Isle of the Dead (6 page)

What do I say? Gaspare wondered. Confess? Tell an old friend, a grieving mother, that her child had found a painting which had indirectly killed her? How could he tell her that? What difference would it make? Seraphina would still be dead, still in a Venetian morgue with the water lapping at the city's wooden supports underneath her. And even if he told her mother about the Titian, how would he explain? Talk to her of rumours, old stories long buried? Or maybe he should tell her of The Skin Hunter. Maybe comfort her with the memory of a man who had once terrorised Venice.

‘Seraphina said she had visited you in London,' her mother continued. ‘I know she enjoyed herself but she was glad to be home, glad to be back with her husband … I wondered if there was anything you had to tell me? Tell any of us? Is there anything, Gaspare?'

He said no.

Negative.

Nothing to tell.

He said no because there was nothing else he could say that would help or give any comfort. But when Gaspare had put down the phone, severed the frail, terrible connection to Venice, he stared out of the window at the walled garden and thought of the portrait he had hidden in the rafters, high above his head. Looking upwards, his gaze scanned the painted ceiling, his pulse quickening.

…
It was said that if the portrait of Angelico Vespucci ever emerged, so would the man.

Hadn't he said those words? Repeated the old belief? Not knowing if he truly believed the superstition, but wary enough to accept the possibility? He had had two people to consider. Two young people. One of whom was now dead. Closing his eyes, Gaspare fought grief. If only Seraphina hadn't seen the painting, hadn't picked it up, hadn't brought it to him. If only she had been looking the other way, or the tide had been going out, not coming in.

‘Gaspare?' He turned to see Nino approach. ‘What is it?'

‘Seraphina's dead.'

Shaken, Nino moved over to the old man and touched his shoulder. He had only met Seraphina once, but he had liked her. ‘A car accident?'

‘No.'

‘So what happened?'

Gaspare turned slowly in his seat. Above his head the portrait was propped up against one of the roof's rafters, a blanket thrown over the canvas to protect – and cover – it.

‘She was murdered—'

Nino stared at him. ‘What?'

‘They found her in the Lido …'

Nino could see from the old man's face that there was more to it. ‘How did she die?'

‘I suppose they'll have more details when the pathologist has examined her—'

‘But you know, don't you? Tell me.'

‘She was found murdered. Her body was flayed …' Gaspare said, turning away. ‘I should have stopped her leaving. I should have done something.'

‘How could you have known what would happen?'

‘Because I knew
something
would!' Gaspare snapped. ‘I knew as soon as I saw that painting of Angelico Vespucci. For centuries people believed that if the painting re-emerged, he would too.'

‘That's nonsense!' Nino said shortly. ‘Dead men don't resurrect themselves. It was a story, Gaspare, nothing but a story—'

‘Yet Seraphina found the portrait and now she's dead.'

‘But Vespucci didn't do it! Gaspare, someone killed Seraphina, but not someone – or something – supernatural. It's not possible … You know that, don't you?' He paused, wary. ‘Where's the painting now?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Yes, you do,' Nino replied, looking around him. ‘You could have hidden that bloody thing in this place and no one would find it for years.'

‘I dumped it,' Gaspare said, the lie smooth.

‘Where?'

‘In a skip. On Kensington High Street,' Gaspare replied. ‘I dumped it the night Seraphina came here. When I looked this morning, the skip had gone.'

‘I don't believe you. You'd never have got rid of that Titian.' He poured two whiskies, passing one to Gaspare and then sitting down. ‘Go on, drink it, then we'll talk about what we're going to do.'

Obediently, the dealer sipped his drink. His panic had subsided; in the face of Nino's logic the idea of Vespucci's resurrection seemed ridiculous. But then again, Seraphina
had
found the picture. And now she was dead.

‘
Why
would someone kill her?' he asked Nino.

‘A robbery gone bad?'

‘Maybe … But why was she killed like
that
?' Gaspare countered, finally glancing back at him. ‘And why now, when the portrait's re-emerged?'

