"In that case, give me a few coins to cover expenses. Two hundred lire will do for now."
Carmela handed her the coins.
"At first light by the old eucalyptus you will see a man with an unpainted cart. Don't look into his face. Do not speak to him. Take the note he gives you. Leave."
The Reward.
Monday night, November 5, 1866.
"Desperate she is for the brazen serpent," Rosalia said, handing him the money. "She has abundant coins. I impressed on her the need for secrecy. She must have your absolution tomorrow, she told me."
"The time is perfect," the monk said.
"La Signura visits her aunt in Trabia. The snoop has gone with her."
"Even better. You quoted her a price?"
"Five hundred lire."
"For you, a great reward in heaven, my child."
"I've done your bidding, but I can help you no longer."
"Understood."
"My family goes hungry. I don't ask for much, but one hundred lire will feed them and keep them together."
The monk hesitated. "Come here tomorrow after the angelus has rung. Your small wish will be granted."
As Rosalia turned to leave, the knife hit its mark.
Strength.
Tuesday morning, November 6, 1866.
Morning mist had not yet disappeared as Carmela, clad in black, hunched on a stone bench underneath the old eucalyptus. She appeared not to notice the approaching cart and driver, but quickly snatched the note he dropped at her feet and read, "Tonight. Madonna's Chapel. Eighteen hundred hours, you meet the monk. Permanent absolution will be yours." When she lifted her eyes, the cart and driver had vanished.
Carmela ranged through narrow passageways, casting about with anxious eyes. No one. She glanced over her shoulder at intervals, stopping only when she saw a figure on one knee, tying his boot. In the half-light she hugged the wall of a dilapidated building. When she saw a niche big enough for both of them, she motioned him forward. "Take this to Donna Fina. Wait for her reply."
Serafina folded Carmela's message, turned to Arcangelo. "Rosa needs to read this and open her coffers, but she's not yet awake. Some breakfast while you wait?"
He shook his head.
"Nonsense. You'll need your strength today. Tonight, too. Renata-some biancumanciari, omelet, pork, brioche, ricotta, caffe. Pile his plate: a full meal for this young man. Assunta, ask Rosa to come down here right now. Tell her we have news from Carmela. And, Arcangelo, take your time. You know how slow the madam can be in the morning. It's long before her usual waking hour." She winked.
"Long before yours, too," Renata said, setting a large breakfast in front of Arcangelo.
While he ate, Serafina said, "Better when the whole family is here and the house shakes."
"Tot and Tessa are outside with Octavia and the guard. Vicenzu's at the shop, Maria and Giulia at school, Carlo studying, we hope. And Carmela-"
"I know, my precious," Serafina said and gave Renata a hug.
A thousand thoughts raced through her brain, all jumbled. For something to do, she fetched pen and paper, but half a minute later, too excited to sit, she glided to the window and looked out at Tot and Tessa feeding the goat.
When she heard the first tremor on the stairs, she rushed into the hall and saw Rosa descending, scarlet slippered, purple robed.
Serafina handed her Carmela's note.
The madam donned her spectacles. Her lips pushed out as she read. "That strega, she'll not get more coins from me!"
"Carmela's life is at stake," Serafina said.
"Where is Arcangelo? Don't just stand there, hand me that quill and vellum." Rosa scratched out some words and signed with a flourish.
Arcangelo appeared, cheeks stuffed.
"Run to your father. Give him this." Rosa handed him her note. "Tell him to take five hundred lire from the safe. Then bring the coins to Carmela. She waits for you where?"
He swallowed. "The orphanage."
Serafina said, "And tell Scarpo to meet us here at five o'clock this afternoon."
"Why?" Rosa asked.
"Because at six o'clock Carmela meets the monk in front of the Madonna's Chapel."
"Out of what hole did you dredge that number?"
"Didn't you read her message?"
"Just now I did, reading it with severe faintness from lack of sleeping in my own bed, reading it without a chair to sit upon, without a sip of caffe or a morsel of bread to break my fast, reading it with the shock of having to sign away five hundred lire-ten years worth of wages for a cook, a devastation."
"But you didn't read everything, did you? You missed something." Serafina handed her Carmela's message.
Rosa read it again, a red line of color ascending her neck. "Under my nose, and I didn't see it."
Not the first time, not the last. We bury what we'd rather not know.
When it arrived mid-morning, the package from Mother Concetta contained four habits in homespun, a large latchkey, and a note.
