4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (17 page)

Constantinople is not known as “city of the world’s desire” for nothing. Sitting on a crucial waterway that links the Mediterranean to the Black Sea, it controls all trade from that quarter. If the city were in Russian hands, they would gain southern access and be free to sail from ports that aren’t frozen with ice six months of the year. A very attractive prospect.

Though Russian traders and envoys are tolerated here, no one in the Sultan’s court ever forgets Russia’s continuing designs on the Bosphorus. Military skirmishes have broken out on the Russo-Turkish border several times in the last few years, and I predict that out-and-out war looms in our future. I shudder to think what intrigue Count Paninovich had embarked on. I would really rather not know. It’s safer that way.

And so I must tell you, I have no intention of investigating this matter further. In my efforts to find our sister, I have neglected our business at the warehouse most shamefully. My father-in-law would never complain, but my absence has put a burden on him. That must stop. Grisella has again taken up with the blackest of rogues, and I will no longer make excuses for her. Tito or Gussie, if you want to comb Europe for Grisella and her Frenchman, more power to you, but I am finished!

Forgive my bitterness, family. It stems from disappointment. Though Allah forgives those who repent, I never knew our little sister to repent of anything.

Please write. I hope for a letter on every mail coach, and I embrace you all in my heart.

Ever your loving,

Alessandro (or Iskender, if you would care to know the Muslim name that Zuhal has bestowed on me)

The image of Danika’s corpse lingered in my mind for some minutes, even after I had crossed to the wash basin and splashed bracingly cold water on my cheeks. I tried to will the horror away by rereading the last part of the letter and pondering what Jean-Louis could have sold to the Russian consul. When Gussie burst into our room, he found me deep in thought.

Chapter Thirteen

“Tito,” my brother-in-law cried, “you’re wanted. You must come down to the salon at once!”

I slowly raised my head from the letter. “Karl will have to simmer for a bit, Gussie. Alessandro has written again, and I’m not budging an inch until you’ve read this.”

“No, it’s not Karl who wants you. Everyone in the house has been summoned.” He continued in breathless tones, “The constable Captain Forti has arrived, and he’s belching fire and brimstone.”

Not surprising—a drenching rain was hardly favorable weather for hunting boar. Still, I had begun to think the high constable would never make an appearance. The rigors of rehearsal, the company drawing together in the face of violence, and the pressure to keep my own family secrets had all combined to make the Villa Dolfini seem as isolated as an Alpine fortress. But now that Captain Forti had breached our defenses, Gussie and I needed to reach a decision.

Heaving a sigh, I deposited Alessandro’s neatly written pages on the table. I weighed them down with the unlit lamp, then tilted my gaze toward my brother-in-law. “What do you think? Do we tell Captain Forti what we’ve found?”

Grim and white-faced, Gussie replied, “He doesn’t appear to be a man we’d like to cross. I’m for giving him the bullet and the nightshift and washing our hands of the whole matter.”

He continued in that vein all the way downstairs. I’d seldom known Gussie’s customary good humor to be so thoroughly dampened.

In the salon, we found the opera company, Jean-Louis, Octavia, Vincenzo, and the entire household staff already assembled. Ernesto also stood in attendance, occupying an awkward space between the servants lined up against the wall and the villa’s higher ranking residents, who were seated in closer proximity to the constable’s formidable gaze.

Captain Forti was a little under six feet in height, with a florid complexion and a gray campaign wig that stood up like a bristle brush on top. His dark eyes were close-set and sharp, and his thin lips stretched over a bulging set of artificial teeth. Like many old soldiers, he walked with a slight limp. The constable’s entire person contrived to give the impression of a man who is bothered by his teeth, short on tolerance at the best of times, and a whisker away from dressing down anyone who had the temerity to get in his way.

Gussie and I tucked ourselves behind Vincenzo’s wing chair as Captain Forti rapped out a steady stream of commentary in front of the crackling fire. Evidence of dried mud on his boots and brown cord breeches made me think he had not even stopped to change his clothing before hastening to the villa. Indeed, as his summary of our tragic events unfolded, we learned that Captain Forti had been on the estate for several hours and had lost no time initiating his investigation.

The ice house had been his first stop, and of course this battlefield veteran had recognized a gunshot wound to the head of the murdered stranger. This fit very well with information he’d wrested from a tenant who lived beyond the vineyard. He’d been outside seeing to a sick donkey and recalled hearing a loud shot and seeing a flash of powder sometime before midnight on that fatal night.

“I’m surprised he hadn’t mentioned it before.” The Captain swept his gaze over the assembled company, baring his outsize teeth in a grimace.

“We get a lot of rabbit poachers in the woods this time of year,” Ernesto replied, “so a stray gunshot wouldn’t be likely to cause comment. Especially as no one knew the stranger had been shot.”

