4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (25 page)

I stepped back, unsure how Ernesto would react. My heart was beating like a drum, and my hand hovered over the pocket that housed the Turkish dagger that Alessandro had given me some years ago. My brother had also taught me how to use it.

But Ernesto didn’t erupt in violence. In fact, the man remained perfectly controlled. “You see very clearly, Signor Amato,” he said.

“Some things.”

“You want to know the rest, I take it.”

I barely dared to breathe. “That’s right.”

The steward ran his tongue over his teeth. “Come with me, then.”

***

I followed Ernesto out of the stable. It was fully dark now. The moon hadn’t risen, but thousands of stars twinkled against a blue-black sky. Nearer to the earth, mist clung to the surrounding hills like white smoke.

Bearing the lantern, Ernesto marched in the direction of the house. Past the olive press, past the garden, until he veered left onto the path that led toward the vineyard. He stopped when he reached a point that overlooked the ornamental lake. Across dark, lapping water, the stone footbridge stood out as a graceful arch.

“Here’s where it happened,” he announced matter-of-factly.

“What led up to the shooting?”

“It was as you said. We were all in bed, Pia and I, and in the cottage loft, Manuel and Basilio. When Zuzu began barking with the frenzy that signals unaccounted strangers, I thought it must be a poacher taking the easy route from the woods on the ridge to those farther north. I threw the covers back, but the boys were way ahead of me. Before I even had a candle lit, they had pulled on their breeches and boots and scrambled down the ladder. They were both keen to put the intruder to flight, so I sent them out—” Ernesto’s voice broke for the first time “—God save my soul, I allowed Basilio to take the long gun.”

“Loaded?”

“Of course,” he replied with irritation. “What use would a gun be if it wasn’t loaded? If they ran into trouble, there’d be no time to wrap the shot, tamp it down, prime the pan.”

“Yes, I see.”

He continued on a more subdued note. “Basilio is the better shot, but Manuel has always been the faster runner, so he arrived first. Zuzu had the stranger cornered. He was crouching in the bushes by the water, right here.” The steward raised the lantern to illuminate a thick clump of shrubbery. “It was either dive into the lake or face Zuzu’s bared teeth. Perhaps he couldn’t swim—who knows. When Manuel tried to drag him from the bushes, he fought like a tiger. Lagging behind, Basilio saw him flatten Manuel with a powerful punch, then leap on his body and grab his throat like he meant to squeeze the life out of him.” A note of pride crept into the steward’s voice. “Basilio didn’t hesitate. He shot the stranger to save Manuel.”

We were both silent for a moment, gazing at the spot where the stranger had met his end.

“Do you have a brother, Signor Amato?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then perhaps you understand.”

I nodded slowly, then asked, “Did the boys come to you immediately?”

“I heard the shot and met them halfway. They were shocked, terrified. So was I when they showed me the body.”

“Why did you move the body to the villa instead of burying him in some desolate place?”

“If the stranger had been some wayfaring beggar, I would have done just that. But the man was clearly a gentleman—people would be looking for him, a hue and cry would be raised. If he was discovered in a hasty grave with a bullet in his head, my sons would have been in serious trouble. We had to move quickly. I made my decision in a flash—dump the corpse among the singers who were descending on the estate like a plague of locusts.”

I silently raised my eyebrows. Critics and rivals had called me many things, but no one had ever compared me to a biblical plague.

“I could never make you understand,” he continued. “You’re a Venetian.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Almost every square inch of your island has been paved with stone. Scarcely a patch of fertile ground has been saved, and the straggly things you call trees are a pitiful sight to behold. How can you comprehend how much this land means to me?”

“I may see more than you think. Since the day you fixed our carriage wheel, I’ve understood that you are much more than a simple steward. Another man may own this land, but you’ve been groomed to be its caretaker from the time you were born. You’re a true guardian. The welfare of the farm and its people depends on you.”

Ernesto’s shoulders began to shake. I couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but I suspected they were full of tears. He said, “The old master, Annibale Luvisi—he understood the traditions, the proper relationships. He kept to his place and allowed me to keep to mine.”

