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Arsenic and Old Italians

Written by Iver P. Cooper

 

The liquid in the shallow dish ignited, releasing a burst of yellow-green fire. The audience, a curious mix of Tuscan scholars and glitterati, applauded.

Lewis Philip Bartolli acknowledged the applause with a briefly lifted hand. "This lovely green reveals the presence of the element boron, which was not known to the ancients. The liquid is distilled spirits, which burn nicely. To the spirits, I added what chemists call boric acid. This boric acid contains one atom of boron, three of oxygen, and three of hydrogen, and it was obtained from the volcanic emissions of the Maremma of southern Tuscany."

A servant in the livery of the reigning Grand Duke of Tuscany, Ferdinand de Medici, silently glided down the aisle, and whispered into the ear of Andrea di Giovanni Battista Cioli, the Tuscan Secretary of State. Cioli flinched, then muttered something to his companion, the teenaged Prince Leopold.

"The green color of the flame is the result of the excitation of the electrons of boron. Next, I would like to show you—"

Cioli rose abruptly. "On behalf of the Serenissime Grand Duke, of His Highness don Leopoldo, the learned fellows of the Academy, our guests, and myself, I would like to thank Dottore Bartolli for a fascinating presentation on chemistry. Unfortunately, we must excuse him, as he has a pressing engagement."

I do? But Lewis kept this thought to himself, and bowed.

The crowd filed out. The increased hubbub woke up Galileo Galilei, who was snoring away in a front seat. Like Lewis, the great man was expected to entertain the court. Lewis gave chemistry demonstrations during the day, and Galileo set up his telescope and explained the wonders of the night sky. Since he was up half the night, and was more than twice Lewis' age, it was perhaps understandable that he couldn't always stay awake for Lewis' lecture.

"Um, what. Oh. Wonderful presentation, Lewis. Another nail in the coffin of the Aristotelians."

Cioli put his arm around Lewis. "Walk with me, dear chemist. You can take my coach to your pressing engagement." He turned to Leopold. "Your Highness, you are welcome to join us, I think you will find the matter of interest." Leopold was the grand duke's youngest brother.

In the privacy of the coach, Lewis finally could speak his mind. "For Christ's sake, what is this all about?"

"Grand Duke Ferdinando was dining with one of his leading noblemen. The man suddenly showed signs of severe gastric distress."

"I am not a physician—"

"You don't need to be; he is already dead."

"And you suspect—"

"Murder. Yes. By poison, we think. So we need your expertise."

Prince Leopold chimed in. "Surely your mentor, the great Sherlock Holmes, would expect you to assist us."

The grand duke and his brothers had not initially grasped the concept that the Sherlock Holmes Lewis had told them about was a fictional character, and Lewis' business associate in Tuscany, Niccolo Cavriani, had warned Lewis not to correct them. "In general, it is not a good idea to tell a ruler that he is wrong. Especially when the error is a harmless one" were his words. Hence, earlier that year, Lewis had not protested when Grand Duke Ferdinand proclaimed the young up-timer to be "Consulting Detective to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany."

They rode in silence for a few minutes.

Cioli cleared his throat. "During your investigation, Lewis, please keep in mind that the deceased lord might not have been the real target of the poisoner. The grand duke is not popular in all circles of power in Tuscany. Or beyond. Especially since he has shown favor to you, and thus, however obliquely, to your United States of Europe."

"So you think it was an assassination attempt gone amiss?"

Cioli shrugged. "Who can say? But you see that the investigation is of the greatest importance. You doubtless will be rewarded appropriately for proving the identity the poisoner." Cioli was too polite to mention the consequences of failure.

Or perhaps he thought it more effective to leave them to Lewis' imagination.

****

The coach stopped in front of a villa. The footman stepped down and opened the door. Lewis was about to step out when he was stopped by a soldier. He aimed a lantern into the compartment. "Excuse me, Your Highness, Your Lordship, Dottore. I have my orders. Would you wait just a moment, please?" He closed the door.

"This is exciting, isn't it, Dottore?" asked Leopold.

Lewis reminded himself that Leopold was only sixteen. With the gravitas that came from being fully two years older, Lewis acknowledged that the case might have its interesting aspects.

When the door was opened once more, it was to reveal the familiar visage of the ruler of Tuscany. "A curious turn of events, eh, Lewis?".

