“They made him a saint,” Eneko said harshly, “because whatever his faults the Golden Preacher understood one thing clearly. There is such a thing in this world as evil. Not simply—”
The next words came out almost like a curse: “—error and misunderstanding.”
Brother Pierre spoke, in his heavy Savoyard accent. “True enough. And what is your point, Eneko?”
The Basque priest’s lips twisted wryly. Then, he turned his head again and looked at the other priest.
“Brother Diego, I need you to begin an investigation. I have been led to believe that the Strega Grand Master was once the tutor for a girl in this city. Fourteen years old, she was, when he disappeared. Find out who that girl is. It should not be too difficult. Only a very wealthy and prominent family could have afforded his services as a private tutor—and would have dared employ him, for that matter.”
Brother Diego nodded. “What was the source of your information? That might help me in my search.”
“I have no doubt that it would. I also have no doubt that you don’t wish to know.”
Diego looked at the counseling booths. Sighed. “Can you offer me any other clues?”
“And how do we know she is not a witch herself?” asked Pierre.
Eneko smiled faintly. “Oh, I think not. Whatever that girl might be, I rather doubt you will find a witch.”
“You never know,” countered Diego. “We are surrounded by evil here.”
The Basque nodded, his eyes returning to the frescoes. “No, you don’t; and yes, we are. Still—”
The hawk eyes of John Chrysostom gazed down upon him. He did not seem to find the weight of them hard to bear. Not in the least. “Still, I doubt you will find a witch there.”
* * *
Casa Montescue looked—from the outside—as if it belonged to one of the wealthiest families in all Venice. It was only once you got inside, thought Katerina bleakly, that you realized what a hollow front that was. She walked the long corridor moodily. It was a case of too much grandeur . . . and too little upkeep. Show was very important in Venice, but more than one Case Vecchie family had found that keeping up appearances could be ruinous. This place needed an army of servants just to keep it clean. Without them it deteriorated fast. There had been six upstairs maids when she was a child. Her father had once told her there’d been ten when he was young.
Her musing was cut by the sound of her grandfather’s voice.
“—nothing to do with us! It was Fortunato Bespi who killed her. He was a Montagnard assassin. She must have fallen out with her masters.”
Another voice, higher pitched. “Nonetheless you spent a great deal of money pursuing her sons, Milord Montescue. Money long outstanding with our house.”
The first voice, again: “And now we discover that you just recently hired yet another assassin! Such men do not come cheaply, even incompetents like the ones you apparently employ.” There came a snort of derision. “The man’s body was found just this morning, you know. Imagine—a blade man poisoned by his target. What kind of assassin—”
Kat winced. Grandpapa’s obsession with taking his revenge on the Valdosta family disturbed her deeply. More for its unhealthy effects on the old man’s state of mind than the Montescue purse. But she hadn’t realized he’d started hiring assassins again. And, wincing again, she could just imagine what kind of fumble-fingered dimwits the old man could find with the few coins he had available.
The second voice continued: “We were promised a payment within this month, and that is very nearly at an end. We really don’t want to inconvenience such old and valued clients, milord, but the truth is you’re far behind.”
“We’ve had a delay,” growled Lodovico Montescue. “Not a reverse—a delay.” He said the words with a confidence which was far from what his granddaughter was feeling about the matter. Grandpapa was talking about the money they’d get from the parcel she’d had to drop into the water outside the Imperial embassy. What if that urchin Benito had stolen it? What if water ruined the contents? What if they couldn’t find it?