Murder at Midnight (10 page)

S
ICK WITH SORROW, STARING GLUMLY AT THE GROUND,
Fabrizio made his way slowly back through the tunnel. His head filled with random thoughts:
There must be some way to help Master. Why was Master agreeing about the coffin? The prince, like his father, is frightened of Master. If I knew magic, I could take care of him!

As he neared the outer door, Fabrizio looked up. Standing there — illuminated by a soldier holding a torch — were a man and a woman.

The woman was short and plump with graying red hair hanging down on either side of her face like parting curtains. Her dress was black, though she wore a dark green shawl over her shoulders. The man next to her was somewhat taller, barrel-chested, slightly stooped, and with a narrow, red-bearded face. Fierce green eyes looked out from beneath bushy red eyebrows.

The man made a stiff bow. “I am Signor Roberto Zeanzi,” he announced. “My wife, the Signora Avella Zeanzi.”

“Signore,” said Fabrizio. “I don’t know who you are.”

“We,” said the man, “are Maria’s parents.”

Fabrizio’s face broke into a wide smile. “Ah, Signore, Signora! I’m so glad to meet you. But it’s nothing compared to what Maria will feel. My name is Fabrizio, and she and I have become good friends.”

“Is she all right?” her father asked.

“She’s fine, Signore,” said Fabrizio.

“Count Scarazoni said you would know where she was,” said Maria’s mother.

“She’s at your home. Waiting for you. But where were you?”

The woman, with a hasty, nervous glance at the soldier, only said, “Count Scarazoni.”

The soldier opened the tunnel door. “This way,” he said.

They stepped into the windy night. The soldier, holding up his fluttering torch, guided them to the carriage. As soon as they climbed into the cab, the carriage began to move.

“We know very little about this business,” said Maria’s
father, leaning forward toward Fabrizio and speaking low. “We were prisoners.”

“Count Scarazoni took us away,” added Signora Zeanzi. “He claimed it was for our own protection.”

“A violent man,” said her husband.

As the carriage went along, Fabrizio told Maria’s parents all that had happened.

“DeLaBina murdered,” said Signor Zeanzi when Fabrizio was finished. “Maria, you, and your master imprisoned. All this because of what we printed!”

“And I’m afraid,” said Fabrizio, “we think the prince had your machine broken apart to destroy the evidence as to how those papers were made.”

“Broken!” cried Maria’s mother.

“Maria thinks she can put it back together again.”

“It’s strange to us,” said Signor Zeanzi, “how so many here still believe in magic.”

The carriage came to a stop. Signora Zeanzi looked out the window. “We’re home,” she said to her husband. Even as she spoke, the door flung open and a gleeful Maria ran out. There was a warm reunion, cut short by the carriage
driver’s insistence — to Fabrizio — that he needed to move on.

Just before Fabrizio climbed back into the carriage, Maria rushed up to him. “Is your master safe?”

“It’s not certain.”

“Come by tomorrow and tell me everything that happened.”

Fabrizio promised that if possible he would, then he let the carriage take him home.

As the carriage trundled along, Fabrizio reminded himself that the house would be deserted.
How strange! Alone in that house. But Master has it worse.

It was still dark when Fabrizio stepped out of the carriage. Eager to get some sleep, he watched the carriage clatter away, then turned to the house and pushed the door. It would not budge.

Had he locked it? From the outside that was impossible. Gazing up, he saw the light of a burning candle in a window on the second floor. Had Benito or Giuseppe returned?

Upset, Fabrizio knocked on the door.

After a moment a voice called, “Who is it?”

Fabrizio stood before the door, trying to guess who was speaking.

“Who is it?” repeated the voice from inside, with more urgency.

“It’s me, Fabrizio!”

The door opened.

“Mistress!” cried Fabrizio in a burst of joy. Sophia was dressed in her sleeping gown, a cap on her head, her feet bare, and a shawl around her shoulders. In one of her hands was a small candle. Fabrizio snatched her free hand and covered it with kisses. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you!”

