Murder at Midnight (5 page)

S
TANDING ON THE THRESHOLD WAS A COURTIER WHOSE
bright clothing appeared like a bonfire in the dungeon’s foul gloom. One hand bore a lit lamp; the other hand held up a scroll.

“Signor Executioner, I bring a message from my lord.”

Agrippa sighed. “I suppose I’m to break this clever boy’s neck right away.”

Fabrizio clapped his hands to his ears.

The courtier held out the paper. “Signore! It’s not for me, a mere courtier, to read my lord’s words. This message is solely for you.” He handed the scroll to Agrippa, saluted, turned on his heels, and marched into the darkness.

Fabrizio, heart beating to burst, remained crouched in a corner and watched Agrippa through tear-blurred eyes.

With clumsy care, the executioner unrolled the scroll and gazed at what was written.

Fabrizio fell to his knees. “If you spare me!” he croaked. “I’ll teach you all the magic I know!”

The executioner continued to stare at the scroll. “To tell the truth,” he said, looking up. “I’m uncertain what to do. I don’t know how to read.”

“Signore,” said Fabrizio with a surge of hope, “begging your pardon, but with permission, I read … a little.”

Agrippa brightened. “Do you? What a clever lad! Reading has always seemed like magic to me. And you’re a magician’s servant. By all means, be so kind as to tell me what’s written here.” He held out the scroll.

Fabrizio reached for it.

Agrippa pulled it back abruptly. “One moment, Signore! I’ve no doubt this paper commands me to kill you instantly. But I need to be sure. I want your sacred promise that you’ll tell me exactly what’s written here.”

“My master told me to always speak the truth.”

“A good man. Still, are
you
prepared to swear by all that’s good, clean, and holy that you’ll be honest?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, Signore.”

“Well said! If more people held such hopes, my work would be less.” He offered the scroll to Fabrizio. “Go on.”

Wondering if he would be able to read the writing, Fabrizio took the scroll into his shaking hands. The light in the room being murky, he moved to the glowing coals, knelt down, and held the paper to the light. Resisting the desire to burn it, he gazed upon the paper. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes.

“Well,” said Agrippa, “what does it say?”

Heart pounding, Fabrizio attempted to make sense of the scrawled hand, trying, as it were, to lift the letters, sound them, make sense of them. Gradually, he pieced together the words he thought he knew.

Unfortunately, these words were followed by a word he absolutely did
not
know. But at the end came …
d—

Fabrizio sounded the first letter under his breath, then the next letter, and the next …

His heart lurched. It was the same word he had unraveled that morning during his reading lesson:
Death!
That’s what the word said!
Death.

Horrified, he tried to make sense of the fourth word by putting its sounds together. The more he went over them, the queasier he became. In the end, he decided it didn’t matter what that fourth word said: The order demanded his immediate death.

But who’d sent it? Fabrizio scrutinized the part of the writing that was — he assumed — the signature: a single, scrawled letter.

As he thought about it, he decided that the only one who could make things worse was the king. And indeed, the courtier said it was “my lord” who had sent it. That made sense to Fabrizio when he recalled how fearful the king was. Therefore, the letter used to sign the paper was
C
for Claudio.

“Come now,” Agrippa said with increasing impatience. “What does the order say?”

Tense, Fabrizio closed his eyes.

“Boy!” growled Agrippa. “You promised to read what is truly written here.”

Fabrizio, almost whispering, said, “Signore … It says … it says … ‘Let the boy … go … free!’”

“Does it? Perfectly amazing! In all my years that’s never happened before.” Suddenly, Agrippa frowned. “Do you swear solemnly it says that exactly?”

“It does, Signore.” Fabrizio avoided Agrippa’s eyes. “‘Let the boy go free.’ Yes. That’s what it says.”

“Who signed it?”

Fabrizio steadied himself. “C for Claudio.”

“The king?”
cried an amazed Agrippa. “Claudio?”

“You’re welcome to look.” Fabrizio offered the scroll to the executioner.

