The Devil in Music (66 page)

All
at once the investigator awoke in him. Suppose this was not an
amorous assignation or not that alone? He had once speculated that
Beatrice and de la Marque were lovers or political allies at the time
of the Piedmontese revolt. He had even suspected them of acting in
concert to kill Lodovico. What they were talking of now might be of
vital importance to the investigation. Could he bring himself to
listen?

As
a gentleman, he was repelled by the thought. As a lover, he shrank
from it as from a lash. As an investigator, he had no choice. He
crossed the hall, thankful for the carpet that muffled his steps, and
put his ear to Beatrice's door.

She
and de la Marque were speaking in French, so softly that, but for the
silence in the house, Julian would not have heard them. "But my
dear Gaston," Beatrice was saying, "I'm only complying with
your wishes. A man doesn't constantly hint at a thing unless he
wants to be asked about it."

"Ah,
but wanting to be asked isn't the same thing as wanting to answer."

"Then
you do know?"

"I
am desolate, my angel, but I don't."

"Then
you've deceived me."

"I
beg to disagree. I never told you I knew who Orfeo was."

"You
implied as much. And you know I asked you here so that we might talk
of it."

"We
are talking of it."

"But
not to the purpose." Her voice changed became warmly enticing.
"Come, my dear, you have no reason to keep Orfeo's secret.
Unless Grimani is right to suspect you of being Orfeo yourself?"

"If
I were, forgive me, my love, but I would hardly admit it."

"You
aren't afraid of me, surely?"

"What
man isn't afraid of a beautiful woman?"

"I
mean, you aren't afraid to confide in me? You can't think I would
run to Grimani with the information?"

"What
would you do with it?"

"Keep
it. Lock it away. Enjoy the pleasure of knowing something Grimani
doesn't."

"And
what pleasure would I enjoy?"

There
was a silence. Then Beatrice said, "Whatever you wished."

"You
want to know so badly?" he asked, interested.

"You
hardly natter yourself."

"Considering
that you've never honoured me with such favour before, I can't quite
deceive myself into thinking I've succeeded by my charm alone."

"You
haven't succeeded at all yet," she reminded him.

"Won't
you give me something on account? A kiss, perhaps, to show you're in
earnest?"

"You
can see that I'm earnest. If I weren't, you wouldn't be here. And I
swear to you upon my honour that I'll repay you in the coin you wish.
Who is Orfeo?"

"Alas,
I don't know."

"Then
good night, Monsieur de la Marque."

"My
dearest "

"Good
night. If you're having difficulty finding the door, I shall ring
for a footman to point it out to you."

"Wouldn't
you find that a trifle embarrassing?"

"I
promise you, monsieur I shall ensure that you find it more so."

"I
believe you!" De la Marque laughed softly. "Very well, my
dear Marchesa, I leave you with the greatest regret! Good night."

The
door opened. De la Marque and Julian confronted one another.

Beatrice
appeared behind de la Marque, her face softly illumined by the shaded
lamp in her hand. Julian held his ground, obstructing de la Marque's
way, so that he and Beatrice had no choice but to step back and let
him into the room.

As
soon as they were inside, Beatrice moved away, leaving the lamp by
the door. She was still dressed in the white cotton morning frock
she had worn all day. She stood at the foot of the bed, half turned
away, one hand upraised and clasping one of the posts.

Julian
and de la Marque stood by the door, braving the light. De la Marque
glanced toward Beatrice. "It seems, Marchesa, you were right to
be concerned about people listening at keyholes. But you were
mistaken in supposing such tricks were confined to the police."

"I
beg your pardon for listening," said Julian. "But I should
say that, of the three of us, I have the least to be ashamed of."

"You
insult me," de la Marque observed.

"You
may have satisfaction whenever you wish."

"No,
man vieux." De la Marque broke into a laugh. "I don't
want to kill you not yet, at all events." He studied Julian's
face. "I'm afraid the feeling isn't mutual. What a pity! You
really ought to be grateful to me."

"Ought
I?"

"But
of course! First, because you heard from my own lips that I've never
enjoyed this lady's favours. And, second, because I didn't tell her
Orfeo's identity." De la Marque smiled. "You wouldn't
want me sharing information with her that I've never imparted to
you?"

"You
said you didn't know who Orfeo was." The marchesa's voice was
muffled, her face still turned from the light.

"And
of course I don't," de la Marque said smoothly. "But if I
did forgive me, my dear Marchesa, but I would not have betrayed him."

"Thank
you, monsieur," she said, very low. "It needed only that."

"Now
I'll grant you both a further boon," said de la Marque. "I'll
withdraw and allow you to settle your differences with a kick or a
kiss." He bowed and went to the door. "What a pity the
stairs intervene between my room and this one! I can assure you, I
should have had my ear to the wall!"

He
went out. The silence he left behind was so deep, Julian almost
seemed to hear his own heart beating. He glanced around him,
thinking with unnatural detachment how like Beatrice this room was.
Her favourite white was everywhere: in the graceful bed hangings, the
marble table-tops, the ceiling mouldings of scrolls and rosettes.
The walls and chairs were covered in sky-blue silk. Over the
mantelpiece was a tall, gilt-edged mirror. That was fitting, Julian
thought. What work of an could compare with Beatrice's own image?

