As one, the servants turned to the door. Barzetti strode in, flanked by two more soldiers.
Three soldiers, but four sets of armour.
Barzetti was marching someone into the room, keeping an unwavering grip on their arm. His other hand was firmly on the hilt of his sword, daring his prisoner to give him reason to use it.
“Everyone relax,” he barked, relaxingly. “We have the knave right here. There’s no reason to be afraid.”
Imelda took a good look at this supposed killer. One thing was certainly true; she wasn’t afraid of him.
The boy was lanky, with thin, almost skeletal limbs. It was surprising he had gotten this far in his stolen uniform, considering how the guards’ armour hung off his skinny frame about as naturally as a weasel appropriating a turtle’s shell.
What really struck her was his age. He was tall, yes, and perhaps could have passed for a man of twenty, had he been clean-shaven. As it stood, his attempts at facial hair were very much holding him back. If his patchy stubble and truly tragic ‘moustache’ were any indication, he was about fourteen. No older.
He noticed the intensity of her gaze, and offered a luckless grin in reply.
“This is why Sordi’s armour went missing!” Barzetti was announcing to the room. “This wretch broke in during the night. He hid in our armoury, and cobbled together this sad disguise when he had the chance. He was clanking and crashing towards the gates when we spotted him.” He glared venomously at the boy, whose grin didn’t waver. “When we called to him, he tried to run. And he almost escaped. But I would not let my master’s murder go unpunished!”
Imelda heard mutterings among the other staff. The intruder’s seeming lack of repentance wasn’t endearing him to the room. All he did was stand there and smile, wordless.
Still, something was giving her pause. The instinct only sharpened when, with a sudden motion, Barzetti shoved him to the floor.
“Now then,” he said, his voice low and dark. “I can’t say I’ve ever suffered a disgrace like this before. I suppose the proper thing would be to bring him to the city for trial.”
A moment later, his sword was loose. Disused, but kept very sharp.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Barzetti, “but I don’t see the point. Let him share his victim’s pain!”
“No!”
The interjection took Barzetti by surprise. There was a similar reaction from the servants, and indeed, the luckless intruder.
No-one was more surprised than Imelda herself.
It hadn’t been a plea for mercy. It was the same sharp tone she reserved for reprimanding a junior maid. That hadn’t escaped Barzetti’s attention, judging from the way his nostrils flared.
But once Imelda had a moment to think, she knew, like her earlier deduction with the candle, that this hadn’t come from nowhere. Something had welled from within her. Something surer than the feeling, also present, that to strike down the criminal here would be morally wrong.
It would be factually wrong, too. This wasn’t Guido’s killer.
Then who was he? And more importantly, how did she prove his innocence to the armed man glaring at her?
“What did you just say?” As fast as Imelda’s mind was moving, it couldn’t outrun Barzetti forever. “Am I going mad, or did a servant woman just give me an order?”
“There’s no mistake,” said Imelda, and then before she could stop herself… “Except your assumption of who killed Master Guido, that is.”
A chill ran through the room. Barzetti outright froze. Merely the calm before the storm, of course, but Imelda needed every second she could get.
This went against almost every instinct. Imelda was not paid to think, or to speak. She was to remain silent unless prompted by her superiors. With Europe’s finest minds still debating whether women were technically human, even the youngest valet informally outranked her; there was absolutely no question when it came to the captain of the estate’s guard.
But she still held herself high. Most of Imelda’s instincts wanted her to keep quiet, but one - the need to have everything in exact order, which had been her guiding principle for decades - compelled her to stand firm and shout.
“I can’t believe this.” Barzetti’s voice burned. Worryingly, his grip on his sword hadn’t wavered. “Our master lies dead before you, and you dare desecrate his household even further?”
“No. Never.” Imelda was thankful her own voice didn’t wobble. She believed in what she was saying. “I hope to protect his family from further scandal. Do you want this fine home to be known as a slaughterhouse?”
“That’s-!” She had never known him to trip over his words. Against the odds, was she actually…? “No! Obviously. I want justice, same as everyone else in this room. Same as the good servants.”
