The Devil in Music (7 page)

There
was a light step on the stairs, then his door opened. "Good
morning, Maestro," said Lucia's voice. "I'm sorry to be so
late this morning, but one of the maids at the castle had a
toothache, and I had to help look after her. I'll put the coffee on
straightaway."

"It
doesn't matter about the coffee. Lucia, I've been awake nearly an
hour, and there's not a sign of His Excellency or Orfeo."

"That's
funny. Wait here a minute, Maestro."

He
heard her walk to Orfeo's room, then to Lodovico's, and finally back
to his own. "They're not there," she said slowly. "And
their beds haven't been slept in."

"But
where can they be?"

"I'll
look downstairs."

Donati
waited, torn between hope and anxiety. At last Lucia returned,
saying, "They're not downstairs. I couldn't find any trace of
them. But I've put the coffee on, so you'll soon have that to warm
you. There's not much sun today."

"For
the love of God, Lucia, never mind about the coffee! Where can the
marchese and Orfeo be?"

"Wherever
they are," she said reasonably, "they wouldn't want you
going without breakfast, Maestro. Here, I've brought you water to
wash with, and fresh towels, and when that's done I'll help you
dress. Do you mind going without shaving for the time being? I've
never shaved a man."

"I
can shave myself," Donati said hastily. "You needn't do
anything else for me, really, Lucia "

"Now,
Maestro, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I looked after
Papa when he had fever last year and was as helpless as a baby. I'll
just go out for a few minutes while you do anything you need to do
alone, and you ring your bell when you're ready for me to come back."

Donati
could see it was useless to resist. Between them, they got him
washed, shaved, and dressed, though Donati kept urging Lucia to go
out and look for the marchese and Orfeo. "I will just as soon
as I've got you settled," she promised. "Don't worry. I
wouldn't be surprised if His Excellency heard some singer he admired
on the lake last night, and he and Signor Orfeo went out in a boat to
find out who it was. You know what His Excellency is like."

Donati
detected the undercurrent of tension in her voice. She had fears,
but she was willing herself not to give way to them.

When
she had led Donati down to the drawing room and put a steaming cup of
coffee in his hands, she went out to search for the marchese and
Orfeo in the garden. If she could not find them, she said, she would
seek help from her father, who was doing an errand in Solaggio.

Donati
drank his coffee, then went into the music room and tried

to
play the piano. It was no use for once music failed to distract him.
He walked out onto the terrace. The air was close and a little
chilly, the wind fresh. It would rain by and by.

The
waiting seemed interminable. When the church bells rang the half
hour after eight, Donati fetched his hat from its stand and went out
for a walk. He knew it would be more sensible to remain at the villa
in case the marchese and Orfeo returned, but this hanging about doing
nothing was unbearable, even for one as schooled in patience as
himself. If he kept to the lakeside path, which was flagstoned and
fairly straight, he would not need anyone to Guido him. And there
was always the chance he might meet the marchese and Orfeo or hear
some news of them.

Using
his light rattan cane, he found his way to the point where the
lakeside path branched off the terrace. He strolled along, swinging
the cane lightly back and forth in front of him to guard against
obstacles. Fishermen's voices, snatches of song, and gulls' hoarse
cries came from the lake to his left, muffled by the plane trees that
he knew ran along this part of the path. He still felt no sunshine;
that might have been the effect of the plane trees blotting out the
eastern sky, but the air hung heavier than ever, and before long it
began to rain. Donati did not want to return to the villa, but the
drops fell ever faster, pattering on the grass and leaves. Just then
his feet crunched on shifting, uneven ground, and he knew he had
reached the gravelled yard outside the little Moorish pavillion that
served as a belvedere over the lake. He had never been inside it a
view naturally meant nothing to him but it seemed to provide an
opportune shelter from the rain.

He
turned left, toward the lake, and felt ahead with his cane till he
found two shallow stairs leading up to an open doorway. He went in,
shuffling along the smooth, tiled floor, with his left hand
outstretched and his right hand swinging the cane before him.

The
obstacle was so low, he missed it. He tripped and fell sprawling,
but could not make out what he had fallen on. It seemed to be
furniture at all events, it was covered with cloth yet it lay
inexplicably along the floor and was too hard and awkwardly shaped to
sit on. His hand lit on a flap in the wool covering. He lifted it,
felt it between his fingers. It was not a flap. It was a lapel.

He
cried out, struggled off the thing he had been lying on. He wanted
to grope his way to the door and escape. But he knew he must not.
There seemed to be no one here but him to do whatever must be done.

He
crossed himself, then reached out trembling hands. His fingers met
the fine, smooth wool again. A coat a man's dress coat, with tails.
It was unfastened, and the tail nearest Donati was stretched out
unnaturally along the floor. He left it there. His hands found a
silken waistcoat, a watch-chain, and a linen cravat. The waistcoat
was torn in one place. Donati unthinkingly poked a finger between
the frayed edges, and it sank into something cold and pulpy, like a
rotten spot in a piece of fruit. He had put his finger through a
hole in the man's chest.

He
spun away, his stomach heaving. Santa Cecilia, Santa Cecilia, take
this thing away! Make this all a dream, please, Santa Cecilia!
Please, dear God!

