4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (8 page)

It began with my sulking around the warehouse, the thought of our sister held as a virtual prisoner gnawing at my vitals like the fox in the old fable. Grisella’s actions disgraced us, it is true, but while I conducted business only a few miles away, she was sinned against by a procession of brutes. After my esteemed father-in-law’s efforts to draw me out of my black mood failed, he insisted that I put work aside, follow Grisella’s trail through our city, and do whatever could be done to restore honor.

I decided to start at the site of the yali that was consumed in the fire. It didn’t take long to find. Many people on the western shore of the Bosphorus remembered the blaze. Like the mythical phoenix, another yali has risen from the ruins, an imposing mansion with a bay that juts out over the rolling blue water and, on its landward side, well-tended gardens enclosed by a high wall. By design, I arrived at the hottest hour of the day. The inhabitants of the house would be within, taking their rest behind the shutters that admitted the delicious breeze. I hoped to find a servant who had been around long enough to provide some useful information.

I was in luck. As I paused at the gate, only one sound carried: the rasp of a rake on the pebbled drive. My entrance startled a peacock into uttering a shrill cry and spreading his sapphire train. A giant came to investigate. He carried a rake and wore an immaculate caftan and neatly folded green turban. A eunuch, of course, a white eunuch.

Tito, you cannot imagine how many altered men walk the streets of Constantinople. They are not mutilated in a quest for heavenly voices as in Italy. Evil, unvarnished greed is the only explanation. The poor creatures are captured as boys in Wallachia and the Balkans and carried back to Turkey to be turned into tractable slaves and servants. And Tito, I shudder to report that their surgery is even worse than what you were forced to undergo. Their entire generative organs are cut away so that the needs of nature must be accomplished through a hollow straw. If I could change just one feature of my adopted homeland it would be this barbaric practice.

But I digress. Sebboy, for that was his name, told me he has worked on this shore for thirty of his forty years and that Count Paninovich was once his master. In our language, Sebboy would be called Gillyflower. All the young eunuchs, black and white, are given these ridiculous names. There are Daisies and Hyacinths on every corner.

So, this Sebboy claimed to remember Grisella well, as he had served as her companion when not occupied with other duties. Such relationships are common here, especially in wealthy households where several wives or concubines compete for their husband’s attention. These eunuchs fill the hours with music and witty conversation, fend off annoyances, and supply news from the outside. I suppose it is natural for women shuttered away from the world to make a bond with men removed from society by their cruel mutilation. I sincerely hope I never give Zuhal any cause to wish for such a companion.

I am sorry, dear ones, your patience must be wearing thin. I can see Annetta’s red cheeks and Gussie about to bite his pipe stem in two. Without further meanderings, I will set our conversation down exactly as it happened.

I identified myself as Grisella’s brother, and Sebboy immediately fell on my neck, babbling and weeping.

“Where is my sweet mistress?” he asked. “Does she go well?”

I scratched my head. Didn’t the fellow know? “But she died in the fire,” I replied.

“That is what some believe, but Sebboy knows better.”

“Some?”

“The master’s countrymen. When Paninovich Effendi burned up in the fire, five men came from the embassy. They were very angry. They herded all the servants into the cookhouse that sat away from the ruined yali and asked many questions.”

“About what?”

“How the fire started. What had we done to fight the blaze. Where the master kept his valuables. They kept us in there all night and part of the next day without food or water, even the old ones. If they thought we weren’t telling the truth they beat us.”

“What was the truth?”

He shrugged. “Only Allah knows the truth. I just know that my mistress and Paninovich Effendi were upstairs. All the servants were downstairs eating the evening meal. It was windy that night and the window draperies were blowing in the breeze. Some thought the fabric caught fire from a lamp…” A deep crease formed between his eyebrows, and he shrugged again.

“What did the men from the embassy do then?”

“They took Paninovich Effendi’s body away. To send back to their country, I believe. The other body they left. To them it was no more than the furniture and carpets that had burned to ashes.”

“The other body? But you said my sister did not die.”

“No, while the others were dipping buckets in the fountain and running to throw water on the raging fire, I saw my mistress run away into the trees.” He pointed toward a cypress grove that stood beside the wall on the other side of the garden.

“In all the panic, could you have been mistaken?”

He propped his chin on his rake and thought a moment. “No, it could only have been my mistress. The glow from the flames shone on the red hair streaming down her back. I know her hair… I brushed it often.”

“Did you go after her?”

“Not right away. The roof fell in and showered sparks everywhere. By the time we had the small fires put out, the cypress grove was empty.”

“Then who was the other body?”

“It is a mystery. When the ashes had cooled, the embassy men locked the doors of the cookhouse and went to sort through the rubble. The other sillies were weeping and chattering like a flock of chickens, but I kept my head. I got on a stool and unhinged a stove pipe so that I could watch through the hole. I was amazed to see them lay the body of a woman beside that of my master’s. She was badly burned, but enough of her hair remained to show its red color. I have no idea who this woman was
or how she came to be in the house.”

“Could she have been one of the female servants?”

“No, they were all in the cookhouse. And none of them had red hair.”

“You didn’t tell the Russians about Grisella escaping the fire?”

“No, the men were very angry. When I saw that they accepted the woman’s body as my mistress, I thought, Allah wills it. My mistress is well away, and who is Sebboy to upset the will of Allah?”

“Someone arranged for the woman’s burial, though. I’ve seen the tombstone.”

“It was the Frankish man.” By this he meant French, dear family. Apparently this man arrived just after the Russians had gone. Telling the servants that he had admired Grisella’s singing at European gatherings in Pera, he volunteered to take charge of her body and see that she received a proper Christian burial. Bewildered and frightened, no one, not even Sebboy, thought to ask his name. The Frenchman loaded the woman’s corpse onto a cart and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

Falling silent, Sebboy began to toy with his rake. The afternoon was wearing on. The music of a ney came from the house, piping strains that rose and fell but never quite resolved into a melody.

“I must go,” I said. Sebboy nodded, then begged me to wait another moment. He leaned his rake against the wall and sped off with his loose robe flapping like wings.

When he returned, he thrust a small box at me. It was rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A beautiful thing despite the charred edges.

“It was hers,” said the big eunuch. “Now it should be yours.”

I lifted the lid and saw a nest of women’s sundries: garters, a broken string of beads, an almost empty scent bottle, several mismatched earrings. There was only one thing I wanted, a visiting card engraved with a French name. I pocketed the card and insisted that Sebboy keep the box and its contents. He couldn’t have been more pleased if I’d granted him one of Aladdin’s treasure chests.

Before I left, Sebboy took my hands and kissed them on the palms, a Turkish gesture that signifies intense devotion. “Find my mistress,” he said. “She tries to disguise it, but she is often ill and cannot care for herself. Take her into the bosom of your family and keep her safe and well. Tell her that her poor Sebboy thinks of her every day.”

Do I believe him? That is hard to say. As I discussed the matter with Zuhal, we wavered between hope and incredulity. Many things dull the blade of truth: fear, envy, and especially greed. I saw none of these in Sebboy’s face as he told his fantastic story, but yet, it is hardly imaginable that a European woman could make her way through Constantinople on her own, especially if she is ill. Then I remember how our little sister always did have more lives than a cat. Tito, you’re too young, but surely Annetta recalls how Grisella crawled out on the ledge over the canal before she could even walk. Berta nearly had heart failure.

One trail remains. As I write this letter, the visiting card from Grisella’s box sits on my desk. It’s smudged with smoke, but the name is still clear. Louis Chevrier. On the back, there is a terse sentence written in western script, Italian. Contact me at The Red Tulip, the rogue writes. I say rogue because there is no club more notorious in Pera. It’s a gathering place for European gentlemen who have a yen to explore their very distorted and debauched view of the harem. One cannot pass through its doors without the patronage of someone known to the management. It may take a few days, but I’ll breach those doors and discover all that Monsieur Chevrier knows about our sister.

Addio, my dear ones. Expect another letter soon. As you are well aware, I never give up without a fight.

Your most affectionate brother,
Alessandro

Gussie and I stared at Alessandro’s bold signature for several breaths. Then my brother-in-law leaned back in his seat. His cheeks had gone quite flushed. “A second red-haired girl? Buried in Grisella’s place? Didn’t she tell you that her husband had buried—”

“A bag of sand. Yes.” I chewed at a knuckle, tongue-tied for the moment. Finally I continued, “There must be some explanation. Alessandro speaks of a Monsieur Chevrier. He’s not necessarily the same person as Jean-Louis Fouquet.”

