6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (22 page)

Andrea and I had both jumped up. My hands were white as I grasped the railing. I yelled to my companion, “No one will be able to hear Angeletto’s aria with that uproar going on!”

He shot me a look of gruff disbelief. “I’m more interested in seeing that no one is trampled. I’ve got to disperse that crowd.”

“Of course,” I responded bleakly as I watched the tail of his red robe disappear through the anteroom.

The theater quickly became a maelstrom of noise. The pit’s screams and cries swirled up to the chandelier in the dome and echoed off the tiers of boxes whose denizens were adding their own shouts and whistles. Eggs, apple cores, candle stubs, and other debris hurled from the pit crashed against the front of the boxes like the drumming of a hail storm. I peered toward the Savio’s box, only to see the footmen drawing the scarlet drapes. I snorted—a brave man, our Savio alla Cultura!

On the stage, incredibly, Angeletto was still voicing the recitative, even though Rocatti had stepped away from his instrument. The young violin master faced the melee squarely. His handsome features seemed to melt in grief, and his slumped posture shouted defeat. Giuseppe Balbi had also abandoned his music stand. One of the cello players was climbing over the railing, intent on joining the fray. Balbi was tugging on the tail of his black coat.

Finally, thankfully, the curtain rolled down—much faster than it had risen. Good. Aldo must surely realize that there was no point in going on with the opera until Messer Grande had summoned his sbirri and restored order.

I sat back down, chewing on a knuckle. How had
The False Duke’s
premiere gone so terribly wrong, and so abruptly? Paying for applause was one thing, but fomenting an outright riot was a crime and a scandal. Was Majorano behind this? Surely not. As a singer, he well understood that any tricks he employed to bolster his renown could be turned against him during the next performance. My thoughts ranged a little farther; Lorenzo Caprioli was the agent behind this, I’d be bound. His
Venus and Adonis
, starring that fatuous dunce Emiliano, was also opening tonight. Many from the audience wearied by the antics at the San Marco would seek entertainment at the Teatro Grimani.

I stood again and scanned the sea of angry faces for Lorenzo Caprioli’s henchman. There he was—in a first tier box! A red-haired harlot was planting a kiss on his scarred visage. Had one of them tossed the bottle that started the panic? It had seemed to come from their direction.

At least the sbirri had arrived and were fanning out amongst the crowd. The uniformed constables wielded fists and truncheons, barking commands and threatening arrest if they weren’t instantly obeyed. Gradually, the noise lessened. The pit was coming to heel.

A tapping knock sounded at the door behind me. Was it Andrea, back already? Had he forgotten his box key in the excitement?

I stepped through the anteroom, flipped the latch, and cautiously opened the narrow door. A woman stood before me. At first I thought it must be Signora Passoni. A blue feather decorated her wig’s white curls, and her face was hidden by a stick mask encrusted with multi-colored paste jewels. Then I realized that this woman was several inches taller than the petite Giovanna Passoni.

She lowered the mask to reveal gray eyes and a long, straight nose with a moleskin patch beside it.

“Tedi!” I whispered, at the same time reaching out to grab her wrist. The soprano wasn’t going to slip away from me this time.

“I must speak with you, Tito.”

“Then come in.” I gave her arm a gentle tug.

“No! I can’t be seen.”

“If we stay right here, no one will see you.”

She shook her head firmly. “Messer Grande will. He’ll be returning any minute. I must talk to you alone.”

I hesitated, loathe to leave my place of safety.

“Please, Tito.” The mask sank still farther. She stepped closer. Now I saw that the black pupils of Tedi’s eyes had dilated so that only a rim of lighter gray remained. Her painted lips flared blood red against her powdered cheeks. I’d always thought of Tedi Dall’Agata as a confident, handsome woman who hid her forty-odd years well and could always be relied on to do the calm, sensible thing. At this moment, she was far from calm and confident. Tedi was afraid.

