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SANTO DEI SANTI

July 11th of 1348, the Inquisitor’s Palazzo

Ginevra walked briskly toward the inquisitor’s residence. Never mind that Taddea does not believe you. She would speak to him and then continue on to the neighboring parish of Santa Margherita, the last church in the apothecary’s guidebook. She is scared and alone, but you will fix it. She reached the Piazza della Santa Reparata; there was the dead mason still on the scaffold. She tipped her head in greeting. Outside the inquisitor’s apartment, a dirty monk waited in front of the door, which was slightly ajar.

“Oh! Excuse me. A live woman, how marvelous. Fra Leobaldo at your service—do you know if the inquisitor is still, ah—” Ginevra saw her note from the day before still stuck in the doorjamb.

Oh, God, he’s dead, she thought, unsure if that nullified their deal. But then the door swung open fully and there was Inquisitor Michele with red-rimmed eyes and stubbly face.

“You!” he said to her, breath stinking of wine. “Why do you keep me waiting for so many days? It has been...many of them.”

“I keep you waiting? I was here yesterday! Why did you not answer my knocks? Wait—why do you open the door yourself? Where is your man Giuseppe?”

His lip trembled. “Dead! Dead. The pestilence... Does anybody die from any of the usual ways anymore? Death was once endlessly creative—all manner of diverse and wondrous accidents—broken hearts, getting stuck in odd places. Now he strikes the same note again and again, no longer creating harmonies. But what he lacks in artistry, he makes up for in tenacity. It’s only a matter of time, now that he has entered my home.”

Ginevra and Fra Leobaldo exchanged glances. She had expected the same subtle intoxication as before, but now he was downright drunk, the monk’s knocking the only thing that had gotten him out of bed. She took his arm, giving him a little shake. “Come now, you’ve made it this far. Some have hearty constitutions against it naturally.”

“Ahem, forgive me for interrupting—Fra Leobaldo, at your service, Ser Inquisitor. I am the record keeper for the church of Santa Margherita. I’ve come to tell you the results of the inventory you requested in May—”

“Did you say Santa Margherita?” interrupted Ginevra.

“Oh! My brave monk,” said Fra Michele. “Noble man, most worthy keeper of records! I’d given up hope that anyone would respond. It took you a while, but still, your faith brings much heart.”

“Ah...yes, well, I fled to the countryside months ago, and it wasn’t until I returned that I discovered your letter—”

“This is Monna Ginevra, an expert on depraved thievery.”

“At your service,” said Ginevra with a small bow.

“My dear Leobaldo, please come sit. You must be thirsty from your journey.”

“Thank you, Ser Inquisitor, but seeing as somebody just died here—”

“Nonsense! All the precautions I followed, keeping myself apart from people, from my work. It has meant nothing! In or out, it makes no difference, death will come, death will come for us all.”

He grabbed the reluctant monk by the arm and steered him through the entryway to an interior courtyard, where there was a table with several open bottles of wine and also a donkey that had come in through the open door to munch on the courtyard’s garden. Ginevra followed. The inquisitor wiped out a cup with his sleeve, filled it almost to the brim, and then held it toward the monk.

“I’d offer you something to eat, but you see, it was Giuseppe who—”

“Ser Inquisitor—what I have to tell you is brief. I return to Florence only because everyone at the monastery where I stayed in Frascati died besides me.”

The inquisitor put his cup down. “What is the brief thing you have to say, then?”

“That the church of Santa Margherita has been robbed?” cut in Ginevra.

Leobaldo stared at her. “The right arm of San Pancrazio replaced by—”

“An evil-looking glass vial?” she finished.

“I see you truly are an expert in depraved thievery. Here.” He took a bottle from his purse and placed it on the table. The liquid inside matched the purple color of the wine. “I know not when the arm was taken, only that it was present when I departed in May.”

Inquisitor Michele took out his pomander and inhaled deeply, then took a large sip of wine.

“Ahem—as I have delivered my message and you have no servant, I’ll, um, see myself out. I pray you find the person responsible and that they suffer a terrible punishment.” Leobaldo left as fast as he could without running.

The inquisitor jumped a little at the sound of the front door slamming, and turned to Ginevra. “And how did you know what he was going to say, late woman?”

Ginevra brought out the apothecary’s book, and stretched the accordion pages out on the table. “Because every one of the churches in this guide have been visited by the relic thief. And here, in this bit at the end, it mentions the San Pancrazio arm just reported missing by Leobaldo.” Next to the book, she placed the inquisitor’s original list and wrote upon it: