The Devil in Music (63 page)

"He
was very secretive about Orfeo's identity," de la Marque pointed
out.

"That
was different," said Beatrice. "He liked knowing things
other people didn't. It was a form of power, and he liked power of
all sorts. But a secret isn't the same thing as a lie."

"Still,"
said Carlo, "I can't say for certain what he might or might not
have done at the time he was studying in Naples. I didn't see him
for two or three years."

"Who
did see him?" Julian asked.

"If
I were you," said Carlo, "I should talk to Ernesto."

Julian
found Ernesto in Rinaldo's room, tidying his possessions and
supervising a crew of servants who were changing the bedclothes and
mopping up the blood. At first he was reluctant to be drawn away.
"Heaven knows what they'll be at if I don't keep an eye on them,
Signer Kestrel. Half of them think they see Marchese Rinaldo's ghost
popping out of every corner, and the other half keep trying to count
the bloodstains so that they can bet on that number in the lottery."

"I'm
sorry to distract you, but I need information that only you can give
me."

"But
I thought the murders were solved, signer."

Julian
smiled. "I am very hard to please."

Ernesto
stared. But all he said was, "I will go with you, signor."

They
went to Julian's room at the other end of the hall. Ernesto sank
into a chair with an involuntary sigh of relief. Julian realized
that this second murder of a Marchese Malvezzi had taken a greater
toll

on
him than he cared to acknowledge. His eyes were haggard, and his
grey skin seemed to hang on him like a husk.

Julian
began, "You've heard the gist of Valeriano's confession in
particular, his story that Marchese Lodovico was his father?"

"Yes,
signor."

"Conte
Carlo says you were with Marchese Lodovico in Naples."

"Yes,"
said Ernesto. "I was given to him as his servant just before he
was sent there. My father was servant to the old marchese, his
father. That was Holy Virgin, it must have been forty years ago.
Marchese Lodovico and I were of an age, seventeen or eighteen."

"Did
you ever hear anything of a mock marriage between Marchese Lodovico
and Giulietta Petroni?"

"No,
signor. And I find it hard to believe."

"But
not impossible?"

"No."
Ernesto shook his head gravely. "Not impossible, signor. My
master was a little mad in those days."

"What
do you mean?"

"It
was his first taste of freedom, signor. He'd never flown so far from
the family nest before. All his life, the old marchese had watched
him like a hawk and ruled him in everything. He was the only person
my master was ever afraid of. Afraid that's not the word for it.
Terrified is what he was.

"Now
all at once he was on his own, in a city that turned out the finest
singers in the world. He'd always loved music, but in Naples he was
well-nigh drunk on it. He was forever losing his heart to one voice
or another and if it was a woman's voice, you could be sure he'd find
his way to her bed one way or another."

"Marchesa
Malvezzi told me he never took a singer as his mistress."

"He
didn't," said Ernesto slowly, "after Naples."

"Can
you recall anything about his relationship with Giulietta Petroni?
Did he ever mention her name? Did you see them together?"

Ernesto
squinted back into the past. "I seem to remember he fell in
love with a prima donna who left the stage suddenly. I thought he'd
set her up privately somewhere. He was out a good deal and spent
money like water. But that's to be expected of a young nobleman let
loose in the world for the first time."

"None
of this proves he deceived her into thinking she was his wife,"
Julian mused. "Could he have carried out such a long, elaborate
ruse without your knowing anything about it?"

"Oh,
yes," Ernesto said sadly. "He would have taken care to
keep

it
from me. He didn't trust me in those days. He thought, since my
father was the old marchese's servant, that I'd been sent with him to
spy on him. He wronged me there: I was his man, not his father's.
But it took him a few years to realize that."

"Would
his father have been so very angry at his seducing a singer?"

"Not
at his seducing her, no, signer, nor even at his getting her with
child. But to pretend to marry her that was a low, sneaking thing,
and the old marchese would have taken it ill."

Julian
considered. "Do you suppose Lodovico knew or guessed that
Valeriano was his son?"

"I'm
sure he never had any idea there was a child, signor. He would have
wanted him. He always regretted not having more sons. No matter
what sort of scrape he'd got into with the mother, he wouldn't have
rested till he got his hands on the boy."

"Valeriano
said his mother feared something of the sort," Julian recalled.
"She believed Marchese Lodovico had set spies on her."

"I
don't know anything about that, signor."

"Could
Marchese Lodovico have found out about his relationship with
Valeriano after Valeriano had grown up and become a singer? That
would explain why he made such an effort to cultivate him."

Ernesto
shook his head. "He would have been more direct, signor."

"Perhaps
he was reluctant to acknowledge the relationship because his son was
a ca strato

"If
he was," said Ernesto quietly, "he was deceived. Signor
Valeriano is more of a man, and more truly my master's son, than his
dead brother ever was. His crimes were terrible, but the wrongs done
to him and his mother were terrible, too. He revenged himself like a
man, and my master would have respected him for that. And, you know,
it does seem fitting, signor "

"What
seems fitting?"