“And then Vincenzo Dolfini bought the estate,” I prompted.

He moaned. “I’ll never forget the day they arrived. It was worse than an artillery barrage. Signor Dolfini and I rode over the fields, him firing questions, quoting self-styled experts who probably never set foot on a working farm, ordering me to do this, undo that—all to the ruin of the vines and crops. Things were bad enough, but once the signora conceived her plan to host the opera company, it went from bad to worse. She was sucking the estate dry, and I was desperate to be rid of all of you. I thought a murder in your midst would send you locusts flying back to Venice at first light. Once I’d made my decision, I got the boys calmed down and we carried the stranger’s body to the house. I unlocked the front door with the big key. We rushed him upstairs, and I made it look like he’d been hit over the head. Then we opened a shutter as if someone from the inside had given him entrance, and I locked the front door.”

“Why did you use the clock pendulum?”

“It was handy.” He shrugged and elaborated, “I wound that clock everyday. More than once, I’d thought what a formidable weapon the pendulum could make in the wrong hands.”

“And why midnight?”

The lantern bobbed as he shrugged again. “I didn’t even notice the time. I was just trying to complete our unhappy task as quickly as possible. The last thing I wanted was someone coming out of their room to surprise us.”

I shook my head; so much for hidden meanings in the midnight scenario that Gussie and I had pondered so deeply. “And what if someone from the opera company had been arrested for the murder?”

Ernesto answered simply and sadly, “Better one of you than my sons.”

“And now,” I said, gazing up at the luminous crescent moon rising over the hills, “you have a dilemma. It wasn’t one of your hated locusts that was arrested, but someone you feel deeply responsible for, someone you have pledged to safeguard and protect.”

He nodded solemnly. “And it seems that you also have a dilemma. Your sister released Santini for her own ends. What shall we do?”

I felt a cold weight on my chest. Before the night was out, I would have to face Grisella. The first midnight murder no longer remained a mystery, and the spangle that I’d tucked in my breeches pocket told me what I needed to know about the third. It was Carmela’s murder that I still didn’t understand. Had Grisella committed that unspeakable horror as well? Surely not. My sister didn’t possess the strength to tip Carmela into the stomping vat. At least, not alone, I thought fiercely, pushing and pummeling the facts I knew into some semblance of understanding that could eventually lead to true justice. To his credit, Ernesto remained silent, a lumpy silhouette just out of the lantern’s glare.

“If you’ll trust me,” I finally said. “I may be able to convince Captain Forti that Santini is innocent.”

“I won’t go along with anything that puts my sons at risk,” he responded quickly. “I’ve already made up my mind about that. If it comes to it, I’ll say that I shot the stranger and dumped his body in the villa entirely on my own.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I shook my head firmly, trying to instill us both with more confidence than I felt.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“First, a question. Where is the note that was found by Signora Costa’s body?”

“In the top right hand drawer of Signor Dolfini’s desk,” he answered quickly. “If he hasn’t moved it.”

I nodded grimly. “Then all I want you to do is have the carriage ready with lamps lit and harnessed with fresh horses.”

“And where is the carriage going?” he asked in a voice heavy with suspicion.

His tone surprised me at first, then I realized that he thought I would be trying to arrange Grisella’s escape. I answered, “If things turn out as I expect, it will be taking me to Molina Mori to lay evidence against my sister before Captain Forti.”

“You would turn your sister in to the
Capitano
?”

Grisella’s misdeeds marched through my head. All the people she had wreaked misery on made a long line that stretched back to the time when I’d returned to Venice to make my stage debut. Many of those faces I could clearly picture; Count Paninovich and Danika, I had to imagine. It was time for Grisella to accept the sad consequences of her actions. In halting words, I explained this to Ernesto as best I could.

When I’d finished, the steward promised to have the carriage waiting in the stable yard.

We sealed our pact as brothers would: an embrace, followed by a kiss on each cheek. Ernesto’s grasp was warm and strong.

