The Devil in Music (14 page)

He
recalled the last time he had stood on this spot, before there was a
famous dandy Julian Kestrel before he had firmly decided to return to
England at all. How, having once found Italy, could he ever leave
her? Yet he knew now he had done right to go back. Years of
Continental travel could mould and polish him, but could not pull up
his roots. As long as he turned his back on England, he might be
happy, but he would never be whole.

When
he returned to the Bella Venezia late that day, he found that the
waiters had become extraordinarily obsequious. One begged to be
allowed to polish his boots, a task he entrusted only to Dipper,
while another offered to run his errands at any hour of the day or
night, and a third promised to become his devoted slave if only he
would help him obtain a passport to visit his sister in Modena. "I
seem to have risen in the world," Julian observed to Dipper.

"It's
on account of these, sir." Dipper handed him two letters.
"They come for you while you was out. The waiters didn't want
to fork 'em out to me without a buonamano" he rubbed his fingers
together to signify money "but I said if they didn't, you'd be
glim-flashy, and your bigwig pals'd darken their daylights."

"I
should have liked to hear how that translated into Milanese."
Julian surveyed the letters. One was written on fine parchment and
bore a blood-red seal of a serpent coiled around a sword. The other
letter was sealed with the imperial eagles of Austria. "Conte
Carlo certainly hasn't lost any time. No wonder the waiters were
impressed."

He
broke the seal on the first letter and unfolded it. Although he had
written to Carlo in Milanese, Carlo had responded in English:

Casa
Malvezzi Tuesday morning My dear Mr. Kestrel,

Please
do not suppose for a moment that your boldness, as you term it, has
offended me. On the contrary, I admire your candour and directness
and am grateful for your offer to assist my family in this appalling
crisis.

I
know little of the Bow Street Runners except such news of their
exploits as filters through the formidable barrier between our
countries.

Julian
suspected that the barrier he meant was not the Alps or the English
Channel, but the Austrian censorship, which sought to keep foreign
books and journals out of Italian hands. Carlo was a notorious
liberal, and his participation in the murder investigation must
rankle the government. But he was also Lodovico's brother, and in
Rinaldo's absence he was head of the Malvezzi family. However much
the authorities loathed his politics, they could not deny his rights.

The
letter continued:

But
the Englishman known as Orfeo may well have returned to his own
country, and I thought it logical to request the Bow Street Runners'
aid in seeking him there. I make no doubt that your knowledge and

advice
would be of inestimable value to Commis sario Grimani in determining
whether, and how, to obtain their assistance. I have an appointment
to see him this afternoon, and you may be sure that I will tell him
of your considerate offer and urge him to accept it.

I
look forward with the liveliest impatience to meeting you and talking
of these and other matters. I have so little opportunity nowadays to
speak English or discuss foreign affairs that your acquaintance is
doubly precious to me. Till then, believe me your obliged and
faithful servant,

Carlo
Malvezzi

"Better
than I'd hoped for," said Julian. "Almost too easy, in
fact." He unfolded the other letter. "No, I spoke too
soon."

This
letter, too, was in English, but in an anonymous clerkly hand quite
unlike Carlo's flowing, elegant script:

Commissariat
of Police 27 September 1825 3.15p.m.

Sir,
The Director-General of Police and the government of His Imperial
Highness the Viceroy of Lombardy-Venetia thank you for your offer to
assist them in finding the murderer of His Excellency Marquese
Lodovico Malvezzi. It appears probable that the combined forces of
the Milanese police and the Austrian army will succeed in solving
this case without your help. We will therefore refrain from
troubling you further in the matter.

Allow
me to express my hope that you will enjoy your stay in Milan. The
Brera Academy, the Ambrosian Library, and the Mint appear to be
particularly popular with English tourists.

I
have the honour to remain, sir, yours respectfully,

Alfonso
Grimani, Commissario

(Translated
by Paolo Zanetti, clerk)

"Put
in my place, by Jove!" said Julian, amused. "You've made
it very clear you can do without me, Signor Commissario: now it
behooves me to show that I can manage without you."

"How
will you do that, sir?" Dipper asked.

"At
the moment, I haven't the slightest idea. I shall go to the opera
and see if anything comes to me."

Something
did come to him at the opera. He had just arrived and was threading
his way through the vestibule, exchanging bows and greetings with
elegant ladies and indolent rakes, when he heard someone call his
name. He turned. An elderly nobleman he knew slightly was elbowing
his way toward him, a lady on his arm. As the crowd perceived her,
their chatter died away, and they fell back, opening a path for her
as if she were royalty.

She
was about thirty, perhaps a little older it was hard to tell with a
woman like this. She was not tall, but her slender, highwaisted
figure gave an impression of height. Her hands were small and
delicate, her waist as dainty as a doll's, but her breasts, hugged
and slightly revealed by her white satin gown, were exquisitely
curved. Her complexion was a pale, clear ivory, the cheeks just
tinged with carmine. Soft, dusky curls fell about her face; her back
hair was caught up in a ruby comb. She had high cheekbones, slim
arched brows, and a nose worthy of a Canova Venus. But her most
glorious feature was her eyes, which were large, black, and
brilliant, like diamonds in the dark.

