The Devil in Music (36 page)

"On
the night Marchese Lodovico was murdered, you didn't by any chance
tether your horse outside the garden gate?"

"I've
told you, I kept well away from the villa precisely because I might
otherwise have been tempted to try to see him."

"There
was no danger of that, surely? He was living at the castle and only
came to the villa during the day."

Valeriano
hung fire a moment, then said carefully, "I had no way of
knowing that. It was his property. He might have been there."

"Have
you ever seen a lady's elbow-length glove decorated with green silk
myrtle leaves and a ruby heart pierced by a diamond shaft?"

"No."
Valeriano lifted his brows in mild surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"I'll
tell you another time. On the night of the murder, did you see
anyone approaching Villa Malvezzi, either on land or by boat?"

"No.
But it was dark, and I wasn't looking out for such a thing."

"How
long were you out riding?"

"A
few hours, I should think."

"And
when did you return?"

A
kind of preternatural alertness settled on Valeriano. He watched
Julian like a fencer anticipating his adversary's next thrust. "I
don't remember. Quite late."

"What
happened then?"

"I
went to bed, Signor Kestrel."

"And
was Signora Argenti in bed?" "Yes," said Valeriano,
after the briefest of pauses. "She remembers this night quite
differently, Signor Valeriano. She says she woke up and found you
gone, and was so worried that she dressed and went out looking for
you."

Valeriano's
gaze strayed off, as if the memory were coming back to him. "Yes.
She's right. I had forgotten." He lifted his shoulders
apologetically. "It was four and a half years ago."

Very
well done, thought Julian, but I don't imagine you forget a great
deal, and certainly not that night. "She says you were upset
when you came home and found her outside. Why was that?"

"Again,
I don't rightly remember. But I believe she was very cold, and her
dress was wet. I feared she would be ill."

"It
didn't perhaps occur to you that she'd been across the lake? She
told me she can handle a boat."

"The
thought never crossed my mind." "That, at least, you seem
to remember very clearly." "I trust Signora Argenti,
Signor Kestrel. I believe in her as I do in God."

"Then
why did you hold back information to protect her?" "I beg
your pardon, but I didn't. Though if I had," he added in a low,
deliberate voice, "it would be because innocence isn't a
sufficient protection in itself. If it were, there would be no
martyred saints, no wronged women " He paused, then added with a
faint, sad smile, "No castrati. So don't speak to me of
innocence. If that were our only clothing, we would freeze."

"You
seem in a brown study," Julian observed to Dipper, as the lithe
little valet was helping him dress for dinner.

Dipper
hesitated, then came closer and asked in a confidential whisper,
"Signor V." sir what did they cut off him? Both barrel
and shot pouch?"

"Only
the shot pouch. It would have been done when he was no more than
seven or eight, after putting him into a hot bath and giving him a
drink to dull his senses."

Dipper
shuddered.

Julian
went down to the drawing room and found that Grimani had returned
from Como. The commissa rio was angry that Francesca and

Valeriano
had been questioned in his absence, but as Julian had pre dieted,
they did not much interest him, once he had ascertained that they
knew nothing about Orfeo.

At
dinner, the talk was all of tomorrow's festival. The marchesa and
her guests planned to go to Solaggio in the morning to see the grand
procession through the village and attend the Festival of Baskets,
when baskets of food prepared by the local women and girls would be
auctioned for the benefit of the church. Fletcher and St. Carr, who
were dining at die villa, reported that all the church silver was
being polished for the occasion, and half the village had turned out
to decorate the church with crimson hangings, flowers, and pictures
of miracles. Moreover, to the great delight of the villagers, the
podesta had obtained leave for a firework display.

"How
fortunate that permission came in time," said de la Marque. "I
remember a cold winter in Milan when the Viceroy wanted to fill the
Arena with water, so that the children could skate. Permission
arrived from Vienna in July!"

Grimani
eyed him coldly. "No doubt you would have preferred us to go on
sending our requests to Paris."

"It's
nothing to me either way," de la Marque said, smiling. "But
I think the couriers would have enjoyed it more."

After
dinner, the company went out on the terrace. Looking south, they
could see the harbour of Solaggio hung with coloured lanterns in
honour of Santa Pelagia, while all along the shore were tiny
twinkling lights, which Carlo explained were snail shells that the
local children had filled with oil and set afire.

The
marchesa's servants brought out coffee, liqueurs, fruit, and little
cylinders of mascarpone cheese sprinkled with sugar. When all the
guests had partaken to their liking, the marchesa asked Valeriano to
sing. Donati offered to accompany him at the piano, and the party
adjourned to the music room.

Valeriano
gave them Parto, pa rto Mozart's tour de force for castrate, in which
the young Roman hero Sextus took leave of his beloved Vitellia:

"I
go, I go, but you, my love, Make peace with me. I shall be whatever
pleases you; Whatever you wish, I shall do .. ."

