4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (22 page)

I am at the end of my strength for now and must close so that this letter will catch the mail coach. I know you have questions; one more I will answer quickly. It was Calamaro who furnished the information about my identity that set my captors on my trail. Yanus sought him out because he remembered it was he who had first introduced me to The Red Tulip. Together they made hay by selling me off to the Russians.

Fortunately, Yusuf Ali also remembered what I’d told him of Calamaro. When I failed to return home, he sought out Calamaro at the Bailo’s residence. That feckless wastrel was no match for my formidable father-in-law. Once confronted, Calamaro revealed his scurvy bargain as quickly as an apprentice seaman threatened with the cat-o’-nine-tails. Yusuf Ali then alerted his confidants at the Sultan’s court who called at the Russian embassy and secured my release with their well-polished combination of courtesy and menace.

Ah, here comes Zuhal with a steaming tureen. To restore my strength, she has made my favorite sheep’s foot soup. She doesn’t seem to realize that the sight of her lovely face will heal me faster than any tasty dish.

Be on guard, dear family, and keep yourselves safe. More than ever, I wish I could cross the miles in a twinkling and deliver this warning in person. I kiss each of you a hundred times!

Your devoted brother,
Alessandro

Chapter Sixteen

“I must leave at once.” Gussie had been pacing in tight circles while I’d read Alessandro’s letter. Now he retrieved his boots from the wardrobe and sat down to unbuckle his shoes.

“I don’t dare wait until nightfall,” he continued as he exchanged his stockings of white silk for warmer wool. “At the very moment this letter reached Venice, a message from the Russians might have been delivered to who knows how many of their agents.”

My heart dropped to my stomach. Gussie was right—someone had to get home and quickly. At that moment, our entire household consisted of our wives, three small children, an infant, several female servants, and a manservant recovering from broken ribs and a fractured skull. Even when Benito was at his best, his skills ran more to pressing the lace frills of my neckcloths than fighting off intruders.

“We should both go.” I leapt out of bed and reached for my breeches.

“Don’t be daft, Tito. Captain Forti had stationed deputies around the house and at the gates. The only way off this estate is to ride over the fields and intercept the public road that leads back to Padua. You can barely keep your seat on a horse.”

I bleakly agreed. Gussie was the horseman, not I. While I had been singing my first hymns in the parish choir, this son of English gentry had been galloping his pony over fields and streams.

“Are you going to take one of Vincenzo’s horses?”

Gussie nodded as he struggled into his boots. “He has a chestnut mare named Alfana—fifteen hands, sleek, with a steady gait. That horse will suit me perfectly. I’ll leave her at the stable where we hired the carriage that brought us here. For a fee, I’m sure the stableman will see that she gets back to the estate.”

“With luck, you may reach Padua in time to catch the Burchiello.”

“That’s my plan. The boat stops at every landing along the canal, but that can’t be helped. It’s still the fastest way home.” He stood up, looking as stalwart as any operatic hero that I had ever played.

“You’ll be in Venice by tomorrow,” I said wistfully, tying my shirt front. The thought of our snug house had me fighting back sudden tears. I abandoned the laces and grasped Gussie by both shoulders. “Keep our family safe, old friend. If harm comes to any one of them, how will we forgive ourselves?”

Gussie reached up to cover my hands with his and brought them together between us. Still enclosing them in a tight grip, he replied in a fevered tone. “Don’t worry, Tito. Once I get home, the door will be barred to anyone we haven’t known for years, and I’ll hire six-foot bravos to accompany Annetta and Liya to the market. The Devil himself won’t be able to penetrate my defenses.”

I nodded in a series of jerks. “I know you’ll take care of everything… I just wish there was something I could do.”

“There is,” said Gussie, dropping his hands. “You can create a diversion while I saddle Alfana and start off. I’ve already had a look round outside. The grooms were pressed into joining Captain Forti’s hunting parties, so the stable is deserted except for one boy.”

“The deputies?”

“The pair at the gate presents no problem. The house hides the stable from their view, and I’ll be riding in the opposite direction. But there’s one more man patrolling the house. Earlier, he was flirting with one of the maids at the kitchen door. Who knows where he’ll be when the time comes?”

I thought quickly. The situation called for something simple, a brief distraction that would shift the focus from the stable for a few minutes and then die down. I could manage that. After all, as Captain Forti had so disparagingly remarked, I was steeped in stage deceptions of all sorts. Later, I would have to explain both Alfana and Gussie’s absence to Vincenzo, but I thought I could handle that, too. The master of the villa was a reasonable man.

