4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (23 page)

***

I passed the next several hours in the most acute state of anxiety, believing that Gussie was speeding toward Venice, but not certain. What if Alfana stepped in a rabbit hole? What if Gussie reached the Brenta too late for the Burchiello? Grisella also caused me a good deal of grief.

My sister rose in the late morning. Pale and listless in one of her plainer gowns of midnight blue, she shakily installed herself on a chaise in the salon and took a steady stream of condolences. Mario surprised me by giving her an impromptu concert on his violin, and Octavia set up her embroidery frame near at hand. Thus, Grisella was never alone and that suited me just fine. She kept sending me timorous smiles and once or twice suggested that a walk might lift her spirits. I ignored her by keeping my nose buried in some month-old gazettes. Just then, I didn’t care to engage in another emotional scene with my sister.

Near dinner time, Vincenzo wandered in and crossed the salon to gaze wistfully out toward his back lawn. The musicians were clustered around the harpsichord talking among themselves, and Octavia was gamefully trying to demonstrate a new embroidery stitch for the unheeding Grisella. There wouldn’t be a better time to catch Vincenzo alone, so I joined him at the glass doors and asked him to step out on the loggia. He agreed with a disinterested nod.

The day had grown warmer than October had a right to be, and a light breeze had sprung up. For a moment, Vincenzo and I stood at the loggia rail drinking in the fine weather that was quite capable of turning bitter within a matter of hours. Then I explained that we’d had a letter about an emergency at home and confessed to Gussie’s theft of Alfana. I ended with the assurance that the horse would be returned forthwith.

Vincenzo sighed. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get my paintings of the estate, will I?”

His question silenced me for a moment. The master of the villa was more concerned over paintings than the unintended loan of a good horse? “Signor Dolfini,” I said haltingly, “I confess that the news from Venice was so dire that Gussie didn’t even consider his work. I’m sure he’ll make some arrangement to finish your scenes once this crisis has passed.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you say that?”

Vincenzo shrugged his broad shoulders. “Six months ago, I came here with the highest hopes you could imagine—a peaceful retreat from the city, crops and animals flourishing under my care, a veritable paradise. I thought this was where I belonged, but I was a fool. What a mess I’ve made of it all.”

“Running a farm is difficult. You must give yourself time to learn the ways of the country.”

“I could live here for ten years and not be a successful farmer. I believed the grape harvest wouldn’t be harmed by a few days either way. Ernesto warned me, but I pressed forward, and now we’re stuck with a vintage they tell me will taste no better than horse piss.” He shook his head and his hands tightened on the railing. “My instincts are for manufacturing, not agriculture, and it appears that I’m too old to change.”

The sorrow in his voice made me forget my own worries for the moment. “Signor Dolfini, you condemn yourself too severely. You are hardly old, and you have an excellent steward to guide you in your new pursuit.”

“Ernesto must think I’m a terrible meddler. I try to put what I’ve read into practice, but apparently you can’t learn farming from a book. I get in Ernesto’s way more than anything else. If only I had been born on the land as he was, instead of on our crowded island.”

“Think of it this way—once the casting of iron implements must have been a complete mystery to you, but gradually you came to know that trade like the back of your hand. You can learn farming the same way. I know many singers who were forced to master another calling when their voices could no longer support them. One of them now runs a very prosperous vineyard.”

“Truly?” he asked, a hopeful smile hovering on his lips.

I nodded vigorously, but his smile died.

“But that singer hasn’t had three people murdered on his estate, has he?”

“No,” I admitted, “but unless you’re the murderer, you can hardly blame yourself for that, can you?”

As my companion stared mournfully toward the distant hills, Octavia fluttered her handkerchief at the salon door. “Vincenzo,” she screeched. “You’re wanted. Santini has been captured.”

The master of the estate whirled and hurried across the sun swept tiles.

I followed, feeling a prickle of dread along my spine.

***

“We found him up in the hills, hiding in a deserted charcoal burner’s hut.” Ernesto jumped down from a black wagon driven by one of Captain Forti’s deputies. “Now they’re holding him in the lock-up at Molina Mori.”

The front drive was crowded with laborers who must have been working close enough to the road to see the wagon trundle up from the village. They clustered around Ernesto, and their excited questions seemed to bedevil the steward as sorely as a swarm of mosquitoes. Batting his hands in front of his face, Ernesto climbed the steps to the columned portico.

