“And do you remember these two?”
The blond knight pointed at Vittorio. “Him. He was very drunk. Kept singing. Some of your Schiopettieri would remember him.”
The justices then called the next witness, Von Gherens, who seconded Hakkonsen’s statements and echoed his praise of Marco.
Then Brother Uriel came along. As usual he didn’t mince his words. “They swore they heard what?” he demanded. When told again, he snorted derisively. “Absolute lies. They’ve broken their oath sworn on the Holy Bible. Get your Metropolitan to excommunicate them.”
Vittorio went pale, but Filippo laughed. “Who do you believe? Good Venetians—or foreigners and half-bloods like this Valdosta? He’s mongrel Ferrarese, not Venetian. And Ferrara will be history soon.”
The chief justice just shook his head. “Signor Recchia. Come through to the next room and point out the younger Valdosta. You did see him clearly, did you not?”
“It wasn’t daylight, but I saw him clearly enough to think it was Marco Valdosta at first.” Recchia spoke with supreme confidence.
* * *
The confidence disappeared when he saw the six young men, all wearing Dorma-blue.
“He’s not here . . .”
“Indeed, he is,” countered the chief justice sternly. “Point him out, put your hand on his shoulder.”
Eventually Recchia chose the tallest. A young man with straight dark hair. “Him. He’s Valdosta.”
The young man accused got a very alarmed look on his face. “I am not!” he protested. “I’m Enrico Battista. Everyone will tell you so! I’m just a pastry cook.”
Benito, curly-haired, stocky Benito, who had been through very little sleep, arrested for murder, thrust in jail, hauled out and made to dress in Dorma livery by two Schiopettieri and wait while this . . . figlio di una puttana lied about him, started laughing. And then, before anyone could intervene, he hopped forward and grabbed Filippo Recchia by the silk shirtfront. Marco watched as Benito kneed straight-nosed, handsome Filippo champion-of-the-fencing-salle-Recchia in the testicles—and then punched his face, once, twice, as he bent forward.
Marco noticed that the huge, solid young knight who had wandered in put his glass down and clapped. Once, twice, before the Schiopettieri dragged Benito off Recchia.
The chief justice managed to keep an absolute straight face. He was possibly the only one in the chamber to do so. “Perjury and the bearing of false witness, especially in such a serious case as this is a serious offense, with which you will be charged, Filippo Recchia and Vittorio Toromelli. Your false testimony also places you under extreme suspicion of being party to the murder. . . .”
“I was in Zianetti’s!” choked Recchia, still clutching his groin. “I can prove it. I was nowhere near the scene. I just heard about the dagger and—”
“Enough.” The chief justice silenced him. “Benito Valdosta. Brawling in public places carries certain penalties. You are hereby fined one ducat, considering the extreme provocation. When that is paid you are free to go.” Then he paused. “Wait. There is still the matter of the dagger and your whereabouts last night.”
“Ahem.” Petro cleared his throat. “The dagger was a transparent attempt to put blame on Valdosta. Anyone could buy one and color the tassels. Only a fool would use such a weapon—and leave it on the scene, eh, Your Honor? In my opinion, it’s a base political thrust at Dorma, as the Valdosta boys are my wards and my kin.”
Again, he cleared his throat. “As for the refusal to say where he was, Your Honor . . . a gentleman’s obligations, you understand . . . a young lady by the name of Maria—no last names, please!—surely no one will insist . . .”
Marco watched his younger brother blush absolutely puce. “How the hell did you know?” Benito demanded.
Not even the chief justice could keep a straight face any more.
The door to the chamber burst open. Marco saw an extremely distraught, sobbing Case Vecchie woman standing there. It took him a few moments of incredulous staring to realize that it was Kat.
“I . . .” She swallowed. “I’ve come to confess! I murdered Bishop Capuletti. On the Fondamenta Pruili—last night, just before midnight.”
The chief justice looked at her “Ah. The mysterious Maria.”