She ignored the jab. “You’re quite right. Justice must be our priority.”
“Then-”
“And killing a boy based on a hunch,” she said, “is not justice.”
“Oh, please! He’s the only intruder here. Everyone else is a servant. Who else but him?!”
“Has he admitted to it?”
“No,” said Barzetti, “but he also hasn’t protested his innocence, or said a damn thing at all. All he’s done is grin like a corpse. He either can’t speak, or just knows it would be pointless, because it was clearly him.”
Imelda glanced to the youth, and sure enough, he returned her gaze silently. Her mission, already ill-advised, was even harder than she had assumed. Could she really prove his innocence, if he himself wasn’t going to try?
She reminded herself that her certainty was coming from somewhere. She didn’t need fine oratory or impassioned emotion. All she needed was to identify the facts.
“Why are you defending this little criminal?” growled Barzetti. “You may be just a servant, but that’s no excuse to fraternise with urchins.”
“An urchin, is he?”
“Yes! Clearly!” Barzetti shifted his weight impatiently. “This mightn’t be a very dangerous post, but all of my men stay in shape. I could feel his arm through his sleeve when I caught him - skin and bone. Plus, the way he clattered around in the armour was ridiculous. He’s clearly had zero training.”
Imelda nodded. “Yes, that all makes sense… Not to mention how this entire estate is surrounded by a high wall. Assuming your men were vigilant on the night shift-”
“‘Assuming’?!”
“-then there would be very few ways to sneak in. A younger man, maybe used to… unwholesome activities in the city, would have the best chance of getting inside.” She met Barzetti’s gaze. “Aren’t you curious as to how he managed it?”
“What does it matter? We couldn’t stop him in time!”
“And you won’t stop the next,” she said, some frost in her voice, “if there’s a gap in security you don’t know about.”
There was a fearful murmur from the other servants. Imelda was doing very little to reassure them, which wasn’t a good feeling. But better to raise the issue now than after another break-in.
Barzetti, for his part, was forced to see the logic. Very slowly - with an acidic glance thrown to his subordinates, as though daring them to say something - he sheathed his sword.
“An interrogation, then,” he rumbled. “We beat the mongrel ‘til he confesses. Then we kill him.”
“While I’m grateful you’ve reconsidered, Sergeant,” she said, “I still have to insist that he di-”
“‘Didn’t do it’? Good god, woman, stop embarrassing yourself. You clearly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually,” said Imelda, “I think I might.”
Her gaze was back on the ‘urchin’. She agreed with Barzetti on that much; he was clearly not a noble. Imelda had noticed that herself at first glance. Probably her maid’s eye picking out his dishevelment, stark against the polish of the stolen armour.
She had to trust herself. She had known immediately something hadn’t added up. Now she had an idea of what that was.
“Sergeant Barzetti,” she said, “could I remind you of this?”
He squinted at where her neat fingernail rested against her uniform. “The silver you maids all have? Oh, please. If this is some sermon about our responsibility to the household-!”
“It’s not,” she said, as neatly as she could. “I was referring to the silver itself. Your men are given something similar, yes?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He curled his right arm, showing his sleeve. Not far from his thick gloves, visible only from how it caught the light, was another length of silver thread. “Less fancy than yours, of course…”
“You sound irritated.”
“Damn things are troublesome,” he muttered. “I make it very, very clear to the men that it’s not to be touched, but do they listen? Every year, at least one fool tries tearing it out of his sleeve.”
“My sympathies. We have the exact same problem among the maids. It’s one of my duties to monitor the servants’ uniforms… among other things.”
She chose her next words carefully. She was still the only servant to know that the silverware was vulnerable - with almost the entire household staff listening, and a period of chaotic mourning ahead, she didn’t need to advertise that.
“This morning, I discovered that some items had gone missing,” she said. “In fact, that’s why I was looking for Master Guido in the first place. I sincerely hoped they had just been misplaced, given their value. Now, at least, I can take slim comfort in knowing that none of the staff have betrayed the household’s trust. Instead, we have a young and hungry thief on the premises. Someone who could make quite a profit from just a few of the family’s trinkets.”
