4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (18 page)

I thought Octavia turned a little pale at that. Perhaps we all did.

Captain Forti spent a few moments pacing the perimeter of the
barchessa
. We had all been intimidated back into silence, so the only sound was the uneven stumping of his boot heels on the packed dirt. “Is this entrance locked at night?” he finally asked, creaking open a set of double doors wide enough for animals to be driven through.

The constable was obviously expecting an answer from Vincenzo, but our host looked perplexed. With a gesture, he transferred the question to his steward.

Ernesto took a deep breath. “The stable doors are secured with a bar from the inside.”

“And that one?” Captain Forti pointed toward the door to the colonnade.

“It has a lock, but in my lifetime it’s never been used.”

“Why not?”

“My grandfather Ilario lost the key when he was a young man. Since someone always sleeps here to guard the cattle, no one’s ever bothered to have another made.”

“What about the door to the house at the other end of the open passageway?”

“I lock that when I close the shutters.”

Captain Forti took a few deliberate steps toward a loose pallet of straw in the opposite corner. Kicking at the bedding, he uncovered a ragged blanket I’d not noticed before. “Someone sleeps here?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Ernesto.

“Every night? Even since the painter has set up shop?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it that is content with such a mean resting place?” Captain Forti’s tones were silky, but dangerous.

“One of my workers—Santini, by name. He’s simple in the head, but I believe him to be absolutely trustworthy. He—”

“Don’t tell me what you believe,” Captain Forti interrupted brusquely. “I will determine who is trustworthy and who is not. I want to question this Santini. Tell me where he can be found and I’ll send a deputy to fetch him here.”

“I’ll go,” Ernesto said quickly. “He could be one of several places.”

Receiving a curt nod, the steward lit a lantern and left by the double doors. He returned in a few minutes, urging Santini along with a hand at the small of his back. The rustic’s lank mane dripped from a beat-up tricorne, and his slack jaw was covered with several days’ worth of stubble. When he realized the entire household was watching him, his eyes started rolling.

Captain Forti had been waiting in the soldier’s at-ease posture of spread legs and crossed arms, fingering his watch chain impatiently. Pursing his lips as if he’d just sucked on a lemon, he looked Santini up and down. “Do you know who I am?” he thundered.

Santini replied with a barely perceptible quiver of his chin.

“Can you not remove your hat in the presence of the law?”

Ernesto palmed the tricorne’s crown and shoved the dusty hat into Santini’s midriff. The man responded with a proper nod and opened his mouth. The cords of his neck stood out as he struggled to form the first words I had ever heard him speak: “Pl… please… excuse… Captain.”

Captain Forti unfurled the soiled nightshift. He spit out the words: “Do you recognize this?”

Santini shook his head violently.

“You do.” The ivory teeth came together with a sharp crack. “You hit Signora Costa over the head with the brass pendulum, but not until you’d forced yourself on her. To cover your shameful deed, you stripped off this nightshift and put her in clean clothing. Then you hid this in the hay rack right beside your pitiful bed.”

Santini had been shaking his head throughout. Now a painful rasp emerged from his throat: “No, no.” His eyes squeezed shut, and tears spilled down his weather-beaten cheeks.

“Please, Captain,” Ernesto said. “I know this man. I’m the closest thing to family that he has. Santini isn’t capable of such an act. As you can see, his mind is but a child’s. He could never have planned the deceptions involved in the two murders.

“So far, I’m only accusing him of one.”

“Even so, with all due respect, there was a note found beside the vat in the cantina.”

Captain Forti nodded briskly. “I’ve seen it.”

“Santini is no longer able to read or write.” Ernesto allowed a triumphant smirk to conform his lips.

The constable met it with an even uglier grin. He asked, “Was the note addressed to Signora Costa? Did it mention her name at all?”

“Well… no,” Ernesto faltered. “But, it was obviously meant for her.”

“Was it? How can you be sure? Perhaps the lady wrote it herself, and its recipient turned out to be more than she bargained for,” Captain Forti shot back.

I bit my lip, annoyed that I hadn’t considered that possibility. The constable must have a more subtle mind than I’d judged.

