4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (20 page)

When every last drop of praise had been milked from the crowd, we retreated back to the foyer and traded places with Octavia. Bursting with pride and excitement, I turned to offer my sister a congratulatory embrace. But Jean-Louis grabbed her by the elbow and whisked her into the salon, scattering her flowers across the terracotta tiles. I picked up one red rose and inhaled its sweet aroma. Feeling oddly jealous, I took up my place by the window once again.

Octavia’s entrance occasioned uncertain smiles, raised eyebrows, and only fragmentary applause from the benches. I had a good view of her face as she turned toward Karl and nodded her readiness. Octavia wasn’t dismayed by the tepid welcome. On the contrary, her countenance shone with the classic signs of a stage-struck soprano. This middle-aged woman in the ridiculously low-cut gown was as infatuated with performing as any young nymph promoted from the chorus to her first solo role.

Karl struck the keynote, and his paramour’s voice rose in determined song. This was Octavia’s stellar moment.

But something was wrong. In the audience, heads turned away from the stage, men murmured, women tittered. As a wave, the assembly stirred and rose to its feet.

Karl played doggedly on. Mario and Lucca scraped out a few dissonant chords, then let their bows fall silent and stretched up out of their seats to search for the cause of the commotion. As Octavia’s eyes bulged at the errant fiddlers, her voice also faltered to a halt. Karl’s hands finally sank away from the keyboard, leaving a silent void that glorious music had filled only a moment before.

Insisting that we must see what was going on, Emilio jerked the door open. All of us, even Grisella and Jean-Louis, ran out to join Octavia.

On the graveled drive, at the edge of the stage, stood a young woman. I recognized her at once. She was the little blonde who had peered at me from the front gates a few days ago. The soldier’s wife, if Signor Luvisi’s information was correct. She was dressed in the same drab cloak, and a little boy grasped her hand. In the crook of her arm she held a baby about six months old, a girl by the look of its pink filet cap.

Under the amazed gaze of Octavia’s guests and the players on the platform, she dropped the boy’s hand and hoisted her petticoats. Climbing clumsily onto the stone lip of a flower bed and thence onto the boards of the stage, she made herself and her infant as much a part of the show as any of us. The boy scrambled after her, looking like he was about to burst into tears. The woman’s face was blank, her stare unblinking as she walked straight toward the harpsichord.

Octavia ran forward and flapped her hands as if she were driving a goose back to its pen. “Go away!” our hostess cried, cheeks glowing brick-red in the torchlight. “Get off the stage! You have no business coming up here while I’m singing.”

The expressions of my fellow performers showed varying degrees of bewilderment and curiosity. Except for Karl. He had risen from the harpsichord and was staring down at the keys as though memorizing the pattern of cracks in the ivory.

Our diminutive intruder’s gaze never wavered as she moved her brood in the composer’s direction. A pink flush ascended from her neck to her pale face. “We do have business here,” she stated in a meek voice accented with German. “We have come to ask Maestro Weber a question.”

The composer’s shoulders slumped even lower, and Octavia threw up her hands. Catching Vincenzo’s eye, she mouthed, “Do something.” Vincenzo hurried along the space between the stage and the audience. At the juncture where the woman had climbed up, he joined forces with Captain Forti and one of his deputies.

Impending capture spurred the little woman to continue. In shaky, but perfectly audible tones, she asked, “Karl,
mein lieb
, how long are you going to let us starve and wither away in that horrible room?”

Octavia shrieked out a question of her own: “Karl, don’t tell me you know this woman?”

Whatever depths Karl’s spirit had sunk to in those few moments, it now rose on wings tipped with starlight. The composer seemed to throw off his melancholy like a worn-out cloak. He ripped off his ridiculous wig, brushed his sandy hair from his brow, and straightened his narrow shoulders. Wearing the expression of an ancient knight setting out on a sacred quest, he strode to the woman’s side. His strong arm encircled her waist, and he spoke so all could hear: “Of course I know her. Signora Dolfini, allow me to present my wife, Frau Weber.”

Octavia threw her head back and roared like a wounded lioness.

