Chapter 19

D ear Diary, I am consumed by such inner turmoil that I do not know which way to turn. I cannot believe what happened last night with Alessandro. More than anything, I cannot believe what I wanted to happen. I know that Tabby Cat, Wolfie and Granny would be very ashamed of me, to say nothing of what Rat would think if he had an inkling. I know that a respectable young woman does not allow herself to be seduced – at least, I think I was allowing myself to be seduced. A young woman must be an untouched, perfect flower if she wishes to be respectable and win herself a husband. But is this what I want?

Granny has made it very clear that I do not have to marry unless I wish to. She certainly could have made my fortune a dowry, yet she chose not to. I know that there is more to life for a young woman in 1911 than to be a wife and mother. Yet, to deliberately choose to go down a different path, particularly when it comes to my virtue, is to cross a bridge with no return.

And then, if that all were not enough, there is the very real possibility that Alessandro is a traitor. While one can make a case that Signor Graziano and Herr Peetz may be acting in their country's interests, even if they are not acting in Britain's, Alessandro is half-British. He was raised and schooled there. To work against Britain, even if, and it's a big if, he believes he is acting in Italy's interests, is to be a traitor. Of that, there is no doubt. Yet, there was a moment last night when it was the most absurd thing to imagine him doing something so awful.

I feel that I need to confide in someone, but who? Who will understand me and not judge my actions? Perhaps the only person I know in Venice who may not be bound by the rigid British moral code is Luisa. Dare I talk to her about this?

By the following morning, after a restless night, Melody had decided to call on Luisa to ask for her advice. In London, it would never do to call on a casual acquaintance before noon, even before early afternoon, really. Based on something that Luisa had said, Melody suspected that the woman was not an early riser, even by aristocratic standards, and so this was even more the case. Given this, Melody decided she would have to put her visit off until later in the day.

Melody found Rat eating breakfast alone. The dark circles under his eyes suggested that his night had been no more restful than hers. She gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Rossi and selected a couple of pastries.

"You look as tired as I feel," Melody said, trying to put her relationship with her adored older brother back on a more even keel after their disagreement the night before. Part of what had kept Melody tossing and turning all night was that Rat had been right; he hadn't wanted her to go out alone with Alessandro for fear that the man might take liberties. Despite Melody's protestations that her virtue would not be compromised, that was precisely what had happened. And what was worse, she had been a willing participant.

Melody couldn't bring herself to admit that, despite Rat's insistence that she at least be rowed by Giovanni, the gondolier had not been the protector that Rat had hoped. To be fair, Melody was quite sure that if she had protested in any way, Giovanni would have stepped in. However, given her evident enthusiasm, it was not a servant's place to interfere. A servant's only job in a situation such as that was to avert his eyes and pretend he heard nothing. Nevertheless, Melody wasn't sure she'd be able to look Giovanni in the eye anytime soon. Whatever must he think of her?

Rat looked up from what was his second cup of coffee that morning and replied, "We need to find that journalist, Silvio Verdi. "

Melody had been thinking the same thing at two o'clock in the morning and nodded. "Do you know which newspaper Signor Verdi works for?"

"Yes, it's called El Meso , or The Middle . Xander explained that there are two other major newspapers in Venice, La Gazzetta di Venezia , which is quite conservative and Il Secolo Nuovo , which was founded by the Italian Socialist Party and supports the kind of causes you'd expect it to. Based on what Verdi wrote in the journal that he published, it seems that his private views align far more with Il Secolo Nuovo , but a man must earn coin however he can. Even a socialist, it seems."

" El Meso ? That's who he works for? I am sure that is the newspaper that Alessandro said he owns. He was telling me that his father founded the most popular newspaper in Italy but then also owned smaller, regional newspapers. I am assuming that it is called The Middle because it has more middle-of-the-road political views?" Melody asked.

"That would be my assumption," Rat agreed. "Though, I'm not sure precisely what we can deduce from that, at least for our investigation. I asked Xander a little about the various newspapers. He told me that La Gazzetta di Venezia is very supportive of Italian colonialism and nationalism. As such, it is quite supportive of those who would annex those northern, Austrian-held territories still inhabited by ethnic Italians. However, it also advocates for stability and national security, so tends to balance this nationalistic rhetoric with more pragmatic support for the Triple Alliance, at least to some extent."

"I assume that the socialist newspaper feels otherwise," Melody guessed.

"Indeed. As you might expect, that newspaper strongly condemns the Triple Alliance, denouncing it as a militaristic and imperialist entanglement which does not serve the interests of the working classes." Rat took another sip of coffee and continued, "Foscari is a businessman. It does not surprise me that he takes the most pragmatic position."

"Yes, though, I am surprised that he allowed Verdi to publish that exposé of Austria-Hungary's intent towards the Italians if he supports the Triple Alliance."

"He is not the editor," Rat pointed out. "He is the publisher of many newspapers who spends much of his time away from Venice. Do you really think that he has oversight of the day-to-day pieces published in any of his newspapers, let alone a small regional one? Perhaps that is why he has returned to Venice, to deal with this situation. Regardless, we need to talk to this Verdi. I believe that Lady Bainbridge has El Meso delivered. I imagine that the newspaper's address is listed somewhere on the front page."