Agrippa took the paper into his dirty hands and examined it with his blinking eyes. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything. I’m glad because I’ve taken a liking to you. The king himself, you say.”

“The king, Signore,” whispered Fabrizio. “No doubt.”

“Bless him for a kindly fellow. I’m honored he wrote me. Signor Fabrizio, the door is now open to you. You can go. Just know that if you are ever sent back here to be executed, you’ll find in me a friend who will kill you with great affection and consideration.”

“Signore,” said Fabrizio, feeling guilty for saving his own life, “if I must die, I can think of no one better than you to do your duty. But, with permission, I think I’ll leave right away.”

“I’d tell you the way to the street. But I’ve been here so long I no longer know the way. Just offer that paper to anyone you meet. Since King Claudio himself says you’re free to go, you’ll be shown the way.”

The executioner held out a large hand in friendship. Fabrizio shook it. “I’m proud to shake your hand.”

“For my part, Signor Agrippa,” said Fabrizio, “I’m glad your hand is shaking my hand and not my neck. Many, many thanks.”

With that, Fabrizio walked out of the executioner’s cell and hurried down the narrow passageway. At the first bend, he paused and looked back. Agrippa was at the doorway, waving a friendly good-bye. Fabrizio did the same, and turned the corner. No sooner did he do so than he found himself in complete darkness with no idea where to go.

T
HE MORE FABRIZIO STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, THE MORE
panicky he became. He must get home and warn Mangus of his imminent arrest. But which way should he go?

Realizing he was still clutching the execution paper, he tossed it in one direction and started off the opposite way. Though he moved cautiously, he tripped and came crashing down.

Dizzy, he forced himself up and extended his hands to center himself, then resumed walking with greater caution. When he next bumped into something, he felt around him and discovered that he had found steps leading up. Since he had originally come
down,
going
up
seemed the right thing to do.

Moments later, he reached — or so he guessed, for it was still dark — a landing. He pushed on.

A glimmer of light appeared ahead. Fabrizio was soon able to make out the contours of a hallway. He stepped around a bend and came into a deserted passageway lit by
a candle lantern that hung from the ceiling. At the far end were more steps.

He bounded up, then hurried along another hallway until he came to walls made of smoother stones, and, then, a wooden door.

He put an ear against it. Quiet. The door handle would not turn. The keyhole revealed nothing.

Fabrizio hurried on. More doors appeared and by every door hung a large key. He took one down and fitted it into the nearest door’s keyhole. He eased open the door.

Inside was a small room with a narrow bed. Walls and floor and ceiling were stone. A thin blanket had been tossed onto the foot of the bed. A small, high window with rusty bars let in a little light.

He decided he had come upon a row of prison cells. The realization made him shut the door, replace the key, and run around a bend only to hear voices ahead. Reversing himself, he scampered back and listened.

“In you go!” The loud cry was followed by a slamming door, diminishing steps, and then silence.

Fabrizio peered around the bend. Seeing no one, he stepped into the corridor and scrutinized the doors. Someone must have been locked inside a cell. But which one?

He pressed his ear to one of the doors.
Silence.
He checked the next, and the next. It was behind the fifth door that he heard a small sound from inside. Someone was moving around.
An unfortunate prisoner,
he thought. Maybe he’ll know of a way to escape.

Fabrizio was still trying to decide what to do when he heard more voices. Alarmed, he shoved the key into the lock, pushed open the door, and slipped inside the cell, taking the key with him.

In the weak light he saw a man upon the narrow bed, face turned toward the rough wall. A tattered blanket covered him. The more Fabrizio gazed at the prisoner, the more the man’s stillness suggested he might be dead. He stepped forward to get a better look, but then heard voices from the hallway again.

Frantic, Fabrizio shoved the door shut, only to realize that he had just trapped himself inside the cell.

A
PANICKY
F
ABRIZIO LOOKED AROUND.
T
HERE WAS ONLY
one place to hide: beneath the bed. Flopping onto his belly, he squeezed under it and then yanked the old blanket down. For once, he was grateful for his small size.