“Quickly,” she urged, looking up and down the street. “Come in!”

As soon as he stepped into the house, Sophia shut and bolted the door. Putting her candle aside, she gave Fabrizio a great hug. “Oh, Fabrizio!” she said, her voice laden with emotion. “I’ve been so worried. When I heard that Master was arrested I came straight home. But the house was empty. Even Benito and Giuseppe are gone. I’ve just been
sitting here, waiting for someone to come.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Where were you? Where is everybody?”

“I was with Master.”

“Bless you,” she cried, her face brightening. “Is he well? Where is he?”

“In some crypt near the Castello.”

“A crypt!” she gasped. “Have they —?”

“No, no, Mistress, he’s alive! But, he’s tired and worried. He asked about you just now. But … what about your sister?”

“She’s not very ill,” said Sophia, dismissing the question with a wave of her hand. Leaning back to catch her breath, she closed her eyes. Fabrizio could see her hands were shaking. She roused herself. “Fabrizio, why was Master arrested?”

“Mistress, there’s much to tell you.”

In Mangus’s study Sophia sat behind the table. Fabrizio stood before her, the glowing skull lamp between them. He waited patiently while Sophia — still agitated — clasped her hands in brief prayer. When she regained some calm,
she looked up at Fabrizio, smiled gamely, and said, “Now, please, tell me all.”

“They claim Master was trying to overthrow the king.”

“Overthrow the …! Impossible!” cried Sophia. “Why? Who says so?”

Fabrizio related all that had happened since she had left, finishing with the news about Giuseppe and Benito.

“Is Mangus truly going to be put on trial?”

“I fear so. And, Mistress, I think he expects the worst.”

“What is the … worst?”

“That he’ll be … put to death.”

Sophia put a hand to her heart. “Fabrizio, whom do you believe? Cosimo or Scarazoni?”

“The count may look like the devil himself, but I believe him.”

“When is Master’s trial?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow!”

“I was told I could be there.”

Sophia sighed, picked up one of the treasonous papers from the desk, studied it, and put it down.

“Mistress,” Fabrizio said, when she looked up again, “there’s something … I haven’t said.”

“Something … worse?”

Fabrizio nodded. “Master … dismissed me.”

“Dismissed you! But … why?”

Fabrizio hung his head. “He said … there was no future for me with him. That I always made things worse.”

“But what did you do?”

Struggling to keep his voice free of emotion, Fabrizio said, “Mistress, I truly tried to be helpful, as you told me to. I really want to stay.” His eyes filled with tears.

“When you saw him — just now — how did he receive you?”

“He said nothing about that.”

“Did he
refuse
to see you?”

“No, Mistress. Though he’d rather it was you, not me.”

Sophia smiled gently. “Fabrizio, he needs you. And
I
need you.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” Fabrizio smeared away his tears. “You’re very kind. But I must tell you, when I was at the crypt and asked Master what I might do for him, before he could answer, Prince Cosimo said, ‘Bring him a coffin.’”

“A coffin!” cried Sophia. “Oh, Fabrizio … what are we to do?”

“Mistress, I don’t know. Count Scarazoni says Master — at his trial — must make the prince confess. That’s why I was allowed to see him. To tell him that. Except the prince also said Master must make the
count
confess.”

“But …”

“Exactly, Mistress,” said Fabrizio. “And to do both is impossible, isn’t it?”

S
OPHIA STOOD UP.
“Y
OU MUST BE EXHAUSTED.
H
AVE YOU EATEN?”

“Some bread — a long time ago.”

“Come.”

Fabrizio followed her out of the house, into the courtyard. As they went he glanced at the coffin that sat among the other magic equipment. Just to see it filled him with despair.

In the kitchen Sophia and Fabrizio found some stale bread and sausage. Two wizened apples and a few figs completed their meal.

