It was all Mazzare could do, for an instant, not to bark a laugh—insane laugh, under the circumstances. The nickname of Die Fürstin which the German population of Magdeburg had bestowed upon Sharon—the word meant “princess”—had been more of a tribute to her martyred fiancé, Hans Richter, than anything else. But . . .
The name had stuck, as such things sometimes do. Stuck, and then begun to spread, as other people observed the young woman’s stately manner in public. The fact that Sharon was black—and very dark-complected at that—simply added to the glamorous myth. Black people were not unknown in the Europe of the 1630s. They were even somewhat common, now, in some of the major ports like Amsterdam. But they were still exotic, and the continent of Africa itself was almost completely unknown.
The damned human race was quirky, as Father Mazzare had long recognized. God had some purpose there, he was quite sure, though he didn’t pretend to know what it was. People had their prejudices; but they also had their love of legendry. So, a woman from an unknown continent and a mysterious future, daughter of a doctor whose medical wizardry was now a legend in itself across half of Europe, betrothed of Germany’s great martial champion Hans Richter, had taken on the aspect of royalty. Something similar, if not identical, had happened to Rebecca Abrabanel.
Even worldly wise and often-cynical Venice was susceptible. Mazzare had observed any number of times that, at the public gatherings the Venetian elite was so fond of, the Case Vecchie clustered around Sharon more than any other member of the delegation. Nor were all of them—even most of them—young men with obvious motives. She was even more popular with the daughters and matrons of the upper crust. They tended to mob her a little, in a genteel sort of way. In much the same manner, Mazzare suspected, that Princess Diana had been mobbed in the years before her death by American socialites at charity functions. Even though she too, in her last years, had not technically been a princess at all.
Sharon looked back down at Buckley’s corpse. “I’m not exactly sure myself, Father. I did it on the spur of the moment, without really thinking. Ruy, well . . . he doesn’t talk much about it, but I’m quite sure he has more experience with—ah—this kind of thing than anyone else I know. And . . .”
She shook her head. “There’s something wrong here, Father.”
Mazzare choked audibly—half a suppressed, hysterical laugh; half a protest at a naked, bestial universe.
Sharon smiled grimly. “I guess that sounds idiotic, doesn’t it? Yeah, gee, no kidding, there’s something wrong about a murder. Especially one this brutal. But that’s not what I meant. There’s something wrong about the murder.”
* * *
Coming around the corner, the first thing Frank Stone and his brothers spotted was Billy Trumble. The young Marine was leaning against the wall next to the entrance in front of Joe Buckley’s building. Even from a distance, he looked . . .
“He’s practically green,” hissed Ron. “It must be true. Shit!”
Gerry was scowling in the exaggerated manner that only teenagers can manage. ” ‘Shit,’ is right. Joe was a good guy.”
Frank didn’t really share his youngest brother’s attitude toward Buckley. Hadn’t shared, he reminded himself bleakly. Frank had always found the reporter a bit two-faced. Not a bad guy, no, but way too self-absorbed for Frank to like him all that much. Still, he’d hardly wanted anything like this to happen to him.
“Let’s go see what Billy can tell us,” he said. He began marching over, his brothers trailing in his wake.
When they came up, Billy gave them a weak little nod. “Hey, guys. You heard about Joe, huh? Yeah, it’s true.” He paused for a moment, clearly controlling his gorge. “Jesus, you oughta see him! No—don’t.”
Billy glanced at the door. “Don’t do up there, guys. Just take my word for it. Lieutenant Taggart probably wouldn’t let you in, anyway.”
Frank swallowed. So did Ron and Gerry.
“Bad?” asked Gerry, half-whispering the words.
Billy wiped his face with the back of his uniform sleeve. “You wouldn’t believe it. They tortured him first. Then . . . oh . . .”