***

Our audience had decamped in confusion, Karl and his family had been banished to the Post house in Molina Mori, and Octavia was in her room having hysterics. What was left of the opera company had gathered in the dining room to tuck into Nita’s buffet of delicacies.

“I always thought Karl was hiding a secret,” I mused, licking a dollop of cream filling off my thumb.

“You never said,” Gussie replied between bites of a shiny plum tart. “What made you think so?”

“It was those letters he received and never seemed to answer. They made me curious. I meant to get to the bottom of them one day, but since I didn’t think they had anything to do with our murders…” I finished with a shrug of my shoulders and reached over the table for another pastry.

My nose recognized the heavy scent of jasmine and musk a second before someone bumped me from behind. “Sorry, Tito,” Romeo said as we whirled to face each other. Despite his plate heaped with sweets, Romeo’s expression was as sour as vinegar.

“So,” he continued, “I suppose the little mouse and her pups have put an end to our grand show. Who would have thought that
Tamerlano
would meet such a shameful defeat?”

I nodded. “Not only shameful, but premature. Now we’ll never know what Venice would have made of it.”

Emilio had been in earnest conversation with the Gecco brothers. Looking far from happy, he joined us, saying, “It’s one thing for a performance to be booed from the pit or ignored by the box holders, but to be denied even the opportunity to bring our efforts to the theater… maddening.” The castrato pacified his ire by popping several honeyed dates in his mouth.

“What are you going to do, Tito?” Romeo asked.

“Do? When?”

“After Captain Forti finds Carmela’s murderer and releases us.”

“Don’t forget about the first murder,” I said.

Romeo shook his head doubtfully. “Surely the killers are one and the same. It’s hard enough to imagine one murderer in our midst, much less two.”

Emilio’s hand fluttered to his lips. He plucked out a date pit with thumb and forefinger, then asked, “Two? Come now, Tito, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

“It’s possible,” I replied carefully. “We still have no idea why the stranger and Carmela were murdered.”

Emilio snorted, unconvinced. “What does it matter why? Both deaths occurred at midnight and both involved the clock. We obviously have a killer with a mania for timepieces.” He lowered his voice. “I haven’t wanted to say—after all, it’s no business of mine as long as he doesn’t come after me—but I favor Vincenzo’s valet.”

“Old Alphonso?” I asked. “Whyever for?”

“I’ve noticed him rooting around inside the clock several times.”

“Alphonso knows clocks,” I replied. “He once valeted for a clockmaker, so Vincenzo relies on him to keep this one in good running order. The little man barely has the strength to carry a full laundry basket, much less heave corpses hither and yon.”

Emilio gave a peevish shrug. “Well, when Captain Forti makes his arrest, don’t forget that I mentioned Alphonso first.”

Romeo made an effort to smile. “I’m sure Captain Forti will get his man, whoever he his. My concern is the damage this infernal stay in the country has done to my career. Before I left Venice, Maestro Porta talked of reviving his opera
Numitore
. He dangled a small part for me, but I turned it down on the spot because I’d just been offered the role of Bazajet.” Sadness rushed into every crevice of the basso’s face. “Now my role of a lifetime has gone up in smoke, and I have no prospects in sight. Do either of you have any engagements lined up?”

While Emilio boasted that he had “something quite astounding in the offing,” I paused in thought, momentarily perplexed by how completely life at the Villa Dolfini seemed to have swallowed up my past and my future. Giving myself a mental shake, I answered, “Nothing certain, but I suppose something will turn up. I never go without work for long.”

“Yes, it’s different for you castrati,” Romeo answered sourly. “You don’t know what it is to worry about bread on the table.” His accompanying look clearly stated that despite my favorable prospects for employment, he wouldn’t be me for all the gold in the Doge’s treasury. “By the way,” he continued. “Do you think there will be any problem collecting our pay for the time we’ve already put in on
Tamerlano
?”

Gussie had been listening to our conversation in silence. Now he smiled in sympathy. “I’m having similar doubts about my paintings. Octavia appears to want to turn her back on the opera completely. I wonder if Signor Dolfini will also give me the boot.”

Emilio rolled his eyes. “Mario just told me Octavia threatened to plunge a dagger into any impertinent rascal who so much as mentions the opera.”

“That’s all we need,” replied Romeo glumly. “One more murder and we’ll never get out of this villa.”

