The Devil in Music (43 page)

"For
God's sake, Beverley!" Fletcher threw up his hands. "He's
making you out to be a murderer! If you're this singer Orfeo, then
it's all Lombard Street to an eggshell that you killed Marchese
Malvezzi!"

St.
Carr's jaw dropped. "I killed him? I never even met him!"

"It's
ridiculous to think Beverley is Orfeo," Fletcher argued to
Grimani. "He's too young."

Grimani
opened St. Carr's passport. "Beverley Percival Stanhope St.
Carr," he read, stumbling a little over the English names.
"Born April ninth, 1803." He looked up at St. Carr. "You
would have been nearly eighteen in the first months of 1821. That's
old enough for your voice to have changed. And it would have been
very natural for you to give your age as twenty-one, to reassure
Marchese Malvezzi that you weren't a minor and could take
responsibility for yourself."

"But
I didn't!" exclaimed St. Carr. "I wasn't here! I've
never been to Italy before! And I'll tell you something: I'm not
ever coming back! I'd no notion a fellow could be pulled about so."

"You
can read music," Grimani went on, "and I gather that in
your own country you pass for a gentleman."

"Pass
for one!" St. Carr sputtered. "No, really, that's "

"Take
a damper, Beverley!" Fletcher caught his arm.

"Where
were you from December of 1820 to March of 1821?" Grimani
pursued.

"Do
I have to answer that?" St. Carr demanded of Fletcher.

Fletcher
looked uneasily at Grimani.

"If
you don't answer," said Grimani, "you will be taken into
custody. The gaol in Solaggio is somewhat primitive. The roof leaks,
and the prisoners sleep on straw and are sometimes troubled by rats.
But if you choose to go there, it's no concern of mine."

"Can
he do that?" St. Carr asked Fletcher in a small voice.

"Why
do you keep appealing to him?" Grimani snapped. "You were
brought here at my command. I've taken your passports. Can you have
any doubt that, if I order these soldiers to take you away and lock
you up for a day, for a week, for however long it takes to bring you
to heel it will be done?"

St.
Carr swallowed and said nothing.

"For
the last time," said Grimani, "where were you in the first
few months of 1821?"

"I
was living in Canterbury, with a grinder."

Zanetti
broke off interpreting. "A grinder? What is that, please?"

"It's
a tutor. An old quiz who hammers knowledge into your head before you
go off to university, so that you won't make too much of a cake of
yourself when you get there."

"You
lived in this man's house?" asked Grimani.

"Yes.
He had three of us living with him, muzzing over Latin verbs and
that sort of thing."

"How
long did you live there?"

"I
don't remember exactly. From about the autumn of 1820 to the summer
of 1821."

"What
was this grinder's name?"

"Hawkins.
And the other pupils were Whitfield and Noyes."

"What
were their Christian names?"

"I
don't remember. We didn't call each other by them."

"Have
you any proof you were in this Canter-bury with this grinder at the
time Orfeo was here?"

"No,
of course not. The other fellows could vouch for me, but they aren't
here."

"No,"
said Grimani, "they aren't."

"Oh,
for the love of God!" broke in Fletcher. "You can't
suppose he ran away from the grinder and came all the way to Italy?"

"I
have no way of knowing if he was ever with the grinder to begin with.
And nor do you. You say you weren't in England at the time."

"But
I would have known if he'd disappeared for months! His parents would
have written."

"Perhaps
they were embarrassed," said Grimani. "Or they didn't
know. The grinder may have been afraid to tell them their son had
disappeared. Or perhaps he sent Signer St. Carr to Italy
deliberately, as a Carbonaro agent. The Carbonari have recruiters
everywhere, including England."

"Of
all the preposterous !" Fletcher started to walk about, but
found himself hemmed in by the soldiers. He turned back to Grimani,
his anger giving way to entreaty. "Signer Commissario, you must
see that Beverley isn't your man. He's too young and feather-headed
to be a Carbonaro, much less an assassin. He can't sing, and he only
learned how to read music so that he could look down the front of
ladies' dresses I beg your pardon, Marchesa."

Beatrice
inclined her head with the faintest of smiles.

"So
give him back his passport," Fletcher urged, "and let him
cross into Switzerland. I'll stand surety for him."

Grimani
waved this aside. "Why have you come to Solaggio?"

"We
were looking for rural peace and quiet," said Fletcher wryly.

Grimani
rose. "This interrogation is concluded. You may go about your
business. When I need you again, I'll send for you."

"And
you expect us to cool our heels here until you're convinced that
neither of us is Orfeo?" said Fletcher. "How the deuce do
you prove you can't sing? You can croak a few lines off-key, but you
may be play-acting. The fact is, this is a stalemate, and I don't
see any end to it."

"It
may end sooner than you think." And for the second time that
day, Grimani smiled.

He
signed to the soldiers that they might go. Fletcher hung back,
apparently wanting to speak to Julian. Zanetti drew near, to
overhear whatever they might say. "Oh, hang it!" said
Fletcher, and tramped out, St. Carr with him.

Grimani
tucked the two passports into an inside pocket of his coat. "You've
been remarkably quiet, Signer Kestrel."

"I
shouldn't think you would object to that," said Julian.

"I
don't. I approve. I'm told that in England people go to the
magistrates' courts as if they were theatres, to watch the
interrogations. I can tolerate you on those terms."