At
the first sound of his voice, MacGregor, Fletcher, and St. Carr
jumped in their chairs. Julian was not surprised. Most English
people

were
not used to castrati, and to hear such a voice from a man over six
feet tall was bound to startle them. Too chill for a woman's voice,
too powerful for a boy's, it was eerily brilliant, not quite human
repugnant yet sublime. Valeriano's range and technical prowess were
unmatched. His voice effortlessly spanned three octaves: each single
note crystalline and perfect, yet following in such rapid succession
that just listening made one breathless. Then Valeriano began to
improvise, letting the melody flower into scales and cadenzas,
trilling for a minute or more without a breath, now fast, now slow,
swelling his voice till the hearer felt it in every nerve end, then
letting it die away to a lover's sigh. Francesca's eyes shone with
quiet pride, while Valeriano turned to her at all the most tender
passages, as if singing for her alone.

When
he finished, he was showered with applause. But MacGregor muttered
to Julian, "I still don't like it. I know he's a fine singer as
a physical feat alone, his performance is a marvel. But every note
reminds me of how his body was mutilated to produce that sound. To
applaud him feels as if I were encouraging what, as a medical man and
a Christian, I think is sacrilege."

"At
least audiences no longer call out "Hooray for the knife!"
as they did a few generations ago. We have more conscience now or
more shame. Civilisation's aesthetic sense called castrati into
being; now civilisation's moral sense is stamping them out. But in
the meantime, what is left to these men but the admiration their
training and discipline merits? Think of yourself as applauding the
hard work that made Valeriano an artist, not the surgery that made
him a soprano."

"I
suppose you're right." MacGregor joined in the applause with
more enthusiasm. "You know, he must have hated Lodovico
Malvezzi for taking that away from him."

"Lodovico
didn't stop him from singing, only from performing in public."

"Well,
isn't that an important part of being a singer?"

"I
daresay," Julian mused. "To me, it would be like appearing
naked before a crowd of strangers."

The
marchesa next asked Julian to play Invitation to the Dance. He
complied. The others applauded warmly. Fletcher and St. Carr, who
had not heard Julian play before, were impressed.

"That's
quite a difficult piece," said St. Carr knowingly, "on
account of all the sharps."

Julian's
brows went up "Do you play, Mr. St. Carr?"

"No.
Why?" added St. Carr anxiously. "Do you think I ought?"

"I
don't think so," said Fletcher decidedly, "considering that
it's I who'd have to listen to you practice." He explained to
Julian, "Beverley learned to read music so that he could turn
pages for ladies in low-necked evening frocks."

St.
Carr glared. Julian thought it like him to study music for such a
reason. Yet he also reflected, not for the first time, that St.
Carr had a very good mind, on the rare occasions he chose to use it.

Grimani
took advantage of this lull in the musical entertainment to make an
announcement. "I've decided to return to Milan the day after
tomorrow. I would go tomorrow, but it would be impious not to stay
for the feast day of Santa Pelagia. Signer Kestrel may, of course,
pursue his vagaries here as long as it pleases Marchesa Malvezzi to
tolerate them. But for my part, I consider this whole sojourn at the
villa a waste of time."

"What
more progress are you likely to make in Milan toward solving the
murder?" Carlo wanted to know.

"I
have no obligation to detail my plans to you, Signor Conte."

Carlo's
eyes flashed. "Lodovico was my brother, and in Rinaldo's
absence I am head of this family! Who in the name of all the saints
are you to thumb your nose at me?"

"I
am the loyal servant of His Imperial Majesty Francis the First of
Austria," said Grimani impassively, "engaged in the task to
which I was assigned by the Viceroy. If you wish to be of use to me,
I respectfully suggest that you pray for my success."

"I
will," snarled Carlo, "since nothing short of a miracle
seems likely to bring it about."

"If
you must quarrel," interposed the marchesa, "will you be
good enough to go out on the terrace? Else I shall have to ask
Signor Kestrel and Signor Valeriano to drown you out."

"I
beg your pardon." Carlo bowed to her, swallowing down his
anger. "I have a proposal to make to you, Signor Commissario,
if you'll hear it."

"What
is it?" said Grimani.

"The
same one I made before we left Milan, and before Signor Kestrel
undertook to assist us: that we search for Orfeo in England and ask
the Bow Street Runners to help us."

Grimani
frowned. "These Bow Street Runners are not police. As I
understand it, they work for hire, and their power is greatly
restricted."

"If
you mean that they can't make a search or arrest without cause,
that's true," said Julian.

"Our
police are more efficient," said Grimani. "They make the
search or arrest in order to find the cause."

"All
the same," said Carlo, "the Bow Street Runners are
considered to be expert investigators. What do you say, Beatrice?"

The
marchesa's slim brows drew together. "I should be sorry to see
the investigation move so far away from me. But I can't see anything
to be gained by our remaining here. I should like to know what
Signer Kestrel thinks."

Everyone
looked at Julian. He leaned back in his chair, regarding them all
thoughtfully. "I think there's far more to be learned here,
where the events leading up to the murder took place, than in
England, where we should find ourselves combing the country for a
singer of whom we know almost nothing, and who could be anywhere."

"It
may be a waste of time," said the marchesa, "but it has the
great virtue of not having been tried. Let Commissario Grimani go to
England let Carlo go too, if he wishes, since he speaks the language
so well and let the rest of us go on with our lives as best we may.
Signor Kestrel may stay here if he likes, and pursue the
investigation in his own way." She smiled at Julian. "Perhaps
I'll even visit you occasionally."

"I
wish to point out," said Grimani, "that I require the
permission of no one here to conduct an investigation to England.
I'll take it up with my superiors in Milan and advise Your Ladyship
of their decision as a courtesy."