He
crossed himself again and again, shaking violently, drawing long
shuddering breaths. Then suddenly his chest contracted, and his
sobbing ceased. He must know who. He steeled himself, turned back
to the thing on the floor, and groped above the cravat. The head was
hatless, the cheeks pricked with stubble, and cold as stone. A
square chin, a nose beaked like a hawk's, thick, jagged brows above
staring eyes, which Donati gently closed. He was almost sure he
remembered the face from the days before he lost his sight. But
there was a way to be sure. He felt along the man's watch-chain till
he found an ornate seal. His sensitive fingers made out the device
on the end: a serpent coiled around a sword. Donati folded his
hands, bent his head, and prayed for the soul of Lodovico Malvezzi.

All
at once Donati heard footsteps crunching the gravel outside the
belvedere. His heart lurched. But the next moment he recognized
Matteo's voice: "Did you look in here?"

"No,"
Lucia's voice replied.

Donati
opened his mouth to warn them of the shock in store, but no sound
came. He heard them coming into the belvedere. Lucia gasped, and
Matteo cried, "Mother of God! His Excellency!"

Lucia
ran to Donati. "Let me help you up, Maestro."

"I
don't think I can stand," Donati said shakily.

The
girl dropped down beside him. He could sense her staring at the
body. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes.
I think he's been dead for hours. There's there's a hole " He
pointed a quavering ringer toward Lodovico's body.

"A
bullet hole," she said sombrely. "His waistcoat and chest
are all charred."

"What
should we do?" asked Matteo from the doorway, his gruff voice
unnaturally high.

Lucia
drew in her breath sharply. "Orfeo!"

"Where?"
exclaimed Donati, starting up.

"I
don't know!" she said in a choking voice. "You don't
think he Oh, God!"

What
was she afraid of? Donati thought. That Orfeo was murdered or
murderer? He could not bring himself to ask.

"What
shall we do?" Matteo almost wailed. He still had not come any
closer perhaps in the grip of a peasant's superstitious horror of the
dead.

His
daughter was made of sterner stuff. "He must have the Last
Rites. Papa, will you fetch Don Cristoforo from the village?"
Don Cristoforo was the parish priest. "And I know! go and tell
His Excellency's friend, Conte Raversi. He'll know what to do."

"That's
a good thought!" Matteo's voice was fervent with relief at the
prospect of laying this burden on someone else's shoulders. "I'll
go at once! But I don't know if I should leave you here "

"I
think we'll be all right." She sounded as if she were trying to
persuade herself. "You don't think whoever did this will come
back, do you, Maestro?"

"I
don't know," Donati admitted. "So you'd better go with
your father. I'll stay here with the marchese."

"I'm
not leaving you alone," she declared. "We'll both stay."

When
she spoke in that tone, there was no gainsaying her. Matteo hurried
off.

Lucia
helped Donati up and Guidod him to a little stone seat close by. He
asked uncertainly, "Should we do something for him? Fold his
hands, button his coat "

"I
don't think so. I think we should leave him just as we found him.
People might want to know how he was lying, and how his clothes were
pulled about."

"One
of his coat-tails is sticking out," said Donati, though it
seemed silly to mention such a small thing.

"They
both are." Realization dawned on her. "Someone's been
through his pockets!"

"Robbery!"
said Donati. "So that's what it was!" He felt a weight
lifted from his heart. Orfeo might conceivably kill to right a wrong
or avenge an insult, but he would never steal from his victim.

He
heard Lucia move quickly toward the body again. There were rustling
and clinking sounds. "His watch is still here," she
sighed. "So is his pocketbook. And his trouser pocket is full
of coins."

"So
it wasn't robbery. Unless whoever killed him was interrupted before
he could steal anything. You don't suppose Orfeo came along and took
the murderer by surprise?"

"And
did what?" she asked indignantly. "Ran away?"

"He
might have been killed himself, and his body thrown in the lake."

"No!
That's not possible. The robber would have thrown the marchese in,
too."

Donati
thought this was by no means certain, but he saw no point in saying
so. "Conte Raversi will help to sort it all out. It was clever
of you to think of sending for him." Donati knew Raversi and
thought him honourable and conscientious, despite his well-known
obsession with the Carbonari.

There
was a short silence. "We should pray for him," Lucia said.

She
began dutifully reciting the prayer for the dead known as the de
profundis: "Out of the depths I cry out to thee, O Lord ..."
Donati joined her, taking comfort in the solemn, familiar chant that
lulled his thoughts to sleep, leaving only reverence for God and pity
for the dead.

To
Donati's surprise, Conte Raversi came to the belvedere without
priest, gendarmes, or any servant but Matteo. Raversi explained that
he had sent a footman to Solaggio to fetch Don Cristoforo, as well as
Luigi Curioni, the village doctor; Benedetto Ruga, the podesta, who
had the duties of a mayor and chief magistrate; and Friedrich Von
Krauss, the commander of the Austrian garrison. Donati had no doubt
that, although Ruga would be officially in charge of the
investigation into Lodovico's murder, it was really Von Krauss who
would organize and direct it. In Lombardy, Italians might propose,
but the Austrian military disposed.

Raversi
went over to the body. "So it's true," he said in his
hollow, melancholy voice, which always sounded to Donati as if it
were coming through a long tunnel. "Matteo told me, but I hoped
against hope that it was all a ghastly mistake. My poor friend."
He prayed softly for a few moments. "To die so far from his
wife and family at the hands of an assassin!"

Donati
did not know what to say. Lucia spoke up. "So please you,
Excellency, we think someone went through his pockets, but there
doesn't seem to be anything missing."

"You're
Matteo's daughter, I think?" said Raversi.