He
went out, Zanetti scurrying after him. Julian was left alone with

the
marchesa for the first time since last night. She had taken off the
black veil she had worn to church, and her soft hair was uncovered.
Only some twelve hours ago, his hands had run riot through that hair
and scattered the pins on the floor of the belvedere

Her
thoughts were evidently far from the belvedere. "Grimani is
right, Signer Kestrel. You didn't question Signer Fletcher and
Signer St. Carr at all."

Julian
marked how formally she addressed him. He assumed a cool, calm
manner mirroring hers. "I could have added little to Grimani's
interrogation, and would have forfeited a great deal."

"I
don't understand."

"Some
people, Marchesa, will confide in a friend far more readily than they
will submit to an enemy. At present, Fletcher and St. Carr are
inclined to see me as their ally rather than Grimani's. Why should I
do anything to dispel that view?"

"Ah,
yes, I see." Her face cleared. "Giuliano, I should have
trusted you." She held out her hand. "Will you forgive
me?"

He
took her hand, but only to bow over it and let it go. "It seems
to me, Marchesa, that I wax and wane in your regard in proportion as
you find me useful."

"We've
agreed that Lodovico's murder must be solved before we can think of
anything between us. So why should I not be glad when you come
closer to solving it?"

He
searched her face. He wanted so much to believe her. "The
murder may be solved sooner than we expected or at all events, the
investigation is about to take a decisive turn. Ever since that
gendarme arrived, Grimani has been smiling like a spider with its web
nearly complete. He's turned up a trump, and is only waiting his
opportunity to play it."

Grimani's
secret did not come to light until late that day. The villa party
had dined early. Francesca and Valeriano had gone walking in the
garden, as they often did, while de la Marque, as if in defiance of
Grimani, had sauntered off without leaving any word where he was
going. The rest of the company were taking coffee on the terrace.
The sun, low in the western sky, streaked gold gleams on the lake,
and cast long shadows across the white marble floor and balustrade.

The
villagers, recovered from last night's celebrations, were out on the
lake in force, savouring what remained of this fair, bright Sunday.
All at once a larger boat cut a swathe through their lazily drifting
craft.

It
made determinedly for the villa, a little knot of gendarmes aboard.
Grimani rose and watched it approach, his gaze fairly raking the air.
At length one of the gendarmes moved, and disclosed a woman seated
among them. Grimani let out his breath in satisfaction. "Now
you'll see this investigation speedily brought to an end. My men
have found Lucia Landi."

Beatrice,
Carlo, Julian, MacGregor, and Grimani surged to the balustrade to
have a look at the girl perhaps the only person on earth who could
identify Orfeo by sight. She was about twenty, dressed in a blue
skirt, a white blouse, and a blue bodice with red laces. Her hair
was dark, her skin brown and satiny. Her proud head and coronet of
silver hairpins gave her the air of a captive queen.

Her
eyes travelled over the elegant company ranged along the balustrade.
She stared longest at Julian, then seemed to ask a question of the
others in the boat. The boatman, a veteran of the lake who had
ferried guests to and from the villa before, leaned down and spoke to
her, jabbing a finger in Julian's direction. Her eyes blazed up at
Julian again, and her face hardened.

"She
was discovered last night," said Grimani, "in the town of
Brescia, about seventy miles from here. She's been a servant there
for the past three years, since her father died."

"Why
has it taken so long to find her?" asked Julian.

"Her
employers, out of a misplaced desire to protect her, delayed in
telling the police where she was. But in the end they did their
duty, and my men travelled to Brescia to collect her. The gendarme
who came this morning brought me word that she was on her way."

Lucia's
boat bumped against the pier. Two gendarmes sprang out and helped
her to alight. Julian saw that her wrists were handcuffed behind
her. He turned sharply to Grimani. "Halfa dozen gendarmes, and
they needed to put her in irons?"

"They
followed proper procedure," said Grimani. "She grew up on
this lake and no doubt swims like a fish. They couldn't risk her
jumping overboard to escape."

"I
wouldn't blame her if she did!" exclaimed Carlo. "Blood
of Diana! She's only a slip of girl, and a witness, not a criminal!"

"My
men had their reasons," was all Grimani would say.

Lucia
walked meekly up the stairs to the terrace, the six gendarmes forming
a phalanx around her. At the top, she broke from them so suddenly
that they were caught off guard. She rushed up to Julian. "The
boatman told me who you are! You're the Englishman who's come to
capture Orfeo! But you will not do it! I tell you, you will not
touch him!"

Julian
was so taken aback that for a moment he could not reply.

"The
boatman said you've come all the way from England to help the police
trap Orfeo," she stormed. "Bah! You know nothing about
him!" She looked around fiercely at the others. "None of
you knows anything! Only I know."

"And
you will tell what you know," said Grimani.

"Signor
Commissario " Julian began.

Grimani
cut him off. "Lucia Landi, I am Commissario Grimani, of the
Milanese police. I've had an account of you from my sergeant. I
understand that when you heard my men were coming for you, you ran
away into the mountains, and they had to pursue you and bring you
back." He glanced toward Carlo. "That, Signor Conte, is
why she's in handcuffs. She isn't merely a witness, but Orfeo's
accomplice."

"You
can take the handcuffs off now," said Julian. "There's no
longer any danger of her swimming away. And in any event "