‘Coincidence?'

‘That she might have been followed from London and murdered in Venice after she had found a portrait of a man who had killed in exactly the same way?' Gaspare clicked his tongue. ‘Coincidence, no. No, I don't believe it.'

‘What else could it be?'

‘I don't know,' Gaspare admitted. ‘Maybe Seraphina told someone she'd found the portrait.'

‘You told her not to.'

‘She was a woman and women talk – they can't help it sometimes,' Gaspare said, taking another drink of the whisky.
‘Seraphina had gone home to Venice. It would have been hard to put the story out of her mind in the city where Vespucci had once lived. Could
you
keep it a secret? I doubt she could. Seraphina's parents are cultured; it would have been fascinating for them. Perhaps she couldn't resist confiding …' He paused, shaking his head, remembering the phone conversation. ‘No, her mother knew nothing. She was asking me what
I
knew.'

‘What about Seraphina's husband?' Nino queried. ‘Wives talk to their husbands. She could have easily told him. Asked him to keep it a secret, but then he slipped up.'

‘Maybe.'

‘What does he do for a living?'

‘I don't know.'

‘She said he was American. Perhaps he talked about the portrait to a dealer back home and the dealer confronted Seraphina about it?'

‘No, not a dealer,' Gaspare replied thoughtfully. ‘A runner more like. There are hundreds of small-time crooks in the art world, all hustling each other and scrabbling after the latest rumour or find. They live off the scraps dealers throw them for tips or information. Italy, in particular, has a massive trade in art crime. Paintings change hands or are stolen to order and then exported all over the world. Only recently a member of the mob confessed that the famous Caravaggio in Palermo was taken by the Mafia in the seventies.'

‘So someone
could
have challenged Seraphina – but she wouldn't tell them anything. Wouldn't admit to finding the portrait. Or tell them where it was.'

‘And they killed her?'

‘Maybe that part was an accident.'

‘So why do that to her body?'

Nino finished his drink and shrugged. ‘You're the art dealer, I'm just guessing. But if this was a film, what better way to bring the painting to the forefront of everyone's imagination than by copying the murder method of the infamous sitter?'

‘
What?
'

‘You've often said that to raise the interest and value of a picture you need publicity—'

‘Not murder.'

‘It wouldn't work for you or me, but for some it would. You said yourself, people collect sick stuff. And this portrait is a Titian. It could be that the murder was an accident and the killer made use of the Vespucci legend to reignite the story.'

Nino could see Gaspare shift in his seat, and pressed him. ‘You still have it, don't you?'

‘I—'

‘Don't bother denying it, Gaspare, but think about it. Perhaps having the portrait puts
you
in danger.'

‘I'm an old man. Why should I care what happens to me?'

‘
I
care. I care about Seraphina too. She didn't deserve to die.' Nino paused, thinking. ‘You should back off. You're too old. I need your brain – the brawn I can supply.'

Puzzled, the dealer stared at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

‘I know about the painting
and
Vespucci – probably as much as anyone else does now. I speak three languages, including Italian. I've been all over the world, travel comes easy, and people talk to me. Let me try to find out what happened.'

Immediately, Gaspare put up his hands.

‘Let the police handle it—'

‘I'm not going to interfere with the Italian police. I just want to ask around a bit.'

‘You've been seriously ill—'

‘I'm fit now,' Nino persisted.

‘It's dangerous.'

‘Is it? Maybe so, maybe not. There might be no connection between Seraphina's death and the portrait. But if there is, we need to find out what.'

‘Leave it to the experts—'

‘
There are no experts in this!
It's about Seraphina, her death, a painting and Angelico Vespucci.' He put down his glass, turning to the dealer. ‘I'm fit again and I need to work. You won't let me pay for my keep – or repay you for what you've done for me – so let me repay you this way.' He pulled his chair closer to the old man. ‘I'm a quick learner, you know that. I'm used to dealing with people and I don't scare easily. That picture came
here.
You can't undo that. It came to you – and now Seraphina's dead. I want to know why.' He held the dealer's gaze. ‘Tell me you don't want the same.'

