Ettore Bragadin did not have any relations, but the small notice in Il Gazettino had been enough to ensure that at ten o’clock the next morning, there were as many as fifty people who had braved the melancholy weather to attend the funeral. Bragadin’s old clients, his neighbours and their families were there in full force. All of the men were dressed in their best black suits with black overcoats and black fedoras, and many of the women were dressed in ankle-length fur coats with matching hats. Redentore, the beautiful classical church designed by Palladio, loomed over the landing-stage the great bronze doors and Ionic pilasters dwarfing mourners as they arrived and hurried into the church, hastily genuflecting before taking their seats. In front of the altar, the sumptuous casket was adorned with great quantities of hothouse roses and their fragrance mingled with the aroma of incense and candle smoke. Michel, Libby, Elvira and Guiseppa sat at the front as chief mourners. The two uniformed policemen detailed to guard the congregation sat near the back of the church discreetly observing the proceedings.
The Requiem Mass ended and they all stood up to follow the coffin out of the church. At the water’s edge, the hearse and other boats that formed the cortège were waiting at the algae-fringed steps to take the procession to the island of San Michele. Silently the pall bearers loaded the coffin into the black and silver funeral barge and the mourners clambered carefully into the bobbing taxis provided for them. Bringing up the rear, the police launch escorted the sober procession through the Rio dell’ Arsenale and on towards the cemetery.
Michel and Libby stood on deck hand in hand, even though it was bitterly cold. Elvira had lent her a short fur coat and she pulled her beret well down against the wind. As the boats approached the funeral isle of San Michele in the mist they could see the rosy-brick wall that surrounds the island and the shadowy shapes of cypress trees looming like giant guardians behind it. It looks like some walled country estate, thought Libby, but the fields are rippling waves, for all the world as though it has been magically transported from the countryside by some great Gulliver and is now floating dreamily on the sea.
Her reverie was interrupted as the funeral launches docked; the cortège lined up within the archway of the entrance and set off up the ramp and followed the pathway which took them through the quiet cypress-lined pathways, past family crypts that clustered together like small villages.
At the Bragadin family crypt the group of mourners clustered close together for warmth, fur coats clasped tightly against the weather, colourful umbrellas raised as protection from the gentle drizzle and the flowers on the coffin created a vivid contrast to the sombre surroundings. As they waited at the crypt for the final prayers, there was quiet talk amongst them about the shocking event that had brought them together that day. Each one had a story of the dead man’s friendship and help in times of need, whether in his capacity as a lawyer or financially and Michel translated some of these for Libby.
It was bitingly cold and her attention was flagging somewhat, as she couldn’t understand the rapid Veneziana of that part of the service and she remembered what Michel said about the history of the place. The island, he had told her, has only been in use as a cemetery since Napoleon’s time in order to stop the unhealthy practice of digging graves in the small squares in front of the churches in Venice. The island had once been the site of a monastery and the slender arched porticoes that remain still embrace part of the cemetery and the beautiful white church of San Michele.
He had also mentioned that many famous people, not only Venetians were buried there and she was curious to see some of the celebrated graves. Wagner is buried there and so is Ezra Pound, and many other famous people in the different ecclesiastical sections of the cemetery. She felt she had to move around to get warm and edged towards the back of the group of mourners and began to look at the names and dates on some of the ancient headstones around her. She then wandered slowly down the row looking to see if she recognised anyone’s name.
Suddenly through the lightly swirling mist, she glimpsed something red, some way away next to a large tomb. There stood a figure dressed in a concealing white carnival mask and a black hat over a lace mantilla, the rest of it swathed in a red silk cloak. As she looked, the figure beckoned. Wondering what it was about, she moved towards the gesturing hand.
Enzio, the young policeman who had been walking around behind the gathering, called her then raced after her, but she seemed to disappear into thin air. He spoke to his colleague on his two-way radio as he hurried back to the crowd around the crypt. He whispered urgently to Michel who had realised that Libby was no longer next to him and was already looking around for her.
At that moment the priest finished intoning the final prayers and the group of mourners who had huddled closer together for respite from the freezing wind began to move apart; some lit cigarettes and stamped their feet to stir their circulation. Michel quickly spoke to Elvira and Guiseppa and they began to run around calling Libby’s name. The cemetery covers quite a large area and it is a place where someone could hide quite easily, with crypts and monuments, statues, trees, shrubs and pathways going in all directions. Michel, Elvira, Guiseppa and the two police officers set about looking for her.
When they realised there was something wrong, a few of the more sprightly mourners started to help them. After half an hour of running around in the louring mist and calling, they met at the entrance. Libby had vanished but someone had found a black beret on the ground behind a large tomb in the Catholic sector. Michel took it, willing it not be Libby’s. With a thudding heart, he asked the old keeper at the gate if he had seen her. The old man shrugged.
‘No, I don’t remember a beautiful girl with red hair,’ he said, ‘but I did see something very strange. There were these two men and they were dragging a third person who was dressed in carnival costume. I thought it’s a funny time of the year for a carnival outfit!’ he said. ‘Anyway, they left about twenty minutes ago. They had called out that they had caught someone who was up to no good, a thief who had disguised himself in order to rob people who had come to visit the graves.’ The old man’s tone was disgusted, that a thief should even try to steal from people on consecrated ground.
With barely a thank you, the search party dashed through the gate. As they emerged onto the landing stage, the first thing that they saw was the pilot of the police boat tied up and gagged, lying in the bottom of his boat. The mourners boats were still moored and the skippers were sitting together obliviously playing cards in the warmth of one of the cabins. They had seen nothing. No-one else was in sight; there were only a few boats nearby but none were speeding away from Isola San Michele in any direction. They had had enough time to get right away. If someone wanted to disappear quickly they could even have fled to nearby Murano and be hidden in the waterways there. Michel was suddenly desperately afraid as he smoothed the black beret in his hands.