I folded the parchment and replaced it in the locket with trembling fingers. As I closed the secret compartment, I saw that a drop of blood from my finger had stained the edge of the prayer crimson. I could not think what to do. In my heart I knew I had no choice but to return the locket to Maria; I understood its value now, not least as a memory of her dead mother and her sister. But to return it was as good as confirming that I knew something about the girl’s fate, and the bloodstain on the parchment would surely fuel their fears; they would take it for hers. I could not keep it. Fra Gennaro would no doubt see it as more evidence to be erased, so I could not ask for his help. I hid it again inside my undershirt and prayed earnestly for guidance.
Despite Fra Donato’s warning that I was being watched, I decided to miss my theology class after the midday meal, asking Paolo to say I was still feverish, and slipped out into the tired heat of the city. With my hood pulled up around my face, I cut along Via Tribunali in the direction of the Duomo. Strada dell’Anticaglia stood steeped in shadow from the high buildings closing in on both sides. Lines hung with washing dripped on me from above as I passed under the ancient arches of the Roman theatre that spanned the street, seeming to hold up the houses. I walked quickly, my head down, scanning the doorways and barred windows for the sign of a goldsmith’s. After walking the length of the street, I returned to the only shop that seemed likely, though it had no marker outside, and peered through the small window. Inside, a man stood canted over a workbench with two lamps lit beside him; though it was the brightest hour of the day, the sun would never penetrate to the interior of this little shop in its canyon of a street. He held a thick lens to one eye to magnify his vision as he worked with a delicate, tweezer-like tool. I could see only the top of his head: greying curly hair and the beginnings of a bald patch the size of a communion wafer.
A bell chimed as I entered the shop. The man looked up with a smile that froze on his lips as he registered my habit. He lowered the lens and straightened his back with an air of resignation.
‘Have you come to search my home again, Brother? It is barely two months since they were last here.’ He sounded as if the prospect made him weary rather than angry. ‘We are true Catholics, as we have been for twenty-five years.’
Twenty-five years. He could not be much over fifty; that would mean he had been little more than my age when he had been asked to choose between his history and his home.
‘No, sir,’ I said, quickly, appalled to have caused him alarm. ‘I hoped I might speak to your daughter. Maria.’
His face hardened. ‘Neither of my daughters is home at present.’ As if to betray him, the ceiling creaked with the footsteps of someone walking in the room above. My eyes flickered upwards; his remained fixed calmly on me. In the light of the oil lamp I saw that his face was drawn, his dark eyes ringed with shadow. One of his daughters had not come home for two days; he must already fear the worst. I wondered if Maria had confided in him about her sister’s lover, the pregnancy, or where she had last seen Anna. I doubted it; she had said the knowledge of her sister’s affair would break their father’s heart. She would want to protect him from the truth.
There was nothing more I could do. Inside my habit, the locket pressed against my ribs in its hidden pocket, but to hand it over would be as good as announcing that his daughter was dead, and implicating myself.
‘No matter. Perhaps one day I will come back and buy a gift for my mother.’ I turned to leave.
‘I should be honoured, sir.’ He gave me a slight bow and a half-smile; despite his understandable dislike of Dominicans, he knew that he needed our continued favour.
I felt a pang of empathy; though I could not imagine the constant threat that hung over this man and his family, no matter how sincerely devout he tried to appear, I already knew what it meant to harbour secret beliefs in your heart, beliefs that could lead you into the flames before the Inquisitors’ signatures had even dried on your trial papers. The more I studied, the less convinced I was that the Catholic Church or her Pope were the sole custodians of divine wisdom. I could not tell if it was fear or arrogance that led the Holy Office to ban books that might open a man’s mind to the teachings of the Jews, the Arabs, the Protestants or the ancients, but I felt increasingly sure that God, whatever form He took, had not created us to kill and torture one another over the name we give Him. Tolerance and curiosity: a dangerous combination for a young Dominican at a time when the Church was growing less and less tolerant. I nursed my doubts like a secret passion, relishing the shiver of fear they brought. I wanted to tell the goldsmith we had more in common than he realised. Instead I returned his bow and left the shop, the bright chime of the bell ringing behind me.
A few paces down the street I stopped under the Roman arch and tried to think what I might do with the locket. I could wait until the shop was closed and try to push it under the door or through a window, in the hope that Maria would find it. But someone else might see it first, and think to look inside its secret compartment. I could not risk that. I could walk down to the harbour and throw it into the sea, where it could not incriminate anyone. Though I hated the idea of destroying something so precious, this seemed the only safe course, for all of us. I had almost reached the end of the street when I heard quick footsteps behind me, and turned to see Maria running barefoot through the dust.
‘I went to Fontanelle,’ she announced, pinning me with her frank gaze. I stopped absolutely still. I dared not even breathe for fear of what my face might betray. Every muscle in my body was held rigid. She let out a long, shuddering sigh and her shoulders slumped. ‘Nothing. No bodies of young women found in the past two days.’
‘Then perhaps she has run away after all,’ I managed to say, hating myself for it, though relief had made me lightheaded and my legs weak. I leaned one hand on the wall for support.
Maria shook her head. ‘I will never believe that. I thought you might have come to bring me some news?’
I hesitated, then reached inside my habit and brought out the twist of paper I had wrapped it in. ‘I came to bring you this.’
She tore it open and stared at the locket, her face tight with grief. ‘There is blood on it.’
‘Mine. I cut my finger on the clasp.’ I held it up as proof.
She raised the locket slowly to her lips and closed her eyes, as if in silent prayer. A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Did he take it from her? How did you get it?’
‘I found it on the ground.’
‘Where?’
Again, I hesitated just a breath too long. ‘In the street, outside the gate. She must have dropped it there.’
She shook her head.
‘That cannot be true. I have searched the streets around the walls of your convent for the past two days for any sign of what happened to her. I would have seen it. And the chain is broken, as if it was torn from her.’ When she saw that I was not going to respond, she rubbed at the tears with the back of her hand and drew herself upright. ‘Well. I should not expect truth from a Dominican. But at least I know now that my sister is dead. She would never have willingly let this out of her sight.’
‘Very wise. It is a beautiful piece of work. Your father must be a highly skilled craftsman, to have made something so complex.’
She looked at me with a hunted expression as she tried to discern my meaning. ‘Did you open it?’