He
said, "You brought me here to investigate your husband's murder.
It's now tolerably clear that that is all you ever wanted of me. As
part of my investigation, I must ask you why you offered to sell
yourself to de la Marque in exchange for his revealing Orfeo's
identity."

"To
sell myself!" She was pale. "How dare you?"

"May
I not dare to name what you dared to do?"

She
looked away again. "Very well. Yes. What you say is true."

"I've
been too forbearing with you. The reason, you know all too well. Now
I will have an answer. Why were you willing to go to such lengths to
identify Orfeo?"

"I
offered Gaston the bait I thought he would be most likely to take."

"That
is not the question I asked. Why were you so determined to find
Orfeo that you would give yourself to a man you don't love a man who
would see you as nothing but a fleeting conquest?"

She
lifted her slim brows. "Isn't that a rather personal question
for an investigator?"

He
went to her suddenly and looked into her face. She could not meet
his eyes. He said in a low, urgent voice, "I think you owe me
an explanation. After all that has passed, or nearly passed, between
us, I'm entitled to know why you would lower yourself and torment me,
in order to go questing after a singer of whom you know so little?"

She
lifted her chin and looked at him unflinchingly. "I want to
find Orfeo so that I can destroy him."

"Destroy
him?"

"Yes."

"Because
" He was stunned. "Because you believe he killed your
husband?"

"He
did kill him. It makes no difference whether he actually fired the
shot. It was on his account that Lodovico was at the lake. If he
hadn't been isolated in the country, the murderer couldn't have
sought him out secretly and killed him."

"But
surely you must realize "

"What?
That I'm behaving like a silly, irrational woman? That I'm not
being fair?" She shook her head. "You don't understand.
You can't know anything of what I feel."

"Then
make me understand."

"If
you must." She drew a long breath. "There's one thing you
must know at the start. I have only ever loved one man in my life,
and that was Lodovico Malvezzi. It isn't the fashion to love one's
husband in fact, it's considered rather bad taste. But I had loved
him long before I married him long before I even married Philippe.
When I was a little girl, he was a god to me the handsomest,
strongest, most manly man I knew. Of course as I grew older I saw
his faults. He was vainglorious, selfish, ruthless toward anyone who
crossed him. But by then my love was so deeply rooted, I couldn't
tear it out.

"I
accepted my marriage to Philippe. Lodovico was married already, and
only saw me as a child in any case. But I never forgot him. Even
after I went to live in Paris, I studied to be all that would please

him.
I even tried to learn to sing, but I had to give it up. I had no
gift for it at all.

"I
told you how I returned to Milan after Philippe was killed, and
Lodovico fell in love with me at last, and married me after Isotta
died. I was happier than I'd ever been in my life. But I didn't
trumpet my feelings to the skies. I hugged them close to me hid them
even from Lodovico. Some hearts open like flowers, and some must be
cracked like nuts. Mine was never one of the flowers, Giuliano.

"I
wasn't lying when I told you I didn't mind Lodovico's having
mistresses. I knew they meant nothing to him. He would always come
back to me in the end. But there were two griefs eating away at me
growing more bitter year by year.

"Lodovico
badly wanted more children. Rinaldo was a mistake, an abortion, a
pathetic thing foisted on him in place of a son. He talked gleefully
of the children he and I would have how healthy and handsome and
brave they would be. I was gleeful, too. I had never conceived with
Philippe, but I thought that was only because he'd been away on
campaign so often. But I found that I couldn't give Lodovico a
child, either. Every month I hoped and prayed, and every month I was
disappointed. I spent whole nights on my knees before the Madonna.
She never relented. She knew me for what I was: a proud, worldly
woman, who read Voltaire and laughed at the Pope, then put on
religion like this year's fashions, just to wheedle a baby out of
God!

"If
I'd borne Lodovico a child, I would have been special to him set
apart from all other women. As it was, I was little more than a
favoured mistress the chief concubine of his seraglio. All his deep
devotion, all the madness of his love, he poured out on his singers."
Her voice caught on a sob. "At night he would get out of my bed
and go to the window, just to listen to some sweet-voiced gipsy
passing in the street.

"But
he never loved any singer as he loved Orfeo. Do you know the real
reason he hid him away at the Lake of Como? It wasn't only to make a
mystery about him. It was because he was a virgin. In all Milan in
all Italy only Lodovico had heard him sing. He wanted him all to
himself, before the world had its turn. Do you know what droit de
seigneur is?"

Julian's
throat was so dry that for a moment he could not find his voice.
"Yes."

"The
first night," she nodded. "That's what Lodovico wanted.
And perhaps he would have wanted it, even knowing it would cost him
his

life.
Can you wonder " She caught her breath, her great eyes burning
into Julian's. "Can you wonder I hated Orfeo? I wanted to take
him by the throat to squeeze and squeeze until he had no voice left!
I believe I could have done it, if only I could have got near him.
But Lodovico wouldn't share him, even with me.

"I
went to Turin to escape all the talk in Milan of Lodovico and his
tenor. I'd heard there was political trouble brewing in Piedmont,
but I felt too reckless to care. I even had the sort of stupid idea
children do, that if anything happened to me, Lodovico would be
sorry.