“Oh, Tito.” Gussie shook his head in dismay. “Surely you must see—”

“Don’t say it,” I cut him off again. “I’ll question Grisella tomorrow. Clearly the girl has been the victim of some vicious intrigue. When I’m able to talk to her alone, I’m sure she will make sense of it. You’ll see.”

“Talk to her tonight.”

I shook my head. “Tomorrow. I’ll ask her to walk with me during a break in rehearsal. Just now I want to look into something else while the opportunity presents itself. And I need your help.”

Part Two

“Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity.”

—John Milton

Chapter Seven

“I won’t do it. Absolutely not,” said Gussie, emphasizing his refusal by marching over to his bed and pulling back the covers as if he meant to dive between the sheets fully clothed. “It’s late, I’m tired, and what you ask is not… the work of a gentleman.”

“Since when does murder require gentlemanly behavior?” I countered quickly.

He jerked out of his waistcoat and started untying his shirt. “I’d oblige you, Tito, I truly would.
If
we had learned anything that made it absolutely necessary for you to search Carmela’s room. After reading Alessandro’s letter, I’m more inclined to think you ought to search Grisella and Jean-Louis’ room.”

“Let’s not pick through that again.” I shook my head stubbornly. We’d been arguing over my plan for some minutes, and the evening was wearing on.

I had just returned from creeping down the stairs to investigate the whereabouts of the rest of the villa’s inhabitants. From behind a column that separated the salon from the foyer, I’d observed everyone except Vincenzo amusing themselves with a lively game of blind man’s bluff. The furniture had been pushed to the perimeter of the salon. First Emilio, and then Romeo, tied a folded handkerchief over their eyes, allowed themselves to be spun around, then blundered about with outstretched arms. The object was to lay hands on one of the ladies.

Karl awaited his turn, elbow on the mantelpiece, cheeks rouged by the fire’s warmth. For once, his thin features seemed untroubled by worry or suffering. The composer actually lifted his chin and laughed when Carmela and Octavia tried to outfox their blindfolded pursuer by diving under the same table.

The Gecco brothers had stationed themselves near the brandy decanter and urged the players on with slightly slurred calls of “be quick, to your right” or “damn it, man, she’s ducked under your arm.” A pair of footmen was on hand to keep the decanter filled and to help raise the players to their feet when an errant ottoman or misplaced foot resulted in misfortune.

The game was apparently too boisterous for my sister. After twirling away from Romeo’s persistent grabs, Grisella pleaded dizziness, stumbled out of the way, and curled herself into a corner of the settee. With the back of her hand massaging her forehead, she was a picture of loveliness in a bottle-green gown that made her artfully arranged ringlets seem more golden than brassy.

Jean-Louis had been lounging in a nearby armchair, legs stretched long and crossed at the ankles. Now he heaved to his feet. “Good. We can go up.”

“Oh, no, not yet,” Grisella pleaded. “I want to watch them having fun. Please, Jean-Louis.” She gave a peevish shrug. “I’m too wound up to sleep, anyway.”

Her husband responded with a look that made me think sleep had been the last thing on his mind, but he did sink back down in the chair. The last thing I’d seen before ascending the stairs was his frowning, hawk-like face.

“Gussie,” I started into my plea again. “It’s already past ten. They’ll start drifting off to bed soon. Take your sketchbook downstairs and plant yourself in that big chair by the fireplace. Start with a caricature of Octavia—not too wicked, mind you. The company will cluster round, and they’ll all want you to draw them. Please, if you love me as a brother, do this.”

Gussie answered by slowly pulling his shirt back over his head and donning his waistcoat. He frowned as he slipped his sketchbook from his portfolio. When he reached the door, he paused with a hand on the knob. “Carmela seems a very unlikely murderer, but I suppose you won’t rest until you’ve searched her things for a pistol.”

“And Romeo’s,” I whispered.

Gussie’s eyebrows shot up. “Now you’re proposing to rummage through two of your colleagues’ rooms?”

“I must, don’t you see? Romeo follows Carmela around like a big puppy. He’s little more than a boy, hardly the picture of tasteful charm and elegance that usually turns her head, yet she encourages him.”

“Perhaps she’s just lonely.”

“I think she wants his protection. I think she’s been expecting trouble to follow her from St. Petersburg. Perhaps that was her reason for agreeing to rehearse this opera in the middle of nowhere—she may have found it safer to be out of sight for a time.”

“And why did this
trouble
follow her all the way from Russia?”

“The earrings—surely you’ve noticed them—they’re pearls of exquisite quality. Most women would keep such beauties in a lockbox except on special occasions, but they never leave Carmela’s ears. She says they were a gift from a Russian admirer that she hoped to marry. I have a feeling that his family feels otherwise.”

Gussie dropped his hand from the doorknob. “You think the dead Russian was sent to retrieve the earrings?”

I nodded. “Not just for the value. Carmela described the family as highly distinguished. Can you imagine their indignation, their wrath? A common stage performer absconding with family heirlooms?”

“But would a delicate little woman like Carmela fight to the death over earrings? Sentiment is all very fine, but when confronted by a man with a pistol, I’d expect her to hand them over to be conveyed back to the rightful owners.”

“Carmela does set great store by those earrings, but she values her life more,” I agreed. “I think perhaps the stranger didn’t give her the option of simply slipping the earrings off and walking away.”

“His mission included revenge?”

“It seems likely—everyone knows the Russians are a particularly haughty and barbaric race. Let’s say that Carmela had received some communication from the stranger. Knowing she’d have to face him sooner or later and wanting to avoid the embarrassment of a public confrontation, she would have requested a secret meeting.” I continued, warming to my theory, “Carmela unbarred the window shutter from the inside to leave the house and keep that appointment. Perhaps she was intending to return the earrings quietly, but the Russian jumped her by surprise and she used her pistol to defend herself.”

“Then why fetch Romeo to carry him back into the house?”

“She probably had Romeo following at a discreet distance. Perhaps he actually took the shot.”

“All right, but if it happened as you say, why not dispose of the body as far away from the house as possible? Bury it in the woods, for instance.”

“It is a puzzle,” I said after some reflection. “But you have to remember that neither Carmela nor Romeo knows the estate. They just arrived a few days ago and have been kept inside rehearsing. Doubting that they could make a proper job of concealing the murder, they may have decided to take the opposite tack and place the body right in the middle of a large group of possible suspects.”

“Meaning to stand by while an innocent party took the blame?” Gussie sounded more than a little vexed. “From what you’ve told me of Carmela, I could just barely believe that. But Romeo seems like a more decent sort—hard to believe that she could push him into such a black deed.”

“Perhaps the deed was not as black as all that. What if Carmela’s plan was simply to confound the authorities? Rural constables aren’t known for thoroughness, especially when a wealthy landowner is involved. This Captain Forti seems particularly lax in his duties.”

“We know that now, but Carmela and Romeo had no clue about the constable’s proclivities until he was summoned and found to be on a boar hunt.”

“They did, though. If you’d been at dinner last night, you would have heard Octavia make quite a point about Captain Forti’s lack of attention to duty.”

“You don’t say?” Gussie scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes! The more I think on it, I believe Carmela and Romeo were hoping that the dead man’s anonymity and the lack of motive in the opera company or the Dolfini household would stir up enough confusion to prevent any arrests.”

“But what a chance to take. They might have been seen.”

“Not through the shutters. The villa was shut up tight as a drum. And everyone was in bed.”

“Why the clock?”

“To make it appear that he was killed inside the house. As you said, a shot would have been heard. But a blow to the head, probably not. Besides, a midnight murder would be just the sort of dramatic scenario that Carmela would devise.”

“I suppose it’s possible…” he answered haltingly. “Then the murder would remain a mystery and pass into the lore of the villa… a story to tell around the fire… merely something to give future guests a little shiver before they turn in for the night.” He looked me over with some misgiving. “Perhaps you should leave it at that, Tito.”

“You know I cannot.”

“Oh, yes. I understand that readily enough. I’ve known you for a long time, my friend.” Gussie smiled ruefully as he once again reached for the doorknob. “If I’m going to do this, I must hurry.”

I smiled my thanks. “Yes, I’ve kept you too long. Hurry down to the salon before they finish their nonsensical game.”

“I’ll do my best, but a party’s fascination with my drawings usually doesn’t last over thirty minutes or so.”

“It will be enough,” I replied, pushing him through the door.

