The Cloisters(78)

“Like working in the thirteenth century, but with plumbing,” said Rachel, not looking up from the volume she was reading.

He walked the perimeter of the library, fingering the spines of a few older volumes before smiling at us sheepishly and exiting the way he came.

Amid these distractions, I was trying to find room in our article for all the historical tidbits we had turned up in our research. Things like the list of objects that Ercole d’Este and his wife had owned: libri—books, 3,284; contenitore—vessels, 326; calcografia—copper plate engravings, 112; and 36 coursing hounds. Or the fact that in the summer of 1497, the city of Ferrara experienced torrential rains, flooding the duke and duchess’s studioli, damaging letters, manuscripts, and several cartes da trionfi. Then there was the auction record we had found of six douzaine cartes de tarot d’Italie pour la famille d’Este, sold at auction for 4,000 francs to a private collector in Switzerland in 1911. Methodically, Rachel and I had built a web of information that told the story of the cards: designed in Ferrara by Pellegrino Prisciani, the astrologer of Ercole d’Este, and used by a court that itself was fascinated with the dark and capricious gods of ancient Rome. Alongside the documents from Lingraf my father had translated, we argued that the cards, like many things in Renaissance life, had a dual purpose—yes, they were used to play the game of tarot, but they were also used to divine futures. It was, I knew, the most groundbreaking contribution of Renaissance court culture to emerge in years.

But there were still gaps. Gaps in the record and our knowledge. And so, like the detectives outside who combed for evidence in the compost heap, we too had to make leaps and inferences. The only thing separating us from them, a library and six hundred years. I meticulously recorded another footnote, transcribed another translation.

Beyond the door to the library, we heard a sudden commotion, a sweeping sound and a handful of quick, pattering steps on the stone floor. Rachel and I pushed our chairs back to peek our heads out the door, where we saw Moira sprinting down the corridor, her skirt hitched as she ran after Leo, who was striding toward the garden.

“You’re on a leave of absence,” she called after him.

Leo didn’t respond, but rather walked calmly, his long legs carrying him at a faster clip than Moira through the crowds that filled the passageway. She had her radio out and was calling for Louis to come do something, to stop him. But Leo’s progress continued unimpeded.

“Leo—” she called out.

But Leo slipped around the corner, headed for the garden sheds; we followed closely behind Moira. In the back gardens, though, Leo was immediately restrained by two plainclothes officers who stepped into his path. Detective Murphy stood with a group of forensic specialists who were pushing an object deep into a plastic evidence bag; one adjusted his latex glove before pulling out a Sharpie to write on the label. She made her way over to us leisurely, kicking aside an empty black plastic potting canister as she went.

“You can’t be back here,” Detective Murphy said. She held her hands in front of her, clasped, like she was admonishing a child.

“I have personal items in there,” Leo said, gesturing at the shed. “Years of work.”

“It’s all evidence.”

“There were plants laid out in there that were being dried for seeds. There were hybridizations. There were—”

“Remnants of a belladonna plant whose root had been cut,” Detective Murphy interjected.

“That’s not possible,” said Leo. “We plant belladonna in the early spring and only pull plants out before winter. If an entire plant had been removed—”

“You would have noticed?”

Detective Murphy looked at him and motioned with another hand for one of her staff to bring her the specimen in question. She held up the plastic bag, which showed a limp, patchy green plant with faded purple flowers on it. The belladonna berries still green. There was, I noticed, a small notch of root cut from the plant as well. A thick, fibrous nest with a clear patch of white across it.

“That couldn’t have come from this garden. I haven’t uprooted anything since the spring,” Leo said.

“Follow me,” said Detective Murphy, who now moved past Leo. She walked across the Bonnefont Cloister to the edge of a bed where she pulled back a canopy of thick green foliage and purple flowers. On the ground was a mussed patch of earth where something had clearly been removed, the hole hastily covered.

“Did you notice this?” she said, looking at Leo.

Leo bent down, his large frame folded against his knees. He held the greenery aside, his hands moving the dirt that was as much a part of his life as it was The Cloisters itself. He took in the surrounding plants, those he had cultivated from seedlings and guarded against the bitterness of early spring freezes. His hand lingered for only a moment on a leaf before he looked up at Detective Murphy.

“No, I didn’t notice this. But don’t you think if I had done it I would have done a better job of backfilling? Of disposing of the plant itself? Do you know how many items end up on the compost heap here in any given week? Mulch, leaves, trimmings. We have acres of garden that we maintain. And it’s all open. To all the staff, but even to the public.”

“And yet, right now, we have motive and opportunity, and both point to you,” said Detective Murphy, her head cocked slightly as she studied Leo. “And now we have this.” She gestured at the belladonna plants. “Maybe you’d like to save yourself some time and come with us down to the station?”