“What happened to the key?” someone barked from right outside the door. Fabrizio’s heart jumped. He knew the voice: Primo Magistrato DeLaBina.

“I have no idea, Signore,” came the reply.

Fabrizio tried to make himself smaller. If DeLaBina discovered him, he surely would be sent back to the executioner and put immediately to death.

“The door’s open, Magistrato.”

“Open? He must have been able to get to the key and flee. Hurry, look inside!”

Fabrizio tugged down the tattered blanket even more. He was able to peek through a small hole in time to see the cell door open. A pair of rough soldier’s boots entered. Another pair, much finer, came right after. Lantern light fell upon the floor.

“He’s still here, Signor Magistrato.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

The not-so-fine boots approached. Fabrizio held his breath.

“It’s him, Signore.”

“He looks dead. Hold up your lamp.”

“Asleep.”

“Where’s the key?”

Fabrizio shoved the key against the wall and pressed himself flatter against the cold floor. “I don’t see it, Magistrato.”

“Wake him and make him tell us where he put it.” The bed shook over Fabrizio. “Here, you, Signore! Wake up!”

“What … is it?”

Fabrizio was so startled by the drowsy voice that he pushed a hand against his mouth to keep from crying out.

“Mangus!” shouted DeLaBina. “What did you do with the key?”

“The key …? With the greatest respect, Signore, I …
I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve … I’ve been asleep.”

“Don’t fool with me, Mangus. You were locked in this room. The key was outside. How did you get it?”

Mangus sighed. “Signore, if I had the key, why would I remain in this awful place? Be reasonable.”

“I’m not interested in reason!” bellowed DeLaBina. “What magic did you use to get that key?”

“I don’t do magic,” said Mangus.

“Get him up,” said DeLaBina. “We’ll put him in another cell, and this time take the key with us. No, wait! I’ve been informed he uses his hands to work his magic. Another cell would be useless. Do you have some rope?”

“Yes, Signore.”

“Good. Tie his hands to either side of the bed.”

Fabrizio clenched his teeth in anger.

“Signor Magistrato,” pleaded Mangus. “I beg mercy.”

“You’ll have some mercy when you reveal who asked you to make the papers.”

“It’s no different from what I told you when you first
came to me: I didn’t make the papers, and I don’t know who did.”

“Signor Mangus, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll suffer the same fate as your servant boy.”

Fabrizio lifted his head off the floor.

“What do you mean?” asked Mangus. “What’s happened to him?”

“Prince Cosimo had him executed.”

“Executed! God have mercy! The boy may be an ignorant scamp, but I can’t believe he did anything to deserve death. Why should the prince have done such a thing?”

“Your boy was interfering, that’s why. Now, Signor Mangus, listen to me carefully. I am prepared to do what’s necessary to get you to confess that it was Count Scarazoni who told you to make those papers.”

“Scarazoni? Signore, I have never even met the count.”

“Pay heed, Mangus! Unless you admit that it’s Scarazoni who is trying to depose the king, you’ll suffer the same fate as your boy.”

“But, Signore, I know nothing about what the count does or does not do.”

“Signor Mangus,” said DeLaBina, “must I remind you that magic is illegal in Pergamontio? The penalty is death. I am the primo magistrato. Cooperate with me. I can help you. Now, is he tied down?”

“Yes, Magistrato.”

“Mangus, I must meet someone. When I return, I’ll expect you to confess the truth about Scarazoni.”

The door slammed shut.

F
ABRIZIO LISTENED TO THE SOUND OF RETREATING STEPS
. When he was sure the magistrato had truly gone, he scrambled out. “Master, I’m here. As alive as you!”

Mangus twisted his head around. “Fabrizio! They told me you were executed.”

“As it’s said, ‘Believe your own eyes before you believe the mouth of your neighbors.’”

“I would hardly describe DeLaBina as my neighbor,” growled Mangus. “Where did you come from?”

“Under the bed, Master. Let me untie you!”

“Was it you who took the cell key?” asked Mangus as Fabrizio worked to loosen the ropes.