"Ah,
Signer Kestrel!" Her escort led her up to Julian. "I'm
delighted to have the privilege of introducing you to the loveliest
woman in Milan." He bowed formally to the lady. "I have
the honour to present Signor Kestrel, the illustrious English dandy.
Signer Kestrel Marchesa Malvezzi."

JLodovico
Malvezzi's widow extended her hands. Julian kissed them in the
Milanese manner, which was so much more gallant and intimate than a
cold English bow over the hand. When he straightened and looked into
her eyes, she smiled.

He
said to her in Milanese, "I'm deeply indebted to His Excellency
for this introduction, but I had no need to be told I was meeting the
loveliest woman in Milan."

"Or
I that I was meeting the most elegant gentleman in Europe." Her
voice was melodic and light.

"I
should be the last man to try to dissuade you of that charming
absurdity."

"I
hope so, Signor Kestrel. I should be sorry to see you fail at
anything you set out to do."

Her
escort was bowing and backing away, floridly excusing himself. Julian
exchanged courtesies with him, then turned back to the marchesa. "I
must be Fortune's favourite child tonight," he said, "since
I've not only met you but been left alone with you or as alone as
it's possible to be in this crush."

"Fortune
had nothing to do with it. I asked Maurizio to present you to me and
then leave us. We planned it together before I came here."

"I'm
honoured, Marchesa and intrigued."

"I
won't leave you long in suspense. But we can't talk here."

She
glanced expressively toward the great staircase that led to the upper
boxes. Julian was momentarily taken aback. That staircase was one
of the most significant promenades in Milan. When a gentleman
escorted a lady of rank up those stairs, all Milan assumed that he
was, or soon would be, her lover.

Masking
his surprise, he offered her his arm. It would be the height of
rudeness to spurn such an invitation. Besides, he wanted to know
what lay behind it.

She
slipped her little gloved hand into the crook of his arm, turning her
bracelet so that the ruby on the clasp would not dig into his sleeve.
That ruby was one of the few touches of colour on her white satin
gown; another was a red rose fastened to her bodice so that it
nestled between her breasts. It took all Julian's self command not
to stare at that rose, or long to change places with it.

He
could not but enjoy the black looks from other young men as they
mounted the stairs. When they reached the long curved corridor
behind the second-tier boxes, people goggled on seeing them together
and broke into murmurs the moment they had passed. Julian scanned
the coats-of-arms over the doors to the boxes till he found the
familiar serpent coiled around a sword. Two footmen in
flame-coloured livery stood guard at the door. When they saw the
marchesa, they bowed low, and one of them opened the door with a
flourish. Julian felt their stares glued to his back as he led her
through the small square anteroom into the box.

The
box was narrow but deep, lit only by a silver candelabrum on a round
table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The table was set out with silver
dishes of nougats and little almond-flavoured confections known as
dead men's beans. There was also a pack of the ninety-seven
elaborately decorated cards, three times the size of ordinary playing
cards, that were used for the complex game of tarocch. Several lyre
back chairs were drawn up to the table; more chairs lined the box on
either side. At the front, commanding the best view of the stage,
were two armchairs upholstered in flame-coloured silk brocade, their
mahogany backs carved with the Malvezzi device.

Guests
were already gathered in the box: a dowager, three young men
about-town, and the elderly nobleman who had introduced Julian to the
marchesa. She greeted them all, and the young men kissed her hands,
then Julian led her to the armchairs at the front of the box. He held
one of them for her to sit down and moved to take the seat behind it.
But she laid her hand lightly on his sleeve. "Won't you sit
beside me?"

What
the devil was she about? he thought. If he sat with her at the
front of her box, he might as well announce to the entire theatre
that he enjoyed her favours.

"Should
you be embarrassed?" she asked, smiling.

"No,
Marchesa only abashed that tomorrow all Milan will credit me with an
honour I haven't earned."

"But
I should like to put myself in your debt."

"Impossible,
Marchesa. One look from you would wipe the slate clean a smile would
pile up debits on the other side."

"I've
always heard the English were good at keeping accounts." She
went on more seriously, "I do have a reason. This isn't mere
caprice. I want to have an uninterrupted talk with you. If people
thought we were merely chatting about trifles, they would wish to
join in; if they guessed what I really wanted to discuss, they would
try to listen. But everyone accepts that new lovers see only each
other. They won't eavesdrop or compete for my attention, except to
say good evening when they arrive in my box, and goodbye when they
go. And you won't be expected to leave or change seats whenever a
new guest comes. Now do you see?"

"Yes.
It's very ingenious." Though a little hard on a man's vanity,
he thought more than his vanity, if he were not careful. He was no
longer in any doubt about what she wanted to discuss, but he would
not be the first to broach the topic. He wanted to see how she would
approach it.

The
overture began. As usual, the audience paid it no heed, but went on
with their chatter and card-playing. The empty chairs in the
marchesa's box soon filled. Each new female guest eyed Julian
curiously, while the male guests glowered. People leaned out of
adjacent boxes to gape at him and the marchesa. Ghostly fingers
pointed up at them from the darkness of the pit.

"You
haven't closed the curtains tonight," he observed to the
marchesa.

"No.
I only kept them closed for the past few nights because the police
requested it." She gave a faint ironic emphasis to the word
requested. "They feared that, with my husband's murder so
recently made public, the sight of me would cause too much
excitement. The police don't like excitement. There's no knowing
what turn it might take."

"I
assumed you didn't wish to be seen."