“We shouldn’t worry overmuch,” I said. “Octavia will calm down eventually. She may never want to sing another note, but she’ll give us our fair compensation.”

Emilio brought his face close to mine and said in a whisper, “The Frenchman isn’t so sure. He’s still talking of bringing suit if his wife’s contract isn’t honored.”

I cast a glance toward Jean-Louis and Grisella across the room at the buffet. Earlier, I’d noticed that while she sipped at a coffee, Jean-Louis seemed intent on consuming the value of Grisella’s pay in cakes and pastries. Now he patted his midsection, and with a crook of his finger, summoned one of the footmen who were waiting to take the uneaten food back to the kitchen.

“Is the fire in our room made up?”

“Yes, Signore, it’s good and warm,” answered the youngest footman. Adamo, by name.

“I’ll have a bath then, with plenty of hot water.”

The boy’s dismay was palpable. At the end of this long day, with many duties left to be done, the last chore he wanted was fetching the tin bath and carrying pails of water to fill it. Grisella seemed to share my concern. She laid a timid hand on Jean-Louis’ arm, but he shook it off.

“Get to it then,” the Frenchman said. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Yes, Signore.” Adamo left the dining room with leaden steps.

Jean-Louis ran a bilious eye over the offerings on the sideboard. He must have found an empty crevice in his stomach, for he reached for one more chocolate éclair. After giving it a lingering inspection, he put one end in his mouth and employed a forefinger to shove it in whole. Jaws working, he jerked his head at Grisella.

Murmuring a few words, she took a step back and raised her coffee cup.

Quick as the flick of an eyelid, Jean-Louis whipped the cup from her hand. Splashing a streak of brown liquid down her white Turkish robe, he poured the remaining coffee into the vase of belladonna lilies that decorated the sideboard.

His words carried on a burst of irritation: “Now you’re finished. Come on.”

***

I didn’t expect to see my sister again that night. The singers and musicians, accepting Gussie as one of their own, moved from the dining room to the salon. Keyed up from the evening’s surprises and no doubt feeling a little sorry for ourselves, we congratulated each of our concert performances with a series of liberal toasts from the brandy decanter.

I confess that I then grabbed centerstage by recounting several stories from my extensive travels. Never one to accept second billing, Emilio rose from the sofa and announced his intention to retire.

I pulled him back down with a tug on the tail of his jacket. “Don’t rush off,” I said, “you’ll have your turn.”

The castrato complied by allowing Gussie to fill his glass, but he stared moodily into the fire and crossed his arms as if he meant to block any and all convivialities. Romeo eagerly stepped into the breach with some scandalous gossip about the Papal Nuncio and a certain soprano who was well-known in Venetian circles.

We were all reaching that muzzy, golden state where the cares of the day seem to evaporate like soap bubbles in the sun when Grisella entered.

“Gabrielle, my pretty,” slurred Romeo. “How did you slip your lead?”

My sister giggled like a child at a marionette show and whipped off her head scarf to let her brazen curls spill down her back. Smoothing out her coffee-stained robe, she dropped down beside me on the sofa and said, “Jean-Louis has been at the brandy, too. He fell asleep in his bath, and I wanted some company.”

Emilio raised his glass. “A toast to Gabrielle. Never one to miss an opportunity.”

“To Gabrielle,” we echoed.

Mario fetched a glass for the only lady that remained in our dwindling company, and we whiled away another hour in reminiscing over our greatest triumphs and most spectacular failures. Grisella laughed, pink-cheeked, at the tales of the men and offered a few Parisian theater stories of her own.

Why couldn’t it be like this forever, I thought. I could just conveniently forget all Grisella’s troubles in Constantinople, pretend that Danika and Count Vladimir Paninovich had never existed. Grisella and I could make a new start. We could sing together in Venice, at the Teatro San Marco. With our perfectly blended voices, we could make operatic history.

As I was losing myself in that wonderful fairy tale, the harbinger of truth was trotting through the door, white-faced and terrified.

“Signori,” cried the young footman Adamo. “Help, please. Upstairs.”

