He leaned back wearing an expression of extreme smugness like a suit of plate mail. I plodded through his logic and decided it would have to do for now. I could not possibly question thirty people in two or three days.

“Clear crystal glasses, or colored?”

“Murano ruby glass. You could not tell what anyone else was drinking, and if the poison made the wine cloudy, that would not show either.”

“And what sort of wine?”

“We were offered a choice of three: refosco, malmsey, or retsina. I had the refosco. It was a good jar.”

He fancies himself as a connoisseur of wines. I plan to study them when I am rich.

“Refosco is red, malmsey a sweet white. The other one is Greek, yes?”

He made a steeple of his fingers again for a sermon. “Yes. Retsina is most vile, flavored with resin. Served in honor of the Greek merchant, I suppose. It is pungent enough to hide the taste of lye or vitriol, but few Venetians would touch it. Malmsey is so sickly it might suffice. Refosco would not. Let us review the suspects. I proclaim my innocence, and in any case I was seated behind the table. I could not have put poison in anyone’s glass without standing up and stretching across, which would have been a very conspicuous action. Write my name in the first row.

“The Greek was in the room all the time. Our host came and went. As organizers of the affair, they must be suspect. Imer and Karagounis in the second row.”

He closed his eyes to think. “I was early, as I told you. Imer and his wife greeted the guests as they arrived and saw that they were given wine. Most went to the salotto, only the book collectors came into the dining room. The first buyer to enter was Senator Tirali. He wished me well and at once walked the length of the table, on the far side from me, inspecting the goods. I felt like a shopkeeper!”

“I believe you, master.” I knew of another Tirali, the senator’s son. Neither was a patient of the Maestro’s.

“Close behind him came Procurator Orseolo, leaning on a cane. He and Tirali greeted each other coolly. They were old rivals as collectors.”

“Put Tirali in the second row?”

“I suppose so, but I doubt if their rivalry ran to murder. Orseolo had a woman attending him. I didn’t hear her name and she stayed close to him. Next came a foreign couple, who did not introduce themselves to me. They spoke in French with barbarous accents, questioning me about the books. They knew nothing about books. All they were interested in was price.”

I added them to the second row: two foreigners.

“Two footmen poured the wine. We should include them in the second row, if the Three have not gotten to them first.” The Maestro opened his eyes. “Then sier Pasqual Tirali, Giovanni’s son. With your friend.”

I wrote Violetta’s name in the first row and started a third for Pasqual Tirali, vowing to send him to the torturers for prolonged interrogation. I get twinges of jealousy sometimes, when I think of her evenings.

“They were the last to arrive. There was one other before them, Pietro Moro. First row.”

I stood my quill in the inkwell, laid my forearms flat on the desk and glared belligerently across at my master. “You are hallucinating!” The nightmare had just turned into sheer terror, as nightmares do.

He shook his head smugly. “I warned you that you were being naive.”

“Master, before a doge is crowned he has to swear an oath known as the promissione. It is no trivial matter. He swears to shun each and every mistake and crime of all his predecessors in the last thousand years. The promissione is read to him every two months during his reign to remind him. He can barely blow his nose without his counselors’ consent. He must not leave the ducal palace without their permission. He must not meet with foreigners! He…I cannot imagine all the promises the doge would have broken if he went to that supper party!”

“He wasn’t wearing his ducal robes and corno. I expect that’s another. But Moro is a fanatical collector of books.”

“Then why did the sellers not offer him a private viewing in the palace?”

The Maestro scowled horribly. “I do not know the answer to that. But I don’t suppose for a moment that Moro is the first doge to slip out for an evening incognito, playing Haroun al-Raschid.”

“And somebody tried to assassinate him? Is that what you mean? The poison went to the wrong man?”

The Maestro pursed his lips. “I wondered how long it would take you.”

Even more aghast now, I said, “The Serene One moves and is unmoved ? The procurator got the wrong glass and the poison meant for the doge? Is that what it means?”

“Possibly. A hypothesis to keep in mind. Even if not, do you see why I cannot write to the Lion’s Mouth? The Council of Ten must not have cause to investigate the procurator’s death, not officially. A suspicious death involving illicit acts by the doge may bring on a constitutional crisis, just when relations between the Republic and the Turks may be boiling up to another war. What you got this morning was not a warning, it was a cry for help!”

I stared down at my list, although I was seeing nothing. I did not want to see old Nasone either murdered or deposed, but all doges have political enemies. “Did everyone see him there?”

“Probably not,” the Maestro conceded. “He came in, looked at the books quite briefly, and spoke with Orseolo. Then an argument broke out with the foreigners. I think he left then. He was not at the supper table later.”

“What sort of argument?”

“The foreigners had not been invited. Imer told them to leave. Probably the doge had not been invited either. Faugh! Moro has always been impulsive. He champs under all the restraints of his office, the eternal committee meetings. Read me the list.”

Present and not suspected:

Dr. Nostradamus; Procurator Orseolo; madonna Violetta; Nasone

Possible suspects:

Attorney Imer; Karagounis; Senator Tirali; two foreigners; a woman; two footmen;

Pasqual Tirali

“You assume too much. Move your friend to the list of suspects.”

I protested, “Did you see her tipping poison into the victim’s wine glass?”

“Bah! Of course I didn’t. I didn’t see anyone doing that. I very much doubt if anyone did. It would be too obvious.”

That had already occurred to me. “You said Orseolo had a crippled hand and used a cane. He must have laid his glass down when he wanted to handle one of the books? The others would too, perhaps, but he must have done so more often?”

My master nodded. I could see that he had been hoping to point that out himself.

“So,” I said, “the murderer unobtrusively poisoned his own drink and then switched it for the victim’s. Did you see that happen?”

“No,” he admitted sourly, “but I was constantly being distracted by stupid questions. It is likely that somebody did. Tell Angeli you need him shortly.”

I went over to the door and stuck my head out to tell one of Giorgio’s brood to warn him. When I returned, the Maestro was staring fixedly at the window and tugging his beard. I know better than to interrupt him when he is thinking on that scale. I took up my knife to sharpen my pen.

Eventually he sighed and looked at me as if wondering where I had been. “A letter.”

I took a sheet of rag from the drawer and dipped the quill.

“About ten lines,” he said, so I would know how to place it on the sheet.

“Italic, roman, or gothic?”

“Italic, of course. ‘To the exalted chiefs of the noble Council of Ten. Usual bootlicking…It is with deep sorrow that I most humbly bring to Your Excellencies’ attention certain evidence pertaining to the despicable murder of…’”