The Devil in Music (18 page)

"I
mean that he seems to have set out deliberately to captivate the
marchese. In this secluded spot, no one else could have heard him.
And you say that Marchese Lodovico had come home early that night.
Was anyone else in the house?"

"Only
a few footmen, signor, to guard against thieves. Even the servants
had leave to be out late during Carnival. And Her Ladyship wasn't
expected back before dawn."

"Then
it was clearly the marchese Orfeo meant to serenade."

"It
does seem so, when you put it like that, signor." Ernesto shook
his head sadly. "But at the time I didn't think it out. I was
deeply moved myself. That pure, clear voice wafting up to us I can't
tell you what it was like. He wasn't a man, signor he was the very
heart of youth and love, singing to us in the night."

Julian
was silent for a few moments. "What happened then?"

"The
song ended. My master came to himself with a start. He turned
around to me, his face all streaked with tears, and said, "Ernesto,
I must see him! Quick, bring him to me, before he goes away!"
I ran downstairs in such a hurry that my candle went out, but I
didn't dare take time to light another. I came out through the back
door. He was still here. I stood as close to him as I am to you
now, signor, but I've no idea what he looked like. It was so dark,
and he was wearing a long cloak and a hat with the brim turned down
to shade his face."

"How
tall was he?"

"I
think about middling height, signor. But I didn't take much notice.
How could I know it would matter so much?"

"You
couldn't," Julian reassured him.

"And
yet I feel I ought to have, signer! When I think that it was I,
Ernesto Torelli, who brought him to my master the man who would
become his murderer! It makes me want to dash my brains out against
this wall, signor!"

Julian
laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "I beg you won't do
anything of the kind. I'm in enough of a hobble trying to solve this
crime, without being robbed of the man who probably knew Lodovico
Malvezzi better than anyone else did."

"That's
true, signor." Ernesto seemed a little comforted. "I
served him from the time we were both eighteen, and there wasn't much
he kept from me." He crossed himself. "God and the
Madonna forgive me for what I said about dashing out my brains! It's
not only a mortal sin it's disloyal to my master, to think of leaving
the world while there's anything I can do to help solve his murder!
What more can I tell you, signor?"

"What
happened when you found Orfeo here?"

"I
told him my master, Marchese Malvezzi, had heard him singing and
wanted to meet him. He bowed and said he was honoured, or something
of that sort. I asked him to follow me."

"Did
he seem surprised?"

"I
couldn't say, signor. He wasn't unwilling. I brought him up to my
master's room. I suppose he took off his hat then my master would
have been angry if he hadn't uncovered in his presence but even then
I didn't get a proper look at him. There wasn't much light my master
was sparing with candles. And I wasn't there above a minute or two.
My master dismissed me, and I went. And that was the last I saw of
Signor Orfeo."

"Who
let him out of the house?"

"No
one seems to know, signor. I expect it was the marchese himself."

Julian
thought a moment. "It seems curious he should have received a
stranger alone at that hour. The young man might have been a thief
or a hired bully."

"My
master was brave, signor, and very proud. He wouldn't have believed
any man would dare to lift a hand against him. Of course, he usually
had servants about him when he received a guest, but that was for the
sake of his dignity, not because he was afraid. And after he heard
Signor Orfeo sing, he wasn't thinking of his dignity. Music always
made him forget everything else. It was the only thing in the world
that could even make him forget that he was a Malvezzi."

The
only thing in the world that could make him forget he was a Malvezzi.
The words seemed portentous to Julian, pointing him toward some
truth he was not yet able to grasp.

He
asked Ernesto about the last few months of Lodovico's life. Had he
quarrelled with anyone, received any suspicious visits or letters,
dismissed any servants? Ernesto shook his head. "Except that
on the day he died, he gave the rough side of his tongue to Signor
Orfeo for fighting with Maestro Donati's servant, Tonio. I don't
know much about that I wasn't there. I do know Tonio got the sack on
account of it. But he couldn't have killed my master, because the
police say he was dead drunk at the Nightingale all night."

The
marchese had been on good terms with his servants, tenants, and
neighbours, Ernesto said. Not so his daughter-in-law, Francesca, to
whom he had written a letter a day or two before he died. One
strange thing had happened on the last morning of his life: a
brown-paper package addressed to him was found outside the gate of
Castello Malvezzi. Ernesto did not know what it contained and had
found no trace of it after his death.

"Did
it come through the post?" asked Julian.

"No,
signor. There were no government stamps on it just for Marchese
Lodovico Malvezzi in large black letters."

"Have
you any idea how long it had been there?"

"It
wasn't there the evening before. So someone must have left it during
the night."

"Who
brought it to the marchese?"

"I
did, signor, but I didn't stay to see him open it." Ernesto's
face darkened. "But I know there was something evil in it,
because my master was in a black mood after it came."

"How
do you mean, in a black mood?"

"Fidgety
and ill-tempered, signor. And he'd been in such fine fettle before!
He was so happy, going to the villa every day to hear Signor Orfeo
sing." Ernesto drew closer and dropped his voice
confidentially. "There was something else putting him in
spirits, signor. I never told anyone about it, because he seemed to
want to keep it a secret."

"What
was it?"

"He
was writing a piece of music, signor. Sometimes I'd catch him
scribbling on a pile of papers biting his pen and tearing his hair,
just like a real composer. But when I came near, he'd whisk away
what he was writing, as if he didn't want me to see it."