Chapter Fifteen

From the door of the chamber, nothing in the lamp-lit room looked amiss. The room’s one bed was several steps away; its bedspread of Lombardy lace held an untidy pile of men’s clothing, and Jean-Louis’ jacket hung over a bedpost. Across the room, before the flickering fireplace, a hip bath sat in a nest of Turkish toweling. Jean-Louis filled the tub. He had his back to the door and his feet stretched toward the warmth of the flames. A rolled up towel supported his head against the lip of the tin tub. Quite comfortable, it appeared, as Jean-Louis was very still. Asleep, Grisella had said.

But Adamo hadn’t summoned us because Jean-Louis was sleeping.

I turned back toward the corridor, intent on intercepting Grisella, but didn’t see my sister. Instead Vincenzo was rushing toward me with Alphonso on his heels. Master and valet quickly moved to the tub to gaze down on Jean-Louis. Vincenzo stared with eyes bulging and mouth agape. Alphonso turned the color of a fish’s belly and made a run for the door. I took his place, dimly aware of Gussie and the others bunching in behind me.

I must have been becoming accustomed to corpses, because I trembled only slightly at this one. Jean-Louis’ usual cool stare had changed to round-eyed surprise, probably at the weapon that had punctured his throat. From near his jaw, a strange object protruded at an acute angle. It was a brass shaft that ended in a round disk with a hole in its center. Blood trailed from the place where it met Jean-Louis’ white neck, changed course at his collar bone, and meandered through the black hairs sprinkled over his chest. It seemed a very small trickle, but it was enough to make the tub water glisten like liquid rubies.

“What is that thing sticking out of his throat?” Vincenzo shivered despite his quilted dressing gown. “Some sort of dagger?”

“It’s one of the hands from the clock in the hall.” To my horror, I heard laughter welling out of my throat but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Our murderer couldn’t find his pendulum, so he was forced to pillage the clock for another weapon.”

Vincenzo sent me a dark glance. “Adamo, go check the clock,” he ordered.

As the slap of energetic footfalls sounded down the corridor, I forced myself to calm down and take a cooler look. The crimson water had overflowed the tub and soaked into the margins of the white toweling, and a puddle had formed around the soap and scrub brush that lay near Jean-Louis’ flaccid right hand. At his left hand, an overturned brandy glass caught the firelight.

The footman returned, bursting through the door. “Signor Amato is right about the clock. The big hand is gone.”

Grisella followed Adamo into the room. Clutching her spangled scarf to her stomach, she breathed in shallow gasps. “You all ran out of the salon so fast, I couldn’t keep up with you.” She took hold of a bedpost for support and searched our grim faces. “What has happened? Is Jean-Louis ill?”

As she pushed away from the bed, I sprang to block her path. “You mustn’t see this,” I said. “He’s been stabbed. He’s dead.”

“No, not my husband!” With a wail of anguish, she put her hands to her face and doubled over. I embraced her, and she leaned her weight against me like a trusting child. As we crept from the chamber together, I dimly heard Vincenzo ask, “Is Captain Forti still about the place?”

I steered Grisella next door to my room. As soon as I had her in the chair, she collapsed with head thrown back and eyelids flickering. Gussie quickly fetched another glass of brandy from the decanter downstairs. Little by little, taking small sips from the glass in my hand, she soon revived sufficiently to converse. First I gently described the method by which the Frenchman had been killed, then I asked a few questions.

“When did you leave Jean-Louis?”

“I don’t know exactly. So much has happened this evening, I’ve lost track of the time.” Twin daubs of color stained Grisella’s pale cheeks, and her dark eyes seemed as round as saucers. “He made me scrub his back and talk to him while he soaked. He nodded off gradually… Jean-Louis drinks wine like mother’s milk, but brandy always puts him to sleep… at least, it did…” She sighed and continued, “Once I saw he was snoring, I came straight down to the salon.”

I thought back. “That must have been around eleven o’clock.”

She nodded miserably.

“Was anyone else upstairs?”

“Some servants were moving around earlier, but I didn’t see anyone on my way down.”

“Octavia?”

My sister shook her head gravely. “All was quiet in her corridor.”

“Vincenzo gave her a sleeping powder,” said Gussie, shrugging. “I heard Nita say while we were still eating.”