Chapter Nineteen

I meant to enter the villa quietly and have a private search of Vincenzo’s desk, but the footman Giovanni spotted me the moment I set foot on the tiles of the foyer.

“Signor Amato has returned,” he cried, and the three remaining occupants of the house hurried out of the salon.

Octavia was in the lead, square-jawed and assertive. “Finally! We’d nearly concluded that you’d decided to walk back to Venice.”

Fortunately, she didn’t pause for an explanation. “Madame Fouquet has been telling us the most amazing stories.” Octavia raised painted eyebrows. “She says she is your sister Grisella who was carried off to Constantinople against her will years ago. I can’t think why you two were keeping your relationship a secret. Did you know she once sang for the Grand Turk himself?”

“There are many things I don’t know about my sister,” I replied in an ice-water voice.

Grisella, still garbed in her somber widow’s gown, ran toward me on light feet. She clutched my arm and sent me a fervent, eager smile. “Tito and I are just beginning to get reacquainted. Once he’s taken me home, we’ll have plenty of time to share stories.”

Octavia continued in intrigued speculation. “My dear, I can’t help but wonder whether your late husband was in on the secret?”

Grisella shook her head gravely. “Jean-Louis was rather… jealous.”

“Jealous?” The eyebrows drew up one more notch. “Of a brother?”

“I suppose you think it strange, but Jean-Louis was so used to having my full attention, you see. We planned to tell him… when the time was right.” Grisella allowed a grimace of grief to contort her features, then buried her face in my jacket.

Her touch filled me with sorrow and loathing. Though I had lost all patience with her deceits, I resisted the impulse to shirk away. I would soon confront my sister. But the moment was not yet. Not yet.

Vincenzo had been following this exchange in silence. Studying his unassuming tradesman’s face, I came to a spontaneous decision. More than anyone, I wished Gussie were at my side to see the rest of this night through. That was not to be, but here before me stood a man of an upright and dependable nature. “Signor Dolfini,” I asked with a pointed look. “Could I speak with you a moment in your study?”

He opened his mouth, but Octavia broke in. “If you’re worried about your pay. I’ll have a purse prepared for both of you before you leave in the morning.”

Ignoring Octavia, I kept my gaze locked on Vincenzo’s.

“Certainly.” The master of the villa motioned toward the right-hand corridor. “Come along.”

Grisella was clearly nervous about being separated from me again. She clung to my arm with the strength of a blacksmith until I gave my word that I would not disappear and that I would most certainly talk with her before she retired. Thus assured, she reluctantly followed Octavia back into the salon with only one or two wistful glances.

Vincenzo and I were soon in his study with the door shut. He took up a position behind his desk; I faced him from the opposite side and didn’t mince words. “Are you satisfied with Captain Forti’s arrest of Santini?”

“Hardly! I spent the afternoon questioning the servants and the tenant workers again. I was hoping to pick up some new fact or just-remembered observation—anything that would shed light on the murders.”

I inclined my head. “I salute you, Signore. I hoped you wouldn’t be taken in by Captain Forti’s hasty conclusion.”

“Um, yes. Cooler heads and all that.” He nodded, pushing some papers around his desk. “But where have you been? I’ve never seen you in quite such a mess.”

“I’ve been investigating in my own way. Unless I miss my guess, a solution is near at hand.”

“In truth?”

I nodded.

“Well, I must say, you don’t seem very pleased about it.”

“There’s not a particle of joy in what I’ve learned. The killer is not who you might expect.”

I must have gazed in the direction of the salon without meaning to, for Vincenzo replied in shocked tones, “Not that pretty child?”

“Grisella is hardly a child. In her twenty-two years, she’s witnessed more low, sneaking deeds than most men see in a lifetime.”

“But she’s your sister, man.”

As if I hadn’t been repeating that to myself ever since I found Grisella’s telltale spangle in the tack room. As if the murderous prima donna hadn’t once been the copper-haired toddler who learned to walk while grasping my fingers. I found myself swaying on my feet, gripping my head with both hands. The enormity of my sister’s guilt pressed on me like a physical weight, squeezing my brain, constricting my chest.