“All right.” I dropped her wrist, angled through the narrow door, and cast apprehensive looks right and left. Except for several footmen and an elderly party toddling toward the stairs complaining about the sad state of Venetian morals, the corridor was deserted. “Where?” I asked.

“Just follow where I lead, Tito, but stay well back. It will be safer.”

Dio mio, what sort of trouble had Tedi gotten herself into?

I followed the soprano down the curving corridor behind the third-tier boxes, shaking my head at footmen who stepped forward with offers of assistance. More corridors and a set of stairs. At times, Tedi ran like a doe flaunting a delphinium-blue skirt instead of a white flag, and I was forced to pursue her like a huntsman starving for venison. I’d begun to think she had changed her mind about wanting to talk with me when she dove into a corridor that led to the second-floor gambling salon. Tedi slowed once she reached the tables. No matter what was going on in the auditorium, there were always a few punters who spent the evening losing their money to the wheel or the cards. There was enough action going on at the faro table that we attracted little attention from guests or servants, but Tedi still kept her mask to her face. Before she disappeared through an arched doorway in an inconsequential corner, she lowered it for an instant and shot a look back toward me.

I nodded, barely perceptibly, to demonstrate that I knew where she was headed. Through that archway curtained with a tapestry were side stairs left over from a building that predated this one. The stairs climbed up to a warren of attics where unused costumes and props were stored and descended into stone storerooms too damp to be used. They also connected to several corridors that ended in blank walls or other dead ends. I hurried through the curtain and paused. Though this area was cold and largely unused, wall lamps had been lit on each landing. From above came the tapping of Tedi’s spool-shaped court heels.

My long legs took the stairs two at time. Hampered by her wide skirts, Tedi slowed so that I was able to catch up to her. Both of us were breathing in gasps by the time I pushed open the green-shuttered attic door with most of the slats missing. Attached to a spring mechanism, it swung closed of its own accord. Within the dark, slope-ceilinged chamber, Tedi’s skirts raised a cloud of dust that made a ghostly ladder in the dim light filtering through the slats.

I glanced around at the banks of linen-covered gowns and tarnished Grecian and Roman armor hanging from rafters. Beneath them were barrels of wooden swords and scepters and leather-bound trunks piled on top of each other, all cobwebbed and furred with grime. I breathed in the smell of mildew. It could have been months since anyone had come up here, I thought, pinching my nose against a sneeze.

I turned to face my panting quarry. “We should be safe now. What do you have to say?”

Tedi’s pale face presented an eerie sight. Her paint had run, mingling with the powder from her wig. The black around her eyes etched streaks down her cheeks, her lip rouge made red rivulets in the wrinkles around her mouth, and sweat had carried her patch from cheekbone to chin. With a horrific moan, she raised her arm and threw her stick mask with the force of a cannon shot. It bounced off a lozenge-shaped shield with a metallic clang that made me jump. A sob broke from her chest as she covered her face and staggered sideways. I grasped her elbow.

“No, no. Just let me rest.” She gently extricated herself from my touch and sank down on a heap of ragged petticoats and boned corsets. She was a broken doll atop a sea of blue-satin skirts. “Oh, Tito…”

Chapter Twenty-two

Apparently, Tedi wanted to make her confession—with me as an unlikely priest. She craved heavenly absolution, or at least human forgiveness. Since she would have neither from Maestro Torani, I would have to do. Here was the stumbling block: Tedi preferred to remain hazy about the details of her offense.

“I’ve made such a mess of things,” she began, then repeated several times.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” After seeing her climb into Lorenzo Caprioli’s sedan chair on the day of Torani’s funeral, I wasn’t feeling very charitable toward the soprano.

Her eyes puckered. Tears made a further mess of her cheeks. She tried to hide them in the crook of her satin-sheathed elbow. “Rinaldo would be so ashamed of me,” she finally said.

Summoning patience, I settled myself beside her on the heap of rags. I handed her my handkerchief and waited while she wiped her face. “It’s hard to imagine that Torani would ever be ashamed of you, but he would have been surprised to see you in Lorenzo Caprioli’s chair. I certainly was.”

