They continued across the field, stepping gingerly and shining their flashlights over the dirt. If this was the site of a plague pit, they were treading on the remains of tens of thousands of people.
When they reached the opposite tree line Sam led them east for a hundred feet before turning north again. The trees thinned out and they emerged into a small clearing filled with knee-high grass. Through the trees on the other side of the clearing they could see moonlight glinting off water. In the distance rang a gong.
“Buoy in the lagoon,” Sam whispered.
“Thank God. My heart skipped a couple beats.”
“Here’s something.” They walked forward and stopped before a block of stone peeking above the grass. “Must have been part of a foundation.”
“Over there, Sam.” Remi was shining her flashlight at what looked like a fence post on the right side of the clearing. They walked over. Affixed to the post was a Plexiglas-enclosed placard:
Ninth-century site of the followers of Pietro Tradonico, Doge of
Venice 836 to 864. Remains disinterred and relocated in 1805.
—Poveglia Historical Society
“If Tradonico was here, he’s gone now,” Remi said.
“ ‘Relocated in 1805,’ ” Sam read again. “That was about the time Napoleon was crowned king of Italy, right?”
Remi caught on: “And about the time he had Poveglia converted to a munitions depot. If Laurent was with him, this is probably where t
hey got their inspiration for the riddle.”
“And they would have known where Tradonico’s remains were sent. Remi, there was never a bottle here. The whole riddle was just a stepping-stone to send Napoleon Junior somewhere else.”
“But where?”
The next morning at two minutes after eight Sam and Remi’s water taxi stopped on a small side street two blocks east of Santa Maria Maddalena Church. They paid the driver, got out, and stepped up to a red door bordered by black wrought-iron railing. A tiny bronze plaque on the wall beside the door read, POVEGLIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY.
Sam pressed the buzzer. They heard footsteps clicking on wood and then the door opened, revealing a plump woman in a pink and yellow floral dress. “Sì?”
“Buon giorno,” Remi said. “Parla inglese?”
“Yes, I speak English very well. Can I help you?”
“Are you the curator?”
“Pardon?”
“Of the Poveglia Historical Society,” Sam said, smiling and pointing to the plaque.
The woman leaned out the door, squinted at the plaque, then frowned. “That’s old,” she said. “The society hasn’t met for five or six years.”
“Why?”
“All that ghost business. All people wanted to know about was the hospital and the plague pits. The rest of its history was forgotten. I was the secretary. Rosella Bernardi.”
“Perhaps you might be able to help us,” Remi said. She introduced herself and Sam. “We have a few questions about Poveglia.”
Signora Bernardi shrugged, motioned them inside, then led them down the hall into a kitchen decorated in black and white checkered tile. “Sit. I have coffee made,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table. She filled three mugs from a silver percolator then sat down. “What do you want to know?”
“We’re interested in Pietro Tradonico,” Sam said. “Do you know if he was buried on Poveglia?”
Signora Bernardi got up, walked across the kitchen, and opened a cabinet above the sink. She pulled down what looked like a brown leather photo album and returned to the table. She opened the album and flipped to a page near the middle. Under a sheet of acetate was a yellowed sheet of paper bearing dozens of lines of handwritten notes.
“Is that an original reference?” Remi asked.