Vincenzo hurried around the desk. He placed both hands on my shoulders and shook me for all I was worth.

Snatching a deep breath, I returned to my senses. At least for a while.

“Tell me how this is possible.” Vincenzo slung questions right and left. “How did Madame Fouquet commit three murders that baffled us all? Why would she kill her own husband? And who was the stranger that nearly putrefied in my ice house?”

I responded carefully. Though the motives and methods underlying the villa’s murderous events were becoming clearer, I was still
feeling my way like a man crossing a swollen stream on underwater rocks. “I can enlighten you about the identity of the stranger. My sister lived with a Russian gentleman in Constantinople. He died in violent circumstances, and one of his countrymen was sent to take revenge for Grisella’s part in the tragedy. The rest of the details will have to wait. I need you to help me with something that will complete my understanding.”

“What is it?”

“I want to see the note that was found by the stomping vat.”

“Certainly—anything to help.” Vincenzo stepped behind the desk, opened a drawer, and removed the purple-daubed rectangle of thick, creamy paper.

I took it from his outstretched hand. Yes, I thought, something in Ernesto’s description had seemed very familiar. I glanced at the writing, but its intentionally anonymous hand was of no import. It was the paper that mattered.

“There’s an item I must compare this to. While I search for it, I’d like you to keep Grisella in the salon.”

“I’ll do my best.” Vincenzo’s tone was shaky, but he underscored his agreement with a determined nod.

I was halfway across the study when I stopped and spun around. “Oh, yes. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering Ernesto to have the carriage ready. If I find what I expect, I will need to lay my evidence before Captain Forti.”

Vincenzo nodded. “You have my blessing. Earlier today, I was ready to chuck it all—simply find a buyer, return to Venice, and forget that I was ever master here. But as I made my rounds of the fields and cottages this afternoon, spoke with all the workers, I realized that I would never be happy without a piece of ground to call my own. My neighbors have been putting down roots for centuries, but their families all started as tender shoots at some point. Octavia and I have not been blessed with children, but perhaps it’s not too late. And then there are my nephews. If I persevere, I can start my own dynasty.”

I met his determination with a smile. “Imagine, in not too many years, people will forget that this house was ever called anything other than the Villa Dolfini.”

“Go on, then.” Vincenzo drew himself up proudly, gazing into the distance as if he could see through the walls to the fields beyond. For the first time, he reminded me more of a nobleman than an ironmonger. “Do what you must to bring this terrible business to an honest end, Signor Amato. Then Ernesto and I can get on with the completion of the harvest.”

I left the study and quietly headed upstairs, all the while wondering if the magnificent Pia had contributed to Vincenzo’s new resolve. I shook my head as I stood at the door of Carmela’s old room, the chamber now given over to Grisella. Whatever tangle Vincenzo’s desire for Pia had created, the three affected parties would have to unravel it themselves. I had more pressing matters to address.

***

I stepped inside the chamber, pulling the door shut behind me, and paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Ernesto had not yet closed the shutters; the weak moonlight streamed through the casement window and made two bluish pools on the carpet. I located a three-branched candlestick and tinderbox on the tripod table. Once I had the wicks burning brightly, I made a quick survey of the room.

Octavia had directed Nita to pack up Carmela’s things to await the settlement of her estate. Brass-bound trunks and boxes secured with twine made a tower in the corner by the wardrobe; nestling somewhere in that neat stack were the spectacular Russian pearls. Carmela had never married or had children, but I’d heard her mention an elderly mother and a host of brothers and sisters that still lived in a Friulian village northwest of Venice. I had to smile as I pictured a tiny woman with a face like wrinkled parchment proudly donning her daughter’s earrings and lace shawl to wear to Sunday Mass. Throughout the commodious chamber, Grisella’s possessions had taken the place of Carmela’s. In one day, my sister had strewn every horizontal surface with stays, petticoats, fans, scent bottles, and more. One of the items I sought had been carelessly tossed on the back of a chair. I placed the candlestick on the table and retrieved the spangled scarf that Grisella had worn for the concert.

