The Devil in Music (16 page)

"In
what way?"

"I
don't know. Like chemicals liable to explode."

"Do
you think he spoke from experience?"

"If
he did, it must have been a very long time ago, before I knew him."

Julian
glanced once more at the moustached man in the next box. He had
taken the opera glass away from his eye in order to converse with his
hostess, and now he shrugged elaborately, spreading out his fingers
and turning down the corners of his mouth. The gesture proclaimed
his nationality as plainly as a passport. Julian asked the
mar-chesa, "Who is the Frenchman in the box on our right?"

She
did not look around. Instead, she casually lifted her ivory fan,
which was decorated with mirrored facets. Her eyes lit up, and she
smiled in a way that gave Julian a sudden desire to pitch both
Frenchman and moustache into the pit. "That's Monsieur de la
Marque. He's very charming and has an extraordinary ear for music.
He can hear a melody once and tell you exactly what notes were
played, and if an orchestra strikes a sour note, he knows what it
was, what it ought to have been, and which player was responsible.
Why did you ask about him?"

"I
had an idea that he knew you."

"He's
a friend." The gleam in her eyes suggested that he was, or
aspired to be, something more. "I find him very amusing. We
speak French, and he gives me news of Paris."

Julian
took one last look at de la Marque, whose eye was glued to his opera
glass again. Then he asked the marchesa, "Is there anything
more you can tell me about Orfeo?"

"No."
Her face clouded. "There isn't much hope of finding him, is
there? He could be in England, America he could be dead, for all
anyone knows. Surely we're fooling ourselves you and Commissario
Grimani and I. What's the use of looking for a man who is nothing
more than a shadow who hasn't a face or a name whose past and future
are all a blank?"

"I
know we seem to be at a dead lift. But consider what we do know:
Orfeo is English, he would now be in his mid-twenties, he's a tenor,
and he spent six weeks at the Lake of Como in the winter of 1821
which means he won't be able to prove he was anywhere else."

"But
where in all the wide world are we to look for him?"

"Conte
Carlo's idea of enlisting the Bow Street Runners to find him in
England is a good one though I don't imagine the British will readily
give him up to be tried in Milan. But before we go knocking about
the four corners of the earth, we ought to begin where the murder
occurred, and where Orfeo was last seen: the villa."

"But
surely that's the last place he'll ever be found."

Julian
smiled wryly. "Unless he has a singular sense of humour and
very little common sense. But there may be some trace of him that
hasn't been uncovered, or a memory that can be jogged loose from the
mind of a fisherman or servant. I believe the villa is yours now?"

"Yes,
though it's to return to Rinaldo or his son after I die. Lodovico
wanted me to have it, because he knew how fond I was of it, but he
wouldn't have let it pass from his family forever."

"Did
you know before he died that he meant to leave it to you?"

"Yes,
Signer Kestrel," she said calmly. "He told me all about
his will." She added, "Shall I send you a map tomorrow, so
that you can see how long it would have taken me to travel from
Belgirate to the villa on the night of the murder?"

"No,
thank you, Marchesa," he said politely. "I have a map
already."

A
storm of orchestral flourishes marked the end of the first act. The
audience in the pit yawned, coughed, quarrelled, stretched their
legs, and shouted greetings across the theatre. Above, people leaned
out of boxes to wave and beckon to their friends, while footmen ran
about fetching ices, delivering notes, and emptying chamber pots

So
many callers flocked to the marchesa's box that she was obliged to
devote herself to receiving them. Julian was introduced to those he
did not know, and soon found himself in a circle of young men of
fashion, all awaiting their chance to kiss the marchesa's hands and
beg for the privilege of buying her an ice. They eyed Julian with a
mixture of envy and admiration, but the special delicacy that
Milanese society reserved for new love affairs forbade any overt
allusion to his good fortune.

He
was not surprised to find that one of the young men was de la
Marque. A mon signore a sort of half-cleric in purple stockings
introduced him and Julian. "I'm delighted to meet you,"
said Julian in Milanese. "I've heard of your remarkable musical
gifts."

De
la Marque smiled, his white teeth gleaming beneath his black
moustache. "Hardly remarkable, Signer Kestrel. I have perfect
pitch, which is useful for performing parlour tricks."

"Our
Gaston is a little more serious than that." The mon signore
clapped de la Marque on the shoulder. "He's writing a book
about singing."

"That's
true," acknowledged de la Marque. "It amuses me to be
writing a book so much so, that I don't suppose I shall ever finish
it."

"It
amuses him to interview prima donnas about their technique,"
said another young man slyly.

"Is
that what you do?" asked the mon signore grinning.

"Oh,
yes," said de la Marque, "and sometimes we also discuss
singing."

There
was a general laugh, abruptly drowned out by the orchestra. The
ballet that came between the first and second acts of the opera was
beginning. The group of young men broke apart, but de la Marque
lingered. "I should like to congratulate you, Mr. Kestrel,"
he said in English. "It's no small achievement to spend the
evening by the side of the most beautiful woman in Milan."

Julian
bowed. "In return, may I compliment you on your English?"

"You're
most kind, but like my perfect pitch, it's a purely fortuitous
talent. I spent the first seventeen years of my life in England.
The climate in France had become somewhat unhealthy for my parents."

