The Devil in Music (53 page)

"I
am desolate." Julian widened his eyes in subtle imitation of de
la Marque's usual mocking manner.

"It
seems to me," said MacGregor, "a man might resort to
violence if somebody stole the notes he'd been taking for months, or
years, for a book on singing. The footmen said you used to go to the
opera and write down the singers' fior , nor , that music they make
up as they go along. You could never have re-created all that from
memory. It was a deal of effort gone down the wind."

"On
the contrary," de la Marque rejoined, "I owe the footmen a
debt of gratitude. They helped ensure that my much-vaunted book
would never be finished. Making notes and having them stolen is
rather like Penelope weaving in the daytime and unweaving her work at
night: at that rate, the project will entertain me for years."

"Rubbish!"
said MacGregor. "Sooner or later you'll want to hold the book
in your hands and say, "Here's something I've accomplished."
"

"That
sounds unutterably dreary," said de la Marque, "like a
death. I enjoy activity, not accomplishment. Process enthralls me."
He looked affably at Julian. "Speaking of process, what are
you going to do now?"

"I
take it you deny killing Lodovico Malvezzi?"

"I
do."

"And
you have no information as to who might have killed him?"

De
la Marque glanced off meditatively, resting his chin on the knuckles
of one hand. "I wouldn't say that I had no information. An
idea has struck me lately, and this seems as good a time as any to
mention it."

"Please
do," Julian invited.

De
la Marque abruptly looked Julian in the eyes and asked with a faint
smile, "Have you ever heard of the Comte d'Aubret?"

"He
was a French nobleman," said Julian slowly, "a liberal,
reputedly somewhat eccentric. He died a few years ago, of a wasting
illness."

"All
very true," said de la Marque approvingly. "I knew him
slightly. We were fellow emigres in England. He was fifteen or
twenty years older than I, and his eccentricity was more than
reputed. When the emigres returned to France after the Restoration,
most of us were delighted to take up our old lives and privileges and
make the most of them. Not so d'Aubret. He was a philosopher:
thoughtful, sceptical, and to the horror of France under the restored
Bourbon monarchs irreligious. He admired the British Constitution he
even had one or two good things to say of Bonaparte. The King
distrusted him, other nobles murmured against him, priests execrated
him, his own peasants couldn't make him out. The police would no
doubt have liked to catch him plotting against the government, but as
far as I know, they never did. He didn't meddle in politics. He was
very jaded. If I were to sum him up, I should say that no gentleman
was ever more cynical in public matters, or more kind in private
life."

"From
all I know of him," said Julian, "you've described him very
well."

De
la Marque smiled broadly. "From you, that's a great compliment
you being such a shrewd judge of character."

"What
has this Comte d'Aubret to do with Lodovico Malvezzi's murder?"
MacGregor wanted to know.

"Well,
you see, my dear Doctor," de la Marque explained, "the
Comte d'Aubret had an English protege: a young man who, I believe,
would have been about Orfeo's age. D'Aubret sent this young man to
Italy for polishing a year or two before the murder. And I seem to
remember hearing that he could sing."

Julian
regarded de la Marque intently. "What was this young man's
name?"

"That's
the very devil of it, Mr. Kestrel. I simply cannot recall. I never
met him, you see." De la Marque smiled, catlike. "Of
course, it may come back to me at any time."

"Of
all the bamboozling tricks!" MacGregor exclaimed. "Do you
think you can make a May-game of us with your French counts and
English proteges? You say you remember how old this young man was
and when he came to Italy, but you can't remember his name?"

"Sadly,
mon tres cher medecin, that is the case. You must understand, this
young Englishman sparked considerable interest among d'Au-bret's
acquaintances. He wasn't very much seen d'Aubret mostly

kept
him at his chateau but there were all manner of rumours about him.
Some people said he was d'Aubret's natural son, sired in England when
d'Aubret was very young. Others were convinced d'Aubret used him as
a spy and a go-between with the English. There was even a romantic
story of how the young man was wandering destitute in the streets of
Paris, and fainted into d'Aubret's arms outside Tortoni Whatever the
explanation, d'Aubret took an extraordinary fancy to him. I'm not
speaking of I'amour a la Grecque I don't think d'Aubret's tastes ran
that way. He may have been developing a system of education, like
Rousseau. Or perhaps he was merely bored."

"I
take it you don't believe in disinterested kindness," Julian
observed.

"I
don't believe in disinterested conduct of any sort. Whoever tells
you he acts without regard for the consequences to himself is either
a lunatic or a liar." De la Marque sat back and smiled. "But
you haven't answered my question, man vieux. What are you going to
do?"

"There's
only one thing I can do." Julian rose and turned to Dipper.
"Will you please find Commissario Grimani and bring him here?"

"Yes,
sir." Dipper went out.

De
la Marque started to his feet. "What what are you doing?"

"I'm
reporting what you've told me to Commissario Grimani. I can't keep
information of this importance from him."

"But
but " De la Marque looked blank. "I thought you promised
the footmen you would keep them out of it."

"I
promised I would try. It isn't possible. The theft of your notebook
and your story of the Comte d'Aubret's protege have to be disclosed."

"You
must be completely mad! Don't you know that Grimani "

Julian
lifted his brows. "Don't I know that Grimani what?"

"Nothing!"
De la Marque threw himself back into his chair. "Do as you
like! Bring the whole benighted house down on our heads if it amuses
you. But may the Devil and all his legions take me if I understand
what you're about! I am lost in the labyrinth of your mind!"