A pier-glass hung between the windows. On impulse, I fluttered the length of white silk over my head. Holding it tight with one hand at the back of my neck, I postured in front of the mirror. As I turned this way and that, I saw a tall eunuch with hollow cheeks and worried eyes making a spectacle of himself in a ridiculous headdress. But I had to admit that its spangles did reflect the candle’s rays like tiny bursts of celestial starlight, and I could understand how the weak-minded Santini had allowed his imagination to run away with him.

Spurred by the thought of the mute afraid and alone in his jail cell, I dug in my pocket for the spangle I’d found in the tack room and compared it to those on the scarf. As I expected, it was a perfect match. Squinting at the delicate silk, I even managed to find a frayed thread that had allowed several of the ornaments to work loose. I carefully folded the silver disk into the scarf and placed the lot in my pocket. If I was going to convince Captain Forti that Santini was not his man, I would have to present solid evidence.

For the moment, I closed my mind to the implications of that course of action and turned my attention to Grisella’s bedside table. On it sat the book I’d seldom seen Grisella without, a volume about the size of the palm of my hand with a red leather spine and marble paper covered boards. It was hardly great literature.
Amalia, or the Memoirs of an Errant Lady
read the title page. I opened the back cover. For reasons unknown to me, printers generally left a few blank pages at the end of such books.
Amalia
was no exception. There were two blank leaves. And the stub of one more. The last page had been carefully torn away.

I carried the book over to the candle and laid the note that Vincenzo had supplied against the torn page, pressed my thumb along its folds. Another perfect match.

A hot flush sprang to my face. My sister was a murderer two times over, four if I wanted to count her complicity in the deaths of Danika and Count Paninovich. How could a sister of my own blood come to such a pass? Had she been flawed from birth, her palsies only the most visible sign of an evil humor that circulated in her marrow? Or had Grisella been scarred by coming to womanhood in our unhappy household?

With our mother dead and our father a bitter, critical taskmaster, each of us had sought the world’s approbation in a different way. Alessandro had thrown himself upon the sea, amassing goods and monetary success with the tenacity of a badger. Annetta had cultivated a sunny disposition and attempted to please everyone who came across her path. Grisella was probably more like me than the others. We both loved crawling in the skin of an operatic character and being rewarded with applause and adulation for our efforts. Back at the
conservatorio
, something flamed up inside me the day I first performed on the stage. It was like kindling touched by a glowing torch. Grisella burned with the same fire, but hers was a destructive blaze.

Sharp regret pricked at my heart when I thought of what might have been. What if the young Grisella had never caught Domenico Viviani’s eye? What if she had been allowed to complete her vocal studies at the Mendicanti and found her place on the stage as I did? What if Father had never—

Enough!

I had my evidence. I knew what I must do, but my feet seemed to be rooted to the carpet. In my mind’s eye, I saw Annetta’s mild face and heard her words as if she whispered in my ear: “Look, Tito, the fireplace. It’s well laid, ready for lighting. One touch from your candle and it will blaze to life. You can burn the book and the scarf, burn them to ashes so we can have our Grisella home with us where she belongs.”

Just as quickly, out of nowhere, came Alessandro’s deep baritone. “What are you waiting for, little brother? I combed Constantinople to get to the bottom of Grisella’s misdeeds, exposed her black heart as clearly as the sun at midday. You can’t let her get away with murder. Go for the constable! Now!”

I stood in an agony of indecision, breathing in deep, heaving gasps. Family first? Forgive murder? Let an innocent man hang? Then the latch on the door clicked.

“Tito? What are you doing?”

I whirled. My sister stood in the doorway, framed by the brighter light of the corridor. She saw the book still open on the table, saw the note that lay upon it.

I expected endless excuses and lamentations. I never imagined that Grisella would charge at me like an enraged lioness, spitting oaths while her nails tore at my cheeks.

My hands flew up to protect my face. I stumbled backward. Her raking fingers clutched my hair, and she knocked my head into the bedpost. Rolling and tumbling with stars flashing before my eyes, I somehow managed to pin the struggling woman to the bed.