The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

It was time for me to do some manipulation of my own. “Tessa, please sit down.” She did as I asked, taking the seat across from me near the fireplace. “I shall bring you into my confidence, but must insist that you do not share what I tell you with anyone else. Do I have your word?”

“Yes.” Her voice was solemn.

“My husband and I have investigated murders going back more than a decade. Initially, my participation stemmed from the death of the gentleman I was married to before Mr. Hargreaves. Everyone told me he had died of natural causes, but I proved that one of his closest friends had murdered him. Since then, Mr. Hargreaves and I have been frequently called upon to assist with criminal inquiries. Time and time again, we have found that we cannot rely on the police.”

“Yes, but you are English. In Italy—”

“I have seen this in England, yes, but also France, Russia, Austria, the Ottoman Empire, and more, including Italy. There was a murder in Venice some years back. I identified the culprit. We all want to believe that the police are capable of bringing criminals to justice, and often they are. Sometimes, however, it takes an outside investigator to get the job done.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to work with the police?” she asked.

“In my experience, I’ve generally found it is not. When it appears otherwise, I happily collaborate with them. In the meantime, I promise you I will see to it that Marzo’s murderer is brought to justice.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’ve made a record of all the graffiti in the house, hoping that it might provide a clue as to the treasure supposedly hidden here during the fifteenth century, but nothing stood out. Why don’t you take a look and see if you notice something I missed?”

“Searching for this is not a good idea.”

“You just told me you don’t believe in the curse,” I said. “Neither of us does. However, if Marzo thought he could find whatever’s hidden, his subsequent actions may have catalyzed someone to attack him. We both know he wasn’t working in the house. We don’t know why he was killed and his body flung into the courtyard. I’m trying to find anything that connects him to the palazzo.”

“So you do not ask me to look for the treasure?”

“No, Signora du Lac is already bent on doing that and there’s no reason for two of you to waste your time on what is bound to be a futile task. Instead, I would like you to look at the graffiti. Beyond that, I would welcome anything further you can learn about Marzo.”

“That is easy enough,” she said. “I will do as you ask.”

I gave her my notebook and left her to her work. She insisted on finishing dusting before studying the graffiti. There was nothing for me to do in the house, so I decided to go for a walk. Fresh air always cleared my mind. I set off from the house, heading north, in the general direction of the Archaeology Museum, which stood on the corner across from the Ospedale degli Innocenti, a foundling hospital designed by Brunelleschi decades before he was chosen to build the famous dome atop the city’s cathedral. His plan for the portico, supported by Corinthian columns, marked a departure from the old medieval architecture, returning to the perfect proportions of the classical era. At the time, it was so revolutionary, people gathered in the piazza to watch the construction.

As I crossed the street, the sky, which had grown gradually more cloudy as I walked, opened up, pounding the city with a sudden rain. I tugged at the museum’s door, but it did not budge. A handwritten note tacked to it announced that the museum was closed, offering no further explanation. Having been seduced by the earlier sun, I had not brought an umbrella with me, and my hat, designed for style, not protection from the elements, did very little to fend off the deluge.

I ran back across the street into the piazza and took shelter under the vaulted ceiling of Brunelleschi’s portico. The rain showed no sign of stopping. I considered my options and decided to go to the Mercato Nuovo, where Tessa had learned Marzo’s surname. I, too, might find illumination there. And if not, at least an umbrella.

It would have been a sound plan if the market weren’t nearly a mile from the Ospedale. I walked as quickly as I could, but it was impossible to avoid getting soaked. As my planned destination was only a few minutes from Kat’s palazzo, I decided to return there, dry off, and collect an umbrella. I unlocked the heavy front door, stepped into the loggia, and brushed as much water as I could from my coat before taking off my hat and shaking it as I crossed through the iron gate into the courtyard. There, I heard heated voices coming from above.

“You cannot tell her anything.” Signora Orlandi was speaking.

“She is too smart to be easily put off. That was obvious when she asked me about the graffiti this morning. We have got to—”

Fredo interrupted Tessa. “You are not the one to be ordering us around. Let’s go back into the kitchen before Cook wonders what we’re arguing about. We will meet later, in the usual spot, and formulate a plan.”

“What if we can’t get her to do what we want?” Tessa asked.

“Should it come to that, I will deal with her.” Fredo’s voice had taken on a hard edge.

“Let’s hope that’s unnecessary,” Signora Orlandi said.

I stayed where I was until I heard the kitchen door open and close. They were talking about me; I no longer felt safe in the house. Unsettled, I crept silently upstairs and changed out of my wet clothes on my own, not wanting Tessa’s help. I rescued my pompadour as best I could, pinned a new hat atop it, pulled on a gabardine coat, and collected an