MacGregor
snorted. "Happens to me around Kestrel every day."

Julian
gave Grimani an account of the footmen's theft of de la Marque's
notebook and de la Marque's speculations about the Comte d'Aubret's
protege. Grimani naturally wanted to question the footmen, but
Julian said they had gone to the village for the night. As he

had
promised them, he asked Grimani for leniency on their behalf as
informers. He need not have bothered: the footmen were nothing to
Grimani. He was far more interested in making a case against the
victim of their crime.

"What
precisely was in this notebook of yours?" he asked de la
Marque.

De
la Marque leaned back, threw one leg negligently over the arm of his
chair, and sighed, a martyr to boredom. "All manner of musical
jottings. Fioriture I heard at the opera. Musical exercises I'd
read of or invented. Tonal and rhythmic sequences I'd heard singers
mangle. I was trying to determine which combinations of notes are
most challenging, and why."

"Did
you include any advice on composition?" asked Julian. "Or
perhaps any compositions of your own?"

"I
have no pretensions to be the next Rossini," de la Marque said
lightly.

"I
only wondered," said Julian, "because Ernesto thought
Mar-chese Lodovico was composing a piece of music before he died.
And it occurred to me that he might have been using your notebook to
do it."

De
la Marque regarded him more keenly. "You interest me."

"Conte
Carlo told me he'd never had any success at composition before,"
Julian went on. "If he had wanted to use your notebook to write
say, an opera, or merely a song would he have found the materials
there?"

De
la Marque slowly withdrew his gaze. "I did try my hand at
composing. I'd laid the foundation anyone with a little knowledge of
music might have constructed the edifice."

"Do
you mean to accuse Marchese Lodovico of plagiarizing your music?"
Grimani demanded.

"I
don't mean to do anything so energetic as that," said de la
Marque with a yawn. "Mr. Kestrel suggested it, and I was
obliged to admit that it was possible."

"What
finally became of this notebook?" said Grimani.

"I
don't know, Signor Commissario. I can only tell you that I never got
it back."

"It
wasn't found among Marchese Lodovico's possessions," Grimani
pointed out.

"I
can't account for that," shrugged de la Marque. "Perhaps
Orfeo has it."

"And
perhaps," said Grimani, "you are Orfeo, and you wormed

your
way into Marchese Lodovico's good graces in order to retrieve your
notebook and revenge yourself on him for his footmen's assault."

"Actually,"
mused Julian, "doesn't the theft of Monsieur de la Marque's
notebook make it far less plausible that he's Orfeo? With such bad
blood between him and Marchese Lodovico, it's hardly likely that the
marchese would turn round and invite him to a musical idyll at the
lake."

"Unless
he couldn't resist his voice," put in MacGregor. "Everyone
says that when the marchese heard a fine voice, he forgot everything
else."

"This
is all vastly nattering," said de la Marque. "Within the
past quarter-hour, I've been hailed as a promising composer, a
sublime tenor though I grieve to remind you all that I am a baritone
and the most subtle and diabolical criminal imaginable. But as we've
rather exhausted the subject of my achievements, licit and illicit,
don't you think, Commissario, we might give a moment's attention to
the Comte d'Aubret's protege?"

"I
haven't forgotten him," said Grimani. "This d'Aubret was a
notorious liberal. Our government knew all about him, as the French
authorities knew of potentially dangerous radicals here. If he
really did have an English protege who could sing, and who came to
Italy not long before Orfeo appeared, the matter is worth looking
into. Maestro Donati did say that Orfeo claimed to have learned
French before he learned Italian. But your story is a little too
convenient, monsieur. It may be nothing more than an invention to
divert suspicion from yourself. I'll have enquiries made to discover
this name you can't remember. But I won't absolve you of being Orfeo
until I have firm proof that someone else is."

Grimani
departed. De la Marque undraped his leg from over the arm of his
chair and rose, saying with a bow, "Thank you, gentlemen, for a
most diverting evening." He caught MacGregor's eye and added
softly, "I'll leave you with Mr. Kestrel. You may wish to say
goodbye to him while you have the chance."

He
went out. MacGregor sputtered, "What did he mean by that? He
threatened you!"

"I
don't know that it was an outright threat," said Julian. "But
I imagine that if I were carried off by a rapid consumption, he
wouldn't go into mourning."

He
looked after de la Marque with a touch of regret. He did not trust
the Frenchman an inch, yet he felt a twinge of liking for him. This
was all the stranger, since de la Marque clearly had designs on

the
marchesa a motive for murdering her husband that Grimani seemed to
have overlooked.

There
was a pattering sound from the balcony. The rain that had impended
all evening was beginning. Dipper closed the French windows, and the
mist gathered thickly against them, like an excluded creature looking
in. Julian sent Dipper for extra blankets from the linen closet.
One of the marchesa's rare touches of Milanese parsimony was her
reluctance to light fires.

As
Julian and MacGregor prepared for bed, they could hear the rest of
the villa party going to their rooms up and down the corridor.
Julian made out Carlo's genial "Buona none," St. Carr's
complaint about the rain and Fletcher's long-suffering response, the
marchesa's melodic voice alternating with Nina's childlike trill.
Then there was silence.

Suddenly
there came a loud drunken laugh. "Come on! Anybody would think
you were on your way to be hanged!"