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

“Where was he from?” I asked.

“A small village somewhere in the Dolomites,” he said. “I don’t know more than that.”

“Had he lived here long?”

The clockmaker shrugged. “I never asked.”

“Was he employed?”

“He wasn’t a gentleman, if that’s what you mean. He had money, so I assume he worked, but I don’t know where or doing what.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in the neighborhood on the day he died?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “and it’s an odd question coming from a fashionable lady. What interest can you have in such a ghastly crime?”

“It’s such a shock to find ourselves in a place where something so awful happened,” I said. “What was it like to actually be here that day?”

“It was no different from any other day,” he said. “I had no idea that anything was amiss. No one did, not until the body was found.”

“Who found it?” Cécile asked.

“The man who lives across the hall from him. The smell, you see…” He swallowed hard.

“It must have been dreadful,” I said. “I understand a boy claims to have heard the gunshots.”

“Carlo claims many things. I wouldn’t put stock in most of them.”

“Does he live nearby?” Cécile asked.

“I don’t know precisely,” the clockmaker said. “He hangs around the piazza with his friends. They’re all of them useless.”

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Twelve, maybe thirteen.”

“Poor thing,” Cécile said. “If he is telling the truth, it was a ghastly thing to hear, but if he invented the story, that’s even more ghastly.” She shuddered, paused, and then smiled. “You have beautiful things here, signore. Do you ship to Paris?”

When we left the shop half an hour later, Cécile had bought three carriage clocks and arranged to have them delivered to her house. “Investigating murders is more expensive than I thought,” she said as we walked back to the piazza.

“You didn’t have to buy something.”

“He was helpful and I felt we owed him something for taking up his time.” She shrugged. “They are lovely clocks. I ought to be able to find somewhere to put them. If not, I’ll have to give you one for Christmas.”

The stunning marble façade of Santa Maria Novella, designed by Leon Battista Alberti in the fifteenth century, rose from the north end of the piazza. We immediately spotted a group of motley-looking boys clustered in front of the Loggia di Santo Paolo, across from the church. They stared as we approached them.

“I’m looking for Carlo,” I said.

“I’m Carlo.” He was leaning against a column. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves. This is my friend Signora du Lac. Could we speak somewhere more private?”

The boys laughed. “What can you possibly want with him?” one of them asked.

Carlo shushed them. “Will you get me something to eat?”

“Of course,” I said. “There’s a café over there that looks quite nice.”

The boys howled as Carlo walked away with us, but I couldn’t tell if they meant to taunt or praise him. Either way, he looked happy enough, a wide grin on his face. We took seats around a tiny table in the café. Cécile ordered coffee, I asked for tea, and Carlo requested an enormous piece of focaccia laden with prosciutto and a glass of lemonade.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“We’ve been told you heard gunshots the day Signore di Taro was murdered,” I said. “Is that true?”

“Of course it’s true, even if no one believes me. I don’t much care. The police are useless. I didn’t bother to prove to them that I’m telling the truth.”

“How could you prove it?” I asked.

“I have the gun that killed him.”

 Florence,

148926

Agnolo, Bia, and I made an odd little family. We made no attempt to pretend I was the child’s mother. No one would have believed it, even if the girl hadn’t already been six when she came to live with us. Her dark hair and eyes were nothing like mine or her father’s. Agnolo doted on her. Watching him with his daughter revealed he had a deep capacity for love. I was glad he had someone upon whom to bestow it.

Our marriage was not unhappy, but it brought me no joy. As the years passed, I felt more content, and, eventually, I suspect, I might have come to love my husband, but I was never to know. He died during a minor outbreak of the plague when Bia was eight years old. In his will, he had arranged for me to take possession of the house and settled upon me a fortune that, combined with my dowry, left me a wealthy woman. I was still young and could have married again, but had no desire to do so. I told my family this was because Bia would have nowhere to go. Children from a first marriage were rarely welcomed into a second husband’s home. They stayed with their father’s family. Illegitimate offspring would be even less welcome. Agnolo had only one surviving brother, who lived in Rome. I’d grown fond of the girl and didn’t want to send her away. At first, my parents objected, insisting her uncle would take good care of her, but I managed to convince them that I wanted her with me and had no interest in another husband. In the end, they acquiesced, but they never knew why I cared so deeply about her. She was the same age as my Salvi, born thirteen days after him. In those first months we were on our own, we circled each other suspiciously. She grieved her father while I faced a ghost from my past.

I had not seen Giacomo since my marriage. My husband and I attended Mass in the cathedral, Santa Maria di Fiori, and I swore I would never again set foot in Santa Trinita. The longer I went without seeing him, the more I began to realize that even the strongest feelings fade when one is separated from the object of them. I thought about him less frequently than before and