The Devil in Music (4 page)

He
opened the lattice and put out his head, letting his eyes adjust to
the darkness. Soon he could trace the outlines of the mountains
against the misty sky and, more vaguely, the curtain wall edged with
sharp stone teeth, the massive gate, the square watchtowers, and the
litter of sheds and carts in the courtyard. But there was no light.
Either he had imagined it, or it had been put out

No,
there it was again! It was only a hand-held lantern, but in this
gloom it shone as conspicuously as a beacon. Lodovico peered hard at
the figure holding it: a man in a long dark cloak and a tall hat,
moving cautiously along the curtain wall toward this very tower.

The
light disappeared again. It must be a dark lantern, with a shutter
to conceal the flame. Without taking time to relight his own candle,
Lodovico felt his way swiftly to the door and down the stairs. At
the

bottom,
where the tower met the curtain wall, there was a door leading into
the courtyard. Lodovico lifted the latch very slowly so as not to
make a sound, and opened the door.

The
man in the cloak had nearly reached him. His lantern was shuttered
again; he was using the wall to Guido his steps. Lodovico could just
make out his dark figure silhouetted against the paler stone. When
he reached the tower door, he unshuttered his lantern. The light
shone on Lodovico's face.

Lodovico
heard his sharp intake of breath. He took the lantern and turned it
around to illumine the intruder's face. "Good evening, my
songbird. You've flown very far from your nest."

"I'm
sorry, Signer Marchese." Orfeo's eyes were wide, his face a
little drawn, but he spoke quite steadily.

"How
did you get through the gate?"

"I
found a key at the villa."

"You
found the lantern there, too, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"You've
breached my terms, straying so far from the villa."

"I
hoped at this hour it might not matter."

"It
matters at any hour. We had an understanding, and you've broken it.
Why?"

"I
was restless."

"You
could have walked in the garden."

"Forgive
me, Signor Marchese, but I was tired of the garden."

"What
brings you here?"

"Curiosity.
I've often looked up at the castle and wondered what it was like."

That
was too much for Lodovico. He threw back his head and laughed.

Orfeo
opened his eyes at him, then waited politely till his mirth subsided.
"May I ask how I've amused you, Signor Marchese?"

"My
dear Orfeo, do you really think I don't know why you're here?"

"What
do you mean?"

Lodovico
shook his head tolerantly. "Ah, well, you can't help being
English. An Italian would have owned up at once. Is she expecting
you?"

"I
don't understand."

"Because
if she is, she'll be disappointed. I'm sending you back to the villa
at once. Holy Virgin, you have all day to make love to her!

There
must be hollows enough in the bushes for what you have in mind. Or
better still, take her to the caves. But don't come seeking her
here."

Orfeo's
face became very still. He said nothing for a few moments. Then: "I
have no assignation with Lucia. She's never given me any
encouragement."

"But
you've come to see her all the same you can't deny that."

Orfeo
was silent.

"My
boy, do you think I'll disapprove? Why do you think I chose such a
comely, lusty girl to look after the villa while you're there? I
know some people think it's bad for a singer to expend too much of
his vital energy on women, but I think that's rubbish. A man your
age shouldn't be deprived of female companionship. It upsets his
physical balance makes him depressed and discontented. And then how
can he sing? So take Lucia by all means. Consider her yours to do
what you like with. That's why she's here."

"And
when I finish with her?" Orfeo asked quietly.

"I'll
give her a dowry. That and my gratitude will bring potential
husbands flocking round her. If there's a child, you can visit it.
You see how easily these things are arranged? But now you must go
back to the villa before the servants see you. And mind you don't
leave it again till your training is finished."

"As
you wish, Signer Marchese." Orfeo held out his hand for the
lantern.

"One
more thing." Lodovico's hand closed around the young man's
upper arm in a grip that must have been painful, and was meant to be.
"This damp night air is ruinous for your voice. If I catch you
out in it again, I'll lock you up. So be wise, my Orfeo. Don't make
me put my songbird in a cage."

As
usual, Lodovico slept well, but not long. Soon after dawn, he rose,
wrapped himself in his worn wool dressing-gown, thrust his stockinged
feet into slippers, and pulled his nightcap down over his ears to
keep them warm. Then he padded upstairs to his study. Unlocking the
claw-footed chest, he drew out the notebook and papers again. He
worked for an hour or two by the pale dawn light, pausing frequently
to rub his hands and flex his cold, stiffening fingers.

At
length he heard measured, methodical footsteps approaching up the
stairs. He hastily scooped together the papers he was writing on and
shut them in the notebook. He trusted Ernesto more than any of his
other servants more even than most of his friends but this project
was special. No one must know about it until it was finished.

Ernesto
came in and bowed. "Good morning, Excellency. I've left your
shaving-water in your room, when you want it."

"Thank
you. I'm going to work a while longer before I'm shaved and dressed.
What's that?"

Ernesto
was holding a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a cord.
He handed it to Lodovico. "Bruno found it this morning, on the
flagstones just outside the castle gate."

It
was roughly oval in shape, about two feet long, soft and pliable.
When bent, it made a rustling sound. "FOR MARCHESE LODOVICO
MALVEZZI" was written on one side, in anonymous block capitals.

Lodovico
frowned at it. He did not like mysteries or surprises. "You
may go," he said. Ernesto bowed and went out.