Vincenzo and Octavia waited at the top, surrounded by musicians and servants. Grisella hovered near me until I sidestepped away and planted myself beside a waist-high jardinière of vines and geraniums.

“Captain Forti sent the wagon to fetch his deputies,” Ernesto said. He swayed on his feet, face gray with fatigue. “He’s called them back in and says the singers are free to go.”

A loud cheer arose from the Gecco brothers and they both scrambled back inside the house. To pack their trunks, I presumed. Romeo and Emilio nodded cheerfully, but stayed outside to hear the rest of the news. I glanced at Grisella just long enough to see her eyes also light up.

“Forti didn’t come with you?” Vincenzo asked.

“No, we found Santini early this morning and the constable questioned him as soon as we returned to Molina Mori. It took Captain Forti several hours, but he finally got the confession he wanted. Now he’s gone to secure a warrant to have Santini moved to the jail in Padua.”

Vincenzo swallowed hard. “Did they hurt him badly?”

“How else would Captain Forti get Santini to admit to the three murders? Only hours before, after I was forced to help those brutes take him, Santini swore to me that he’d had nothing to do with any of the deaths.”

Several voices, mostly those of my fellow musicians, chimed in with support for Captain Forti. Emilio’s scathing soprano carried more loudly than the others: “Of course, the peasant would say he was innocent once he’s been arrested. But Carmela’s nightshift was practically in his bed. And he ran, for God’s sake.”

In brusque tones, Vincenzo ordered everyone to be silent, then placed a hand on the exhausted steward’s shoulder. “Tell us how he was captured.”

Ernesto shuddered and passed a hand over his brow. He began in a level voice, “I used to take Santini with me when I went up into the hills to secure fuel for the stoves. A charcoal burner maintained a kiln there for many years, but when the timber began to run out, he moved on and the kiln went cold. It’s been several years, but I thought Santini might remember and seek refuge there. Sure enough, we found tracks leading to the hut. Captain Forti wanted to burst in with pistols cocked, but I convinced him to let me risk only myself. Calling Santini’s name, I pushed the door open and found him huddled in the corner. He was in a pitiful state, filthy, cold, hungry.”

Ernesto heaved a sigh and continued, “He trusts me, so I was able to keep him calm and allow himself to be put in the manacles. I rode in the wagon beside him all the way back to Molina Mori, surrounded by deputies. In his hoarse whispers, Santini swore his innocence over and over… by the Blood of the Savior, by the bones of Saint Mark… on his dear mother’s salvation…”

Ernesto trembled violently. His voice rose. “When we reached the village, I begged Forti to listen to reason. But the constable was too busy showing off his prize to Mayor Bartoli and every lazy
facchini
who gathered round. The deputies dragged Santini into the lock-up and barred the door to me. I found my way to an alley behind the building and listened to him scream while they did their worst. I beat on the bricks… trying somehow to make them stop… but there was nothing I could do…”

Ernesto’s voice faltered. He hung his head and gazed at his hands, which I now saw were bruised and swollen. All at once, the steward’s sturdy shoulders began to shake in gasping sobs. He twisted his neck, fighting the tears that engulfed him.

Vincenzo’s eyes went wide with shock, but he soon collected himself and encircled the smaller man in a solid embrace. Pounding Ernesto on the back, he said, “You’ve done
everything a man of honor could do. Now you must rest and tend to yourself.”

The steward shook his head wildly, but Vincenzo continued in masterful tones, “You’re no good to Santini or me in this condition, and we both need you at your best. Ah, here is your good wife. Let her take you home…”

I hadn’t noticed Pia joining the group of workers who had hung on every word of Ernesto’s story, but now many hands pushed her forward. After a shy curtsy to Vincenzo, she took charge of her husband and led him away.

The black wagon, bearing the full complement of deputies, was already halfway down the drive. The crowd began drifting away, the laborers and servants shaking their heads and muttering among themselves. I thought I knew why. They had worked alongside Santini for many years, knew his character and his limitations through and through. Like me, they understood he was no more capable of carrying out the elaborate midnight murders than an African ape.

Vincenzo might share my qualms. On the loggia, he’d had the look of a sad, beaten man. His face was still ashen, but his flared nostrils and clenched jaw told me that his disappointment had turned to anger. Without further conversation, Vincenzo strode down the portico stairs, and set off in the direction of the
barchessa
with new determination.