Captain Forti gave a brisk nod. “It’s the disappearance of the bullet that should have lain within the victim’s deteriorating skull that I find of paramount interest. Lead doesn’t dissolve into thin air. Someone interfered with the corpse and I want to know who and why.”

Gussie sent me an anxious look. I nodded quickly.

“Captain,” Gussie announced as he fished the little ball of lead from his waistcoat pocket, “I have the bullet here.”

Vincenzo sprang from his chair with a gasp of astonishment.

Captain Forti crossed the rug to stand beside him. “Who are you?” he asked curtly.

“Augustus Rumbolt, Captain, at your service.”

“You’re English.” The constable’s bristly eyebrows arched in surprise. “You can’t be a singer. Everyone knows the English can’t sing. What are you doing here at the villa?”

“Signor Rumbolt is an artist of great repute,” answered Vincenzo. “I’ve hired him to paint scenes of my estate.”

“Then how did you come by this?” Captain Forti demanded as he snatched the bullet from my brother-in-law’s open palm. Tact was required. Fortunately, Gussie possessed that virtue in abundance. Introducing me and making our visit to the ice house seem the most natural activity in the world, he related how we had come upon our discovery and carefully put it aside until the proper authorities arrived to take charge of it.

Over the chair that separated us, Captain Forti eyed us with cold disdain. “I hope you two don’t consider yourselves more capable of solving these crimes than the Doge’s appointed representative.”

“Certainly not!” Gussie wore an expression of abject innocence.

“Because there’s no one who can hunt down a criminal faster than I can. See here—” With a confident nod, the constable dug in a capacious pocket and removed the stranger’s pistol. “Signor Dolfini has furnished this clue that’s been sitting on the shelf in his study, completely unnoticed.”

Vincenzo cringed as Forti waved the pistol about.

“I instantly identified it to be of Russian make,” the constable continued, “and I’m certain that the identity of the first victim can’t be far behind. That’s where experience gets you.”

“Of course.” I bowed my head in what I hoped he would interpret as shame. “You must excuse our clumsy efforts, Captain. We were merely trying to be of assistance.”

Captain Forti rocked back on his heels. “Is there any other way you upstart bloodhounds have tried to be of assistance.”

“Well, I did find one small thing…” Gussie said, shuffling his feet uneasily. While he fidgeted, I noticed Jean-Louis casually drape an arm over Grisella’s shoulder. It had begun to twitch, and her mouth was drawing to one side.

“Out with it, man,” commanded Captain Forti.

“I have one of Carmela Costa’s nightshifts—”

“You dog! You were with my Carmela?” That was Romeo, struggling to lift his bulk from the low couch. He sank back down as Emilio jerked on the back of his jacket.

“No!” said Gussie. “I simply came across it. I was tearing off paint rags without even knowing what it was. It was Tito who recognized the shift. I’m afraid it shows some signs of… a struggle.”

Puzzled looks flew around the salon. Jean-Louis hugged Grisella more tightly.

“Where is this garment?” asked the constable.

“In the
barchessa
, where I found it.”

“Then that is where we will continue.” Captain Forti’s teeth clicked decisively. “Signor Dolfini, conduct us, if you please.”

Vincenzo stood tall and smoothed out his waistcoat as if grateful for any small task that acknowledged him as master of the villa. He offered his arm to Octavia, but she ignored him and took Karl’s instead. Under Captain Forti’s inquisitive gaze, our embarrassed host moved out of the salon and started down the corridor. The musicians followed, crowding through the entryway, then the steward and a clot of curious servants.

“Aren’t you coming?” Gussie whispered, clearly anxious to join the rush.

I returned his whisper. “You go on and keep your eyes open. I’ll be there in a moment.” I nodded my chin toward Grisella and Jean-Louis, who were tarrying in the salon.

The Frenchman approached Captain Forti. “My wife is not well. All this excitement has given her a terrible headache. I beg your leave for her to withdraw to our room.”

The constable eyed Grisella narrowly. With drooping shoulders, my sister raised a pale hand to her brow and parted her lips with a sigh. It was a classic operatic gesture; she struck just such a pose at the end of one of Asteria’s more pathetic arias. But Captain Forti was clearly impressed.

“You may take your ease, Signora,” he said with a curt nod.

“
Merci, Capitaine
,” Grisella responded in a wan whisper, with a flutter of her eyelashes.

Jean-Louis gave her a gentle push in the direction of the staircase and then stepped toward the straggling line of servants headed toward the
barchessa
.

“You’re not going up to tend to your wife?” an obviously surprised Captain Forti asked. “You have my permission.”

