The Devil in Music (19 page)

"You
know the rest. The Wheel of Fortune turned full circle. The French
were driven out, the Austrians returned, and all hope of a united
Italy turned to ashes. I was a particular target of Austrian
reprisals, because they'd somehow got the idea I was hiding munitions
from them." Carlo smiled enigmatically. "You'll
understand if I don't go into the question of whether they were right
in that."

Julian
inclined his head.

"I
was obliged to leave Milan," Carlo resumed. "I took refuge
in Parma, where my wife became a lady-in-waiting to the Archduchess.
We lived like courtiers, but we were as poor as rats. I had to sell
both the villa and my house in Milan. Lodovico was resolved not to
let the villa slip through his fingers a second time. He offered by
far the best price, and so the villa came to him at last."

And
death found him there, thought Julian. Was that what Carlo was
thinking? And did he feel some satisfaction that the villa his
creation, the object of his love and pride had proved so fatal to the
brother who wrested it from him? Impossible to tell: his face
expressed only sadness.

"What
were your relations with him after he purchased the villa?"
asked Julian.

"Oh,
they improved considerably." Carlo smiled wryly. "Lodovico
was a man who always had to win, but having won, he didn't hold
grudges. We weren't close, and we rarely saw each other. But on my
visits to Milan, I stayed at Casa Malvezzi, and we met and conversed
on civilised terms.

"When
Francesca left Rinaldo, I offered to mediate between them. I was
sorry for the boy between Francesa's desertion and Lodovico's
contempt, his life was a misery. Lodovico preferred to handle that
matter in his own way, but Rinaldo and I became better friends. More
recently, I've tried to influence him to do some good with all the
wealth that came to him from his father. There's so much he could do
to improve the living conditions of his tenants, and to modernize
their farming methods."

"I
suppose he had the most to gain from his father's death," Julian
mused.

Carlo
withdrew into polite, patrician reserve. "He inherited his
property. That was to his advantage, yes."

"His
very considerable advantage, I should think. In England, the heir to
a great estate generally has an income settled on him in his father's
lifetime. Here, young men like Marchese Rinaldo are apt to remain
dependent on their fathers until they come into their inheritance."

"It
doesn't follow that Rinaldo killed his father on that account!"

"No,
hardly. I'm not accusing anyone, Signer Conte. I'm merely trying to
understand how Marchese Lodovico's death affected those around him."

Carlo
looked grave. "Beatrice warned me that you would consider our
family as suspects in the murder. I must tell you that I find it
both painful and offensive to have it suggested that any of my
relatives shed Malvezzi blood."

"I
understand that, Signer Conte. I'm all the more grateful that you
should cooperate so fully in answering my questions."

"I
have no choice, Signor Kestrel. Quite apart from all that Beatrice
and I know of your experience and acumen in solving murders, you are
really the only person we can turn to to conduct a private
investigation. Not many Italians would be willing to risk treading
on the toes of the Austrian army and the police. Even for you, the
endeavour isn't without its dangers."

"Are
you warning me off, Signor Conte?"

Carlo
broke into a laugh. "If I am, I hope with all my heart that
I've failed! Come, it's profitless to talk in this vein. You've
kindly agreed to assist us, and you are going about it in the manner
you think best. When I was in government, I knew better than to
consult an expert and then refuse to be Guidod by him. Allora, what
more can I tell you?"

"As
long as we're confronting delicate issues, where were you on the
night your brother was killed?"

"Ah."
Carlo sat back slowly. "At the time Lodovico went to the Lake
of Como with his tenor, I was in financial straits. My debts had far
outstripped my resources. I had three sons and three daughters to
provide for, and the eldest were of an age to marry or be launched in
a profession. In short, to use your slang expression, I was in Queer
Street. I could have asked Lodovico for money, but I must confess,
my pride rebelled at the thought. So my only recourse was to sell
whatever property of value remained to me.

"I
still owned a box at La Scala, which I'd been leasing since I left
Milan. With that, two horses, and the last of my wife's jewelry, I
might keep our heads above water. Early in March or perhaps it was
late in February, I can't remember I came secretly to Milan to
arrange the sale. If I'd sold so much property in Parma, our
creditors would have discovered how hard up we were and descended on
us en masse.

"I'd
been in Milan for about a fortnight when I heard of Lodovico's death.
I stayed on to make myself useful to Rinaldo and Beatrice any way I
could, and to meet with our family lawyer, Palmieri, about Lodovico's
will."

"What
were you doing on the night of the murder itself?"

"That
was four and a half years ago, Mr. Kestrel. I assume I was at home
in bed there's no opera during Lent, and I hadn't come to Milan to
carouse in cafes."

"Is
there anyone who might remember where you were that night?"

"I
shouldn't think so. I was living a very retired life. I'd taken
apartments on the outskirts of the city and was keeping my movements
very quiet. So there's no one to swear I didn't slip away in the
night, unless perhaps my servant remembers. He was the only person I
took with me to Milan."

"Is
he still in your service?"

"Yes.
His name is Guido Gennaro. He's here with me in Milan, if you wish
to speak to him."

"Thank
you. I shan't trouble him at present." Julian preferred to

leave
the servants to Dipper, unless any of them had something particularly
extraordinary to relate. "Since you were Marchese Lodovico's
executor, I should like to ask you how he left his property."