I considered, gnawing at a knuckle. I already suspected my sister of being more involved with the deaths in Constantinople than she would admit, and from her own mouth, I had heard how Jean-Louis misused her. Now he was dead. I had to ask the question.

“Grisella, did you stab Jean-Louis?”

A wary light flashed in her eyes, but she answered without hesitation. “No, Tito. I swear on my soul that Jean-Louis was sleeping peacefully in his bath when I left our room.”

One thing made me believe her. Death must have been nearly instantaneous for Jean-Louis, but the damp stains that soaked the toweling around the tub indicated he had churned up a few splashes in his death throes. I saw no way that Grisella could have committed that murder without getting a drop of blood-red water on her white clothing, and a red stain would have been even more evident than the brown coffee spill that trailed down the front of her robe.

“Don’t think ill of me.” She lifted trembling hands to her brow, and her mouth pulled to one side. “Have pity on me, brother. I need your help now more than ever.”

“Why do you need me? You are an accomplished soprano. You can go back to Paris and make your own arrangements. You are well known there, and the theater managers are sure to embrace you.”

“I can’t, Tito. Don’t you see? I’ve never been on my own. I don’t know how to make travel arrangements or negotiate contracts. Besides, I need someone to look after me when the fits are at their worst.”

“You could hire a companion,” I suggested. “Or find a manager who won’t abuse you as Jean-Louis did. Someone worthy of your trust.”

“Trust?!” She sprang from the chair, wringing her scarf in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. “How do I know who to trust? I left my home and my family for a man who promised his eternal love. Instead, he tired of me in the space of a year and gave me to his brothers to use at their pleasure. The last of them sold me off to a Russian who treated me no better. Vladimir always promised to take me back to St. Petersburg, but he lied, too. When his work in Constantinople was finished, he meant to pass me off to a Turk. Monsters! All of them!”

Swaying on her feet, Grisella burst into wild, convulsive sobs. Gussie patted her shoulder while murmuring, “There, there,” and I fetched her scarf that had fallen to the floor. When I pressed it into her hand, she embraced me with all her might.

My own arms seemed to tighten around her trembling body with a will of their own.

Grisella whispered, voice brimming with entreaty, “Don’t you understand, Tito? You are the only one I trust—the only person in the world who can help me. There was never a woman more wretched than I—never a woman more in need of her family. You must take me home.” She tilted her head back and looked me in the eye. “Please, you must. I promise you will never be sorry. I’ll be the meekest, most biddable sister that ever was. I’ll let myself be guided by you and Annetta in all things.”

How could I refuse her? With her husband in all but name dead a few paces away? Only a brother with a heart of ice could betray her as so many others had done.

***

It was my turn to be questioned. At long last.

Once Captain Forti had arrived, official wheels had begun to turn. Everyone in the villa had been herded into the salon under the watchful eyes of a pair of deputies stationed between the fluted entrance columns. One by one, we had been summoned. I’d watched as singers and servants had returned from Captain Forti with expressions that spanned anxiety to relief. After giving her statement, Grisella had curled herself into the corner of the sofa with head bowed and hand to her brow.

Now I was the last but one. Gussie was the only other person who hadn’t been questioned.

“Signor Amato,” a deputy announced in a flat tone.

Heartened by a flashing smile from my brother-in-law, I rose and followed the man out of the salon. If he knew he was escorting a singer who had entertained kings and princes, he didn’t show it. Like the other deputies, he was merely a peasant who had traded a lifetime tied to another man’s land for a uniform with shiny buttons. Our footfalls echoed down the long corridor and challenged the oppressive silence that pervaded the villa. The air was so tense and still, the very house might have been holding its breath.

The deputy delivered me to Vincenzo’s study. Bookshelves covered the walls, punctuated here and there by maps of the estate and its environs. Captain Forti had installed himself behind Vincenzo’s desk as if he were the master of the villa or perhaps the entire territory. In the lamplight, the varnished walnut desktop glowed like a watery expanse. Floating on its surface was one lone sheet of paper turned writing side down.

The constable rubbed his jaw as he gave me a cold, silent assessment. He did not invite me to sit. He had brought a black-clad secretary who was stationed at a smaller clerk’s desk with quill and ink pot ready to take notes.