Dear Serafina, The enclosed opens the screened grille to the chancel behind the Madonna's Chapel.
Viewed from outside, the room's objects appear as dim shadows, nothing more. But its occupants are able to see through the screen to the chapel. They hear every word uttered on the altar.
Lock the door upon leaving. Return the key to me when finished.
Burn the garments.
Mother Concetta Maria, OP Serafina handed it to Rosa. This time the madam read sitting down and with her finger moving underneath the words.
"Let's try on a habit," Serafina said.
"Don't need a disguise, not to walk the few meters from here to the Duomo."
Serafina had already donned the homespun over her dress. She marveled at the size of the pockets in nuns' habits, making a mental note to tell Giulia.
Straightening the scapula, she said, "And when the monk leads Carmela to his lair, what if he turns around and sees us following him? What if he's a customer who recognizes you or Scarpo? What then? We are unmasked, our plan in tatters, and Carmela's life in danger if not lost."
"A point you have," the madam said. She tried on a habit.
"We'll wear them to request Colonna's help as well."
The madam shook her head. "Enough dramatics. Tonight, yes, but not today."
"The monk may have his spies in the piazza, and don't forget, we are supposed to be in Trabia."
Rosa gave her a blank look before the penny dropped.
"Time for sweets," Serafina said, removing the homespun. "Renata, call the children."
Tot opened the door, tugging on a long rope. "C'mon, move! Push, Tessa!"
"Don't you dare bring that goat in here!" Renata yelled. "Oh, where is Carmela when we need her?"
Later, when Rosa was resting, Serafina asked Renata, "Who delivered the parcel from Mother Concetta?"
"The little girl we met at the orphanage last month. You remember her, the one missing a few front teeth."
"But she's a child, about six or seven, I should think. How can one so slight carry something so heavy?"
Renata threw her a look as if she, Serafina, had gone round the twist. "She wheeled it here in a small wagon."
Serafina didn't speak for a while. Then she said, "It all falls into place now. Why did it take me so long?"
Renata rolled her eyes. "I've sent word to Carmela."
"Word?"
"That you'll be in the chancel when she talks to the monk, just like she and Mother Concetta hoped you'd be."
"You see? I couldn't manage without you," Serafina said.
Renata went back to stirring the sauce.
Useless.
Tuesday afternoon, November 6, 1866.
Clothed in nuns' habits, Serafina and Rosa set out to talk with the inspector. A sharp wind whipped their skirts. Puddles from the morning's rain glittered. The Centru began filling with people pushed about, men holding onto their caps, shawled women leaning into the blowing force like dark ships pitching in a gale.
They asked to speak with Colonna and were ushered into his office.
Colonna's jaw dropped.
Serafina explained the need for their disguises. She summarized the deaths to date, including the victims' longing for redemption. Rosa told him their primary suspect was a begging monk who appeared in the piazza offering eternal salvation. Serafina described the accomplice, someone within Rosa's walls who fed the killer information and procured his victims. Emphasizing the significance of timing, given the importance of the numbers six and seven in the crazed mind of the killer, Serafina reminded him that all three women were murdered sometime between the sixth and seventh day of the month. She ended by detailing their plan for catching the killer.
"But there was a fourth death, different from the other three, wasn't it?" the inspector asked.
"Pirricu, my handsome inspector," Rosa said, adjusting her habit, "we talked about that on Sunday, remember? Gusti knew too much, was in the way. That's why she was murdered." The madam looked at Serafina and, without words, the two decided not to tell him about Eugenia.
Serafina continued. "The timing of Gusti's death falls outside the pattern he established with his first three murders, a scheme he is sure to follow with the timing of his next killing."
"Today is the sixth day of the month. We must act now. Give us several of your men to help carry out our plan. You won't regret it." Serafina stopped speaking and stared at the baffled inspector whose brain, she was sure, was back on his question, as if it had gone unanswered.
He smiled at both women, raised his eyebrows, pulled the cord.
A functionary appeared.
"Look in the record book and tell me if we issued any permits to mendicants during the last month. And bring me names and dates," Colonna ordered. He said, "And, now, we shall see what we shall see."
Serafina furrowed her brows. "Could you please explain that last remark? I am unclear as to the meaning of the first 'see' in your previous sentence. Is it the same as the second 'see'?"
Colonna was lost. "My dear, best you leave police business to the professionals."