"Then
how do you know it was music?"

"Because
he left jottings lying about, signor. He'd always had a habit of
writing or drawing on any bit of paper that came to hand. He had so
much life in him, he never could sit still. After we came to the
lake, it was always musical notes. He'd scribble them on anything
newspapers, wrappings of packages, bills. They seemed to haunt him,
signor. So I feel sure he was writing music perhaps something for
Signor Orfeo to sing."

"Did
you keep any of these jottings?"

"No,
signor. I had no reason to. My master just threw them in the
rubbish, and when I found them, I did the same."

Julian
pondered briefly. "What became of this piece of music after he
died? Did it turn up among his papers?"

"I
don't know, signor. It wasn't my place to look at his papers."

"Who
would have looked at them?"

"I
think they went to Come Carlo, signor. He was my master's executor."

Julian
found this curious. "I thought Marchese Lodovico and his
brother didn't get on."

"They
fought about politics, signor. But my master trusted Conte Carlo in
matters of money and family. And he always said Conte Carlo had a
good mind, even if he put it to bad uses."

"So
they got on personally, despite their political differences?"

"I
wouldn't go so far as to say that, signor. But well, blood is
thicker than water."

Julian
thought the Malvezzi blood might well run thinner than most. Family
feeling had not prevented Lodovico from tyrannizing over Rinaldo or
robbing Francesca of her children. If he had trusted his brother and
longtime political enemy to be his executor, it could only be
because, as Ernesto had said, he did not expect anyone to have the
effrontery to injure him. And a man who believed himself
invulnerable was very vulnerable indeed.

"Do
you play tarocch?" Carlo asked, pouring Julian a glass of
Valtellina wine.

"Yes.
Thank you." Julian held up the glass to one of the tall,
narrow windows, which formed twin slits of white light in the little
wood-panelled study. There was no sun today, but even the palest
illumination struck jewel-like glints from the wine's red depths.

Carlo
raised his own glass. "Your health, Mr. Kestrel no idle toast
just now, I'm afraid. You don't mind if we speak English? I have so
little chance to practice."

"Not
at all. But you hardly seem in need of practice, Signer Conte."

Carlo
bowed. His English was indeed very fluent, though he spoke with an
accent.

Julian
tasted the wine. "This is very good."

"I'm
glad you like it. These Valtellina reds are our best local wines.
Please sit down." Carlo beckoned him to a pair of upright
wooden chairs, their leather backs pricked with iron studs. "My
question about tarocch wasn't mere small talk. The card of the Wheel
of Fortune sums up my life and, in great measure, my relationship
with Lodovico."

"I
should like to hear about that."

"It's
no secret that we were at odds politically. From our earliest youth,
he accused me of going over to the rabble, which is to say that I
believed in parliamentary government and scientific progress. Of
course, while the Austrians ruled Milan, it was hopeless to press for
either. But when the French came those were heady days, Mr.
Kestrel! I suppose it's a waste of breath to praise Napoleon to an
Englishman. But you English, who've enjoyed the privilege of
representative government for centuries, can hardly begin to
understand what it meant to us to have even a taste of it. We had a
senate and council of state composed of our own people which is more
than can be said of our legislators now and much of the day-to-day
routine of government was left in their hands. We had a written
legal code, by which all the people might know and understand their
rights. We had new schools, public gardens, flourishing arts and
sciences. If it hadn't been for the incessant war that drained away
our money and destroyed our young men, we would have thought
ourselves living in a new Golden Age."

"And
for you, the Wheel of Fortune took an upward turn?"

"Indeed.
For many years it seemed I'd chosen the winning side, as well as the
right one. I held high government office, married, raised a family.
During all that time, Lodovico would have nothing to do with me. I
must admit, I exacerbated the trouble."

Julian
stifled a sneeze with his handkerchief. "In what way?"

"I
acquired the villa the one where he was murdered. He wanted it for
himself, you see. It was owned by a family named Delborgo, who were
longtime rivals of ours. Lodovico always claimed it belonged by
rights to the ancient Malvezzi fiefdom, and his legal wrangling over
it helped ruin the Delborgo. They were obliged to sell the villa,
but I believe Ottavio Delborgo would have set fire to it before he
would have let it fall into Lodovico's hands. He sold it to me
purely to spite him."

Julian
sat back, stretching out his legs and crossing one booted ankle over
the other. Not that this or any other position could make him
comfortable in such a chair it might have been designed to discourage
long conversations. "To me, the question of why the Delborgo
sold it to you isn't as interesting as why you bought it. You must
have known that would infuriate your brother."

"Our
relations could hardly have got much worse. But, really, I didn't
give much thought to what Lodovico felt or wanted. I was born on
that part of the lake I grew up there. My earliest memories are of
seeing the sun rise over those hills and learning to manoeuvre a boat
on those waters. Were there other country properties I could have
purchased? Of course. But once I knew the villa was available, my
heart became set on that.

"I
spent years rebuilding and renovating turning that decaying shell of
a villa into a jewel of classical art. I redid the gardens, too, in
the English style. I should like to show them to you when we go
Beatrice says they aren't much changed. I went there often, first to
superintend the improvements, then later to enjoy the results.
Meanwhile Lodovico sulked there's really no other word for it at his
castle on the cliff above. So you had the ludicrous spectacle of two
brothers living a stone's throw from one another, but not speaking.