‘Well, you’re safe now,’ said Vincenzo. ‘Do you want me to send for the dottore? Just to be sure.’
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ Baroque let out another long sigh and, leaning back on the stool, looked around. ‘You were closing?’
‘Sì. It’s been a long day. The popolani – they’re very distressed. I don’t know if you heard, but the chandler, Dante Macelleria, he died today. He was killed –’ Vincenzo stopped, biting his lip. Emotions chased each other across his face.
‘I know. I did hear. Very sad.’
‘Many people came here to drink, to talk. You know – make sense of the senseless. And then there’s young Tallow. Do you know about him too?’
Baroque nodded. ‘I heard. Seems he’s an Estrattore?’
Vincenzo threw his hands up in the air. ‘Who would have thought? Who would have guessed? But he’s disappeared. Gone. Jumped over the bridge and into the canal. There’s no trace of him.’ He stared into the fire. ‘And now Pillar, you know, the candlemaker, his master, has shut himself away. He won’t speak to anyone. No-one is blaming him. On the contrary, they want to thank him. Without Tallow, so many more would have died during the Morto Assiderato.’ He lost himself in his thoughts for a few moments before shaking himself back into the present. He began to stack the glasses he’d collected from the tables into a tub ready to take out to the kitchen for washing.
‘I still can’t believe an Estrattore has returned. And when we’d all but stopped believing.’ He paused, staring out over the empty room. ‘Do you believe in God, Signor Barbacan?’
Baroque regarded him steadily. ‘We all believe in God, Signor. We have to, remember? The Church says so. The Doge tells us we must. So I do.’
Vincenzo’s face was unreadable in the dying light of the embers. ‘Do we?’ he said quietly. ‘I am no longer certain.’ A glass clinked against another. ‘Anyway,’ continued Vincenzo in a different tone, ‘you’ve missed a great deal. I was worried about you. Not without justification, either.’ He gestured to Baroque’s torn clothes before slowly putting two more glasses in the tub. ‘Some people came here looking for you.’
A tingle ran along Baroque’s spine. ‘Oh? Who were they?’ He tried to sound light-hearted.
Vincenzo shrugged. ‘Some nobile and his whore. She called him papa, but I know a courtesan when I see one. They were strange. Said you were working for them. Is that true?’ Lifting the tub with a grunt, he carried it out to the kitchen. Baroque heard the clatter as he deposited his load. Vincenzo returned seconds later wiping his hands, his eyebrows raised. ‘So, is it?’
‘Why?’ Baroque held his breath.
Vincenzo began to wipe the counter top again, avoiding Baroque’s eyes. ‘Because I let them take your things.’ His hand stilled as he waited for Baroque’s reaction.
‘My things? You mean, my bag?’
‘Sì.’ Vincenzo resumed cleaning, using careful, long strokes.
Baroque’s heart plummeted. He watched Vincenzo work and inhaled slowly, preparing for what he knew he must now do.
Misreading the look on Baroque’s face, Vincenzo spoke quickly. ‘Mi dispiace, Signor Barbacan. I had no choice. I couldn’t afford to leave the room with only your briefcase and a few clothes in it. After the Morto Assiderato …’ He paused. ‘I needed to be able to recoup my losses – and promptly. An empty room, well, being a businessman, I knew you’d understand.’
Baroque drained his drink and put the mug down firmly. ‘I do, amico mio, I do. It’s all right.’ He swiped his hand across the back of his mouth, wincing at the tender flesh. ‘Do you have many guests tonight? Has business picked up?’
Vincenzo snorted. ‘I’m as barren as an old woman’s womb.’ He indicated the rooms above. ‘It will take time. The murder today, it does not help. People want to drink, to gossip, to listen, but they don’t want to stay. This quartiere is considered dangerous now. There’s rumours the Signori di Notte, the Doge’s secret police, are in the area. I haven’t seen them yet. But it will only be a matter of time.’
Baroque shivered. He hadn’t anticipated them. He would have to be careful.
Vincenzo picked up the bladder of vino and poured Baroque another mug. He then picked up a battered old pewter cup and filled it for himself.
‘To friends,’ he said, lifting his vessel.
‘Salute,’ said Baroque.
He watched as Vincenzo drank, noting the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his throat. Checking once more to make sure