The Devil in Music (54 page)

Julian
opened his door a crack. Rinaldo was bundling Francesca into their
room at the other end of the hall. By the light of an oil lamp in
his hand, Julian saw her backing away from the threshold, her hands
out beseechingly. Rinaldo pushed her inside and shut the door behind
them both.

Julian
closed his own door. His grip on the knob was tight on his anger,
less so. "If she weren't his wife, there would be a name for
what he's going to do to her."

"But
she is his wife," said MacGregor. "That makes all the
difference in the world. Whom God hath joined together, Kestrel.
You can't interfere between them."

At
that moment, Julian felt scant respect for the sacrament of marriage.
But he knew he could do nothing for Francesca. If he rescued her
from Rinaldo, she would never get her children back. She would have
broken with Valeriano to no purpose.

It
was one thing to conclude that he could not help her another to put
her out of his mind. He sent Dipper to bed, but did not feel like
going to bed himself. Clad in trousers, shirt, and dressing-gown, he
stood by the French windows, watching the rain accumulate in puddles
and run off the balcony.

MacGregor
tried to distract him. "The more I think about it, the more I
think there's a ring of truth to this story of de la Marque's, that
Orfeo was the Comte d'Aubret's protege. We know Orfeo was a rare
hand at creeping into favour with people of consequence. He won over
Lodovico Malvezzi why shouldn't he have done the same with

d'Aubret?"
When Julian did not respond, he prompted, "What do you think?"

"I
think that finding out whether d'Aubret had a protege, and if so, who
he was, is the kind of methodical task we can safely leave to
Grimani. I'm more interested in the notebook."

MacGregor
furrowed his brow. "Funny thing, its disappearing like that. Do
you think Lodovico brought it with him when he came to the lake with
Orfeo?"

"Whether
he did or not, it ought to have been found among his papers after he
died."

"Has
anyone been through all the papers?"

"That's
a good question," said Julian thoughtfully. "Come Carlo
told me he'd given Lodovico's private papers to Rinaldo after
Lodovico died. We ought to ask Rinaldo tomorrow what became of them."

MacGregor
yawned. "Well, I'm for Bedfordshire. After everything that's
happened, we'll both be the better for a good, sound sleep."

"I
thought I might sit up a while, if you don't mind. Downstairs, so as
not to keep you awake."

"Why?"
MacGregor demanded.

"I'm
not sleepy. Perhaps I'll play the piano quietly until I am."

"Look
here: I'm not to be fobbed off with Banbury stories. You're up to
something. I should think tonight of all nights you wouldn't want to
wander around the house in the dark, with de la Marque itching to do
you a mischief " MacGregor rounded on him. "That's it,
isn't it? You think he may be dangerous, and you want to face him
alone! Well, you may put that out of your mind! You're staying
right here."

Julian
could see there was no gainsaying him. "Very well." He
pondered a moment. "I don't think de la Marque's threat was
serious. But I suppose we should pay him the compliment of treating
it as if it were."

He
took out the case containing his pistols. They were already loaded,
but he screwed new flints into the cocks and sprinkled fresh powder
into the shallow pan beneath the hammer, ready to ignite at the
striking of flint to steel. He left the case open beside the bed.
Then he locked the door and propped a chair before it, the back
tucked under the knob. He propped another chair against the balcony
window in the same manner.

MacGregor
watched him, fascinated. "Anybody would think you'd been
fending off murder threats all your life."

"I
don't think these precautions are really necessary. But on the

chance
de la Marque is in earnest, I shouldn't like my last thought on earth
to be, "Why the devil didn't I prime my pistols?" "

"I
suppose I ought to be in a fright." MacGregor shook his head,
marvelling. "But somehow all I can think of is that for the
first time, I really feel I'm in the land of the Borgias."

Dipper
was awakened by sunshine streaming through the window of his tiny
attic room. The rain was over, the mist all but lifted, leaving only
a few gossamer threads around the highest mountain peaks. The two
menservants who shared his room ran to the window, greeting the sun
as if they had not seen it for forty days and forty nights.

Dipper
washed, shaved, dressed, and nipped down the service stairs to the
basement. There he exchanged greetings with the kitchen servants and
collected a tray with Mr. Kestrel's morning coffee and Dr.
MacGregor's tea. On his way back up the stairs, he had to dodge a
group of the villa servants coming down. They were waving their
hands excitedly, shouting curses at one another, and shaking their
fists under each other's noses. Dipper would have thought a fight
was going to break out, if he had not seen similar passions flare up
among them, only to vanish as serenely as last night's rainstorm.

After
they had passed, he inspected the tray to make sure he had not
spilled anything. Just then he heard a slow, measured tread
approaching up the stairs. Ernesto appeared with a pitcher of water
and an armful of fresh towels. They continued up the stairs
together.

"What
was that kick-up about, Signor Ernesto?" Dipper asked.

"They're
arguing over who forgot to bar the front door last night."

Dipper's
brows came together. "But it was barred. Giacomo done it
before he went to bed. I seen him."

"Well,
it isn't now," said Ernesto. "I mean to find out who
unbarred it, and if it was one of the servants, I'll see that he's
punished. With things so uncertain, and my dear master's murder still
unsolved, we can't have the villa open at night to anyone who wants
to come in."

They
parted at the top of the service stairs, Ernesto going toward
Marchese Rinaldo's room at the other end of the hall. Dipper looked
after him curiously for a moment, wondering how the reunited couple
were getting on. Then he turned and went to Mr. Kestrel's door.