"The
entailed property went to Rinaldo. That includes this house, the
castle, and the land surrounding it. Beatrice inherited the villa
and its contents for her life, with reversion to Rinaldo or his
heirs. Lodo-vico also left her his opera box, and virtually
everything else that wasn't within the entail, apart from some
bequests to servants and the Church."

"And
you, Signor Conte? Did you receive a bequest?"

"A
trifle." Carlo smiled his wry, resigned smile. "A few
thousand lire to buy masses for his soul. What you would call in
English 'a shilling for candles." "

"Did
you know before he died how he meant to dispose of his property?"

"Oh,
yes. He told me several years earlier, when he asked me to be his
executor."

Then
bang goes any theory that Conte Carlo killed his brother in order to
put his own affairs to rights, Julian thought. "Did Ernesto
tell you about the anonymous package that was left for Marchese
Lodovico outside the castle gate?"

"Yes.
He told both Beatrice and me. Neither of us has an inkling where it
came from or what could have been in it."

Julian
put his handkerchief to his nose and sneezed. "Do you know if
Marchese Lodovico was composing a piece of music before he died?"

"No.
Why do you ask?"

"Ernesto
thought he was."

"I
know he tried to write music when we were young, but he hadn't any
talent for it. It was a bitter disappointment to him. I never heard
he'd turned his hand to it again."

"I
thought something might have turned up among his papers."

"I
wouldn't know. I only really looked at the legal documents deeds,
contracts, that sort of thing. His letters and other private papers
I sealed up and gave to Rinaldo." He knit his brows. "Do
you think it's important?"

"It's
a dangling thread, which I dislike in an investigation nearly as much
I do in a coat." He regarded Carlo thoughtfully. "Signor
Conte, who do you think killed your brother?"

"Orfeo
is the obvious suspect. But, having an affection for lost causes, I
often find myself taking his part."

A
footman darted into the room. "Excellency, Her Ladyship sent me
to ask you and Signer Kestrel to come to her at once!" "Softly,
my boy!" said Carlo. "What's happened?" "Commissario
Grimani is here, Excellency. And he looks like a thundercloud!"

Commissario
Grimani wasted no time on preliminaries or social graces. He walked
rapidly into the sitting-room and, ignoring Carlo and Julian, made
for the sofa where the marchesa sat. After the briefest of bows, he
rapped out, "I understand Maestro Donati is staying here."

"How
delightful to see you, Signor Commissario. Yes, Maestro Donati is my
guest."

"Why
was I not informed?"

"My
dear Commissario, it would have been an insult to inform you, when
you're so eminently capable of informing yourself of whatever you
need to know. May I present you to our friend, Signor Kestrel?"

Grimani
ran a disparaging gaze over Julian, with eyes as cold and colourless
as ice-water. He had a narrow head, thin lips, and a wiry, spare
frame. His brown hair grew very neat and straight. Julian supposed
it would dare do nothing less.

"How
do you do, Signor Commissario," said Julian.

Grimani
looked unpleasantly surprised perhaps at finding that Julian was
fluent in Milanese. "Marchesa Malvezzi wrote to me about you.
I gather you think yourself more capable of solving this crime than
the Milanese pojice?"

"By
no means. But since your quarry is English, I thought my assistance
might be of some use."

"What
exactly do you mean to do?"

Julian
explained his plan to explore the villa and its environs, and to
question all who had been at odds with Lodovico Malvezzi before his
death, or had benefited from it. Grimani heard him out with rising
impatience.

"This
broad investigation of yours is a waste of time," he declared,
"and an insult to the marchese's family and friends. We know
that on the night of the murder an unsavoury young man was left all
but alone with Marchese Lodovico, and afterwards fled from the house.
I suppose you wish to absolve Orfeo because he's English?"

Julian
shrugged. "There have been as many Englishmen who were born to
be hanged as men of other nations. But to all appearances Orfeo had
nothing to gain from the crime and a great deal to lose. With one
pistol shot, he transformed himself from the promising protege of a
powerful and influential patron into a fugitive who could only sing
in public at the risk of betraying himself, and who would pay with
his life if he were caught."

"This
was either a crime of passion or of politics," Grimani said
shortly. "The considerations you describe don't enter into it."
He turned to the marchesa. "When are you leaving for the Lake
of Como?"

"On
Friday morning," she replied.

"You
will allow me to join your party. I wish to examine the villa and
the belvedere, and to discuss the murder with the local officials who
first investigated it. And although I consider Signer Kestrel's
enquiries frivolous and misGuidod, it's conceivable he may unearth
evidence useful to me, and I cannot risk its being mishandled or
lost."

"But
my dear Commissario," protested the marchesa, "I should
never forgive myself if our frivolous and misGuidod efforts took you
away from your serious duties in Milan."

"I
have nothing to keep me in Milan at present, Your Ladyship. I've
sent agents out searching for Lucia Landi and Antonio Farese; any
news they have to impart can reach me at the villa as easily as here.
I consider the matter settled. If you have any complaints, you may
take them up with the Director-General of Police. Now I wish to
question Maestro Donati. Be good enough to send for him."

"As
always, Signor Commissario, your charm sweeps everything before it."
The marchesa looked around at her brother-in-law, who was leaning
against the mantelpiece, arms folded, regarding Grimani with
unabashed dislike. "Carlo, will you please ring?"