"Yes, Your Grace."

"But with you here, the game is now afoot."

Lewis fought back a groan. "Indeed."

"Thank you for your assistance, Lord Cioli. Oh, and hi, Leopoldo. Try not to bother Lewis with too many questions."

Ferdinand beckoned to a tall fellow in an officer's uniform. "This is Lieutenant Cosimo Capponi. He and his men will help you conduct searches, question suspects, and so forth. I want to make sure that you encounter no difficulties on account of your being a foreigner."

Cosimo bowed. "I look forward to working with you, Dottore. I will make sure that you can go where you need to go, and that people answer your questions. And of course I can question witnesses on your behalf."

Cosimo pointed out two soldiers. "Carlo and Rocco. If you need a suspect watched, or a door broken in, they're your men.

"Also permit me to introduce Giovanni di Niccolo Ronconi, who is one of our family physicians. A Padua man."

"I'm a West Virginia man, myself," said Lewis. The Tuscans all nodded sagely.

"But please proceed with your investigations, Lewis."

"Your Grace, who was at the table besides yourself?"

"Pietro, the deceased. His wife Silvia, and their children Domenico and Olimpia. The Senator Francesco di Alessandro Arrighi, and his wife Lucrezia. The banker Alberto Spinelli, and his sister Isabella. La Cecchina—"

"I beg your pardon? La Cecchina? 'The Songbird,' who's that?"

"I perceive you are not a musician, Lewis," Ferdinand said. "Why not? Didn't Sherlock Holmes play the violin?"

Cioli intervened. "La Cecchina is the composer and singer Francesca Caccini. She sang for our court for at least two decades. Maria of Tuscany, the Queen of France, tried to steal her from us but her uncle, Ferdinando the First, forbade Francesca to leave."

"A wise move. She was, I think, the first woman to write an opera. Do you remember it, Cioli? It was 'La liberazione di Ruggiero dall’isola d’Alcina'; it was performed at my villa in 1625."

"It was exquisite. She married a Luccan nobleman, he died, and she returned to Ferdinando's service last year."

"That's right. And then there was Lorenzo Lippi, the poet. Or perhaps I should say Perlone Zipoli, since that's his pen name."

"Would-be poet," muttered Cioli. "Wise of him to use a pen name. Should have stuck to painting."

Ferdinand laughed. "Perhaps a half-dozen others whose names slip my mind. Silvia can tell you who they were."

"So describe the dinner," Lewis prompted. "What was served, who ate what, that sort of thing. And when did Pietro show the first signs of distress?"

"Hmm . . . first course was prosciutto cooked in wine and Neapolitan spice cakes. Those were served off the sideboard, 'help yourself.' I did."

"No spit-roasted songbirds, this time?" asked Leopold.

Cioli shook his head minutely. "Now that wouldn't have been very polite, with Francesca Caccini in attendance."

Ferdinand chuckled. "Second course, several different roasts. I had the goat and the rabbit, I am not sure what else there was.

"For the third course, there was a stuffed goose, smothered with almonds, with cheese, sugar and cinnamon on the side. Also Turkish-style rice, in milk, with more sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over it. Cabbage soup with sausages half-submerged, like those submarines you once told me about, Lewis. And boiled calves' feet. How could I forget that?

"We saw, but never got to taste, the fourth course, the desserts. They were arranged on the sideboard. Quince pastries. Pear tarts. Leopoldo, do you remember the time—"

"Please, brother, don't tell them."

"Oh, very well. More cheese. More almonds. Roast chestnuts. My, it's making me hungry just thinking about them. And it's barely an hour past sunset.

"Anyway, La Cecchina sang between the first and second courses."

"Paying for her supper," Leopold said.

Better than listening to restaurant muzak. Or worse, karaoke, thought Lewis.

"Lorenzo recited a few of his poems between the second and third courses. That's when Pietro started seeming out of sorts."

"And no wonder," grumbled Cioli.

"The remains of the third course had just been carried off and we were heading toward the sideboard, when Pietro clutched his stomach and claimed he was nauseous. We urged him to lie down, but he refused. Then he vomited.

"Silvia ordered the servants to carry him to the nearest couch and lay him down there. At that point of course, none of us were thinking about poison."

"Or dessert," Leopold said.