Octavia was a different story. For the first time since Karl’s wife had intruded on the concert, Octavia was her old, high-handed self. Beaming a broad smile, she gave instructions that dinner be hastened so that we could all make plans to leave the villa. A carriage could be provided, baskets of food for the road. She trotted inside—to make a list, no doubt. Romeo and Emilio trailed in her wake.

A few steps away, Grisella stood with pale hands crossed over her dark mourning clothes. She had listened to Ernesto’s tale in wide-eyed wonder; now she narrowed her gaze to slits and glided toward me. Her skirts made a dry rustle on the portico tiles, and a smile thinned her lips. “When will we be leaving for Venice, Tito?”

The question was asked softly, but it burned my ears like acid.

I don’t think I answered with so much as a grunt. Suddenly filled with panic, I felt my heart hammering in my chest and every sinew in my legs taut as a bow string. Without conscious thought, I turned and ran.

My flying steps took me around the house in the opposite direction from that Vincenzo had taken. Past the stables where Cleto looked up from his nutcracking with a puzzled grimace. On and on until I lost myself in the woods I had used for my play-acting only that morning.

Chapter Seventeen

Somewhere on the hillside, I slowed to a walk. Sweat soaked my neckcloth, and my raspy breath was the loudest sound in the grove. I trudged on, acutely aware that I was only putting off the inevitable. Before the day was over, I would have to break my sister’s heart, but just then I needed to close my mind to everything except simply moving forward.

The woods became thicker, closing in with the odor of dying vegetation. Mushrooms configured in obscene shapes sprouted from fallen branches, and above, the ragged orange and gold leaves changed to a uniform brown. The dwindling path grew steeper, leading me on until it split at the summit of a ridge.

The left-hand fork plunged into deep gloom that would have made a wonderful stage-set for a descent to the underworld. Lichen-furred rocks fell away in natural stairsteps, and shoulder-high bushes fingered thorny branches across the path. The other fork appeared to continue a short way before emerging into a sunlit clearing. Being no fool, I directed my steps in that direction, paused for a moment in the last of the cool shade, then narrowed my eyes as I stepped into the light.

An outcropping of limestone made a natural vantage point for the plain below. Marveling at the view, I found a convenient boulder and sat down to catch my breath. The air was so clear, the distant cone-shaped hills appeared to be within a mere ten minutes’ walk. Their slopes flamed with autumn glory, but
the estate that spread out directly below held greater interest for me.

The Villa Dolfini inhabited the land in a harmonious sweep of avenue, house, lake, and gardens. Farther from the main house, at the heart of the estate, tenant workers’ cottages sat at the border of vineyards and fields. Merely tracing the paths that wandered between red-roofed buildings and ripe crops was a balm to my burning brain. From this distance, all appeared tranquil, lush, productive. It was almost impossible to believe that three murders had occurred within those peaceful confines.

With chin in hand and elbow on knee, I tried to picture the villa as it must have been two centuries ago, newly built. From then until now, its people had toiled in mutual dependence and put down roots as deep as the trees in the woods behind me. One man alone cannot cultivate the land and tend the animals. It requires many hands, each bringing different skills and talents. And over it all the landowner must reign as a benevolent ruler. Grapes and grains and olives cannot be bullied. Especially grapes, as Vincenzo had found to his sorrow.

Vincenzo. I scratched my chin. Poor Vincenzo, so well-meaning and enthusiastic, yet so ineffective. According to Nita, life at the villa had been good until the grief-stricken Annibale Luvisi allowed it to pass into the hands of the iron merchant and his ambitious, opera-mad wife. Vincenzo might understand every last detail of iron working, but the nurturing relationship of the landowner to his estate eluded him. He had allowed Octavia to squander extravagant sums on famous singers while the basic needs of the farm were ignored. No wonder he and his steward had clashed.

At the thought of Ernesto, my gaze lit on his neat cottage drowsing under the bright blue sky. A thread of white smoke ascended from its chimney. A woman, the magnificent Pia I presumed, came out of the house and crossed to the garden with a basket on her hip. I watched as she bent to pick something for Ernesto and the boys’ supper. I didn’t find Pia nearly as entrancing as Gussie did, but I had to agree with his theory that she was one of the prime reasons Vincenzo resented having to leave the countryside for Venice.

Pia’s husband must be within, still smarting over Captain Forti’s arrest of the hapless Santini. Ernesto fretted over the mute like his own flesh and blood. Even accounting for the excellent care that the steward lavished on everything connected with the estate, his shielding of Santini seemed oddly out of proportion. But that was Ernesto, as proud of the Villa Dolfini as if it were his own.