“Statement of Tito Amato,” Captain Forti barked at the secretary.

The particulars were quickly disposed of. Under rapid-fire questioning, I accounted for my whereabouts all evening and named the people who had been eating and drinking together for the several hours leading up to Jean-Louis’ murder.

“So,” the constable continued more slowly. “While the opera company was drowning its disappointment in spirits, the only persons unaccounted for were a few servants, Signor and Signora Dolfini… and your sister.”

It was not a question, but a statement of fact. Grisella must have told Captain Forti of our true relationship. Why? My mouth had gone dry and the pause was reaching an uncomfortable length when I simply answered, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you inform me that you and Madame Fouquet are related?” The constable’s teeth clicked impatiently.

“I didn’t think it had any bearing on the murders.”

“You think, eh?”

There was the scratch of the secretary’s pen, then another silent pause.

Captain Forti continued, “Once again, you’re trespassing on my territory. Your wrong-headed deductions are becoming a nuisance. Just give me the truth and I’ll interpret it.”

“Yes, Captain. I understand.”

“Good. Now we might get somewhere.” He nodded tersely. “Did your sister and her husband have a contented marriage?”

“Sticking strictly to the truth, Jean-Louis Fouquet was not Grisella’s husband—that’s my sister’s given name—Grisella.”

He nodded again.

I went on, “She and Jean-Louis merely lived together as man and wife without the blessing of a priest. Did Grisella tell you that, as well?”

“She did not, but somehow I’m not surprised. You opera people are steeped in false identities and stage deceptions. The principles of decent folk mean nothing to you.”

I felt my face reddening. “Don’t paint us all with the same brush, Captain.”

“No? Do you deny that you have a renegade Jewess living in your home as your mistress?”

The constable pressed on before my astonished tongue could respond. “When I was first informed of the nasty business here at the Villa Dolfini, I sent a man to make a few inquiries in Venice. I like to know who I’m dealing with, you see. It’s quite a menagerie you have there on the Campo dei Polli.” He showed his unnaturally white teeth in a grimace. “Now, I ask you again. Did your sister and her so-called husband get on well?”

“Before coming to prepare Maestro Weber’s opera, I had not seen Grisella for many years,” I answered carefully. “But from what I’ve gathered in the past few days, they had differing ideas about how her career should be conducted.”

“Did Fouquet treat her cruelly?”

“Surely that’s for her to say.”

“She admits that he beat her.”

“Well, then—”

“But only after I confronted her with the statements that others had given. According to your fellow singers, she sometimes had bruises.”

I wet my lips. “That is true.”

“Had you offered to intercede between your sister and… Monsieur Fouquet.”

“We had discussed the possibility of her returning to the family home in Venice.”

“Without Monsieur Fouquet.”

“That’s right.”

The secretary penned frantically.

Captain Forti nodded grimly. “Was the Frenchman included in that discussion?”

“No. If it came to Grisella leaving Jean-Louis, we were going to inform him when it seemed judicious to do so.”

“And when would that be? Surely you and your sister had some understanding between you.”

I gaped at the man, more than a little disconcerted by the tack the constable’s questions were taking. The last thing I wanted was to be pushed into discussing Alessandro’s letters and the strains they had caused between Grisella and me. “I can’t really say,” I answered vaguely. “We hadn’t decided on a definite course of events, but I was thinking we should wait until the end of rehearsals here, when the opera was ready to be taken to the theater in Venice.”

“Why?”

“Well, such a discussion was bound to cause a bit of unpleasantness…”

“More than a bit, I should think.” Captain Forti slowly rose to his feet. Using one forefinger, he gave the paper on the desk a push. It sailed toward me, and I made a grab for it.

“Look it over,” he continued.

Greatly puzzled, I ran my eyes over a standard theatrical contract notarized with an embossed seal. I’d signed many of these in my time, including one for
Tamerlano
, but this wasn’t my contract. Madame Gabrielle Fouquet was named as the artist, and Jean-Louis had signed as her representative. The thing that made me gulp was the salary. For her role as Asteria, Grisella would receive half again what I’d been promised. Either Karl or Octavia must have been absolutely determined to tempt Grisella away from Paris.