Thirty minutes later, armed with an address, Rat and Melody settled into the gondola after directing Giovanni to take them to the Strada Nova in the Carnareggio district. Melody felt very uncomfortable when she faced Giovanni for the first time since the previous evening. She needn't have worried; Italians were not as prudish about passion as the English, and Giovanni did not judge the young lovers nearly as harshly as one of his London counterparts might. Regardless of his personal feelings, Giovanni was paid well by Lady Bainbridge and had a job that was both stable and easy. He knew better than to give any indication that he, a servant, had any thoughts at all as to the behaviour of Lady Bainbridge, her friends, or her guests.

Forty-five minutes later, they found themselves back in the gondola. Their trip to the newspaper's offices had been brief and unfruitful; through a brief conversation using faltering Italian on their side and a smattering of English on the other side, Melody and Rat had learned that Silvio Verdi had not turned up for work that day. No, that was not usual, the man was most diligent. No, he hadn't sent word as to why.

The only thing that anyone could tell them was the man's address, provided by a petite, dark-haired young secretary who shyly offered it in perfect English just as they were leaving. This caused Rat to fume once they were back in the gondola, "If she could speak English all along, why did we have to act out that ludicrous scene in the newsroom that felt like something out of a low-brow comedy of errors?"

Melody smiled indulgently; for an intelligent, educated man, Rat could be very stupid and blind sometimes. "She didn't say anything because she is the lone female in that newsroom and knows that it is her place to be seen and not heard. I am sure that her opinion has never been valued, that is if she has ever been allowed to voice one. I can only imagine how her male superiors would have taken it if she had shown them up in such a way, and in front of visitors."

Grudgingly, Rat acknowledged the truth of her words. "But it's 1911. Surely men are used to women in their workplaces by now."

Melody laughed again, "Yes, as the people who file their papers, make their tea, and answer the telephone. Not to stand with them as equals and voice opinions worth paying attention to. Perhaps in a hundred years, this will be different, but I do wonder if things will change so much."

As Melody said these words, she thought about their relevance to her situation. She did not need to work; Granny's gift of a fortune had ensured that. However, if she did not want to accept the role of wife, mother, and hostess that society expected her to conform to, what did she want to do with her life? She thought of Cousin Lily, who, despite now being a viscountess, nevertheless had made a name for herself in the botanical sciences. Melody knew that women were slowly entering many of the professions that had been closed off to them in the past, but did any of them really interest her?

Shaking off these difficult thoughts, Melody said, "Let us hope that Signor Verdi is at home. It's possible he was suddenly called out of town, which is why he was not at the newspaper."

"Perhaps. But we have no other avenues of investigation at this point, so let's try."

The Strada Nova, where Silvio Verdi lived, was in the Cannaregio district, where the Jewish Ghetto was located. Rat had given the address he had been told to Giovanni who nodded, then pushed off. Venice was such a complicated maze of streets and canals that neither Melody nor Rat knew how Venetians managed to have it all mapped out in their heads. Somehow, it didn't matter where they asked Giovanni to take them, he not only knew the best way by boat but was then able to give them directions for how to wind their way through the labyrinth of calles. This time was no different.

They disembarked a short time later. After a few wrong turns and two linguistically challenging conversations as they asked for directions, they found themselves on an unremarkable calle in front of an equally unremarkable house. Rat knocked on the door, and after a few minutes, it was answered by a woman who had the boarding-house landlady look that seemed to transcend cultures and perhaps even continents. She wore an apron over a plain, ill-fitting housedress and a scarf over her hair. What was most noticeable about the woman was the strong alcoholic odour that seemed to ooze from her every pore. Rat had smelled enough gin wafting off prostitutes and others in Whitechapel to know that wasn't the landlady's beverage of choice. He idly wondered what the cheap, easily accessible Italian equivalent of gin was. Maybe grappa?

As soon as she opened the door, the woman started talking in a torrent of Italian that was well beyond either Melody or Rat's command of the language.

Finally, Melody turned to Rat and said, "I think we called her away from the stove and it'll be our fault if the food burns. Or something like that."

Rat nodded and said to the landlady, "Signor Verdi?"

The landlady then went off on another lengthy, passionate rant that seemed to include something about not being given money on time. Either that, or she was complaining that they had mice. Melody wasn't entirely sure which. Nevertheless, after a final few sentences, which the landlady spat out, she turned, pointed up a narrow, dingy, uncarpeted staircase and said, "Lassù, sulla destra."

They followed her directions up to an equally dingy, poorly lit hallway. There were only two doors, so they chose the one that most seemed to correspond to "on the right." Rat knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Then he knocked again and called Silvio Verdi's name and said he wanted to ask him a few questions.

He turned to Melody, "What should we do? I assume the landlady wouldn't have pointed us up here if she didn't believe that Signor Verdi was at home. Perhaps he slipped out without her knowing."