Julian
understood what he meant. He must have been born soon after the
Reign of Terror, when any French family with de before its name lived
in fear of the guillotine, and thousands emigrated to Austria, Italy,
or England.

"A
wonderful country, England," de la Marque went on dreamily. "A
place where the practical and the absurd meet where men calculate
with mathematical nicety at precisely what angle and with what force
to tilt with a windmill."

"It's
good of you to credit us with so much engineering skill," said
Julian pleasantly. "Perhaps it was in England that you obtained
the eyeglass you were looking through earlier?"

De
la Marque smiled. He smiled a great deal whether because he was
genuinely amused or wanted to draw attention to his moustache, Julian
could not tell. "I've had it so long, I really can't recall."

"I'm
afraid I stared at it rather persistently earlier. It's a diagonal
perspective, isn't it? I saw the gleam of glass at the side. You
were pointing it at the stage, but it was giving you a view to your
left of the marchesa and me, in fact. I can hardly blame you. If I
were seated in a box next to Marchesa Malvezzi's, I should be tempted
to look her way, too."

"Make
no mistake, Mr. Kestrel. Marchesa Malvezzi is well worth a man's
gaze. But I was watching you."

"May
I ask why?"

"My
dear Mr. Kestrel." De la Marque smiled more than ever. "One
may always ask!"

He
bowed and withdrew. Julian looked after him with raised brows.

"So
you've met Monsieur de la Marque." The marchesa appeared at
Julian's side. "I heard you speaking English with him."

"His
English is remarkably good. He could pass for a native, if his
manner weren't so French. Does he live in Milan?"

"He
comes and goes."

"Was
he here in March of 1821?"

She
caught her breath and gazed at him intently. "I don't know. I
hardly knew him in those days. He interests you?"

"Enough
to make me wish to improve my acquaintance with him."

Another
guest claimed her attention. It was not until the second act of the
opera began, and she and Julian were seated once more at the front of
the box, that they could continue their conversation. "So you
wish to go to the villa," said the marchesa. "What will
you do there?"

He
shrugged. "Prowl about with a quizzing-glass, frowning
enigmatically at trifles. Justify your faith in my ability to ask
impertinent questions."

"I
should like to see that. I shall open the villa, and you may stay as
long as you like. But someone must come with us, to give us
countenance." She laid her fan meditatively against her lips.
"I don't get on very well with my female relatives. They
disapprove of me for reading too much."

Julian
was not surprised by her desire for a chaperon. Milanese women were
allowed almost expected to have lovers, but they must not flaunt
them. That was how Rinaldo's wife, Francesca, had transgressed.

"I
shall invite Carlo," she concluded. "I'll speak to him
about it tomorrow."

"I
take it he approves of your plan to ask me to conduct an
investigation independent of Commissario Grimani's?"

"He
will," she said, smiling, "when he knows of it. I haven't
told him yet, because I wanted to meet with you alone tonight, and he
would have insisted on coming with me. Men think a woman can't
manage anything on her own except a love affair. And Carlo is
starved for serious occupation. For the past ten years, he's been
nothing but a courtier, and that's hard for a man who was once a high
government official. Sous les franfais," she added discreetly.

"I
should like to ask him some questions."

"I'm
sure he'd be delighted to tell you anything you wish to know. Will
you come to Casa Malvezzi tomorrow? shall we say at noon? I'll
introduce you to him then. And you'll surely want to meet Maestro
Donati. He's staying with me as well."

Julian
looked at her quickly. "How did that come about?"

"He
retired to Pavia after Lodovico died. When Commissario Grimani was
put in charge of the investigation, I knew he would want to question
him. So I sent a fast courier to Pavia with an invitation for him to
stay at Casa Malvezzi. It seemed only right to take responsibility
for him, since he's obliged to relive some harrowing memories for my
husband's sake." She added, a smile playing around her lips, "I
also knew the investigation couldn't go far in any direction without
him. So while I have him, I'll always be kept informed of
Commissario Grimani's progress."

"Marchesa,
I'm honoured to serve you, but in the realm of ingenuity, I hardly
think you need an assistant, or could find an equal."

"I
know a little about people," she shrugged, "that's all."

Julian
sneezed.

"Salut."

"Thank
you. Where is Marchese Rinaldo, and when do you expect him back?"

"I'm
not privy to his plans. He and I lead very separate lives. He has
his wing at Casa Malvezzi, and I have mine, and when he travels, he
doesn't tell me where he's going or when he means to return. I
imagine he'll come back when he hears that his father died by
violence."

"And
Marchesa Francesca?"

"She
lives in Venice with Valeriano. Do you want to question her, too?"

"I
should like to question both her and Valeriano. Is there any chance
they would come to the villa if you asked them?"

"I
think they might. I've always got on fairly well with Francesca. Of
course Rinaldo would be furious at me for receiving her and her
lover, but as he isn't here, that would seem not to be a problem."

Julian
sneezed again.

"Salut.
I hope you're not catching cold?"

Julian
smiled wryly. "My friend MacGregor would be enchanted to find
he was right in his prediction that I would make myself ill,
travelling in such villa nous weather. It would very nearly console
him for my not having been carried off in a flood."

"I
didn't know English dandies caught cold. I should have thought it
would be too untidy."