Death of a Serpent (6 page)

In addition to those from Baldassare, there was correspondence from a woman, a noblewoman, judging from the seal and fine grade of parchment. And considering the loopy script and garish color of ink, the letters were written by the black swan Serafina had seen at the wake last night, Bella’s contessa friend. The return address was a number on the Piazzetta del Garraffo, which, if Serafina remembered correctly, was close to Baldassare’s shop.

She arranged the letters by sender, sorted them by date with the oldest on top, and settled in for a good read.

The father’s spanned a decade, a long time in a prostitute’s career. The oldest contained short bursts of news along with commands for his daughter’s return. Nothing of the man in them, only announcements of life and death. In an early letter her father wrote,

Your brothers are dead, all of them. Lost in a despicable battle on the outskirts of Milazzo. One day, one bridge, four brothers, eight-hundred lives. Your mother’s mind, too heavy with grief, is a sinking ship. You must come home.

N. Baldassare

In his middle correspondence, Serafina noticed a shift in the old man’s regard for his daughter. Gradually, he changed from anger and disbelief to resignation. Those were the longest letters, containing news of this cousin, that marriage, a feast, a play they’d attended. He told Bella about their customers, their orders, the relative ease of obtaining cotton ‘now that the war in America is over.’ Serafina began to get a sense of the man, laughed at his humor, smiled at his words of endearment.

In his last letters, it was apparent that father and daughter had been meeting and that the reason for his change toward her was Bella’s decision to leave an occupation he loathed. Serafina read his letters a second and third time, was struck by the frequency of words like ‘love,’ ‘sweet,’ ‘tender,’ phrases such as ‘your joyous face,’ his hope for the future. He signed all of these, ‘Your loving father, Nittù.’

The contessa’s were fewer. They alluded to Bella’s plans with phrases like, ‘I go to Paris next month to visit Worth & Bobergh,’ and ‘I trust the
monzù
will honor his intention to let me visit his great house,’ and ‘My trip proved all that I hoped it would and more. I cannot wait to talk. We have so much to prepare.’ It was clear that the two women were engaged in an economic venture. Bella’s need for capital explained her work at Rosa’s and supported the madam’s contention that the prostitute planned to quit the house.

Serafina wrote a summary of what she’d learned from the pile of letters—character impressions of Baldassare, Bella, and the contessa, plus a corroboration of what she’d already known. No fresh information. No leads. She fingered her brooch, lost to her surroundings.

The Brazen Serpent

“G
iulia, sweetness, I need you to look at something,” Serafina said, entering the kitchen.

Her middle daughter, the one born with a needle and thread, took the
Godey’s
from Serafina and made a face. “Where did you get this?”

“At Rosa’s. Tell me what the words say.”

Giulia hunched over the pictures, scanned the type with her fingers. “It’s about a church in the north, their vestments and cups and such. And,” her finger paused over a phrase, “it talks about a bronze serpent. I didn’t know Rosa embroidered.”

“You’d be surprised what Rosa gets into. And by the way, who’s been using Papa’s English dictionary?”

Giulia’s smile lit her face.

“So industrious, my best designer of high fashion. Just remember to put his books back when you’ve finished with them. I noticed some of his shelves were disordered.”

Giulia nodded.

Serafina kissed her daughter’s forehead.

Bronze serpents? ‘Cups and such’? Serafina wanted more information. She decided to visit the Duomo’s priests.

As she hitched her trap to a post, she saw a group of children on their way to school, some running, others walking backward or skipping. The streets were full of people heading to the straw market or to the more expensive shops facing the piazza. Mules with jingling headgear pulled painted carts. Serafina caught the scent of warm bread and waved to the baker, greeted Arazzudda, a peasant whose thirteenth child she delivered last week.

She plowed up the rectory’s stoop. Misjudging the depth of the last step, she tripped and snagged the hem of her skirt.

While she waited for the priest, Serafina ran a palm over her scuffed boots, wiped her hand on the side of her dress. She was sick of wearing black, certain she could grieve for her husband just as well in a fine watered silk of alizarin crimson or jade
.

The door opened.

