The Devil in Music (25 page)

She
walked on abruptly. Julian looked after her intently for a moment,
then followed.

The
music room was at the front of the house, looking out on the terrace
and the lake. It was a dainty white and gold confection, decorated
with motifs of lyres and laurel wreaths. Glass-fronted cabinets
displayed antique violins and wind instruments. At one end of the
room was a harp, with a gilt music stand beside it. At the other was
an English piano in an elegant marquetry case. The piano attracted
Julian irresistibly.

"Should
you like to try it?" the marchesa asked.

"If
I may." He swept his coat-tails from under him and sat down,
running his fingers experimentally over the keys. Their beautiful,
rich tone swelled through the room. He launched into Weber's
sparkling Invitation to the Dance.

The
marchesa listened with dawning surprise and pleasure. When he had
finished, she said, smiling, "I see I have a great deal to learn
about you. That you should understand music, I would have expected
of a man so civilised. But that you should prove a virtuoso in your
own right, I wouldn't have guessed."

"Hardly
that, Marchesa."

"Who
is that playing?" asked a voice from the doorway.

Julian
and the marchesa looked around. Maestro Donati stood leaning on
Sebastiano's arm, his sightless eyes straining toward the source of
the music.

Julian
rose. "It's I, Maestro Julian Kestrel."

Donati
seemed surprised. "You have a sensitive touch, Signer Kestrel.
It was a pleasure to hear you." He hesitated. "Forgive
me, but I thought it was uncommon for men to play the piano in your
country."

"It
is," said Julian lightly. "I had an eccentric education."
He moved away from the piano. "I should far rather hear you,
Maestro. Would you be good enough to play perhaps one of your own
compositions?"

Donati
furrowed his brow, as if some disturbing train of thought had been
loosed in his mind. But he bowed politely, and signed to Sebastiano
to lead him to the piano. He played an air from The Return of
Ulysses, an opera he had written long ago. To Julian's mind, his
restrained, effortless mastery knocked spots off his own more
superficial skill.

The
other guests began to appear, and the bell rang for dinner. The
marchesa gave her arm to Donati, thus obviating any need to choose
between Julian and de la Marque. The dinner combined French
delicacies like foie gras and bechamelle chicken with veal alia
Milanese and the ubiquitous saffron rice. After the meal, everyone
retired from the table; Milanese ladies, unlike their English
counterparts, did not leave the gentlemen to their port. Chairs had
been set out on the terrace, both around the central lily pond and
along the balustrade. Some of the company drank coffee or liqueurs
there, while others strolled in the gardens. As twilight fell, lamps
were lit on the terrace, their warm light contrasting with the cold,
dusky blues of the lake and hills.

Julian
looked over the balustrade, pondering the possibility that Lodovico's
murderer had arrived by boat. If so, it seemed unlikely that he had
landed at the villa pier. The villa was far too conspicuous at
night: with even a few lamps lit, it glowed like a beacon in the
blueblack stillness. No: the murderer would have left his boat on
the shingle and climbed up the embankment into the gardens. The
marchesa had said the embankment was worn away in places and might
have afforded footholds to an intruder. Julian determined to see
whether there were any such places near the belvedere, while there
was still enough light to make investigation worthwhile.

He
set off down the flagstoned path that led south from the terrace
along the shore. To his right, the landscape garden stretched away,
its greens and browns fast fading in the gathering dusk. To his
left, the lake was partially screened from view by a row of
magnificent plane trees. Julian passed between two of these trees
and peered over the edge of the embankment. At its foot was a pebbly
strip of shingle, broken by jagged rocks and clumps of bushes.

He
walked along the edge of the embankment, his body bent at a
precarious angle to examine the embankment wall. Sure enough, he
found several spots where the wall was worn away, and one where

entire
stones had been dislodged. There was even a straggly row of bushes
where a boat could be concealed.

Very
well it was possible the murderer had come or departed by boat. But
was it likely? Even assuming the embankment wall had been
sufficiently eroded four or five years ago, when Lodovico was killed,
the idea of an approach by boat was pure conjecture. In contrast,
very real hoofprints and droppings had been found outside the garden
gate. Was it not far more probable that the murderer had used a
horse?

Having
walked this far, Julian decided to have a look at the belvedere. He
followed the shore path to the little Moorish pavilion. Every other
of its eight sides had an entrance with a set of blinds that could be
let down for privacy. Three of these entrances fronted a small
gravelled yard; the fourth led to a white-railed balcony overhanging
the lake. Each of the intervening sides had a narrow, pointed
window.

Julian
went in through the nearest entrance. In the ebbing light, he made
out pale grey walls and a floor tiled in black and white marble.
White stucco designs in fanciful Moorish patterns surrounded the
windows and doors. Two low marble benches were the only furnishings.

The
place had nothing to say to him. It was charming, tranquil, a little
absurd a trifling toy of a Moorish palace on an Italian lake. The
idea of hatred, betrayal, violence erupting here seemed ludicrous.

He
went out onto the balcony. All around him was a slate-blue mystery
of restless waters and towering hills. On the farther shore a few
lights twinkled, one perhaps marking the villa where Francesca and
Valeriano had stayed.

