“Nah, the doge dropped the little miscreant like a thorned turd once Britain’s queen succumbed. ’Twas some merchants. Wearing fine silks. Young gents, three of them, two round and scruff, one quite tall and smooth. Said the little one had booked passage for the big one to Marseilles to join him.”

“But he went of his own accord?”

“Happy as a duck in water, saying he was going to see his best mate, Pocket, monkey chattering on his shoulder.”

“And are the fool’s things still in his rooms?”

“No, the merchants took everything along, said they were sending it to Marseilles with the big bloke.”

“Thank you, signora. This will help my master, who seeks the fool.”

“You Jews livin’ in luxury out on La Giudecca got no idea what kind of trash we have to put up with here in Venice proper.”

“You haven’t been to La Giudecca, have you?”

“I’m a proper Christian,” she said, as if that was an answer. “But I hear you lot roll in your money and laugh like madmen. I’m told there’s not a speck of good Parma ham on the island, though.”

“Well, that last is true.” I flipped her a coin. “From the little fool. For your trouble.”

I began to walk away. “But this is a gold ducat,” said she.

“Aye.”

“I don’t make this in two months.”

“Perhaps you misjudged this Pocket.”

She tucked the coin into her skirts then ducked into the courtyard and closed the heavy gate before anyone spotted the glitter of her gold. (I am a trained thief. One can’t expect me to ride in a boatload of gold and leave it unmolested. One ducat. What is one ducat?)

Had they murdered Drool and Jeff? Surely if they had just drowned them, the old woman would have gotten word. It was fully dark now, a windless night, and Venice took on the feeling of a city paved with black glass, the odd lantern, torch, or candle reflecting in the canals like distant windows into hell, the crescent moon throwing silver scythes across the water where it could find its way between buildings.