It was a melancholy thought. He could only hope that the couple had gotten along well enough in the years they had spent together at the end, childless and alone. But there was nothing he could do about it now. Or could have, at any time. Once again, Petro Dorma reminded himself of the sharp limits to his power, for all its outward trappings. And in so doing, although he never once considered the manner, reconfirmed the wisdom of Venice’s Senate in selecting him for his post.
One of the chirurgeons emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag. Seeing Dorma, he simply shrugged, very wearily.
As expected. Dorma nodded, a nod deep enough to convey to the chirurgeon his respect for the man’s efforts. Then, started for the doorway leading to the street outside.
“Take me to the priest now, Ernesto. If you would be so kind.”
* * *
The priest was in the nave of his little church, located not much more than a block away. The elderly cleric was hunched on one of the pews, his head bowed, clutching a cross in his hands and trembling like a leaf. Clearly enough, reaction to the horrifying event which had transpired not long past was now setting in.
Dorma did not begrudge the man his uncontrolled shivering. From what he could determine, at the moment of crisis the priest had done all he could—and done so with a courage which would not have shamed any of the Church’s great martyrs. The fact that, afterward, a humble parish priest had fallen into quiet hysteria was quite understandable. He was not, after all, a great condottiere like Carlo Sforza, accustomed to scenes of horrendous carnage and brutality.
Dorma stepped up to the priest, stooped, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Please, Father, can you tell me what happened?”
The priest raised his head and stared at Petro. His brown eyes were blurry with moisture.
“It’s very difficult, Lord Dorma,” he whispered shakily.
The fact that the priest knew the identity of his questioner did not surprise Dorma. Even though, to the best of his knowledge, he had never met the priest. In fact, he did not even think about it. Everybody in Venice knew who Petro Dorma was—his appearance and official position, at least, if not the full range of his powers and his membership on the Council of Ten.
“I’m sure it is, Father, and I apologize for disturbing you at such a moment. But I really must learn as much as I can about what happened.”
The priest’s nod was as shaky as his whispering voice. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s just—I can’t remember much. It was dark and—very confusing. And . . . and I was very frightened. Confused myself.”
Dorma gave the shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You handled yourself as well as any man could have, under the circumstances. Just tell me what you can, Father.”
Visibly trying to bring himself under control, the priest took several deep and slow breaths. Then:
“It was very late at night. Near dawn, in fact. I had been spending the night with Luigi—the linen merchant—sitting up with him and . . . talking, mostly. I was worried about him. Since the death of his wife, he has been very unhappy. I’ve been concerned that he might even be starting to think of suicide.”
The priest paused for another deep breath. “We heard a noise. Downstairs, in the shop. Nothing loud. In fact, I didn’t hear it at all. But Luigi had a shopkeeper’s sensitivity to such things, of course. So he excused himself and went down the stairs, carrying a candle.”
Again, the priest paused. For much longer, this time. Clearly, now that his tale was approaching the moment of horror, he was reluctant to continue.
Petro made no effort to hurry him along. He took advantage of the delay to review in his mind everything he had seen in the shop. And was struck again—as he had been at the scene of the financier’s murder—at yet another contradictory fact. The same creature that slew in such an incredibly excessive manner was also quite capable of delicate work. The financier’s mansion had been entered in so sure and subtle a manner that the Schiopettieri were still uncertain as to the murderer’s exact route of entry. And if the entry to the linen seller’s shop was obvious, the lock on the front door had been skillfully picked, not broken. Dorma suspected that the only reason the shopkeeper had heard anything was because he had been wide awake and, as often happened with elderly merchants, had become extraordinarily sensitive to the risk of burglary.