Ernesto wasn’t finished yet. He dug a claw-like hand into Santini’s filthy shoulder and asked, “But would a worldly, beautiful singer have ever sent such a note to this man?”

Captain Forti opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. In the tense silence, the snap of his dentures resounded like shots. Eventually he said, “All right, I’ll give you that, but my nose tells me this man knows more about the nightshif
t than he’s telling. Perhaps some time in a jail cell will loosen his tongue.”

“But it’s harvest time and Santini is one of my most willing workers.” Ernesto addressed the constable, but his eyes sent Vincenzo a silent plea.

The master of the villa dipped his chin and took a sudden interest in his boots. The rest of the party traded nervous looks.

“I implore you, Captain,” Ernesto continued, “Santini is no danger to anyone, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you any more if he rotted in jail for a year. Let the man stay on the estate where he’s needed.”

“And what if he should make a break for the mountains?”

“He won’t. I’ll supervise him at his work during the day and lock him in the stable tack room at night.”

Captain Forti stared at the trembling Santini, dark eyes glinting like they must when he had a magnificent boar at the end of his rifle. The constable had just opened his mouth—to order Santini’s arrest I was certain—when he was interrupted.

“Yes, Captain.” Vincenzo had found his voice and, perhaps, a small segment of backbone. “We still have crops to get in and every hand is needed. If you agree, I’ll stand as Santini’s bondsman. I’ll produce him whenever you want or forfeit one hundred
zecchini
.”

Looking as surprised as I felt, Captain Forti replied, “Will you put your signature to that pledge?”

“Of course, right now if you like.”

“All right.” The constable nodded slowly, grinding his jaws from side to side. “The rest of you may return to the house, but don’t even think of leaving the estate. There will be more questions later, I assure you.”

As we filed out onto the colonnade, I cast a brief look back. Vincenzo scribbled out a chit for the constable while Santini stared at the ground with sweat rolling down his cheeks. Ernesto hovered near, clenching and unclenching his fists.

***

Our parade down the hall to the central foyer was slow and somber. With the arrival of Captain Forti, the enormity of the villa’s murders had finally pierced the tough skin of all our individual problems and concerns. Emilio, who usually carried himself with such dignity, was slumping along as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. His young friend Romeo seemed to have aged ten years. The two went in the salon, threw themselves on the sofa, and sat silently shaking their heads.

Instead of following the singers, the Gecco brothers veered off toward the stairs, whispering between themselves. If not for the constable’s ban on travel, I would have bet my last
soldo
that they were planning to pack their bags and seek conveyance to the Brenta. Even Nita, generally so calm and efficient, seemed at a loss for what to do next. She stared at the big front door, nervously fingering something shiny that she held in her clenched fist. Moving closer, I saw she held a rosary.

“Signora?” Nita’s gaze sought Octavia. “What should I do about supper? It’s already past the time.”

The lady of the villa plucked at the lace fichu that decorated her shallow bosom. Gingery strands had escaped her chignon and brushed about her flushed cheeks. Her flat, emotionless gaze swept the group as if we were all complete strangers, even Karl. “They will want something, I suppose. Are there eggs in the larder?”

“
Si
, Signora. Plenty.”

“Then we’ll have
frittate
with onions and mushrooms. And perhaps some cold chicken if there’s any left… and cheese…” Octavia took Nita’s elbow and propelled her toward the kitchen. The still blubbering maids brought up the rear.

Octavia might be preoccupied, but Karl had hardly forgotten his patroness; his hooded eyes followed her until she disappeared down a side corridor. Then he made a beeline for the harpsichord. After a few exploratory chords, he launched into a plodding D minor melody that I’d never heard before. He paused, repeated, and tinkered with the bass as if he were having a wordless conversation with the keyboard. Was he was composing on the spot? If so, I thought our maestro must be feeling very melancholy indeed.

Vincenzo had returned. I’d seen him give the footmen orders that sent the boys in three different directions. Now he was asking Alphonso about the condition of the clock. “Can you put it right again?”

The old valet shrugged his bony shoulders. “I could if I had the pendulum, but Captain Forti’s men took it away. Who knows when they’ll see fit to return it?”