Ernesto. I sat up tall, brushing away a bee that buzzed near my ear. Observing the villa from this height, letting my mind rove back through my stay, I began to examine the steward from a fresh perspective. Suddenly, separate incidents that had seemed unrelated began to arrange themselves into an orderly flow.

At the beginning of the planting season, the Dolfinis had arrived to upset the time-tested balance that kept the Villa Dolfini running smoothly. Who would have been most discomfited by the new regime? Ernesto, of course. To protect the people and animals and crops that depended on him, the steward had extended himself to the utmost. Still, Vincenzo’s meddling and Octavia’s whims had undermined his efforts.

How perplexed Ernesto must have been to see a troupe of singers invade the villa, how frustrated to have his grape harvest threatened. In addition to those insults, the new master might be bedding his own wife. How much could the conscientious steward be expected to endure? Ernesto must have wanted the Dolfinis off the estate more than anything else in the world.

That must be it! I slapped my palm on my thigh. Ernesto committed the murders to send Vincenzo and Octavia running straight back to the city where they so obviously belonged. A warm rush of relief suffused me. Grisella was most certainly a liar, but she wasn’t an outright killer. Ernesto was our midnight murderer. He had to be.

I shifted excitedly on my rocky seat, staring down at the steward’s house as if my eyes could bore a hole straight through the roof tiles. Why had I not suspected Ernesto before? The man had a sense of nobility about him, it was true, but he also had convenient access to the villa. Opening and closing the shutters gave him a perfect opportunity to plot and spy. And to help him execute his plans, he took the key to the villa’s front door away with him every night.

Following my trail of thought, I could see why Santini’s arrest had thrown Ernesto into such turmoil. The steward was not a monster; he was more like a madman who appears perfectly sane until someone innocently mentions the topic that sparks his mania. In fact, Ernesto probably believed committing murder was no more a sin that culling weak animals from the herd, merely a distasteful part of his overall duty. But his well-laid scheme had come to a bad end. The innocent Santini had been accused of Ernesto’s crimes, and now the steward’s guilt knew no bounds.

I had many questions left to answer. Thanks to Alessandro’s letter that I had read only that morning, I was now certain that the Russian stranger had been one of the Empress’ agents trailing Grisella and Jean-Louis, but how had Ernesto come to put a bullet in his brain? I could see why Carmela had been killed and immersed in the grapes; it was fitting revenge for the concert that threatened the vintage. But why had Jean-Louis been chosen as a victim? What did the prominent use of the clock signify? And perhaps most important, had Ernesto acted alone?

I recalled what the steward had said at our first meeting, when he discovered our carriage wheel bouncing over the field:
Signor Luvisi and I have an understanding
. He had been talking about invading Luvisi’s land to retrieve the loose sow, but what if there was more to this understanding? My curiosity had been aroused by the intense conversation the two men had been having before the concert last night. Jean-Louis’ murder had driven it from my head. Now it returned in full force.

I sprang up and trotted to the other side of the limestone outcrop. Peering down, I saw a wooded stream separating the two estates. Beyond that thread of silver, the domed Villa Luvisi shimmered in the sunlight like the phantom twin of the Villa Dolfini. If I judged correctly, the dark path that continued over the ridge would be the quickest route to the neighboring villa.

In two minutes, I was hammering down the lichen-covered stones, dodging the thorns that plucked at the fabric of my jacket.

***

Despite my disheveled appearance, Signor Luvisi received me in his study with the same grace as before. Thanks to the ever-grinding gossip mill that flourishes in country places, he had already been informed of Jean-Louis’ murder and Santini’s capture.

“It saddens me to my core,” he said, shaking his noble head. “Never has such wickedness invaded our peaceful corner of the country. Men have killed each other in the heat of anger, that’s to be expected now and again. But planned, deliberate murder? Three within the span of a few days? It’s… unthinkable.”

“Signor Dolfini seems equally affected,” I replied. “He isn’t looking at all well.”

Luvisi leaned forward in his leather chair and sent me a speculative look. “Does he agree with Captain Forti? Does he believe that Santini committed these murders?”

“I don’t think so, but Octavia and my fellow musicians seem to accept it. The shaggy peasant is such a convenient culprit. He is completely unable to defend himself, and though the peasants on the estate seem troubled by his arrest, no one is brave enough to speak up for him except Ernesto. Indeed, the steward takes his part to an astonishing degree. I find that… puzzling.”