She bowed her head and answered softly, “I know.”

“Why, Tedi? Were you turning your back on Torani and his memory? Had you come to hate him because of his unrepentant gambling and his mounting debts?”

Tedi looked up with fire in her eyes. I drew back. The woman looked angry enough to strike me. She said, “I loved Rinaldo. I loved him through everything, even if he did make me mad enough to kill him sometimes. I didn’t, of course. Don’t think that for one minute.” She wrung the linen square I’d handed her, then tilted her chin suspiciously. “How do you happen to know about Rinaldo’s debts, Tito?”

“Maurino told me—the day you left to take the waters at some imaginary spa.”

At least Tedi had the grace to blush.

I repeated all that the valet had explained concerning Torani’s unrestrained and imprudent behavior, finishing on a sigh. “I only wish the old man had come to me for help. I understand the nature of the malady as well as anyone who hasn’t experienced the lure of the tables himself.”

“Your father,” she stated simply.

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “Rinaldo didn’t want you to know that he shared your father’s weakness. He wanted you to look up to him—to think he was well-nigh perfect.” She studied me for a moment, then reached out to touch my hand. “He loved you so much, Tito.”

I bowed my head. Oh, yes. My mentor loved me so much that he contrived to put me into a position where I could become the laughingstock of Venice’s musical world.

Tedi let me sit in silence. She pulled her wig off and ran its blue feather through her fingers. Her own hair twisted into a tight, flat bun had more silver in it than I recalled. When she spoke again her voice was strained. “I want to tell you how I came to be in league with Lorenzo Caprioli.”

“Go on.”

“You know about the debts—and about how Maurino and I found Rinaldo in an alley, beaten and bleeding—then the attack on his gondola. That was the last straw for me—I sold my jewels, used every soldo I could raise to pay those debts. They were wiped out. The bravos from the casino didn’t kill Rinaldo.”

“Yes, yes. But, Tedi, why Caprioli? The maestro’s sworn enemy? The man who’s been trying to steal the Senate’s backing for his own theater?”

Tedi scooted closer. She crushed my hand in hers. “I went to Caprioli precisely because he was Rinaldo’s enemy—the only person I could think of who actually hated him.”

“You believe Caprioli killed Torani?”

Tedi nodded her agreement so vigorously that a lock of silver shook loose from her bun. “I thought if I could gain Lorenzo’s trust—become one of his inner circle—I might be able to find proof of what he had done. I offered myself to him as prima donna and…more.”

Anger coursed through me. Without knowing how, I was suddenly on my knees, then my feet.

“Tito, it was the only way! I was certain he killed Rinaldo, and I was willing to do anything to prove it.” She struggled up from the filthy nest. “You hate me, don’t you?”

“No, Tedi.” I shook my head sorrowfully. “Just tell me this—do you still think Caprioli committed the murder?”

She took a deep breath. “No. These past few days I’ve gathered all the threads that seemed to have promise, but they unraveled in my hands.” She nibbled on a thumbnail. “Tito, I’ve put some other clues together—things Rinaldo said in unguarded moments, something Peppino said, too. I’ve come to a totally different conclusion. Rinaldo was harboring a secret—it’s that secret that killed him.”

I took her hands in mine. “I know what it is.”

“Do you?” she tilted her head in a gesture of disbelief.

“Yes.” The glow of true understanding settled around my heart. The ghost of an idea that had been haunting me for so long became rock solid. “Niccolo Rocatti didn’t write
The False Duke
. Antonio Vivaldi did. Signora Passoni gave Torani the score to pass off as Rocatti’s. He’s the son of Vivaldi and Signora Passoni.”

Tedi shook her head. She jerked her hands from my grasp.

“What?” I felt like the floor had disappeared beneath my feet. “Vivaldi isn’t the opera’s true composer?”

“Yes, yes, he is,” she said. “Years ago, believing it was too radical for a public performance, Vivaldi gave the score to Giovanna Passoni as a lover’s memento.” She peered into my face. After a brief pause, she said, “I think you must have found Rinaldo’s hiding place.”

