The Devil in Music (31 page)

it
to his face with his shaving brush. Then he carefully scraped the
lather from his cheeks with the razor, speaking only between passes
of the long, wicked blade.

"Guido's
writing implements are actually more interesting than his money. Not
many Italians of his class can write, particularly in Naples.
Literacy would be a great boon to a Carbonaro, because he wouldn't
have to entrust his communications to the village scribes who write
letters for peasants here. Do you know what the papers in his
pocketbook said?"

"Some
of 'em looked like scores of card games. The rest was in some
h'ltalian lingo I ain't flash to Neapolitan, I expect. But he writes
a neat hand, as if it come easy to him."

"It's
all Lombard Street to nine pence he once occupied a higher station in
life." Julian lowered the razor abruptly. "Confound me
for a blockhead! I'm overlooking the most obvious possibility."
He smiled and lifted the razor again. "Don't on any account
let Guido know you've perceived he can write. That might interfere
with a little experiment I mean to try."

At
mid-day, Nina brought Julian a message from her mistress, asking him
to join her in the music room. He found her seated on a white and
gold scroll sofa, reading a letter. She wore a simple white morning
frock, and a cap with a soft black bow on the top and a fall of white
ruffles on either side of her face. Philippe de Goncourt's bracelet
was in its usual place on her right wrist.

She
looked up when Julian entered. "I've just received Francesca's
answer to my invitation. She accepts on behalf of herself and
Valeriano, and expects to arrive before the end of the week."

"I'm
glad to hear it. Does she say anything about the murder or the
investigation?"

"She
mentions Lodovico." The marchesa read from the letter: "7
know I was not a good or obedient daughter to him, but please believe
I am sorry with all my heart for the way he died, if only because of
the shock it must be to you and others who loved him. "

"She's
very frank."

"She
can't help that. She's always been as transparent as water.
Valeriano is more opaque. Lodovico always found him an enigma."

"In
what way?"

"Most
singers courted Lodovico's favour, knowing he would go to great
effort and expense to aid those he admired. But Valeriano

seemed
to want nothing to do with him. I don't mean that he was rude or
haughty he has exquisite manners. He simply held aloof. Lodovico
could never be denied anything he coveted, especially when it
involved a beautiful voice. The more elusive Valeriano proved, the
more determinedly Lodovico pursued him. He invited him to Casa
Malvezzi, and here as well. He lavished attention on him. That was
how Valeriano came to know Francesca so well. Ironic, isn't it? Of
course, after he ran away with her, Lodovico hated him in proportion
as he had adored him before. And he hated Francesca twice over:
because she had brought down ridicule on the Malvezzi name, and
because she had stolen Valeriano from him."

"How
did you get on with Marchesa Francesca?" Julian asked
curiously.

"Tolerably
well," she said with a shrug, "but we weren't close.
Francesca is a very simple soul, and I " She smiled quizzically.
"I'm not simple."

"No,"
he agreed, mirroring her smile. "What was your relationship
with her after she left Marchese Rinaldo?"

"I
had none, really. I only saw her once, before she and Valeriano left
Milan. I tried to persuade her to return to Rinaldo."

"What
prompted you to do that?"

"I
thought someone ought to reason with her. Lodovico's threats weren't
working, and of course Rinaldo could do nothing but bite his nails
and peep out from behind Lodovico's coat-tails. I told her I wasn't
asking her to give up Valeriano. She could see him as often as she
liked be everything to him that she wished to be or could be, given
what he is. Why should she have to live with him? It only enraged
Lodovico and made a cause celebre of what might have been a charming
and agreeable love affair."

"How
did she respond?"

"She
listened meekly and thanked me for my concern, but she wouldn't budge
an inch. I hadn't much sympathy for her after that. I know it was
hard on her to lose her children, but she could have recovered them
at any time by coming back to Rinaldo. She would have sacrificed
little and gained much. But she couldn't compromise. She must needs
wallow in her martyrdom. I wished her joy of it. But I thought she
was a fool."

"Why
are you so angry with her?"

The
marchesa rose abruptly and went over to the piano. She stood
half-turned away from him, her hand resting on the instrument, her
face darkly reflected in its polished surface. "You think me
cold, I

suppose.
Your English sensibilities are shocked. You're romantic I told you
so last night. But you judge me a little harshly." She turned
back to him, her eyes stretched wide with pain, yet meeting his
steadily. "If I had two beautiful children, as she does, I
would not have left them."

He
was silent, feeling the inadequacy of anything he might say. Finally
he asked gently, "Have you never had a child?"

"No.
Never even the promise of one. After two husbands, I can only
conclude I'm quite barren. You don't like the word. But it isn't an
insult merely a fact. That Canova Cupid and Psyche you like to look
at when you think no one is watching you is barren that doesn't mean
it isn't beautiful."

"Can
you, with your intellects, your charm, your courage, your exquisite,
living loveliness can you seriously mean to compare yourself to a
block of stone?"

She
said wistfully, "I wish I had known you some years ago. I think
you might have been good for me."

"And
now?"

"Now
I shall probably be bad for you." She touched his cheek
lightly. "If you'll let me."

The
imminent arrival of Francesca and Valeriano posed a problem: the
villa's seven bedrooms were all occupied. Maestro Donati volunteered
that the stairs were difficult for him, and he would gladly give up
his bedchamber for a room on the entrance floor. The marchesa
offered him a small parlour to the left of the foyer, known as the
Parnassus Room because it was frescoed with scenes of the Muses
pursuing their various arts on Mount Parnassus. At Donati's request,
she arranged for Sebastiano, who till now had been sleeping in the
servants' quarters, to share this room with him.