I finished dressing while Gussie hurriedly packed a few essentials in a pouch he could sling over his shoulder. We agreed on the time of his departure as thirty minutes hence, and set our watches accordingly. Once Gussie was away, I wouldn’t see him again until I’d also reached home. With decidedly mixed emotions, I cautioned him about a hundred dangers of the road and wished him one last Godspeed.

My brother-in-law stood stiffly without returning my farewell. I detected something unsaid in his glittering blue eyes.

“What is it?” I asked quietly.

“Tito,” he replied in a voice heavy with sorrow and worry. “You can’t bring Grisella home. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?”

I nodded, smiling faintly. I’d known that since I laid eyes on the first lines of Alessandro’s latest letter.

***

The house seemed strangely quiet without the tinkle of the harpsichord and warbling of the singers wafting from the salon. I paused for a moment in the foyer, listening intently, trying to ascertain where the inhabitants of the villa had got to. A low chatter and the clink of silverware on china came from the dining room. Keeping out of sight, I drew near enough to identify the voices.

“Has anyone checked on Gabrielle?” Romeo was asking.

“She was still asleep when I came down.” Octavia answered with more warmth than I would have expected, given the humiliating conclusion to her concert the night before. “I put her in Signora Costa’s old room. It has unhappy associations, but at least Signora Costa’s things have been packed up and the room cleaned. One of the maids is sitting with Madame Fouquet so she won’t wake up alone.”

“Well, if you ask me,” said Emilio. “That bloodthirsty peasant’s last murder was very convenient for Gabrielle. Her husband was one of the nastier bit of goods I’ve ever come across, arrogant, sly, selfish. Once Gabrielle recovers from the shock of his death, she should do very well on her own.”

Good, I thought. Word still hadn’t got round the villa that Gabrielle Fouquet was really Grisella Amato. I wasn’t ready to face the questions that revelation would bring just yet.

A new voice chimed in, and I recognized Mario’s bald tones. “I just hope the constable and his men catch that madman soon. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder all the time. Besides, we need to get back to Venice.”

“Just so,” his brother Lucca added. “We’ll have to hustle to find positions for the new opera season. I suppose our old chairs at the San Moise are already filled.”

A loud rattle followed, and I pictured coffee slopping over the rim of a delicate cup. “Don’t speak to me of the new season,” Octavia thundered. “I won’t hear a word about arias or librettos or composers. Especially not lying, deceiving, snake-in-the-grass composers.”

A moment of strained silence.

Romeo spoke up warily. “I suppose you’ll be glad to get us all out of your hair.”

Octavia must have signaled her agreement in no uncertain terms, because Emilio instantly turned peevish.

“We’re certainly not here for our health,” the castrato complained. “Captain Forti has made prisoners of us, and now that the peasant’s flight proves his guilt, I don’t understand why. The murders are solved. It’s just a matter of bringing the man in to face justice.”

Romeo’s bass rumbled, “I suppose the constable wants to be certain he acted alone. After all…”

I heard soft footfalls on carpet an instant before a subdued male voice murmured behind me: “Good morning, Tito.”

A hand fell on my shoulder. Hoping I didn’t appear as furtive as I felt, I turned to face Vincenzo. His face was haggard, the skin gray and loose as a husk.

“Are you coming in to breakfast?”

I shook my head. “I was just thinking that my appetite seems to have deserted me.”

He smiled weakly. “We must keep our strength up, though, mustn’t we. It won’t do to let events beat us down.”

“Just now, a bit of air would do me more good than food. I’m going for a walk.”

“Suit yourself.” He sighed and entered the dining room as if girding himself for battle.

So much for above stairs, but what about the servants? Since Vincenzo had just come down, his valet would be clearing up his bath and shaving gear. The footmen would be waiting at table, perhaps ferrying dishes to or from the kitchen by the back stairs. If I could be sure that Nita or the other maid wasn’t out in the kitchen garden, I could proceed in the direction of the stable undetected.

After retrieving my outdoor attire from the cloakroom, I took the stairs that led down to the kitchen and hurried along the narrow passage. The minutes seemed to be flying by, and I cursed myself for listening too long outside the dining room. At the kitchen, I paused with my cloak slung over my arm. Pots bubbled over the fire, releasing billows of steam that shrouded the smoke-stained bricks. Nita was standing at the long table with her back to me. She seemed totally engrossed in plucking feathers off a goose, and her helper was nowhere in sight.

I continued along the passage more slowly, nosing my way through the unfamiliar warren of larders and work rooms. Soon a rhythmic thumping met my ears, accompanied by unmistakable gasps and moans. Ah, the other maid. But who was sharing her pleasure?