I nodded. “The bust of Minerva. Why on earth did he stick the score in the statue?”

She gave a wistful smile. “Rinaldo spent a great deal of time considering Signora Passoni’s scheme. At first, he objected to the deceit, but she refused to give him the entire manuscript unless he agreed to produce the opera her way. I suppose she felt she was killing two birds with one stone. Her lover’s gift would finally see the light of day, and their son’s career would receive a much needed boost. Once Rinaldo agreed, he set about carrying out the plan in the wisest way possible. He was casting about for a place to secrete the score and I suggested Minerva. ‘Consign it to the Goddess of Wisdom,’ I said, ‘and perhaps she will smile on your project.’”

A bitter taste rose from my throat. “He thought it wise to make me the target of humiliation and censure if the opera failed.”

“That’s what you’ve been thinking?”

“What else am I to think?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh, you foolish thing! Rinaldo knew
The False Duke
couldn’t fail. Its time has come. Venice—all of Europe—is ripe for it. He had faith that you would develop it into a wonderful production, even with the difficulties that Beatrice’s demand for Angeletto presented. Rinaldo wanted you to take over the opera house. He longed to see you reap the benefits of this great success, while we put the cares of Venice—and all of her gaming houses— behind us.” She swallowed a sob, put a hand to her mouth. “All was finally turning out well…until someone killed him.”

“Just a minute, Tedi. You’re telling me that
The False Duke
had nothing to do with Torani’s murder?”

“That’s right. The secret that killed my love is…something entirely different.”

“For God’s sake, what is it?”

She stared at me, eyes glittering, chest heaving in little sobs. Just as her lips parted, a shot exploded in a burst of flame from the doorway.

“Tedi!” I cried as the soprano collapsed into my arms. Blood trickled from a ragged hole at the front of her neck. Frantic, I tried to staunch it with my fingers, but it quickly became a gory stream. She gurgled out one last gasp before her body went limp and her eyes rolled back in her head.

There was nothing more I could do. Tedi Dall’Agata was dead.

I lowered her gently to the floor and ran to the door. Heedless of the danger, I pulled it open so hard it crashed against the wall and lost a few more slats. The landing was deserted. All that remained was a puff of smoke and the acrid odor of gunpowder.

***

“You must have been born under an unfortunate star, Tito. It seems your destiny is linked to murder. Do you know that most men go through their lives without once encountering an atrocity of this sort?” Andrea’s solemn words filled the cabin of his luxurious gondola.

When I didn’t answer, his gaze left my face. He parted the curtains with one gloved finger and stared outward. Even at this late hour, the watery avenue of uninterrupted grandeur that is the Grand Canal was alive with boat traffic and the songs of their boatmen. The yellow glow from palazzo windows and the orange blaze of landing torches made shimmering zigzags on the murky water.

Eventually, I voiced the remorse that had been plaguing me for hours—ever since I’d burst into the San Marco’s corridors shouting of murder and putting an end to any hope of resuming that night’s performance. “If I’d only made it through that door to the stairwell more quickly, you might have Tedi’s killer under arrest. And Maestro Torani’s, too.”

Andrea dropped his hand; the curtain whispered shut. In the darkness, his face stood out as a pale oval. “Tito, I have nothing to convince me that the murders were committed by the same hand.”

“Tedi was about to tell me what she believed caused Torani’s death,” I protested.

“Yes, my friend, the deaths are related, but secrets and motives abound. Just consider the complications. Torani and his mistress were entangled in a desperate struggle to accomplish several things—save the reckless old punter from his gambling habit, ensure that the Teatro San Marco would continue as Venice’s flagship opera house, and retire to the mainland with some shreds of their reputation and dignity remaining.”

I sat back and surveyed him with lifted brows. He was correct, as usual.

“Besides, Tito. The murderer took one precise shot and ran. He was well away in that maze of stairs and corridors before you even crashed through the door.”

“You did search that area top to bottom.”