They ate in silence, glad of the other’s company.

After a while, Fabrizio said, “Shall I tell you about the printing press, Mistress?”

“I suppose I should hear,” said Sophia, suppressing a yawn. But before Fabrizio could speak, she said, “Fabrizio, why do you think Master agreed that you should bring a coffin?”

“Forgive me, Mistress. I fear he doesn’t expect to live.”

Sophia struggled to keep from crying. “Fabrizio, we need our sleep.”

On the second floor, just before Fabrizio went up the ladder to his attic space, Sophia called, “Fabrizio! I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thank you, Mistress. As I you.”

Fabrizio lay on his straw pallet, arms behind his head, staring up into the darkness. Shifting his head slightly, he saw a star through a crack in the roof. It seemed to wink at him.

He found it impossible to sleep, wishing he could make Master just vanish from that awful crypt. He was sure it was haunted by ghosts. No question it would take magic to free Master. Except Mangus insisted there was no magic. His words, “What I do is
imitation
magic —
illusions,”
slipped into Fabrizio’s thoughts.

Fabrizio heaved a sigh. He believed in magic, but the only other ones who seemed to were the prince and the king.
In fact, the king is so fearful of magic, he most likely will condemn Master. And if Master is executed, it won’t be an illusion. The prince will save himself. No
wonder Master agreed I should bring a coffin. He has no hope!

But gradually a new thought came.
Is it that coffin, the one in the courtyard, that Master wants? For a particular reason?

Fabrizio grew restless. Deciding he must know the answer before he could sleep, he climbed down the ladder and on to the lower floor. As he passed his master’s study he noticed a glow. They had forgotten to snuff out the skull’s candle. He decided he could use it.

Holding the skull with two hands — it warmed him — he lit his way. He stepped into the courtyard. A chill breeze made him shiver. Goose bumps prickled his arms. He looked up. In the sky a three-quarter moon hung huge and white. From the east, long fingers of dark clouds reached across the heavens, as if intent upon snatching away the light. Fabrizio read the sky: The weather would be turning stormy.

He held up the skull and gazed about the courtyard. The coffin, which rested on a pair of trestles, was made of
white pine, with three iron handles on each side. The lid was level with his chin.

Fabrizio ran his hand over the coffin’s smooth lid, noticing that it had rusty hinges. Setting the skull to one side, Fabrizio wedged his fingers under the lid, only to halt.
Maybe someone’s inside.
In haste, he made the sign of the cross over his heart.

Steady again, feet braced, he pushed the lid open. The rusty hinges creaked. Their stiffness kept the lid up.

Using the skull light, Fabrizio peered inside. The coffin was empty. Feeling simultaneously relief and disappointment, he dropped down onto the flats of his feet.

Then he realized he
had
seen something. Not sure what it was, he set the skull inside the coffin and examined the interior again. There it was: two holes on the coffin bottom. They were at the head end and to the left side. Each hole was about an inch wide.

Fabrizio bent over and looked underneath. The holes did not go through.
That was strange.

Then he realized there was, barely visible, a thin,
straight crack running the entire length of the coffin’s bottom. It was not centered, but was three-quarters of the way from the left side.

Sliding the skull light to the narrow side of the crack, Fabrizio stuck his fingers into the holes and yanked.
Pop!
Two-thirds of the coffin bottom came up.

He stared. The bottom he had first observed was false. Beneath that false bottom was a space seven inches deep. Fabrizio tried to make sense of his discovery. Suddenly, he understood: The space was meant to conceal someone. Those holes were for breathing!

Fabrizio went back through the courtyard and climbed to his place beneath the attic roof. As he lay on his pallet, eyes open, he watched the star through the crack. Mangus’s words filled his thoughts: “What I do is
imitation
magic —
illusions.”

Gradually, Fabrizio thought out a plan to save Mangus. It was, he realized, a very dangerous plan. But what else could he do?