“I’m investigating three murders. Perhaps you can help.”

When he sat, she smelled tobacco and grappa.

She handed him the
Godey’s Lady’s Book
, open to a colored plate of the brazen serpent on a cross. “What can you tell me about these drawings?”

He glanced at the pictures, stabbed a dirty fingernail at one. “Of these I know nothing, except that they’re very beautiful, especially this chalice. We could use it here.” He put a finger to his lips. “But we have a visiting priest, a scholar. He might know.” He rang the bell.

Soon a tall man entered, tonsured and wearing a hooded cassock. He had a large set of rosary beads hanging from his belt. Serafina wondered what possessed monks to wear sandals. His feet were yellow and blue.

After introductions and a brief explanation of her murder investigation, she asked, “What can you tell me about the symbols on these pages?”

He examined the plates. “The brazen serpent. Where did you get these?”

“In the room of a seamstress, one of the victims,” she said.

“Beautiful, this magazine. I’d like to study it some more. May I?”

“Sorry, not mine to lend, I’m afraid,” she said, and continued. “Each of the murdered women had a spiral carved into her forehead, not unlike this,” she said, tapping the embroidery detail of a serpent. “The mark was a spiral of some sort, starting from the bridge of the nose winding to the top of the forehead.”

He shrugged. “But the brazen serpent is a symbol of salvation, not of destruction, of eternal life, not death. In some form it appears in most cultures. Michelangelo painted Moses with the brazen serpent on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

In her mind she was with Giorgio on their honeymoon in Rome, what, some twenty years ago? He was explaining the meaning of one of those writhing depictions on a frescoed ceiling, probably the same chapel mentioned by the monk. Was it the fresco with Moses and his staff? She wished she’d paid more attention, wanted to rest her head on her husband’s shoulder instead of listening to Fra Yellow Feet.

The priest shook his head. “The carvings you saw were something else entirely. The marks of a deranged soul.”

Serafina didn’t think so. She considered telling him about the serpent’s tongue she saw yesterday morning on Bella’s forehead, but rejected the idea.

“I need to know more about the plates in this
Godey’s
. It belonged to one of the murdered women. Odd that she would have such a magazine in her possession, but there it is. I need to find out why. And the bent corner indicates she read the article, perhaps studied it. But at least she saw it, was curious enough to mark its place.” She showed him the crease in the page. “Before he died, I would have asked my husband about the brazen serpent. He knew everything.” Serafina blinked hard. “But now I must ask others. And since you’re a church scholar, I’ve come to you.”

He ran the end of his crucifix back and forth through his beard and began. “In the Book of Numbers we find the reference to a bronze serpent, a powerful creature who drew his strength from the God of Moses and saved the Israelites from a plague of fiery serpents. The symbol of the brazen serpent continues in the New Testament where it is linked to Christ. St. John said, ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.’”

Her head swam as she tried to digest his words. “I’ve never seen vestments like these in Oltramari, not that I pay close attention to what priests wear in church.”

He shook his head. “You won’t see them here. Only in churches where they practice the Ambrosian Rite. They use the image of a serpent winding itself around a cross as the symbol of a healer. Their chalices are carved with it, their vestments embroidered with it, their croziers bear the brazen serpent. It is a symbol of Christ. Has nothing to do with murder, I’m afraid.”

“Not in the keep of a sane man. But this killer does not murder for pleasure or for coins. He is lunatic, bent on twisting meaning to suit his own ends. His mind is riddled with phantoms.”

In the Conservatory

Thursday, October 11, 1866

N
ot available, the madam, so Serafina headed outside, glad for the prickly sea air on her skin. She followed the path to the conservatory and opened the door. A humid blast hit her.

There was a bench underneath large palm trees where she sat for a moment looking out at the park before beginning the search for Bella’s reticule. A parrot squawked. Another large-winged creature flew over to a wide palm tree and perched on one of its fronds. Her curls frizzed.

“Interesting,” a voice said. “Your hair and such, I mean.”

“I didn’t hear you enter,” Serafina said to the woman who was clothed in an ultramarine day dress, low cut of course. Petticoats crinkled when she sat beside Serafina. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Serafina remembered her, the redhead from the wake.