A grinning Fabrizio held it up.

Mangus shook his head. “I don’t know whether to scold or applaud you.”

“I’m just trying to help, Master.”

Mangus, sitting on the edge of the bed while rubbing his wrists where the ropes had bound him, said nothing.

“Master, you look poorly.”

“I’ve not been treated with kindness. Now, how did you get here?”

“It’s a long story, Master.”

“I suppose I must hear. But lock the door. Hopefully, that self-important fool won’t be back soon.”

Fabrizio did as he was told and sat on the floor before his master. Then he related everything, from the time he went from the house to his leaving the executioner. When he was finished, Mangus remained silent and frowning.

“Have I done something wrong, Master?”

“Did I not tell you to do nothing that might cast suspicion on me?”

“Master, I thought I was doing what you asked.”

“I did not have this result in mind,” said Mangus.

Upset, Fabrizio asked, “With permission, Master, how did you get here?”

“After DeLaBina caught you spreading the papers around the city —”

“Master, I was
collecting
them!”

“— he came to the house, accused me of telling you to distribute those papers, and then arrested me.”

“Master,” said Fabrizio, “I heard DeLaBina say he wanted you to confess that it was Count Scarazoni who asked you to make the papers.”

“True,” said Mangus, “but of course the count told me no such thing.” He paused to think. “I had heard that the prince and the count are rivals, but what you observed during your meeting with the king suggests the count and the magistrato are also at odds.”

“It was as if they were dueling,” agreed Fabrizio.

“Did DeLaBina accuse Count Scarazoni?”

“No, Master. But there were lots of daggers in that room — even the king had one. They all looked ready to use them.”

“Though DeLaBina has accused and threatened me,” Mangus mused, “it does seem that the one he’s really after is Scarazoni.”

“Is that possible, Master?”

“It was the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said, ‘If we do not expect the unexpected, we will never find it.’
Fabrizio, I suppose you heard DeLaBina suggest he would not punish me if I named the count as the traitor.”

“I know you won’t lie, Master.”

Mangus retreated into his own thoughts, then said, “Fabrizio, the message that came to the executioner, the one that ordered your
immediate
death. Tell me about it.”

“Master, I read it.”

“Read
it, Fabrizio?”

Fabrizio put a hand to his heart. “I absolutely read the word
death.
You’ll be pleased I knew it because of that writing by your friend, Signor Dante. The message said, ‘Let the boy …’ After that came a word I didn’t know. But it was followed by the word — I’m sure of it —
death.”

“Fabrizio, to miss one word in a sentence is like missing the pearl in the oyster. It may still be edible, but it’s not valuable. Show me the paper.”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Fabrizio. “I feared it would be found on me and then I’d be executed. I threw it away.”

Mangus sighed. “Did anyone sign it?”

“Absolutely, Master. I read it. A single letter … a
C
. I think.”

“Think
or
know
?”

“Wouldn’t the …
C
fit King Claudio?”

“Yes!” said Mangus angrily. “Or Prince Cosimo. But if an
S
, Scarazoni. Or a
D
, DeLaBina! Fabrizio, the fact is, you really don’t know what you read. Because you can’t read! And that means you’ve no idea who wished to execute you quickly!”

“Master, I tried.”

“The way you tried to collect the papers and brought us here?”

Fabrizio hung his head. After a time, he said, “Master, I just remembered something else. Scarazoni knew of you.”

“Too many people know me,” grumbled Mangus. “The question remains, what is DeLaBina trying to do? Is he truly after Scarazoni? And if so, why?”

“Master,” offered Fabrizio, “I can tell you something else.”

Mangus looked at the boy bleakly.

“When the magistrato arrested me, guess who was standing by on the street watching and … smiling? Giuseppe.”

“Giuseppe! Good heaven! What are you suggesting? Giuseppe knows nothing about this business.”

Fabrizio blushed. “Forgive me, Master, but Benito and Giuseppe forced me to reveal what DeLaBina said when he came to the house. They even said they know people who would like to know about this matter. And, Master … I heard the magistrato say … he had … an informant.”