"That
it took one of my master's own blood to destroy him."

On
parting from Ernesto, Julian decided he could do with a breath of
air. He went out through the front door to the top of the stairs.
There he paused, looking down on the terrace from the stairway
balustrade.

The
marchesa sat in a wicker chair by the lily pond, leaning down to dip
her fingers in the water. Her black veil had slid from her head and
fallen about her shoulders. The afternoon sun slanting across the
terrace made her white gown a little transparent, showing him the

graceful
arm inside her long, full sleeve and the delicate ankles beneath her
skirt. He was struck by her beauty as if he had never seen it
before. Murder had no right to exist in the same world with her.
Nothing that troubled her had any right to exist.

He
came swiftly down the stairs and joined her by the lily pond. She
looked up to see who it was. "Giuliano."

"Am
I disturbing you?"

"No."
She dipped her fingers in the water again, sending goldfish darting
in all directions.

He
drew up a chair beside hers. "May I help?"

"Help
with what?"

"With
whatever is troubling you."

"I'm
not troubled, Giuliano. I was only thinking."

He
watched her disturbing the goldfish. Why could he not love a woman
like Francesca? he mused. A woman who sought comfort confidingly,
like a child who wanted only the simple things: to love and be loved,
protect and be protected.

"What
were you thinking?" he asked.

"I
was thinking about Orfeo. Do you suppose he'll reveal his identity,
now that he's no longer in danger of being arrested for Lodovico's
murder?"

"He
may have other reasons for keeping it dark."

"I
suppose it doesn't matter, anyway. Now that we know he didn't kill
Lodovico, he's become unimportant. He always was unimportant a mere
distraction. You sensed it long ago, and I ought to have believed
you."

"Why
are you so bitter?" he asked.

She
did not answer. After a moment she said, "What will you do
now?"

"In
the next half hour, or generally?"

"After
you leave the villa."

"I
shall offer to show MacGregor anything else in Italy he cares to see.
But he's had his fill of Continental travel. All he'll want now is
a courier to take him back to England."

"And
you? Where will you go?"

He
considered. "I've never been to Peru. I actually know very
little about it, but I rather like the name."

She
leaned down to the pool again, her fingers rippling the water. "You
are pleased to laugh at me."

"Such
a question deserves such an answer. You must know that I shall go
wherever you are."

She
sat up slowly, still keeping her eyes averted. "I can't think
you would like living in Milan."

"Risotto,
the opera six nights a week, and you? I should struggle along."

She
looked around at him then, with a smile that all but knocked him off
his seat. He took her hand. "I speak English, French, and
Italian, and there are no words to tell you how I love you."

He
lifted her hand to his lips. She stroked his cheek lightly. He
thought of that night in the belvedere imagined her breathless and
yielding in his arms. It was all he could do not to draw her to him.
But they were under the eyes of the boatmen on the lake, and of who
knew what servants looking out of the windows overhead. He let go of
her hand reluctantly.

"What
are you going to do in the next half-hour?" she asked, smiling.

"I
should like to conduct an experiment one that our scientific friend
Mr. Fletcher would approve of."

"What
sort of experiment?"

"I
want to try climbing up from the south terrace wall to Marchese
Rinaldo's balcony."

"Why?"
she asked in astonishment.

He
shrugged. "I think it would illumine the crime for me."

"But
you could break your neck! It's a miracle Valeriano didn't "
She broke off, her eyes widening. "You want to see if he really
could have done it."

Julian
smiled noncommittally. "I think someone ought to find out,
don't you?"

Julian's
experiment inevitably became a public spectacle. All the servants
turned out to watch, shout encouragement and warnings, pray, shriek,
and generally distract him from keeping his footing. Several ran
about beneath him with an old boat-awning, but Julian would not have
wagered on its effectiveness in breaking his fall. Dipper and
MacGregor likewise watched from below, MacGregor with his medical bag
in his hand and grim disapproval written all over his face. Beatrice
waited on Rinaldo's balcony, like the prize at the end of Julian's
climb.

He
took off his coat and left it with de la Marque, who was amusing
himself by playing valet to the mountaineer. Then he ascended the

stairs
to the walkway at the top of the south terrace wall. From here, by
standing on tiptoe he could just catch hold of the base of Grimani's
balcony. He hoisted himself up into it. Then the difficult part
began.

He
put a foot cautiously over the balustrade onto the ornamental ledge
between Grimani's window and Rinaldo's. The ledge was barely half
the width of his foot. He fought off the urge to look down at the
gravel walk and the excited bystanders three stories below. He put
his other foot over the balustrade and set out.

From
the ground, the ledge did not look very long, but it seemed to go on
interminably. He had to sidle like a crab, his body pressed to the
wall, his arms spread out on either side for balance. He marvelled
that Francesca and Valeriano should have done this at night, in the
rain. His hands groped instinctively over the wall, feeling for some
purchase. There was a cornice moulding overhead a deep groove with a
tantalizingly protruding edge but it was some six or eight inches out
of his reach.