From
the other end of the hall came a crash and a wild cry. Dipper
plunked the tray on a table and ran down the hall to Marchese
Rinaldo's room. The door was standing open. Ernesto was on his
knees

in
a pool of spilled water, surrounded by towels and broken crockery. He
was praying incoherently, crossing himself, and staring at the bed.
Dipper stared, too.

At
first all he saw was blood. Blood soaking the coverlet, sheet, and
pillowcase. Blood spattered on the bed-curtains and wall. Blood
coating the blade of the silver-handled razor lying at the foot of
the bed. Rinaldo lay on his back, his nightgown open at the neck,
the covers turned back below his breast. His eyes were closed, his
throat hideously open. Francesca was nowhere to be seen.

PART

FOUR

October
1825

Vile
assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows and hearts
and heads.

George
Noel Gordon,

Lord
Byron

Beffo

Cjrimani
shot out of his room across the hall. Carlo, his face half shaved
and half covered with soapsuds, was close behind. Fletcher ran out
of his room next door to Rinaldo's dressed in shirt and trousers, his
wet hair towelled into spikes. St. Carr followed, still in his
nightclothes, his nightcap flopping over one ear. De la Marque
approached at a more leisurely pace, clad in a dressing-gown of
purple silk, his hair and moustache elaborately combed. Julian and
Mac-Gregor raced past him, both in dressing-gowns, MacGregor
clutching his battered leather medical bag.

They
were all brought up short on seeing Rinaldo. Carlo gasped, "Ah,
Madonna!" and crossed himself. De la Marque blinked and seemed
vaguely affronted, as if he thought such a sight had no business to
assail him at this hour of the morning. Fletcher looked shocked but
could gaze at the bed without flinching; Julian recalled that he was
accustomed to dissecting animals.

MacGregor
pushed past the others to Rinaldo. Grimani seemed about to stop him,
then changed his mind and followed, watching him tensely as he felt
and listened for signs of life.

"Dead,"
said MacGregor, in English. "Has been for some time."

Julian,
who had quietly joined them by the bed, translated this. Grimani
scanned the ranks of people in the doorway. "You," he said
to Dipper. "Fetch me Zanetti."

Julian
nodded to Dipper to obey. Dipper ran off.

Grimani's
eyes raked the room. He went to the rosewood wardrobe, opened the
doors, and twitched apart the clothes inside. No one. He strode to
the balcony facing the lake. The French doors were closed but not
secured. Grimani opened them wide, letting in a flood of

sunshine
that made the horror in the bed at once more real and more pathetic.

There
was no one hiding there, nor on the balcony overlooking the south
terrace. All at once Julian had a terrible thought one Grimani must
have shared. They went out onto first one balcony and then the other
and looked over the marble railings. There was no broken body
beneath. Francesca had simply disappeared.

"Has
anyone seen Marchesa Francesca?" Grimani demanded of the group
in the doorway.

Shakes
of heads, bewildered gazes, stammered Nos.

Servants
were gathering in the hallway, crossing themselves and craning their
necks for a glimpse of Rinaldo's corpse. Julian saw Guido's grizzled
head among them, conspicuous by the heavy gold earrings. His eyes
were narrowed, calculating; his lips moved in rote, indifferent
prayers.

The
marchesa appeared. Carlo said quickly, "Beatrice, stay back,
don't look."

She
came forward all the same, the others making way for her. She wore a
loose white satin morning robe over a white nightdress. Her dusky
hair, alive with combing, floated above her shoulders. She might
have been an angel come for the dead man's soul. She looked steadily
at Rinaldo, crossed herself gravely, and bent to raise Ernesto, who
was still on his knees in the spilled shaving water, babbling broken
prayers.

"Hugo,"
said St. Carr faintly, "I'm going to be sick."

Fletcher
gave him his arm to lean on. "We'll be in our room."

Grimani
turned to the marchesa. "I want you and the guests to dress and
wait in the drawing room, and the servants to gather in the servants'
hall. No one is to leave the house. Doctor, you will remain here.
I want to know how long he's been dead and whether he could have done
it himself." He turned to Julian. "Tell him."

Julian
repeated it in English. MacGregor grunted, "I'll do my best."

"You
stay as well, Signer Kestrel," Grimani added unwillingly. "I
need you."

Julian
knew better than to think Grimani wanted him for his detection
skills. Someone had to interpret between Grimani and MacGregor, and
Carlo, the victim's uncle, was too close to the crime. No matter:
this might be Julian's only chance to observe the murder scene. He
would make the most of it.

The
crowd in the doorway dispersed, the marchesa giving her arm to
Ernesto, who leaned on it like an old man. Grimani shut the door

behind
them then he and Julian stared at the lock on the inside. The key
was in it, and both lock and key were covered with blood.

"The
knob is clean," Julian noticed.

Grimani
looked at the hand he had used to close the door. Sure enough, the
knob had left no blood on it. He crossed to the washstand, Julian
following. The water in the basin was so red that the Chinese
landscape at the bottom could scarcely be seen. The white linen
towel was covered with red-brown stains.

Julian
stepped back and took a survey of the room. It was rectangular, with
the door at the end of one long wall. The bed jutted out from the
centre of that wall, all but bisecting the room. On the right side
of the bed, nearest the door, was a small night table with an oil
lamp on it. The opposite wall ran along the lake, with the balcony
in the centre, the rosewood wardrobe and washstand to the left, and a
round, marble-topped table to the right. The fireplace was in the
short wall nearest the door. Opposite was the balcony over the south
terrace.