Ferdinand gave his brother a quelling look. "We assumed it was just a case of indigestion. At worst, that he ate something that was spoiled. Pietro complained that he was thirsty, and we brought him some wine. He seemed to have difficulty in swallowing, and he complained that his throat was sore. He soon vomited again.

"When Pietro was still in great distress an hour later, I sent a messenger to fetch Dottore Ronconi. Since the incident happened in my presence, I was insistent that Pietro be seen by the best doctor in Florence." Ronconi bowed.

"Ronconi will have to tell you what happened next."

Ronconi took a deep breath. "I came and questioned Pietro. He told me that he was of the opinion that there were people 'out to get him.'"

Lewis raised his eyebrows. "So he thought he was poisoned. Did he name any names?"

"He did not. He said that they must be in league with the Devil to get through his defenses."

"Defenses?"

"He has an armed guard at the door," Cioli said. "And I have heard that he has detailed servants to spy on each other, and that it is rare for a servant to stay more than a year or two before being dismissed on suspicion of wrongdoing. It is not a happy household."

"In any event, I examined him," said Ronconi. "Besides the obvious problem of the nausea and repeated vomiting, his stomach was very sensitive to pressure. He found even a light touch to be painful. I prescribed some medications, and departed.

"The following morning, I received a message from Silvia, urging my return. He had had an attack of diarrhea. Several in fact. By the time I arrived, he was in an advanced state of tenesmus."

"No medical gobbledygook, please," ordered Ferdinand.

"You feel you have to poop, and you can't. And it hurts." Ronconi shrugged. "It was at that point that I began to wonder whether there was some truth to Pietro's speculations, and I asked that the leftovers be gathered together for testing."

"I am surprised that the servants hadn't eaten them all by then," Leopold said. Since he was a sixteen year old boy, the concept of failing to eat any available food was no doubt alien to him.

"They had, indeed, eaten most of what had been left from the first and second courses, but naturally that tended to suggest that those courses were free of any taint. The servants had not disturbed the third course; no doubt Pietro's sufferings discouraged them from doing so.

"Hence, I was able to feed the remains of the third course to the family dog, and he seemed none the worse for the experience."

Clearly, thought Lewis, animal rights have yet too make much headway in early modern Italy.

"That quieted my concerns for a time. But the next day, Pietro's skin became cold and clammy, his pulse weakened, and at last he died."

"Were his wife and children present? How did they react to his death?" asked Ferdinand sharply.

"The wife and children seemed properly remorseful." He spread his hands. "There is not much left to say. He passed from my care to that of Our Lord and Savior."

Ferdinand gripped Lewis' shoulder, then released it. "In view of the allegations of poisoning, I thought it appropriate to call upon my 'Consulting Detective.' Don't disappoint me."

"Don't forget what I said about keeping your mind open as to whom the target might have been," Cioli added, softly.

"Well, there are a few options. I can do a Marsh test for arsenic on the remaining food."

"I am sorry, Ispettore Bartolli," the doctor said, "but none remain. The dog ate it all."

"Well, then—I don't suppose you saved any of the vomit?"

"No, I'm sorry. The servants cleaned it up. There might be a little staining his clothing, but I can't make any promises."

"Doesn't matter. I will just have to ask you, in the Grand Duke's name, to perform an autopsy. You can examine the stomach lining for signs of damage, and I can test the contents for arsenic and anything else I can think of.

"I will need to interview the family. One by one, if you please. I'll need one of your men, Cosimo, to act as a witness."

"I'll give you Rocco, he has some letters."

"Good. And Cosimo, if you would interview all the servants. Again, one by one, so they can't influence each other."

"Right, but I can assure you that the servants are probably hoarse from all the gabbing they've done already."

****

"I am sorry for your loss," Lewis offered.

The widow, Silvia, dabbed at the corner of her eye with a small handkerchief. Suddenly Lewis was reminded of a scene in a film noir movie. He couldn't remember the name. He was pretty sure that the widow in that movie turned out to be guilty, though.

"Thank you."

"I regret that I must ask you some questions."

"I understand . . . the Grand Duke told me. . . ."

"Perhaps he also told you that I am a stranger to this city, even to this time. You can trust me to seek the truth."

"At least as long as that truth isn't politically inconvenient for the grand duke."

"Even then, I might surprise you." Lewis hoped so, at least.

"Ask your questions."