This
freed one bedchamber but did not end the dilemma, since the
conventions forbade giving Francesca and Valeriano a room together,
however known and accepted their relationship might be. Julian took
MacGregor aside and suggested that they give up their adjacent rooms
overlooking the lake and share the back room being vacated by Donati.
MacGregor agreed, and they offered this solution to the marchesa.
"How very kind of you both," she said, and went away to
confer with the servants.

De
la Marque had been leaning against a nearby wall, unabashedly

following
their conversation. Now he sauntered over, saying to Julian, "Allow
me to compliment you on your adroitness, man vieux."

"What
do you mean?" MacGregor demanded.

"But
my dear Doctor, how can you ask? Your friend has very neatly killed
two birds with one stone. He's contrived to provide La Francesca and
Signer Valeriano with adjacent rooms, which is only common courtesy
to a lady travelling with her lover. And he has graciously relieved
what would have been the marchesa's and my solitude on the other side
of the floor."

MacGregor
rounded on Julian. "You didn't tell me we were giving up our
rooms so that those two could creep into each other's beds at night!"

"That
was sous-entendu," said Julian.

"Well,
it wasn't understood by me! Do you think I'd have gone to the
trouble of changing rooms in order to aid and abet adultery? I
thought we were just being courteous, giving up the best rooms to the
newest guests, and one of them a lady."

"My
friends, I am desolate to have provoked a quarrel between you."
De la Marque looked thoroughly pleased with himself. "You
mustn't distress yourself, Doctor. Consider what a very theoretical
adultery this must be. How far can a castrate impinge on the
sanctity of marriage? I daresay he goes to her room at night and
sings to her."

"Maestro
Donati is blind," murmured Julian, "but he can find his way
across a room."

"Well,
what of that?" said MacGregor impatiently. "His hands
substitute for his eyes Oh, I see what you're saying." His
voice grew gruff with embarrassment.

"Castrati
have a long history of love affairs with women," Julian added.
"They must have something to offer."

"It's
not natural," MacGregor insisted.

"Que
voukz-vous?" shrugged de la Marque. "Love is unnatural.
If we followed nature, we would mate indiscriminately, like rabbits.
Which reminds me, my dear Doctor, as you've undertaken to be guardian
of our morals, you may wish to tie a string between Mr. Kestrel's
wrist and your own at night. The room you'll be sharing is just
across from that of a lady who would bring out the rabbit in any
man."

He
went away laughing. MacGregor glared at Julian. "Is he right?
Did you want that room so that you could sneak out of it at night to
see the marchesa?"

"By
no means, my dear fellow. But it did cross my mind that my presence
might deter de la Marque from sneaking out of his."

Donati's
belongings were duly moved down to the Parnassus Room, and Julian's
and MacGregor's transferred to the bedchamber he had vacated. When
all the fetching and carrying was finished, Julian went to have a
look around his new room, which was in the northwest corner of the
house. It was large and well furnished, but lacked the light and
warmth of the south-facing bedchamber he had relinquished, not to
mention the magnificent view of the lake. The walls were covered in
dark-gold silk with a pattern of laurel wreaths. The bed and windows
were hung with forest-green curtains fringed with gold tassels. The
furniture was of veneered oak, with bronze mouldings of nymphs and
fauns and, of course, serpents coiled around swords.

Donati
was out on the balcony, leaning dreamily on the balustrade, the
breeze ruffling his coronet of white hair. Sebastiano was prowling
about the room, peering into corners and opening drawers. At the
sound of Julian's entrance, Donati turned toward him.

"It's
I, Maestro," said Julian. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I
thought you'd gone."

"I'm
afraid it's I who disturb you," said Donati, with the quaint,
courtly air that always reminded Julian of the powdered wigs and
minuets of Donati's youth. "This is your room now. Sebastiano
just wanted to have a last look around and make sure none of my
things was left behind."

"Pray
take your time," Julian told Sebastiano. "I'm in no hurry
to take possession."

Sebastiano
muttered some acknowledgement and went on with his inspection.
Julian would have withdrawn, but Donati came forward, feeling his way
with his light rattan cane. "You seem to have got over your
cold, Signer Kestrel."

"Yes,
Maestro, long since. Should you like to sit down?"

"I
would, thank you."

Julian
helped him into an armchair and set a footstool before him. Again he
would have taken his leave, but Donati lifted a veined, transparent
hand. "Have you a moment to talk with me, Signer Kestrel? I
should like to ask your advice about something."

"Of
course, Maestro." Julian sat down opposite him.

"I'm
told you've investigated murders before, in your own country."

"Yes."

"Don't
you ever worry about the danger?"

"What
do you mean?"

Donati
looked grave. "I'm beginning to worry myself. You see, I'm the
only one who can identify Orfeo, apart from Lucia and Tonio, who
can't be found. It's true I would only know for certain it was Orfeo
if I heard him sing speech and manner are so easily disguised, and
may even change naturally in the course of five years, especially at
Orfeo's age. All the same, he might see me as a threat. I know what
you will say: he isn't here, and why should he come to the very place
where's he's most in danger?" Donati smiled. "Between you
and me and not for Commissario Grimani's ears it wouldn't surprise me
if Orfeo did the very thing one would least expect of him. He was a
most unaccountable young man."