***

I let several minutes pass before lighting a three-taper candlestick and bounding soft-footed across the corridor. I started with Romeo and Emilio’s room. My hastily worked-up plan was to identify Romeo’s possessions by virtue of his large-sized clothing and examine all neatly but thoroughly. If I didn’t find a pistol, perhaps I would be rewarded by an overlooked or partially removed bloodstain. Wielding my light, I made a quick survey of the chamber. It was similar to ours, comfortably but plainly furnished, the windows shuttered tight.

I found the wardrobe packed to capacity. Even if Romeo’s clothing had not eclipsed Emilio’s in yardage, I would have been able to identify his garments by smell. My fellow castrato favored cologne-water that created a pleasing hint of orange and bergamot. Romeo showed no more taste in his scent than he did his wigs. His jackets and waistcoats assaulted my nose with a cloying stew of vanilla, jasmine, and musk. Quickly I patted down pockets and linings; my fingers probed shoes to the tips, and I didn’t slight his shirt tails. Nothing. His trunk and the empty bags stacked atop the wardrobe were similarly unfruitful.

I proceeded to Romeo’s bed. Kneeling on the thin carpet, I started from the headboard, working my long arm between the feather-stuffed mattress and the straps that supported it. During my boyhood at the Conservatorio San Remo, this had been my favorite hiding place for tins of candy and other forbidden treats that eased the boredom of endless vocal exercises. Some things don’t change. Exactly in the spot I would have chosen, Romeo had secreted a package wrapped in cloth. I tugged it loose.

I hoped to find a case containing a pair of pistols but saw at once that the package was too small. It was a book that slipped out of the linen sleeve. And not just any book. I was holding the scandal of the decade:
The Postures of Aretino
.

Everyone was whispering about these copper-plate engravings of naked men and women entwined in every conceivable position and the bawdy sonnets that accompanied them. New editions were printed in secret as quickly as popes and bishops ordered the book to be tossed on bonfires. One look told me why these pages had caused such a stir. I itched to study them further, but almost half of my precious thirty minutes had already passed.

Aretino would have to wait.

I stuffed the book back under the mattress and moved to search Romeo’s neckcloths, linen, and other bits and pieces of masculine dress stored in the chest of drawers. Again I found nothing to suggest that he was involved in the Russian’s murder.

I let myself out. Treading quietly, I eased across the corridor and paused at the top of the front stairs. Exclamations of admiration met my ears. The guests in the salon were still entranced by Gussie’s ability to capture a person’s essence with a few, well-placed lines of charcoal.

I was at Carmela’s door when I heard furtive footsteps coming up the stairs at the back of the corridor. One of the servants? Since they wouldn’t be allowed to retire until the guests were snug in their beds and the salon had been returned to its usual orderly condition, I hadn’t expected to be caught by a maid or footman ascending to the attic.

I managed to blow out only one of my candles before a shadowy form separated itself from the blackness of the stairwell.

“Tito?” said a male voice in a carrying whisper. “What are you doing? I thought everyone was downstairs.”

The figure crossed the tiles, glancing back once or twice as if worried he was being followed. Vincenzo! His evening clothing was covered with a dark cloak that sparkled with droplets of mist or light rain. He regarded me with a puzzled frown.

“Ah, Signor Dolfini. You see… Carmela…” I furiously racked my brain for some plausible reason to be entering Carmela’s room. Before I could think of anything, Vincenzo leapt to his own conclusion. Amusement transformed his expression, and he gave a conspiratorial chuckle.

“Going to wait for her between the sheets, eh? Can’t blame you. Signora Costa is a cute little filly who always seems ready for the race.”

I cringed as he punctuated his words with an exaggerated wink, but I knew I had to play along. “Yes,” I whispered. “She should be coming up any minute now.”

“I wager she won’t dawdle.” He chuckled again, taking an altogether more relaxed view of our company’s affairs than he had earlier in the day. “Surely you suit her better than that oversize young man who is constantly making calf’s eyes at her.”

“That would be Romeo, the basso who plays Bazajet.”

“Of course. Hard to keep you singers and your roles straight. I’m not musical, you know. It’s Octavia that lives and dies for the opera. She tells me that even though you’re missing a thing or two, women chase you down the street merely to touch your sleeve or snip a lock of your hair.”

“It has happened, Signore. I really don’t understand it. Sincere applause for my singing is all I’ve ever asked for.”

“Hmm…” Vincenzo looked me up and down, his innate respectability at war with natural curiosity. “And she says that some particularly shameless creatures actually keep their stockings up with garters adorned with your likeness.”