A
bell chimed somewhere across the water. Another answered on Julian's
side, and soon a lovely chaotic chorus resounded from shore to shore.
Julian knew that peasants all around the lake would be laying aside
their work or amusements to say their evening prayer. He prayed
himself, asking for guidance. But did God listen to prayers wrung
from people who never thought to address Him when they were not in
need?

The
bells died away, till only a single chime lingered on the air.
"B-flat," said a meditative voice.

Julian
turned. Gaston de la Marque was lounging on one of the marble
benches inside the belvedere. "I trust I don't disturb you?"
he said in his flawless English, always startling in a man so
thoroughly French.

"On
the contrary." Julian came in from the balcony and took a

seat
on the opposite bench. "I've been hoping for a chance to speak
with you."

"How
opportune. Perhaps you called to me in some mystic fashion, and I
answered."

"And
perhaps you followed me to see what I was about."

"Mundane,"
shrugged de la Marque, "but within the realm of possibility.
What did you want to talk with me about?"

"I
should like to ask where you were in March of 1821."

De
la Marque's eyes widened with interest, curiosity a touch of
wariness. "I was in Piedmont Turin, to be precise. I remember
quite well, because a most tedious and inconvenient revolt took place
there at about that time."

"How
long were you there?"

"I
believe I went there for Carnival, which would mean I arrived the
previous December. I remained until the end of March or the
beginning of April I can't recall precisely."

"May
I ask why, if you found the revolt so tedious and inconvenient, you
remained in Turin throughout the time it was taking place?"

De
la Marque's glance strayed off reminiscently. "I believe I had
a particular reason for remaining, but I no longer remember who she
was."

"Can
you recall anything about her?"

"My
friend, can you remember every woman you were pursuing four or five
years ago?"

"If
I had braved a rebellion in order to be near her, I probably should."

"Your
orderly mind again! I stand abashed."

"Did
you see Marchesa Malvezzi while you were in Turin?"

"Was
she there? Then I must have seen her La Beatrice is nothing if not
conspicuous but unluckily I hadn't the honour of a close acquaintance
with her at that time."

Julian
regarded him wryly. "Would it do any good to ask what game
you're playing?"

"Not
the least in the world," de la Marque said, smiling. "You
never said yea or nay to my wager."

Julian
thought back. "Three thousand francs that if I find Orfeo, I'll
be sorry. That seems rather vague. How will you know for certain if
I'm sorry or not?"

"Let
that be my look-out. Is it a wager?"

"Done."
Not having their betting books with them, they shook hands.

They
walked back to the villa in a strangely companionable silence. Night
was falling in earnest; the mountains on the farther shore looked
black against the sky. Ahead, the villa terrace seemed an oasis of
light, with figures gliding about as if in a magic lantern show.

When
they reached the terrace, de la Marque immediately made for the
marchesa. Julian dutifully sought out MacGregor, who was sitting by
the balustrade, watching a night fisherman at his work. The
fisherman leaned over the side of his boat, deftly harpooning fish as
they came to the surface, dazzled by the light of the lantern hanging
in the prow.

"We
could try that some night if you like," said Julian. "It's
something of a sport on the lake."

"I'll
stick to angling," said MacGregor. "This pouncing with a
harpoon looks like a good way to take a header into the lake. He's a
rare hand at it, though."

A
strain of singing came through the open windows of the music room.
It was a basso cant ante voice a light, lyrical bass with a piano
accompaniment. The voice was youthful, imperfectly controlled, but
full of promise:

"Che
invenzione, che invenzione prelibata! Bella, bella, betta, bella in
ve rita

"I
know that tune!" said MacGregor. "It's from one of those
Figaro operas."

"The
Barber of Seville," Julian confirmed. "It's one half the
duet between the barber Figaro and the hero Count Almaviva."

Donati
had grasped the gist of their conversation. "It's Sebastiano,"
he explained. "He uses that duet to exercise his voice."

"It's
a pity we don't have a tenor," said Carlo.

"As
far as we know," murmured de la Marque.

"What
do you mean by that?" Grimani demanded.

"Why,
my dear Commissario," de la Marque said suavely, "only that
our friend Orfeo may be anywhere."

"Che
invenzione, che invenzione prelibata!" sang Sebastiano.

"What
does that mean?" MacGregor whispered to Julian.

"
"What an idea, what a marvelous idea." "

The
night air grew colder, and the company began drifting indoors. Julian
contrived to give his arm to the marchesa.

"I
noticed you out walking with Monsieur de la Marque," she
observed.

"Yes,
we were becoming better acquainted. Tell me, did you see him in
Turin in the winter of 1821 in particular during the period leading
up to the revolt?"

"Is
that where he says he was?" she mused. "No, I don't
remember seeing him. But we didn't know each other very well in
those days."

"Yes,
so he told me."

She
studied his face. "You didn't believe him?"

"Marchesa,"
he said lightly, "naturally I see rivals everywhere."

She
smiled, and waved away some gnats with her fan. "If Monsieur de
la Marque was in Turin in March of 1821, he can't have been here
killing my husband."

"Did
you suspect him?"

"Did
you?"

They
held each other's gazes, saying nothing.