Lewis asked her everything a mystery reader or crime TV fan might expect him to ask. The poisonous substances which were kept in the house or its grounds, and whether they had shown signs of recent use. The names and duties of the servants, their term of service, their past employers, and their whereabouts on the day that Pietro was stricken. The medications which Pietro had taken over the past month or so. The names and business of any visitors within the same period, and the dates of their visits. Who might be expected to benefit from or take pleasure in Pietro's death.

"Is it true that he thought someone wanted to kill him?"

"Yes."

"When did he first form this belief?"

"Several years ago. First he was attacked by ruffians at night, and was saved by the chance appearance of a couple of young noblemen. And then he was standing by a building, and was grazed by a falling brick."

"He saw someone drop the brick on him?"

"No, he said it happened too quickly."

"And do you think he was right, that he was in danger?"

Silvia shrugged. "This is Florence, who can say? Politics can be vicious. And commerce, even more vicious."

You aren't being paranoid if people really are out to get you, Lewis mused.

Domenico was a sullen twenty-something of no clear occupation. Other, perhaps, than his former occupation of "Waiting for Pop to Die So I Can Make a Real Dent in the Family Fortune." He disavowed any knowledge of poisons or medicines, not that in the seventeenth century there was a big difference between the two.

Olimpia was equally irritating, in her own special way. While Domenico tried to answer every questions with a single word—and then, only after a long pause, Olimpia was obviously in training for the Run-On Sentence Olympic event.

Before leaving, Lewis took samples of Domenico's tonic, and Silvia and Olimpia's cosmetics. He also borrowed the household accounts book.

****

Lewis and Cosimo compared notes.

"I spoke to Pietro's manservant, Taddeo. He told me something peculiar. Seems that Pietro was in the habit of making trips by himself, perhaps once every other month. Went in disguise."

"That's interesting. Sounds like a Clue with a capital C."

"Frustrating, is what I'd call it. If he were alive, I could have him tailed. With him dead, I can't follow up on it."

"If he weren't dead, we wouldn't be talking about it in the first place."

"It's too bad. I would have looked forward to tailing him. Probably lead me through three or four taverns a night. Perhaps even a brothel or two. And I would have to buy drinks, and so forth, all at Medici expense. So I didn't look suspicious, you see."

"I do indeed."

"I feel cheated, I must say."

"Pietro ever say anything about why he made the trips?"

"Apparently not. As you heard, Pietro was secretive. Didn't trust his own servants. Might have been going to see a girl, but I rather think it was something political. If it was directed against the Medicis, perhaps it's just as well he's dead."

Cosimo cocked his head. "Any great insights? Has Sherlock Holmes spoken to you from beyond the Great Unknown?"

"Well, a detective looks for who has means, motive and opportunity. The family members, and the servants, of course have opportunity. And often motive, too. As to means—by God Almighty, there's arsenic everywhere! In Domenico's tonic, in Silvia and Olimpia's face-powder, in the servant's storeroom. They use it to kill rats, they say.

"If my chemical tests show that Pietro was poisoned, it won't be a surprise to me. The surprise is that everyone else in the damn household is still alive!"

****

"Signorina Bartolli is waiting for you in the courtyard," the butler said.

Lewis nearly dropped the instruments he was carrying. "Who?"

"Your sister, Marina Bartolli." The servant gave him a reproving look. "You really should have warned us, sir."

Lewis ran down the hall. It was Marina all right, sitting on a stone bench, her back to him. "What the hell are you doing here?" he sputtered.

She turned her head. "It's good to see you, too, brother. The roses here are lovely, don't you think? Not a variety we have in Grantville."

"I mean, how could you come without sending me word, giving me the chance to tell you whether conditions were safe?"

"I did send you word, a few weeks ago. But then I had the chance, thanks to Duchess Claudia, to snag a seat on the Monster." That was the world's first commercial airplane. "You can't begrudge me having chosen to cross the Alps in just a few hours, rather than a month by land, can you? And then it was just a coach ride from Venice to Florence." She added impishly, "I'm sure my letter will get here eventually."

"Claudia de Medici? The archduchess and regent of Austria-Tyrol? How do you know her?"

"Why, she came into the store."

"Claudia de Medici visited Bartolli's Surplus and Outdoors Supplies?"

