The Devil in Music (17 page)

"Oh,
we're a very delicate breed. Beau Brummell, our patron saint, once
claimed to have caught a cold by being put into a room at an inn with
a damp stranger."

"I
hope you won't be too ill to call tomorrow."

"Marchesa,
I promise you, nothing short of the plague will keep me away."

It
was nearly two in the morning by the time Julian got back to his inn.
Yet he knew he would not sleep until he had consulted his map of the
northern Italian states. By the light of a little olive-oil lamp, he
located the Lake of Como. Lake Maggiore, further west, ran roughly
north to south and formed part of the border between Lombardy and
Piedmont. Belgirate was a village on the western, Piedmontese shore.

The
quickest way to reach the Lake of Como from Belgirate would be to
cross Lake Maggiore by boat, then proceed overland. Julian estimated
that the journey would take seven or eight hours each way. Adding on
even a minimal amount of time for the marchesa to reach the villa,
find Lodovico in the belvedere, and kill him, she would have had to
be absent from Belgirate for at least fifteen hours. Surely a lady
of her rank not to mention her beauty could not have disappeared for
so long without exciting remark. At the very least, her servants
would have known if she had gone missing. And was it conceivable
that this elegant, urbane woman had ridden by night along lonely
roads, in imminent danger of being set upon by customs officials or
bandits?

Reassured,
Julian put the map away and went to bed. But as he lay in the
darkness, he was besieged by questions. Why did the marchesa travel
so far off her course after leaving Turin? If her concern was to
escape from the Piedmontese rebels, why did she not cross Lake
Maggiore into Austrian Italy? Finally, even assuming she would not
have travelled alone from Belgirate to the villa, could she not have
bribed or enticed some man to help her commit the crime?

He
could not acquit her, however much he wanted to. Her husband's death
had left her a very wealthy woman. No doubt she had lived in luxury
as his wife, but she had been dependent on him for every sol do in
her purse, and Milanese noblemen were notoriously miserly in
everything but public display. A woman like the marchesa
intelligent, cultivated, a product of the enlightened French regime
might well have chafed against the dominion of an arrogant man like
Lodovico. Could her show of gratitude and respect toward him be all
a blind?

Julian
turned over restlessly, pulling free of the bedclothes tangled around
his legs. He would not solve these conundrums tonight and if he did
not sleep a little, he would be in no condition to pursue them
tomorrow, either. He lay still, resolutely clearing his mind of the
mar-chesa and all his be devilling thoughts about her. Yet the last
thing he saw as he fell asleep was her eyes, diamond bright against
the sable of his closed lids.

In
the morning the waiters at the inn clucked sympathetically on hearing
Julian's sneezes and ragged voice. One of them procured him a bottle
of cold medicine, which he did not take but kept in his
dressing-case, as it seemed to consist almost entirely of spirits and
would be useful if his brandy supply ever ran short. Liquors other
than wine were hard to come by in the Italian states.

At
a quarter to noon he fortified himself with handkerchiefs and set out
for Casa Malvezzi, in the Contrada delle Meraviglie. Although it was
only a few streets away, he hired a sediola: a light, open, two
wheeled carriage. He wanted the Malvezzi servants to think him a man
of means, so that they would cultivate Dipper, who accompanied him in
lieu of a groom. No barriers of nationality or language would
prevent them from making friends with a servant whose master might be
expected to fork out generous tips. And who knew what Dipper might
learn from them about the Malvezzis and their murder?

The
Contrada delle Meraviglie the Street of Marvels lay in the shadow of
the Castello, Milan's ancient fortress, now an Austrian barracks.
Casa Malvezzi seemed a fortress in its own right, its marble facade
bristling with pointed pediments, its roof lined with spiky finials.
Dipper rang smartly at the street door, and a porter ushered them in.

They
found themselves in a spacious courtyard surrounded by a portico of
granite columns. The porter handed them over to a pair of footmen in
patched and faded indoor livery. One of them conducted Dipper to
the servants' hall for some refreshment, while the other bade Julian
follow him into the left-hand wing of the house.

They
passed through damp, draughty, ill-lit rooms, hung with sombre
ancestral portraits and huge, moth-eaten tapestries of hunting
scenes. Each room had a great glass chandelier with a tangle of
snakelike branches. Some of the carved wooden doors were off their
hinges; a few were missing altogether. Gaunt wooden statues of
saints stared from corners; bronze flowers bloomed grotesquely in
urns. High-backed chairs stood at attention and defied anyone to sit
on them. Julian saw nothing of the marchesa's personality here.
This was a Malvezzi stronghold, as the many gilt reliefs of the
family coat-of-arms attested.

The
marchesa's sitting-room was similar in style, but much better cared
for. The walls were freshly painted and gilded, the windows secure
against draughts. There were even a few commodious silk upholstered
sofas and chairs. Over the mantelpiece was a massive equestrian
portrait of Lodovico, in the style of Velazquez's paintings of
Spanish royalty. He sat his horse proudly and well, his head held
high, his hazel eyes flashing gold.

Beneath
the portrait stood a man who might almost have been Lodovico returned
to life. He had the same commanding height, broad shoulders, curly
dark hair, and beaked nose. But his eyes were deep brown rather than
gold, which softened his expression, and his face was lined about the
mouth rather than the brow, as if he were more inclined to smile than
to look fierce.

The
marchesa sat on a sofa. She was in white again: a simple cotton gown
that was, if possible, even more enchanting than last night's silk,
because it showed how little her beauty owed to the trappings of
wealth and fashion.