Jean-Louis halted, and for once the Frenchman’s characteristic sang-froid deserted him. His looked everywhere except at the constable. “Ah, no… Madame Fouquet will be fine once she lies down… it wouldn’t be fair to the others if I stayed behind.” Without waiting for a reply, he ducked his head and hurried to fall in behind the rest of the party.

Captain Forti and I followed, catching up to the group as they left the warmth of the house to traverse the breezy colonnade that led to the
barchessa
.

Night had fallen. A wash of yellow light from a hanging lamp outlined the columns and railings but barely extended into the low shrubbery on either side. In the darkness, wet leaves dripped and a night bird sounded a low call. Captain Forti took great interest in the door that led to this passage. He opened and shut it several times and gave the handle a good rattle.

Once inside the stable-turned-studio, the constable ordered the footmen to light Gussie’s candles and everyone else to gather in one corner and hold their tongues. The household sorted themselves out as before: servants in back, then Ernesto and the opera company, the Dolfinis in front, with Karl plastered to Octavia’s right shoulder. In the dim, smoky light, their flesh-and-blood faces took on an unsettling resemblance to wax dummies.

Following Captain Forti’s instructions, Gussie pulled the soiled shift from his satchel and demonstrated how he had found it in the hay rack.

The constable took possession of the garment. With the shift folded over one arm, he dug a steel spectacle case out of his waistcoat, flipped the top, and balanced the lenses on his nose. After examining the muslin for some minutes, front and back, he whipped off the spectacles and pronounced only one word: “Rape.”

On a chorus of gasps, the still faces suddenly came alive. One of the maids threw her apron over her head, and the other started to cry. Everyone, singer and servant alike, began whispering to his neighbor.

“Silence,” Captain Forti barked. His obsidian gaze swept our group and lit on Vincenzo. “I’m told you do not share a bed with your wife, Signor Dolfini. Were you sleeping alone on the night Signora Costa was murdered?”

“What an impertinent question.”

“It is still a question that must be answered.”

“Yes,” said Vincenzo, staring at Gussie’s easel as if he longed to jump straight into the peaceful vineyard captured on canvas. “I was alone in my suite from eleven o’clock until Alphonso woke me with the news that the clock had been tampered with. I admit that Octavia and I sleep in separate rooms, but I’m hardly the only man in the villa.”

The constable’s head ratcheted to the left a fraction of an inch. “You Maestro Weber, you were the only other man lodged in a room of his own that night, were you not?”

Octavia had folded her arms tightly across the front of her bright blue gown. She opened her mouth to speak, but Karl stopped her with a subtle nudge. “I was at my scores all night,” the composer said. “I’d decided that a passage we would rehearse on the morrow was… unacceptable. After making the necessary changes, I had to copy new scores for the singers and accompanists.” Karl spoke with conviction, but his very words told me how nervous he was. I’d noticed that his “s” turned to a very German “z” whenever he was tense or excited.

“Your room shares a wall with Signora Costa’s,” the constable observed. “Did you hear any noise from that quarter?”

“Nothing.” Karl shook his head firmly.

“You must have heard the clock strike,” I broke in, determined to ask at least one question before I was silenced. “I mean, since you were awake most of the night, and it’s only a few steps from your door. What was the last hour it chimed?”

“I hardly think—” began Captain Forti.

“Don’t you see?” I rushed on. “The pendulum could have been removed at any time and the hands reset.”

The constable raised his eyebrows and thought a moment. “Well?” he asked Karl.

The composer seemed genuinely puzzled. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” He cupped his hand and stroked his hollow cheeks. “I may remember drowsing off and being awakened by the two o’clock chimes, but then, it could have easily been another night. When I first came to the villa, the clock tended to keep me awake, but after a week or so, my ears became accustomed.” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t be certain about the clock, but I’m telling you that I didn’t leave my room. Besides, why would I want to do away with Carmela? Her rendition of the role of Irene was crucial for the success of my opera. With Carmela gone, I’m still not sure what I’m going to do.”

Octavia had been taking agitated breaths and twisting the large topaz on her forefinger. She could keep silent no longer. “Why do you single out my husband and Maestro Weber? Just because the other men share a room doesn’t mean that one of them couldn’t have slipped out unnoticed. In truth, I find it ridiculous that you suspect anyone from the house at all. It doesn’t make sense that someone from inside would come to this outbuilding to hide a nightshift.”

“It doesn’t make sense that this garment even exists.” The constable shook the muslin clasped in his fist. In the flickering light, the shredded fabric danced like a capering specter. “Why keep an incriminating piece of evidence that could so easily be burnt to ashes or torn to bits? Without this gown I would believe that the woman had only been bashed on the head. Now it appears she was raped, as well. Though—” he shrugged his shoulders “—it may be of little matter in the end. A criminal can only be hanged once.”