Da Vinci Detects: Murder and Sex: A Real History Mystery of the Renaissance, Featuring its Greatest Artists (A Nicola Machiavelli Mystery Book 2) by Maryann Philip

Author:Maryann Philip [Philip, Maryann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780985088422
Publisher: Real History Mystery Press
Published: 2014-11-08T23:00:00+00:00

Ch. 27 The Funeral

The nuns' choir, Church of Sant' Elisabetta, Florence

Florence, three days later

The church of Sant’Elisabetta reminded Nicola of San Sisto in Rome, the small parish church of the convent where she was raised. Both interiors were frescoed with stories of female saints, and built with a gallery over the front door that allowed the cloistered nuns to enter from the second story of the adjacent convent, so they could hear mass while physically isolated from parishioners. Sure enough, the nuns were filing in to attend Bartolomeo da Fiesole’s funeral.

His body, which Nicola had dressed in his best tunic and surcoat, lay on a bier in front of the altar, flanked by pots of sweet-smelling incense that failed to mask the faint stink of corruption that lingered in the church. After the funeral, his corpse would join his wife in the family burial space beneath the floor, as he had long ago arranged.

Nicola and Caterina sat in opposite transepts facing one another, dressed in black and heavily veiled, so they could watch the crowd without being obvious about it. Caterina had refused to allow Nicola to sit next to her and comfort her. “Finding the man who killed my father is the only comfort I want,” she said. “If we sit together someone might recognize me, or you because you look like me. We can observe better if we sit apart.”

Nicola knelt and prayed for her grandfather, feeling guilty that she felt sad. Her sadness was about her mortal needs, and not his immortal soul, which was surely in Heaven. Chiding herself, she resolved to concentrate on finding his murderer.

So far, all who entered the church looked like curious parishioners. Entire families had come, their restless children squirming and looking miserable, the children’s mothers glaring and whispering instructions to keep quiet. Many went forward to peer curiously at the face of the old man who had not left his house for years. An old woman dressed in mourning left a cross fashioned from greenery underneath the bier. Pietro the cobbler gazed briefly at the face if his former landlord and upstairs neighbor, as if he were checking to be certain the church had the correct corpse. Satisfied, he found a place among the parishioners in the middle benches.

Gianni and his wife Lisa entered the church hesitantly. Nicola beckoned them into the seats next to her. “Sit on either side of me,” she whispered. “I need your help, to know the parishioners from strangers. When someone looks at the body who you do not recognize, one of you pat my hand, like you are feeling sorry for me.”

They both nodded obediently. “Like this?” Lisa whispered, patting her hand.

“Exactly.”

Nicola settled in to watch the faces of those who went to the front of the church to view her grandfather. Most showed no emotion except curiosity. Lisa or Gianni dutifully patted her hand when they noticed strangers, and Nicola memorized those faces. One was a man of obvious wealth, wearing a blue tunic trimmed in black velvet, a heavy gold medallion, and rings on every finger.

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