Creeping silently, I peered around the edge of a dingy curtain at the entrance to a long, narrow storage room. Enough light filtered down from a dirty window near the ceiling for me
to mak
e out oil jars, baskets of potatoes, pails, and sacks of other provisions stacked along the wall. At the far end of the space was a heaving tangle of bare flesh atop some folded sacks. The thinner of the two maids had her skirt bunched around her waist. One of Captain Forti’s deputies was taking her from behind, and she winced with each thrust. Yes, I was certain the man was a deputy. His blue coat with the bright brass buttons lay discarded on the tiles.

Running on tiptoe, I tried first one passage and then another until I located an outside door. Once on the sunny path that ringed the back lawn, I pulled my watch from a waistcoat pocket. Only ten minutes until Gussie planned to slip into the stables.

Though the blood was coursing through my veins, I forced myself to saunter like a man with no particular destination. I passed the sprawling vegetable garden, several barrows piled with orange pumpkins, the shed that held the olive press, and finally reached the stable yard.

The yard formed a stone quadrangle open on one end with carriage bays to my left, empty kennels before me, and the building that housed the horses forming the other side. In the center of the yard was a hitching post, and against this leaned a boy on a backless chair, cracking hazelnuts for all he was worth.

I hailed the fellow with a cheery greeting and a twiddle of my fingers. “Going for a little walk,” I announced, exaggerating my already high speaking voice. I pointed my stick at the grove of elm and hazel that spread out on a gentle incline beyond the stables. “Can’t get lost in these woods, can I?”

He turned a rum eye on me, seeing just what I wanted him to. The infamous exploits of many of my fellow singers had led people, even stable boys, to expect certain things of a castrato: refined manners, extravagant impulses, a delicate sensibility, and above all, more talent than brains.

Not ceasing his nutcracking, the boy called back, “No one is supposed to go off the estate.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” I tittered a high laugh as I continued on toward the trees. “I’m not going far, just a morning stroll on a beautiful day.”

I found the grove perfect for my purpose. Under the trees, its lush soil nurtured a thicket of small bushes, ferns, and thick vines. Above, the hazels’ broad leaves were turning brown, and higher still, the elms were shriveled and yellow. Enough foliage remained on the branches to throw great patches of undergrowth into dusky shadow. As I leaned on my stick, envisioning my next move, a bird hooted, mellow and throaty. I took it as my clarion call.

With a carefully modulated shriek designed to carry no farther than the stable yard, I turned and ran back down the path. My feet churned up dust and small rocks went flying. The boy darted out of the stable yard, and I called, “Help me, please. For the love of God.”

Under a tangle of dark hair, the boy’s broad face registered surprise and irritation. Swiping his hair from his eyes, he half-turned toward the villa.

“No, don’t run off.” I spoke in a terrified whisper as I skidded to a halt. “You must come with me. That mad murderer is loose in the wood. I saw him.”

“Then I must fetch a deputy, Signore.”

The boy was poised to flee, so I seized him by the collar of his faded jacket.

“No, no. You mustn’t leave me here alone. The killer that Captain Forti is chasing is hiding in the woods. He’s stalking me, I’m certain, but I can’t run another step.” I huffed and puffed and, for good measure, patted my heart dramatically. “You can’t run off with that monster loose.”

The boy curled his lip. “It’s only that crazy old mute, Santini,” he replied with the arrogance of the young and healthy. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You can catch him, then. Come—” I tugged at his collar. “I’ll show you where I saw him. It’s just into the wood, not far.”

The boy dug in his heels, casting a glance back into the stable yard. I used the silver knob on my stick to turn his face squarely back toward me. I’d seen something he hadn’t: Gussie peering around the corner of the building.

“Think what a hero you can be. If you capture Santini, the older fellows will come back and be forced to hang their heads in shame.”

His dark eyes glowed. “Will there be a reward?” he asked as he shifted energetically from foot to foot.

“I shouldn’t be surprised. If you can bring Santini in, I’ll contribute a
zecchino
myself.”

He thought less than a moment before grabbing a hay fork and taking off for the wood. As he brandished his makeshift weapon, his excited treble rang out, “Hurry, Signore, show me where you saw him.”

Cleto, as the boy was known, turned out to be a tireless tracker. He poked his long fork in every bush and weedy hillock of the grove, and I suffered more than a few pangs of guilt as he insisted on searching far longer than I knew to be necessary. When we finally headed back to the stable yard, Cleto looked so dejected that I gave him his
zecchino
anyway. I held another in reserve if he got in trouble over Alfana’s disappearance.