I
N THE MORNING, DROPS OF WATER SLIPPING THROUGH A
crack in the roof and splashing his face woke Fabrizio. The steady beat of rain rattled overhead. From a distance thunder rumbled. His plan for rescuing Master Mangus filled his thoughts.

He scrambled down from his loft and looked into the bedroom. Mistress wasn’t there. Alarmed, he all but tumbled to the first floor and looked out the front door. Rain was sluicing along the street stones and flushing dirt down the central gutter. Across the way, huddled against a recessed door, stood two of Scarazoni’s green-coated soldiers. Their uniforms were dark with rain.

Fabrizio slammed the door shut and rushed into Mangus’s study. Mercifully, Mistress was seated at Master’s table, studying one of the treasonous papers.

“Mistress. There are soldiers outside. Watching us.”

Sophia looked up. “I saw. I suppose as long as they stay outside we needn’t worry.”

“Maybe Scarazoni is protecting us.”

“A good thing.”

“Mistress,” said an impatient Fabrizio, “last night, after I went to my place, I thought of a way to help Master.”

“Did you?”

“I’ll tell you, but first I need to explain how those papers were made.”

“Fabrizio, this isn’t the —”

“Mistress, you need to know. It’s part of my idea.”

“Very well.”

Fabrizio explained about the printing press. “People in Pergamontio don’t know about it. To see all those papers — exactly alike — it seemed like magic to everyone. I thought so. Even Master was puzzled.”

“I’m sure it’s a marvel. But what has it to do with your plan?”

“The crypt, where Master’s trial will be held, don’t you think it must be haunted?”

“Fabrizio —”

“The king and the prince both believe in magic,” Fabrizio rushed on. “And ghosts. The king believes those
papers were made by magic. He’s very fearful. So is the prince.”

To Mistress’s questioning look, Fabrizio said, “It’s true. When DeLaBina took me before the king, I heard the king say so. I saw it, too.”

“Fabrizio, just tell me your idea!”

“It’s this: Master agreed that we bring that coffin from the courtyard. I wondered why. Last night, after you went to sleep, I examined it. Mistress, it has a false bottom.”

“True. Though he hasn’t used it much.”

“But
we
can!” And Fabrizio went on to outline his plan.

When he was done, Sophia stared at him.

“Don’t you think it just might convince the king?” Fabrizio added.

Sophia remained thoughtfully silent. “Perhaps, Mistress,” Fabrizio coaxed, “Master was thinking the same thing.”

“I admit,” Sophia said after a while, “I can’t suggest a better way. And, as you say, maybe Master did have the same idea. Still,” she warned, “it’s very dangerous. We’ll need to plan with the greatest care.”

Fabrizio shrugged. “As they say, to plan well is to tell the future.”

“When would I reveal myself?”

“You’d have to listen, and decide for yourself.”

“A great deal will depend on that,” said Sophia thoughtfully. “If we don’t do it well, Fabrizio, if we’re uncovered, it will go very badly for both of us — and Master. At the least, you might become homeless. The same for me.”

“But, Mistress, we’ll have done
something.”

“If we are successful, it will be you who will have saved us.”

Fabrizio grinned. “Then Master might allow me to stay.”

Sophia smiled gently. “I will insist upon it.” She quickly became serious. “Very well, we must begin. I suppose you know where to find your friend Maria.”

“I do, Mistress.”

“Go there. Quickly. Find out if that …”

“Printing machine.”

“… can work. Ask her father if he will print some copies of this.”

She searched among the table’s clutter, found a scrap of parchment, picked up a quill, sharpened it with a knife, dipped the point into the ink pot, and began to write on the scrap.

Fabrizio, watching her, was suddenly full of doubt. “Mistress,” he whispered, “do you really, truly think my plan will work?”

Sophia lifted her pen from the parchment and gazed at him. “We shall need to pray — pray very hard — that it does.”