Luvisi’s gaze turned flinty. “Puzzling or suspicious?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Hmm, still investigating, I see.” He gave my stained breeches and torn jacket a searching glance. “What have you been up to? You look as though you’ve been dragged behind a cart.”

“Actually, I’ve been up on the ridge that lies between the two estates, taking in the view and… studying the problem.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No, not today,” I answered, suddenly ravenous.

Signor Luvisi went to the door and called to a footman. Before resuming his seat, he fetched a glass of wine from a carafe and removed the lid from a china box that contained sweet biscuits. Serving me with an intimate kindness that I scarcely deserved, he said, “These will do until they bring something more substantial.”

My host watched as I refreshed myself, then continued, “If you suspect Ernesto Verdi of having anything to do with these murders, let me assure you that you are quite wrong. I’ve seldom had the pleasure of knowing a finer man, and I can only wish that my own steward were as capable.”

“Yes,” I admitted, downing a mouthful of biscuit. “Ernesto has many good qualities, but I fear that his sense of responsibility has been his undoing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Before I explain, I must request some information. I observed you and Ernesto in a heated conversation before the concert last night. Will you tell me what was said?”

Luvisi pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. An aristocrat was not in the habit of having his private conversations questioned.

“Please,” I added. “It may prove important.”

“Very well.” His deep-set eyes glowed with strong emotion. “Secrecy would serve no purpose in this case. Ernesto begged me to make another attempt to persuade Vincenzo Dolfini to sell me the estate.”

“Just last week, you told me that no one besides Vincenzo knew you had made an offer in the first place.”

“So I thought. I tend to forget that a man who is surrounded by servants is surrounded by spies.” His mouth pulled to one side in a rueful grin. “Well-meaning spies in my case, but still… not something a man likes to dwell on.”

“What did you tell Ernesto?”

“The same as I told you. For reasons that elude my humble understanding, the Lord has seen fit to put the farm in Vincenzo Dolfini’s hands. That finishes the matter as far as I’m concerned.”

“Ernesto must have been disappointed.”

“I suppose he was.” Luvisi shrugged. “Ernesto is very observant. He’s noticed how all the troubles have worn Dolfini down and thought he might be more receptive to an offer. I was flattered that Ernesto judges me to be an exemplary landowner, but my mind is made up and I told him so.”

I took a swallow of wine. “Ernesto is not the only observant man.”

The nobleman cocked his head in question.

“When you called at the Villa Dolfini with Mayor Bartoli and Padre Romano, I saw you gaze around the foyer as if you were mourning a long-lost treasure. Do you expect me to believe that you would allow Providence to snatch your ancestral villa away without so much as a whimper?”

He gazed at me for a moment, round-eyed, then burst out laughing. “Now really, Signor Amato, is this your theory? You think Ernesto killed those people to induce Dolfini to sell me the estate? That I encouraged him?”

“Perhaps,” I replied cautiously. Up on the ridge, it had all made perfect sense. In the face of Luvisi’s laughter, I began to have doubts.

Luvisi sighed. “You’re partly right. If truth be told, I would like nothing better than to see the two estates reunited, but I have resigned myself to that impossibility.”

It was my turn to silently question.

He rose and moved to prop an elbow on the mantle above the crackling fire. “I’ll tell you something I’m not proud of, Signor Amato. And as none of my servants accompanied me into Venice last month, I think it will be actual news, not picked-over gossip.”

He stared into the flames for a moment, then continued. “I have a touch of Annibale’s mania. In short, I like to gamble. But I am not one for the Ridotto. There, who knows who one is playing against? Any man with a mask and silk coat is admitted, and many a varlet learns to rig a faro game at his mother’s knee. No. I prefer to cast my lot onto the sea. The sea is merciless, but the sea doesn’t cheat.”

“You staked a great sum?”

He nodded. “I took an enormous share in a ship-load of rare goods—the finest silks, mosaics, and glassware—traveling west to recoup some of our lost trade from the Spanish and Portuguese. It was a daring enterprise. If the ship wasn’t captured by Barbary corsairs, it could go down in the stormy Gibraltar Strait or founder on the rocks. But if it reached its destination… ah, if only… then I would realize a tenfold return.”

“What happened?”

Luvisi strode to his desk. Using a small brass key from a waistcoat pocket, he opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper. Frowning, he brought it to me. “The ship went down, but of course, I am still liable for my share. This is the statement of account I picked up at the shipping office on my last trip into Venice.”