing more we can do tonight. I suggest we all get some rest. We need to sleep on this. I think we're going to need a little lateral thinking to solve this puzzle.' And Roberto turned to Jeff. 'I'll drop you guys back at your place.'