Julian
kissed her hands. "Good day, marchesa."

"Oh,
dear." She smiled in amused sympathy. "I'm afraid you
must have encountered at least two damp strangers."

"It's
nothing a touch of catarrh." Julian was sorry to appear before
her with his throat rasping and his handkerchief in highly unromantic
use, but there was no help for it.

"I'm
all the more grateful you should come today, when no doubt you would
far rather be home in bed."

"Marchesa,
a man who would wish to be anywhere but in your company is more fit
for a madhouse than a sickbed."

She
smiled. "Allow me to present you to my brother-in-law."

"Signer
Kestrel!" Carlo Malvezzi came forward and wrung Julian's hand.
"It's a great pleasure to meet you, and an even greater one to
learn that you're going to help us investigate my brother's murder."

"I'm
honoured that Marchesa Malvezzi should ask for my help in a matter of
such importance. I shall do all I can to be worthy of her trust, and
yours."

"I
don't doubt it, my friend," said Carlo.

"Carlo
has kindly agreed to accompany us to the villa," said the
marchesa. "I thought we might leave the day after tomorrow, if
that wouldn't be too soon for you, Signer Kestrel and, of course, if
you're well enough."

"It's
not too soon," said Julian, "and I shall take care to be
well enough."

"That's
in God's hands," she said, smiling. "I pray He won't
disappoint me. Very well: we'll plan to leave on Friday morning.
Carlo and I will come for you in my carriage." She added, "I've
sent a letter by courier to Francesca, inviting her and Signer
Valeriano to join us at the villa. I've also written to Commissario
Grimani."

"You
haven't told him about Signer Kestrel's investigation?" Carlo's
eyes opened wide.

"Why
not?" she said tranquilly. "I informed him that you and I
and Signer Kestrel will be leaving for the villa shortly, so that if
he has anything to communicate to me, he should direct his letters
there."

"He'll
descend on us within the hour," Carlo predicted.

"I
can't help that. He mustn't be permitted to say we did anything
behind his back. That would be far too good a weapon to give him."

"I've
been rather looking forward to meeting him," said Julian.
"Signer Conte, have you any idea when Marchese Rinaldo means to
return?"

Carlo
shook his head. "He hasn't written to me for some time. I
don't even know where he is." He turned to the marchesa.
"Would Ernesto know his plans?"

"Ernesto
was Lodovico's manservant," the marchesa explained to Julian.
"He served Lodovico for nearly forty years, so Rinaldo is
obliged to keep him on, though he isn't comfortable with him and
doesn't take him on his travels."

"Did
Ernesto accompany Marchese Lodovico to the Lake of Como?" asked
Julian.

"Yes,
but he never saw Orfeo." She added, "He did talk with him
once, in Milan, on the night Lodovico met him."

"Then
how is it he can't identify him?"

"Why
don't I let him explain that himself? Will you ring, Carlo?"

Carlo
pulled the bell-rope by the fireplace. A footman came in, and the
marchesa told him to send Ernesto to her.

"I
should like to speak with you as well, Signor Conte," said
Julian.

"When
and where you like," said Carlo.

"I'm
afraid I shall have to ask some prying and possibly insulting
questions."

Carlo
smiled wryly. "I'm a liberal in Italy, Signor Kestrel. I'm
accustomed to be regarded as a dangerous criminal."

A
servant entered and bowed to Carlo and the marchesa. He was about
sixty, with stooping shoulders and a face nearly as grey as his hair.
In token of his senior status, he wore a sober grey tailcoat in lieu
of livery. His linen, though darned and yellowing, was scrupulously
clean.

"Ernesto,"
said the marchesa, "this is Signor Kestrel, the Englishman I
told you of. He wishes to ask you some questions about Orfeo. Pray
be absolutely candid with him, and hold nothing back."

"Your
Ladyship, I would bare my soul to the Devil himself, if it would help
bring my master's murderer to justice!"

"I
knew I could rely on you," she said warmly, "just as
Lodovico always did." She rose. "I'll leave you to Signor
Kestrel, who is very far from being the Devil."

Julian
bowed and kissed her hands. "Merely his advocate on occasion."

Ernesto
led Julian out through a back door to a dark, narrow passage behind
Casa Malvezzi. They stood beneath an ivy-grown wall about twenty
feet high, forming one side of a little courtyard off the right wing
of the house. Ernesto said, "This is where I saw him, signer."

"Orfeo?"

"Yes,
signer."

"Tell
me how that came about."

"It
was a week or two into Carnival, signer. My master had a headache
and had come home earlier than usual, claiming that the noise in the
streets was making it worse."

Julian
nodded. Carnival was the festive season between Christmas and Lent,
when there were masked balls at La Scala, and the streets were
thronged with revellers at all hours of the night.

"I
was helping him make ready for bed," Ernesto went on. "His
rooms were up there." He pointed to a row of windows
overlooking the courtyard. "When the young man came along and
stood where you and I are now, signor, and began to sing, we could
hear him quite clearly. At first my master took offence, and told me
to send the impudent fellow about his business. But then he called
after me to wait. He started moving toward the windows as if he were
walking in his sleep, and didn't say a word till the song was over."

"What
was the song?"

"To
see her in another man's arms." Ernesto hummed a little of it
reminiscently. "Cimarosa was the music of our youth the
mar-chese's and mine. Strange: you'd have expected a young man like
that to sing Rossini."

"But
that wouldn't have served his purpose so well," Julian mused.

"What
do you mean, signor?"