“Don’t worry about it then.” Vincenzo’s tone sagged as wearily as his seamed cheeks and the pouches beneath his reddened eyes. “I’ll be in my study. Bring some brandy.”

Alphonso trotted off, and Vincenzo started down the hall. Gussie was tugging at my sleeve, urging me to retire to our room, but I put a finger to my lips. I’d noticed Jean-Louis watching Vincenzo with his hawk-like gaze. Now he bolted after the man and raised his voice. “A word, Signor Dolfini, if you please.”

Vincenzo paused. I expected Jean-Louis to harangue our host on the need for the opera to proceed despite the arrival of the law, but the Frenchman surprised me. He was concerned over Santini running loose. I heard Jean-Louis strenuously advise Vincenzo to withdraw his bond, but a series of crashing arpeggios from Karl drowned out any further conversation. The two men entered Vincenzo’s study and closed the door.

I felt another tug on my sleeve.

“Tito, I’m dying to read the latest letter.” Gussie had regained some of his good humor. His blue eyes were alight with curiosity, and while the expression on his face couldn’t precisely be called a smile, he looked more cheerful than anyone else in the villa.

My hand sprang to the jacket pocket where I kept my calfskin wallet containing the letters, then I remembered I’d left the latest spread out on the table. “It’s upstairs, let’s go. You won’t believe what Alessandro got himself in the middle of…”

We took the stairs quickly, conversing as we went. Once in the upper corridor, I looked toward the stricken clock. Someone had closed the door where the pendulum should have hung, but the arrow-shaped hands were still frozen at midnight. How fitting, I thought. It seemed like the entire villa had been caught in the snare of that mournful hour.

I was turning our doorknob when Gussie stayed my hand. “There’s someone in there,” he whispered. “Crying—don’t you hear it?”

I put my ear to the polished wood. Yes. Someone sobbing, a woman most like.

Our eyes met in an instant of foreboding. Then I flung the door open, and Grisella sprang up from the table, clutching Alessandro’s letter.

“Tito!” she cried, her voice high and shrill, her eyes swollen and red.

I stretched out a trembling hand, barely containing my vexation. “That letter belongs to me.”

She tightened her hold on the pages, crumpling and pressing them to her bosom. Her lips twisted like writhing earthworms as she stared wildly from me to Gussie. Spittle escaped one corner of her mouth, and her shoulder jerked violently. The pages rattled and tore.

“Grisella…” I faltered, unsure how to proceed, my anger dribbling away. This was just how my sister had looked before her girlhood fits exploded in flailing arms and growling epithets. Back then Annetta or Berta had administered her elixir and she calmed at once, but I had no medicine. Should I go next door to search for a bottle in her room? Or run downstairs for Jean-Louis?

Gussie was more decisive. He darted forward and delivered a smart slap. Giving a little yelp, Grisella wheeled around and fell back onto my bed. We quickly moved to her side.

“Allow me to thank you, esteemed brother-in-law.” Grisella spoke through clenched teeth, pushing up with one hand and rubbing her blazing cheek with the other. “You have restored me to myself as deftly as my so-called husband ever did.”

“Forgive me.” Gussie’s brow puckered, and his eyes shone with concern. “It was the quickest remedy that occurred to me. I’ve heard your full-blown fits can be deadly.”

“Not so far,” she replied dryly. “These days, they are never so vicious as the ones Annetta must have described. I’m sure my sister has told you a great deal about me. I would ask a thousand questions about her, except that I will soon see Annetta for myself. Won’t I, Tito?”

To cover my discomfort, I retrieved the pages of Alessandro’s letter. Several had torn, but they were still readable. I handed them to Gussie, who immediately smoothed them out and began to skim the lines.

Grisella slid off the bed and came to me. She curled her fingers around my hand and placed my palm on her still red cheek. “You’re going to take me home, aren’t you, Tito? Surely you can’t hold me responsible for the death of the poor girl that Alessandro unearthed.”

“Who should I hold responsible?”

“Jean-Louis, of course. You have no idea what a brute he is.”

“I do. You’ve told me.”

She pressed her lips in a thin line, then said provocatively, “It’s worse than you think. You don’t know everything.”