“I thought you were vouching for this boy - now you’re calling him a thief?”
“Solely a thief, and nothing more.”
Imelda turned her gaze to the gleaming hilt of the dagger.
“How much do you think,” she said, “a fine piece like that could be sold for?”
There was a quiet murmur among those assembled. Barzetti, however, dug his heels in. “He probably just stole it, like you said!”
“Does this blade look familiar to you, Sergeant? I can’t say I’ve encountered it, in all my years here.” She shook her head. “But that aside, you miss my point. It’s not about where he got it - it’s the fact he left it behind!”
“That’s- He couldn’t have- Whatever!” snarled Barzetti. “Maybe it was the only one he had!”
“No, that can’t be it either. He could have easily stolen any number of simple iron knives from our kitchen, just as effective as this one. Moreso, in fact.” Knives that were kept directly on top of the silverware, as Imelda well knew. “Why ignore those, and waste an artwork like this instead? It just doesn’t add up. This boy can’t own this weapon.”
Even as the servants continued to murmur, all this earned was a scoff. “You haven’t proven anything, woman.”
“I wouldn’t presume to prove anything,” she replied. “I just wanted to raise a potential concern. This intruder…”
She trailed off, briefly, when she noticed him examining his own sleeve. He was trying to find the silver thread Barzetti had demonstrated, his tongue poking out in concentration.
“…doesn’t strike me as an elite mercenary,” she finished. “Perhaps he is involved. But do you really think he was acting alone?”
“Bah!” Barzetti folded his thick arms. “So you’re saying me and my men let the real killer get away, is that it?”
“That’s certainly what I’m hearing!”
The thief had spoken up.
Imelda didn’t know what she had been expecting. Perhaps something of a lighter pitch - his voice was deep, but of that particular unstable deepness that only confirmed to her he was a teenager. It didn’t quite suit his grinning face.
His words, however, matched up perfectly.
“Sure, I’m not supposed to be here,” he said, “but that doesn’t make me a murderer. Not at all. Pretty embarrassing to be bailed out by the maid, but I’ll take it. Grazie.”
“You little whelp!”
Barzetti’s fist closed around the boy’s neck, snarling right in his face.
“You do not have a right to speak! We stand over the body of a murdered man, and you- you’re-?!”
“Sergeant, please!” Imelda took a step forward - but stopped herself coming any closer. “You’re choking him!”
“What of it? Let the scum die!”
The boy’s demeanour, unflappable as it was, melted in the face of immediate, instinctive threat. His hands were on Barzetti’s shoulders, but there was no hope of pushing him back. Imelda panicked, unsure of what to do-
-and a metallic clatter rang through the room.
This was difficult for the servants, who were all already in a fragile state. But no-one was more taken aback than Barzetti. His cuirass had neatly separated into its two halves, breastplate and back piece, and both merrily fell from his chest and onto the floor.
Startled, he loosened his grip. A mere instant later, the boy was gone. Imelda had enough time to fear he had somehow vanished from the room when she noticed he had actually come to a stop, quite casually, right beside her.
He rubbed at his neck, trying to reassert his relaxed air. “I don’t mind being strangled, but I at least ask to be strangled by a man who can dress himself…”
Barzetti gathered up his armour, staring at it incredulously. “The damn straps popped open by themselves…!”
“What? No. You probably just did them wrong.”
“Or,” said Imelda, taking this chance to memorise his face, “you have a talent for sleight of hand.”
“Oh, you flatter me!”
“I don’t.” She turned to face him, squaring her shoulders to his slouch. “With fingers like that, you could easily be our thief. Could you please end this circus and just confess?”
He glanced, just for a moment, to Barzetti. The head guard was reattaching his armour, radiating fury.
Then the young man’s eyes met Imelda’s - dark brown, against her blue - and he spoke quietly.
“A confession, huh? I owe you that much, I suppose.”
With that, he began to address the room, with full voice and expressive gestures. Imelda had immediate doubt as to just how confessional this would be.