"No, she just pressed her face against the window glass, idiot. Yes, she came in. It was refreshing to have a visitor who asked questions about things that didn't go boom. We hit it off."

Lewis stared at the ceiling. "I don't suppose she asked about our family, too?"

"Oh, yes, I bragged a bit about our brother-in-law." Greg Ferrara, once Grantville's high school chemistry teacher, and now the USE's Grand Poo-Bah of Military R&D. "And I might have mentioned Tony Adducci, Senior." He was their first cousin, once removed, and the Secretary of the Treasury for the State of Thuringia-Franconia.

"Good God, Marina, you were talking to a Medici. For them, there is no boundary between family life and political life. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she knew about Greg before you opened your mouth. She flew you to Venice—"

"And arranged for me to be escorted here. And I have a letter to her nephew Ferdinand, asking that he see to it that I am safely returned to her townhouse in Venice when I am done here."

"How nice. Given that 'nephew Ferdinand' is the grand duke of Tuscany, I am sure you'll travel in style. But what sort of favor do you think Claudia will expect from you? And what will she do if you can't deliver?"

"Oh, pooh," said Marina. "I can deliver. I already had cousin Greg and Archduchess Claudia over for dinner, for example. It went fine, even if Mother nearly had a nervous breakdown. And I can ask my brother Lewis—" She winked. "—whether there might be any 'investment opportunities' in his boric acid operation. So, are there?"

"Given that the operation is backed by Medici money, and Claudia is a Medici, I think that's a safe assumption."

"Good. I also have a list of chemistry questions for you. Mind you, I think Claudia already put the same questions to cousin Greg, and just wants to see if your answers are the same. She's a smart cookie."

"I'm sure."

"She kinda hinted that she might be able to take me on as one of her ladies-in-waiting."

"You want to be a glorified servant to a noblewoman?"

"Oh, that's right. I could stay in Grantville and be a sales clerk in a sporting goods store. What was I thinking?"

"Still—"

"Okay." She held up her left hand, palm up. "Sales clerk in Grantville." She held up her right hand the same way, at the same height. "Lady-in-waiting and ornamental up-timer in Tyrolia." She jiggled the hands up and down, as if they were the pans of a balance, then suddenly raised the left and lowered the right, sharply. "Tyrol wins!

"Anyway, you're one to talk. Isn't 'nephew Ferdinand' your patron now?"

"Technically speaking, he, and his brother Leopold, are patrons of the Academy, not my personal patron. I am still an officer in the USE Army."

"Technically speaking, 'Mister Consulting Detective,' if he tells you to piss, you say, 'yes sir, how far, sir?' Because we want Tuscany to be a friendly neutral. At least, that's what the Ambassadress told me when I passed through Venice."

Lewis winced. "As a matter of fact, he has given me a little assignment. A murder investigation."

"Ooh, tell me more."

****

"Well, the gruesome part is done," Lewis said. After the grand duke's physician had clucked-clucked over the corrosion of the stomach lining—typical of arsenic, antimony or mercury poisoning—Lewis had divided the stomach contents into two parts. One part he preserved intact, for study under the microscope, and the other part he homogenized, acidified, and heated. He let it cool back down, and ran it through a filter.

"Your Grace, if there is any arsenic in the filtrate, it is now sodium arsenate. We can now perform the Marsh test." Lewis pointed at a bottle. "That contains arsenic-free sulfuric acid." Lewis pulled some small rods of metal out of a chest. "And these are arsenic-free rods of zinc metal; what the alchemists call 'Malabar lead.'"

The World's Most Blue-Blooded Lab Assistant, otherwise known as Grand Duke Ferdinand, put the rods into a flask and poured the acid over the metal.

"Take it easy, Your Grace," warned Lewis. "We want to keep the temperature low, and the evolution of hydrogen slow." Lewis stuck his precious up-time thermometer into the flask. "Hmm . . . you were perhaps a little too enthusiastic. Let's cool things down a bit." He put the flask into a dish of cold water for a few minutes, then removed it.

"All right, next step." Lewis stoppered the flask, and inserted two tubes into it, one for adding the sample at the proper time, and the other to a U-shaped drying tube. This in turn he connected to an L-shaped tube with a long arm passing over a candle.

"Now we wait for all the air to be expelled."

The minutes passed.

Leopold fidgeted. Finally, he asked, "Why is it called the 'Marsh test'? That is your English word for ...