Lodovico
cut the cord with his penknife and opened the brown wrapping. Inside
was a layer of crinkly silver tissue paper, of the kind used to wrap
purchases in ladies' shops. A piece of parchment, folded in
quarters, was pinned to it a note, evidently, but Lodovico did not
stop to read it. He tore apart the tissue paper to see what was
inside.

It
was a lady's glove, made of soft, fine, cream-coloured kid, a little
discoloured with age. The part extending from wrist to elbow was
embroidered with myrtle leaves in fraying green silk. Nestled among
the leaves was a heart made all of rubies, pierced by a diamond
shaft.

Lodovico
drew the glove out of the wrappings. It was flapping wildly; he
realized this was because his hands were shaking. He clenched them
around the glove to keep them still then, seeing the soft kid crushed
and twisted, he dropped the glove fearfully.

With
hands not yet quite steady, he unpinned and unfolded the note. The
writing was wavering and erratic, as if a right-handed person had
penned it with his left hand. It said:

I
know who owned this glove and how she came by it. Unless you wish
all the world to know her story, meet me on the night of 14 March,
after 11.00, at the Moorish belvedere at Villa Malvezzi.

Lodovico's
cheeks flamed. Blackmail! He, Marchese Malvezzi, the prey of an
extortionist! Rage brought his strength and energy flooding back.
He leaped up, scraping his chair, and strode fiercely about the room.
Who could the blackmailer be? Only one person knew the story

behind
the glove but how could the glove have come into that per son's
hands? And why should that person have waited so long to use it?

Whoever
the blackmailer was, he had mistaken his victim. He would soon find
out what it was to make an enemy of Lodovico Malvezzi! Perhaps
Lodovico would set the law on him, using the note as evidence. Then
again, he might simply send half a dozen footmen with staves and
cudgels to keep the belvedere rendezvous. One thing was certain the
blackguard would not extort a single sol do Let him talk let him do
his worst! Nothing he might say could hurt Lodovico now.

Or
could it? Lodovico's steps faltered. He went to his desk and picked
up the glove again. A voice he had not heard in years came back to
him, silvery and sweet. He shivered, as if someone had walked over
his grave.

"No,
no," said Donati, "chromatic thirds, transposed up one
semitone at a time. Like this." He played a few bars on the
piano.

Tonio's
pen scratched with maddening slowness. Donati only hoped he was not
making too many mistakes. Sometimes it seemed more trouble than it
was worth to dictate the vocal exercises he devised to Tonio. He had
no need for a record himself, since his blindness had only
intensified his already formidable memory for music. But his pupils
required a transcription to sight-read and study. Orfeo in
particular took a great interest in exercises and other training
techniques, and often talked with Donati and the marchese about them.

Donati
knew Orfeo had fallen into the habit of correcting Tonio's errors.
He would glance over Tonio's work, ask a few questions, and then take
the exercises away where he thought Donati could not hear him
rewriting them. He was always doing Donati little unobtrusive
favours like this. But he should not have to take on Tonio's duties
he was a gentleman, after all, even if he was being trained for the
stage.

There
was no shirking the unpleasantness any longer: Tonio must go. When
they returned to Milan, Donati would help him find some other
position. It would not be easy, for Tonio was as sullen and
unlovable a young man as Donati had ever encountered. The untalented
son of talented parents, he seemed to think the world owed it to him
to make up for this unfairness, and he himself owed the world nothing
in return. The one person at the villa he readily obeyed was the
marchese, and that was only because he was afraid of him. Donati was
far too soft-hearted a master for him. Orfeo clearly thought so too,
though he did not say it in so many words.

Donati
heard a faint sound from the direction of the window: a short sigh,
abruptly cut off. Orfeo had stifled a yawn. "Have I been
working you too hard, my son?"

"No,
Maestro." Orfeo's voice had the added warmth that told Donati
he was smiling. Unlike many of Donati's pupils, Orfeo always seemed
amused to realize how much Donati observed about him. But the next
moment his tone changed became subtly guarded. "The marchese is
coming."

"He's
early," said Donati. "The church bells haven't struck
ten."

"He
was late yesterday," Orfeo reminded him.

Donati
knew what he meant. Having missed part of yesterday's morning
lesson, Lodovico would take care to exact all that he was entitled to
today.

The
marchese's quick, sharp footsteps approached the music room. He
swept in. "Good morning, Maestro. Orfeo." He did not
deign to greet Tonio, who sat shuffling his feet beside Donati at the
piano. "I have something to tell you before we begin. I
haven't been sleeping well at the castle, so I've decided to spend
the night here."

"Here?"
Donati was taken aback. "Tonight?"

"Of
course tonight, Maestro, what did you think?"

"I
think Maestro Donati meant that we're hardly prepared for this
honour," Orfeo said. "Only a few of the rooms are open,
and no servants' quarters are prepared."

"I'm
not bringing any servants," the marchese rejoined. "You
know I don't want any more people seeing you than I can avoid. You."
He must be addressing Tonio. "Tell Lucia to get one of the
bedrooms ready for me I don't care which and to expect me for dinner
tonight and breakfast tomorrow."

"Yes,
Your Excellency." Tonio plunked down his little portable desk,
setting the inkwell rattling in its hole, and hurried out.

"Now
then, my songbird," said the marchese, "let's see what sort
of voice you're in today."