“As I told you—yes. My men found only empty corridors and damp cellars filled with refuse and skittering with rats.”

“They didn’t find any forgotten gate or postern? Any means of escape that the killer could have used without going back through the gaming salon?”

“No, Tito. That crumbling pile attached to the opera house contains no doors, and the few windows are merely slits. Whoever shot Tedi came through the main portion of the theater building and left the same way.” He added in a conversational tone, “Did you realize that your Teatro San Marco was built on the ruins of a monastery?”

Though he probably couldn’t see it, I shot him a scornful glance. “It is no longer
my
Teatro San Marco.”

“Perhaps not now.” His grave tone turned to a chuckle. “You must wait, Tito, and cultivate patience. I predict that one day you will rule the opera house just as Maestro Torani did.”

“How can you possibly believe that?” My voice grated harshly. “And how dare you laugh in the face of Tedi’s death? Whatever Devil’s bargain she made with Lorenzo Caprioli, she did it to find justice for the man she loved. Both their lives were ripped away just when they should have been resting on their well-earned laurels.”

A pale hand rose to wipe his forehead. His sigh hovered between us. “The violence that men visit on each other has become a constant in my life—such is the burden of a Messer Grande. If I didn’t allow myself a laugh, I would soon sink into melancholia.”

“Of course. Forgive me.” I bowed my head. Fate had brought my family so much grief that I should have understood that without being told.

“Forget it. Tell me more about what Tedi was afraid of.”

I leaned back against the cushioned leather seat. “Not what, but who. She’d come to another conclusion about Torani’s killer. He—or she—must have been in the theater. Tedi was obviously afraid of being followed.”

“Of course, she might have also feared Caprioli and his bravos. It appears she’d slipped his chain, and I imagine he would be determined to have her back. Tedi as prima donna would have been quite a prize for the Teatro Grimani.”

“I did see two of Caprioli’s men, before the riot.”

“I saw them, too. When my sergeant was marching them away in irons. Tomorrow they’ll come up before the avogardo under charges of creating a public disturbance.”

I sat up very straight. “When were they taken into custody?”

“About the time Tedi was persuading you to follow her.”

“That doesn’t mean that Lorenzo Caprioli himself hadn’t gained admittance to the Teatro San Marco—a majority of men in the audience were masked.”

“I’ve already ruled out Caprioli. The opera premiering at the Teatro Grimani began at the same hour as
The False Duke
. Caprioli was swaggering all over the theater greeting subscribers and crowing about his singers. Hundreds of witnesses would swear to it.”

“Another of his men, then. Who knows how many bravos he has in his pay?” I had a sudden thought. “Perhaps Girolamo Grillo has slipped back into Venice.”

“I’ll look into it. You may be sure that I’ll hold Caprioli’s feet to the fire concerning all you’ve related…but there are also other possibilities that I find interesting.” Andrea again parted the curtain. We were passing the soaring arcades of the Turkish traders’ residence and warehouse. Unlike the Venetian palaces, the Fondaco was slumbering in total darkness. For the Turks, Carnival must be as forbidden as wine or pork.

“What other possibilities?” I asked. “Can you tell me?”

“Certainly. I would welcome your opinions.” He left the curtain open. A cool breeze came off the rippling, lucent surface of the canal. “After the theater’s curtain rolled down, Angeletto exited the stage through the left downstage wing. He appeared to be very upset. His mother and sisters say that he came straight to his dressing room and stayed there, licking his wounds, but a scene shifter who was up on the catwalk is certain that Angeletto disappeared in the direction of the pass door, not the stairs to the dressing rooms.”

“Oh, no. Not Angeletto. I can’t imagine that he could make his way through the theater without causing a great stir—in that gaudy costume, no less.”

“It would take but a moment to don an eye mask and a spare cloak. That’s why I so dread the months of Carnival—you can’t trust appearances. Is that mischievous little nun truly a good sister, or perhaps she’s a whore playing a part? Or a patrician boy with certain tastes?” He waved an impatient hand. “You have no idea how difficult my life becomes during Carnival.”