Chapter 42
A foul, abhorrent, a shadowy stalking terror waited to strike me down. Me, and all I held dear. Already Magno had killed two men that I knew of, sickened Papà and Lysander, and set up Sir Christofolo of Cittadella to assume the guilt for the poisonings. And then to die? Almost certainly.
Who next would hold the poisoned cup?
Yes, gentle reader, I think as you do, for among after the angst for mine own life and for my dear ones, a simple lusty thought occurred: Must I die of a poisoning before I’ve fought the marital battle of princely sword and brambleberry pie?
I wished I could shove that concern aside as being unimportant, yet it occupied my mind to such an extent I wisely decided to add it to the growing list of reasons why I should take control of my own destiny. And put it at number one, too, by God! “Has Magno poisoned before his visit here?”
Fiametta shrugged. “I’ve heard no such rumor.”
Chandrika said, “That is immaterial. What we must discover is, how is he doing it? How is he poisoning here and now, again and again?”
“The first time was easy. Mushroom in the cask … He makes sure he’s there for the poisoning, takes the antidote, and he’s freed from suspicion.” Fiametta summed it up nicely.
“The second time, when the wine snots were gathered in his room, he tricked the hapless Tobias of Valpolicella into drinking from his own cup, which he had somehow poisoned.”
“Where is Sir Galeazzo of Belluno?” I asked. “For to my knowledge, he is not in Verona.”
“Perhaps someone should be sent to Belluno to check on his continued good health,” Fiametta said.
With that, I agreed.
Chandrika held up one finger. “In my country, we do not admire a well-administered dose of poison, but since I met Princess Ursula and Lady Pulissena, I’ve discovered two women whom I much admire, and in her time in exile, Lady Pulissena lived in Venice, where poison is a way of life.”
I was much struck. “I know that. Why didn’t I think to consult with her again?”
“Because you’ve been overwhelmed with the triple events of fighting families, your own marriage, and lust that inflames the brain.” Fiametta didn’t mince words.
Nor did I. “People wonder where I inherited clear thinking and a blunt manner.”
Before we could continue our mutual admiration (which to the uninitiated may have sounded like sniping), Chandrika overspoke us.
“I spoke to Lady Pulissena and discovered that to purposefully poison wine requires only that the cup be crafted in a special way. A goblet is best, for within the handle, you can conceal the poison, and when you choose your moment, you trigger its release with a hidden mechanism. In Magno’s case, his own decorated pewter cup, which he displays with such pride, has a jewel at the base, which, when depressed, opens a secret chamber and poisons the contents. ”
Fiametta’s mouth dropped open. As if she’d been poisoned, she made a gurgling noise.
I interpreted for her. “Chandrika, how did you discover that?”
“While Fiametta was skulking in the stairwell, I clothed myself as do the maids, and after ascertaining no one was within, I entered Magno’s chamber. I searched for poisons and for a goblet such as Lady Pulissena described, and found both.”
Fiametta recovered her voice, and she projected it now. “You entered Magno’s chamber dressed as a maid?”
Chandrika’s serenity was uninterrupted. “As I said, after first ascertaining no one was within.”
“He could have come back. He’s a lecher! He’s a murderer! He’s—”
“An ampelographic specialist. I know,” Chandrika said. “Understanding that made my task without peril, for all I had to do was pick up the chamber pot, and when he entered—”
“He did come in?” Fiametta leaped to her feet and paced across the room, flinging her hands in the air. “You could have been raped!”
I didn’t have time for Fiametta to finish her dramatics. Soon my sedan chair would be back for me, and I had tasks that did not include dying of poison. “Fiametta, what Chandrika is saying is that he does have the Montague nose, although aged. All she had to do was fling the slop bucket at him …”
“I did not, for I feared another maid would be blamed and beaten. I simply dropped it, and when it splattered, I cringed and apologized and begged to be allowed to remove it and my unworthy self from his distinguished presence.” She beamed. “He beat me out the door.”
I was fascinated despite myself. “What next did you do?”
“I found one of the real maids, gave her the bucket, and told her he’d dropped it and was blaming her. The maid sighed and said, ‘Not the first time, miss. I’ll take care of it.’” Chandrika considered the astonished Fiametta. “You underestimate me, Fiametta. You know what I’ve lived through.”
After that, Fiametta was subdued until I said, “Together and separately, we must scheme every scheme before Magno does, to both expose Great-uncle Magno and shield me from harm, before the wine-tasting contest tomorrow.”
We put our heads together, and such was the power of our three brains that when a knock sounded at the door and one of the bearers with red nose and chattering teeth offered my sedan chair, I felt less like bait in a trap and more like the trap itself.
As I donned my cape and gloves, Friar Laurence came out from the back room. “Lady Rosaline.”
When he called me by that name, I understood he’d assumed the bearing and manner of a man of God. “Yes, Friar Laurence?”
“Although I took care not to listen to your womanly plots, for fear my vows to stand between harm and humanity would allow an unknown fiend’s murderous agenda to continue …”
If you didn’t follow that, he was afraid he’d be morally impelled to stop me from risking my life to stop the poisonings, and he didn’t want to do that, because the killer had to be stopped, and he had faith in my abilities.
“I must warn you, I’m not the only one who, if he knows your plans, will be within his rights to whisk you to safety.”
I stared at Friar Laurence, in shock that Cal’s part in this really hadn’t occurred to me.
Not only was Cal going to host the wine event at the palace—the Montague atrium certainly wouldn’t allow enough seating for the avid crowds who longed to see me smash Magno’s supercilious nostrils into the dirt—but I’d have to somehow arrange for him to remain in ignorance while I set the snare to snap at the climactic moment.
“My thanks for your warning, Friar Laurence.” I bowed my head, as did Fiametta and Chandrika, while the good monk offered a prayer for my continued good health and for the blessings of the Holy Trinity on all the events of this holiday season.
Which was a pretty nifty way to sidestep anything specific like, “Take out the evil sfigato by whatever means necessary.”
With a glance at the back room, where Imogene was taking her first steps to being an apothecary, and in a low tone, I said, “Friar Laurence, you will make sure my sister is protected as you protected me?”
“You may be assured,” Friar Laurence said.
I pulled on my cap and braced myself to face the cold.
I placed my hand on the door … and hesitated.
Turning back, I asked, “How could Great-uncle Magno not have known he’d tasted that wine before?
I taste the different nuances, and I have a wine memory.
How could he have so signally failed to realize that he’d tasted it before? ”
Fiametta shrugged. “You’re the expert. You tell me.”
I remembered what Nonna Montague had said about Nonno’s fading powers. “Age is dimming his abilities. His senses of smell or taste or both are faltering.”
“Poor Magno,” Fiametta said in patent insincerity.
“At last Magno found a way to be important, to have power over others, to make his fortune, and his body is betraying him,” I concluded.
“That makes him all the more dangerous,” Chandrika said.
Unfortunately, with that I agreed.