Melody shook her head, "I have a bad feeling about this. I cannot say exactly why, but I think we need to go in."

Rat was prepared to pick the lock, but it seemed he didn't need to utilise that skill on this occasion; a test of the doorknob made clear that the door was unlocked. The shutters seemed to be closed, and the room was very dark. Rat called out again for Silvio Verdi with no reply. There was a gas light on the wall and Rat pulled the chain, illuminating the room and casting its light upon a body on the floor. A moment's observation made evident that the man, Rat assumed it was Silvio Verdi, had been shot through the heart.

Melody gasped, "Oh no! Is he dead?"

Rat couldn't imagine how the man would still be alive, but he went over and checked for a pulse, just in case. "He is very dead. By the temperature of his body, I would say he has been dead quite a while."

Melody took a deep breath, tried to compose herself, and joined her brother. Touching the body, she said, "Yes, rigor mortis has fully set it but has not started to dissipate yet. I believe he has been dead for less than twenty-four hours."

Rat looked over at his sister in surprise, "How on earth do you know about such things?"

"I read books!" Melody said indignantly. "I also attended a few lectures at the Royal Academy with Cousin Lily, and one of them was on new forensic methods. I did not understand all of it, but what I did understand was very interesting."

Looking around the room, Melody observed, "Given that the curtains, such as they are, are closed, I am assuming whoever did this committed the crime last night."

Rat agreed with her observation. Melody continued, "The thing I do not understand is how someone came in here and shot this man, then left without someone, at least the landlady, seeing or hearing something."

"Did you smell the alcohol wafting off the landlady? And it's not even noon. I can only imagine how dead to the world she is by evening. Someone with even a passing acquaintance with the woman might guess that. And as for anyone else not hearing anything, Wolf was telling me recently about a new device, still in its early stages, but nevertheless available, called a firearm suppressor. Basically, it works to silence a gun. Perhaps our killer used one." Then, noticing a pillow lying near the body, he added, "Or perhaps he just shot him through this and muffled the sound." Looking more closely at the pillow, they noticed it had an obvious bullet hole through it.

Melody considered Rat's words; they certainly made sense. "So, is our theory that the killer somehow got entry to this house while the landlady was drunkenly asleep in her parlour, then shot Signor Verdi silently, and that this all happened sometime yesterday evening?"

"I believe it is," Rat concurred.

"Then, the outstanding question is: are we dealing with two killers or one?"

"Venice is not a large place, and by and large, not a crime-ridden one, at least for serious crimes. It is hard to believe that two killers are going around shooting men simultaneously. This must be the work of the same man who murdered Signor Graziano."

Rat continued, "In London, the police can run tests on bullets to see if they have come from the same gun. I wonder if such technology is available in Italy, specifically in Venice?"

This question led to a more immediate question: did they summon the police or leave the body for someone else to stumble across?

As if reading each other minds, they both came to the same conclusion, almost simultaneously. "Even though it may seem highly suspicious that I was the person to come across both murder victims, we must be the ones to summon the police," Melody decided.

"I agree. After all, who knows how long it might be before that drunken sot of a landlady thinks to come up here. And when she does, she will inevitably tell the police about the English man and woman who came to call. It will seem far more suspicious at that point that we never reported the murder."

They were in total agreement on their course of action, but were both flummoxed by the most salient point of their upcoming conversation with the Venice police: why did they want to talk with Silvio Verdi? After all, it was one thing to be browsing in a bookshop and stumble across the body of its owner, but they had gone searching for Signor Verdi and needed a plausible explanation as to why.

"Given that we found that list, it is probably safe to say that the police either didn't come across it or didn't find it relevant," Rat said thoughtfully. "Therefore, they have no idea that Silvio Verdi is in any way connected to Antonio Graziano."

"I am assuming that we do not wish to draw their attention to this connection, at least for now," Melody surmised.

"I think that will gain us nothing. In the best-case scenario, they brush off the connection as insignificant. In the worst case, they accuse us of meddling in police matters. Either way, drawing their attention to this fact is unlikely to facilitate my mission. While it is, of course, important to apprehend a killer, there are far larger issues of British national security to consider. Those can be my only concern at the moment."

Rat said these words with a professional air that made Melody's heart swell with pride; her brother was a serious, thoughtful, and evidently very competent agent of the British Government. He'd come a long way from his time as a Whitechapel street urchin.

Opening the curtains, Melody looked around the room. There wasn't much to see. Now that sunlight was streaming into the room, they could see the body more clearly. For some reason, Melody had formed a mental image of the journalist as a young man, but she had been wrong. He had wispy grey hair and looked almost as old as Antonio Graziano.

There were some books on a shelf and a medal next to them. Moving closer, Melody peered at it and said, "I believe this is a similar medal to the one we saw at Signor Graziano's flat. Perhaps that is just a coincidence. Or perhaps it is not. Should we mention this to the inspector?"

Rat shook his head. "If we do that, then we will have to admit that we searched Antonio Graziano's home." Melody realised he was right. Even so, she wondered about the significance of the matching medals.