Mangus’s face turned red with anger. “How dare you! For years Benito and Giuseppe have been my loyal servants! DeLaBina has many informants. Why should I even bother talking to you about this? You cause nothing but trouble. Now, be still! I must think!”

Crushed, Fabrizio obeyed. But after a few minutes he blurted out, “Master, have you figured out how those papers came to be so alike?”

“Of course not!”

“Forgive me, Master, I may be ignorant, but it still seems to me as if a devil is mixing and confusing things to make your life miserable.”

“Fabrizio, philosophy teaches that when seeking an
answer one must look for the
simplest
explanation.
You
keep complicating matters!”

“But …”

“Be still! The truth is you’ve made a muddle of everything!”

Fabrizio shrank down. Wishing Mistress Sophia were there, he recalled her words: “Take care of him … prove how useful you can be.”

“Master,” said Fabrizio, “don’t you think it would be best if we escaped from this place?”

“How do you expect me to do that?” snapped Mangus.

Fabrizio pointed to the key in the door. “Where would I go?”

“I’ve many street friends, Master. They would hide you. There’s an excellent place right below the fish market. It doesn’t smell too badly. Or, what about Signor Galda of the Sign of the Crown? He cares for you.”

“DeLaBina would find me quickly and matters would become even worse.”

Fabrizio stood up. “With permission, Master. I’ m going to search for a way out.”

“Good. I could use some quiet to ponder all of this.”

“I’ll not be long.”

Fabrizio started for the door. “Fabrizio!”

“Yes, Master?”

“Fabrizio … I think it best if you did not return. It’s quite clear there is … no future for you with me. I’m not sure if I even have a future. Just … go off. On your own. I don’t want you around anymore.”

Stunned, Fabrizio turned around. “Master, are you … are you … dismissing me from your service?”

“I can’t afford to be entangled by your ignorance anymore. I have troubles enough.”

“But, Master,” pleaded Fabrizio, “as they say, ‘If you buy a dog, you also get his fleas.’”

“When I want a dog, I’ll buy a dog! It’s best you leave my service. Go!” With that, Mangus rolled over on the bed.

It was all Fabrizio could do to keep from bursting into tears. “Master … please, I —”

“Leave!” cried Mangus.

“Yes, Master. With permission, forgive … me.”

Hardly knowing what to do, Fabrizio fumbled with the key and opened the door. At the threshold he paused. “A thousand, million thanks, Master. Farewell. And … please say … good-bye to Mistress.”

Mangus neither moved nor spoke.

“What shall I do with the key?” Fabrizio whispered.

“Put it where you found it.”

Choked and tearful, Fabrizio stepped into the hallway and slowly shut the door behind him. Though the corridor was cold and empty, he felt hot and heavy. A sob clogged his throat. He’d failed. He was homeless once more. And now he’d never see Mistress again.

Pressing his forehead against the stone wall, he began to cry. His shoulders shook. Gradually, his crying subsided. He pushed his hair from his face and smeared away the tears with the back of his hand. The corridor appeared as bleak as he felt. Wanting to fulfill Mangus’s last request, Fabrizio returned the key to its peg and forced himself to step away. After a few paces he stopped and looked back.
His tear-blurred eyes made the doors all look alike. He was no longer certain which cell was Mangus’s.

“It doesn’t matter,” Fabrizio muttered. He took the lantern down from the wall and started to walk away.

Suddenly, he heard, “Find the magician’s cell!”

Alarmed, Fabrizio grabbed the nearest key and unlocked the closest door, then shut it behind him.

The room was identical to the one in which Mangus lay, even to its narrow bed and small, high window. To Fabrizio’s surprise, however, some of the treasonous papers were scattered about on the floor. Moreover, sitting on the bed was a small and huddled humanlike creature, wearing trousers, a long shirt, and boots.

As Fabrizio stared, a blackened face surrounded by long red hair, with eyes that smoldered with anger, glared back at him fiercely.

Fabrizio stammered, “What … what are you?”

“The devil.”