 

Venice, 1555

There was a rumour that the plague was returning to Venice, but this time we were spared, the merchants and the rich leaving their palaces and strutting about the piazzas like cockerels spared the knife. There is a fashion here for the men: at night the cloth covering their genitals is transparent, and some hang bells and tie ribbons on their appendages.

Meanwhile the industrious Titian is working on his latest portrait: a sitter known to Aretino, as licentious a man as any in Venice. Angelico Vespucci. When the contract was first signed Vespucci was respected, known to the Church, a giver of alms, a man loved by his servants for his kindness. They say he was gentle. They say he was generous. They say he loved his wife as no man had ever loved a woman before. Such was the noble merchant Aretino brought to the studio of Titian. Such was the sitter whose likeness was drawn out in red chalk.

The plague never came to Venice. Some other sickness came in its stead. On the night of November 11th the corpse I had seen
dragged from the Lido was finally identified as Larissa Vespucci. When the news spilt over the city Venice talked of little else. And while her lover fled to Rome, she was buried in the Vespucci crypt on the Island of St Michael. Skinned like a fish, like a rabbit, a dog, like vermin. Skinned, relieved of the beauty she had over-used.

The following week I watched the loathsome Aretino passing by St Mark's. This time he was walking with Angelico Vespucci.

Everyone suspects Vespucci of the murder of his wife. Everyone talks of it. But Vespucci is a wealthy man with clever friends. He slides into his pew on a Sunday at the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, and clasps his hands together, looking upwards to the painting of the Assumption of the Virgin, his bulbous eyes catching the glance of no other.

Every week Vespucci slides himself and his wavering reputation to the studio of Titian. I have seen him enter, and wondered what the artist thinks of this sitter. Wondered if, as he draws in the line of brow or slant of cheek, he suspects that he is painting the likeness of a killer.

New York

Knowing that most of the important dealers would attend the auction in New York, it wasn't a complete surprise when Farina spotted Jobo Kido in the lounge at the Four Seasons. Assuming her famous smile, she moved over to him, Jobo leaping to his feet and nodding as she approached.

‘Jobo! Lovely to see you.'

‘And you, Farina. I expect I will see many familiar faces at the auction,' he replied, ushering her to a seat next to his. ‘Would you like some tea? Or a drink perhaps?'

She shook her head, eager to dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business. Important as the upcoming sale was, there was little of interest to Jobo Kido. So perhaps his trip to the USA had been for another reason? Perhaps he hoped that being among his peers he might hear the latest gossip? From the instant Farina had heard of the Titian she had suspected Jobo knew of it. It was too macabre, too peculiar to his taste, to pass unnoticed by the dealer. Jobo
had many connections in London – surely one of them would have told him about the notorious find?

‘I was expecting to see you in New York,' she said blithely. ‘Although it's not a great sale. Not the kind of pieces you usually go for.'

‘Maybe it's time to expand my interests.'

‘Or catch up?'

His eyes were steady. ‘On what, Farina?'

‘Any rumours, gossip.'

‘About what?'

She waved her hand around in the air. ‘Anything. Nothing. Who knows?'

You do, Jobo thought to himself. You've heard about the Titian, and you're trying to pump me for information. His gaze rested for an instant on the table in front of them, then he looked back to her.

‘I think you're having a little game with me, Farina.'

‘Never,' she replied, smiling enigmatically.

‘So you've heard nothing of interest lately?'

‘About what?'

‘A painting?'

‘I didn't think it would be about a second-hand Ford, Jobo,' she replied smartly. ‘Why don't you ask me straight out?'

‘Ask you what?'

‘What you want to know!' she snapped impatiently.

He was too wily to be caught out. ‘I really don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Fine,' she replied, rising to her feet. ‘Good to see you again, Jobo. No doubt we'll bump into each other at the auction.'