“Gioconda’s my name,” she said.

“Don’t tell me your parents named you after a painting.”

“Oh no, it’s the name I took when I arrived. And I never knew my parents.”

Serafina was about to ask her how she knew Falco when the prostitute continued. “Don’t use our real names, mostly. Well, some of the girls do. Take Carmela, for instance. Said her father gave it to her. That was good enough for her.”

Serafina’s feet went cold. Perhaps she misheard the woman. She needed to focus. “Carmela?”

“Bit of a thing,” the redhead said. “Here about three, four years ago. Hair like yours. Ginger, I’d call it. I saw your hair from the path, the color, tight curls and such. That’s what made me come in. I said to myself, Carmela’s back.”

Rosa would have told her if Carmela had knocked on her door. Must be another Carmela, such a common name.

“This girl with hair like mine, when was she here?”

“Three, four years ago. Didn’t last long, mind. Took up with a soldier or guard or one of those soon after she arrived.”

“Did you know her well?”

The woman shook her head. “Kept to herself. Don’t get me wrong, she was friendly, not snooty like some round here I could name, I’ll tell you. But particular, you might say, as to how she spent her time. Smart. When she wasn’t working, well, she, I don’t know, walked on the shore a lot, tended to flowers. Loved the blooms.”

“Do you know where she was born?”

“Well, why would I know that? But let me think.” The woman wrapped a curl around her finger. “Not far from here.”

“Yes?”

“Right. I remember once, early spring it was, gorgeous day, and Scarpo and Turi—this was a long time ago, mind you, before the madness started—they used to take us on drives. And we’d all pile in the carriage, some of us on the rumbler, all fixed up, waving and shouting and sticking our arms out the window, none too delicate, mind, and Turi, he’d drive fast round the statue, the one with the sunken eyes. Well, this one time, Carmela, she asked that Turi stop and she started to cry because she said it was close by her home and she had half a mind to get out, just get out and walk. Said she could walk home from the sunken-eyed statue.”

“What town?”

“Oltramari, of course.”

Serafina felt her stomach churn. Her daughter worked at Rosa’s, and the madam—whom she thought was a friend, who knew Giorgio and Serafina were wretched about Carmela’s flight—that same madam, that
strega
, that sometime friend, never bothered to tell Serafina.

She swallowed. “Anything else you can tell me about Carmela?”

“That’s about it. Said she had a twin brother. Thinking of writing to him, but said if her mother found out, she wouldn’t like it. But she was smart to leave, Carmela. Money’s good and Rosa, she’s fair, always jolly and such. Pay’s more than double what it is in Palermo, I tell you. But now, no good.” Gioconda stopped. “Is something wrong? You look like you’ve seen a specter!”

Serafina closed her eyes. “The damp air unsettles my stomach. What did you mean by ‘now, no good’?”

“Well, you never know who’s going to creep round the corner, do you, stab you in the heart. Some of the girls, the careless ones, getting knifed, I can tell you.”

“Any of Carmela’s friends still here?”

“Gusti. Want me to get her?”

• • •

Serafina was about to leave when she heard another voice.

“Gusti said she’d be down in a minute.” Tall and blonde, the prostitute. She spoke with an accent. “She’s dressing, you know, but perhaps I can help? I’m Lola. Oh yes, I see. Gioconda was right; you do look just like Carmela. But you’re much taller and, you know, older. If Carmela wants to know how she’s going to look as an older woman, she should look at you.”

“Carmela doesn’t want to see me, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

The prostitute’s smile was warm. Serafina saw why the madam liked her.

“You knew Carmela?” Serafina asked.

“Not very well. We didn’t talk that much. Liked one another, we did. Bit of a thing, Carmela, but she had her opinions. Not friendly to me.” The prostitute brushed a curl from her face. “Probably jealous. Most of the girls are when they first meet me. And Carmela wasn’t here all that long. A year, maybe more.”

“But she worked here? Like you? I mean, she wasn’t a maid or a laundress?”

“She worked like me. Not good with the work at first, but those of us with experience, we helped her.”