“Yes, I slipped over your wall a few hours ago. Yes, I borrowed that guy’s armour - he can have it back, this thing is not comfortable at all - and yes, I had… villainous intentions toward your knickknacks.”
He clasped his bony fingers together, eyes skyward.
“But the Lord - I heard him! He took pity on my poor, lowly self before I committed this, my first and only crime! You fine people caught up with me just as I was setting out for the nearest monastery, to devote my life to religious service forevermore. …Amen.”
The room took a moment to process this. Barzetti needed the least time. “Then why,” he snarled, “were you leaving with stolen armour still on your back?”
“Ah. I was very deep in an ecclestical daze, that’s all. I just didn’t notice.” He smiled. “Once I did, I would’ve returned the set immediately.”
Imelda met his vacant grin dead-on. “‘Ecclestical daze’…?”
“That word means ‘religious’. And here I thought you were a smart maid.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Firstly, don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, auntie.”
“Or that.” Her glare didn’t waver. “More importantly, your excuses don’t hold up.”
His smile didn’t waver, either. “Oh?”
“If stealing from our kitchen was to be your ‘first’ crime, what do you call sneaking into a private home in the middle of the night?”
“Yeah!” Forming a united front with Barzetti felt odder to her than it should have. But here, of course, was clear common ground. “You still broke in, you mutt.”
“And I’m very sorry for that!” Still no wobble in that grin. “I was speaking of the whole event as one big crime. I stopped before the end, and that’s what the Lord wanted. Ame-”
“Please stop casually blaspheming.” Imelda drew herself up. “Unless you can explain - ecclestically - the real problem.”
“What’s that, auntie?”
“Our missing items, of course.”
His smile still persisted. But here, Imelda noticed a difference.
He held her gaze with an expression she never saw from household servants. Being unfamiliar, she didn’t quite have the words for it. The closest she could get was that it was a kind of hungry defiance. He knew he was wrong, and he knew she knew it too. And he didn’t budge, because his twisted dignity was all he had.
“That so?” he said, after a pause short enough to seem natural but long enough that Imelda took it as some silent message. “Well, the Lord’s ways truly are wondrous. Just to make doubly sure I wouldn’t commit this sin, he came to me in a vision and spirited your silverware out of sight. If my resolve failed, I would’ve only found an empty drawer. He thinks of everything, eh? I suppose he’d have to. He did make everything.”
“I never specified that it was silverware we were missing,” said Imelda quietly.
All the boy did was smirk.
“This is ridiculous!” barked Barzetti. “Forget about the damn cutlery. What’s important is the murder!”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said the young rogue. “Can we all focus on that? The plight of this poor man?”
“You have some nerve, talking like that about someone you…!”
“Didn’t kill? As this weirdly smart housekeeper just proved?” His usual grin was back in place. “Anything else is just minor details compared to that, as I’m sure we can all agree. You’ve still got a killer on the loose! And, although I’d love to help, I hear that monastery calling my name…”
“And what name would that be,” said Imelda, “since you’ve gone all this time without sharing it?”
“More like gone all this time without anyone asking!” The boy lazily splayed his hands in what was, impressively, almost the exact opposite of a bow. “I’m Mercurio. You don’t have to remember it, I don’t intend to come back!”
Imelda couldn’t help feeling uneasy. She didn’t believe this boy was a killer, but neither could she, or anyone with a brain, think him to be wholly innocent.
Disproving certain rumours about himself, Barzetti stepped forward. “Bah! You’re still clearly not innocent!”
Imelda saw the calculation that took place in the thief’s eyes. The other guards had made sure to block the door, and even the window. No scope for a daring escape.
Instead, he turned to her. That smile didn’t waver, but his voice was low and serious.
“You know I didn’t do it.”
Something in his tone felt expectant. She nodded.
“Then, auntie,” he said, “I could really use more of your help.”
He didn’t wait for an answer that time. Barzetti took hold of him, and Mercurio surrendered with another wide grin.
Soon, Imelda was alone - left with a corpse, a frightened staff, and more questions than answers.