The Devil in Music (32 page)

"Maestro,"
Julian asked point-blank, "is there anyone you suspect?"

Donati
hesitated, then said with a sigh, "Half the time I tell myself
Orfeo is in England, or dead, or anywhere but here. The rest of the
time, I think I recognize him in every male voice around me and every
footfall or opening of a door. You cannot know what a knife edge I
live on of anticipation and dread, hope and despair."

"Maestro
"

"No,
Signer Kestrel," Donati said quickly, "you mustn't be
alarmed on my account. I didn't mean to make such a drama of this.
I only wanted to say that I feel very torn about Orfeo. My heart
tells me he didn't kill Marchese Lodovico and would never harm me.
But I may be duped by the purity of his voice. If he is a murderer "
Donati smiled sadly, shaking his head. "You can imagine how
easy I would be to kill."

"Is
that why you wanted Sebastiano to share your room?"

"You're
very quick. Yes. I have asked him never to leave me alone."

Julian
looked at Sebastiano, who had left off searching the room and was
leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, listening with his usual
scowl. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

Sebastiano
looked hard at Julian for a moment, then said, "Yes."

"Good.
I advise you to keep a loaded pistol about you at night, and
whenever you and Maestro Donati go anywhere alone."

"Do
you think me in as much danger as that?" asked Donati,
startled.

"I
don't think you in any danger, Maestro. I merely hoped to set your
fears at rest by providing you some protection."

"Ah."
Donati sat slowly back in his chair and smiled. "I see. That
was most kind of you, Signer Kestrel. Indeed, I feel safer already."

"I'm
glad to hear it. You are the last person I should wish to see suffer
on account of that pestering mountebank Orfeo."

"You
mustn't speak so harshly of him."

"You
must own that, murderer or not, he's been an infernal amount of
trouble."

"If
I can forgive him, Signer Kestrel, surely you can as well?"

Julian
smiled ruefully. "I daresay he must have some redeeming
quality, Maestro. Else how could he be so lucky in his friends?"

That
evening Julian's new acquaintances, Fletcher and St. Carr, joined
the villa party for coffee and liqueurs on the terrace. Fletcher was
much taken with the villa at dusk, with its white marble terrace and
balconies gilded by lamplight. St. Carr appeared impervious to
scenery and architecture alike, but the merest smile from the
marchesa reduced him to a state of tongue-tied idiocy.

The
two young Englishmen were introduced all around, and the marchesa
took pains to draw them out. It helped that Fletcher spoke a little
Milanese, though with an execrable accent. St. Carr relied on
Fletcher to interpret for him, but Julian perceived he could follow
any conversation that interested him. He seemed most disposed,
however, to attach himself to Julian, whom he peppered with questions
about clothes.

"Young
fellows here make such quizzes of themselves," he complained,
"with their long hair and their cravats looped up in bows. I
should be ashamed to look such a Miss Molly."

"A
man has to be extremely confident of his courage to dress like that,"
observed Julian mischievously.

"Do
you think so?" St. Carr appeared much struck. "I never
thought about it that way before." He looked doubtfully at his
own formidably padded shoulders. "Of course one wouldn't want
to seem as if one had something to prove "

Julian
made a wager with himself that the next time he saw St. Carr, the
boy would be curling his hair and wearing rings on the outside of his
gloves. He was already asking Julian how to tie his cravat in the
Sentimentale style when Carlo kindly came along and took him off
Julian's hands.

Fletcher
and MacGregor joined Julian. "You're a trump to let Beverley
tease you like that," Fletcher said.

Julian
shrugged. "When one can't get out of the way of a storm, it's
better to enjoy the spectacle than to curse the rain."

"And
Lord knows, no one has more of a knack for making a spectacle of
himself than Beverley!" Fletcher added more gravely, "It's
a great relief to me to settle him somewhere away from Milan. We
were only there a fortnight, and during that time I had to pluck him
out of a dishonest gambling house, fish him out of a canal he fell
into during a drunken carouse with some soldiers, and save him from
being arrested for eating watermelon in the street."

"Why
in Heaven's name would anyone be arrested for that?" MacGregor
asked.

"It's
red, white, and green," explained Julian, "like the
tricolour of Bonaparte's Kingdom of Italy."

"Well,
of all the preposterous !" MacGregor shook his head in disgust.
"You'd think the police would have something better to do than
persecute people over a piece of fruit!"

"They're
frightened," said Julian. "They've eliminated all overt
dissent, and the result is, they no longer know where their enemies
are. So they strike out randomly, even hysterically, at anyone who
seems in the least suspicious."

"Makes
you grateful to be English," said MacGregor.

"I
don't know about that," Fletcher mused. "My mother was
Irish, and to her people, I don't suppose there's much to choose
between the English and the Austrians."

"Very
perceptive, Mr. Fletcher." Carlo had joined them unnoticed,
along with St. Carr and de la Marque. "There's a tedious
sameness about tyranny "

He
broke off. Grimani had appeared out of nowhere, as he often did, his
shadow Zanetti with him. Carlo changed course. "I hope you
mean to come to our festival. This Saturday is the feast day of
Santa Pelagia, Solaggio's patron saint."

"Santa
Pelagia?" St. Carr stumbled over the name. "Who was
she?"

"She
was a virgin of Antioch," said Carlo. "When she was
fifteen, soldiers came to her house to seize her for being a
Christian, and she leaped from the rooftop to save herself from
rape."

De
la Marque laughed aloud.

"How
dare you, monsieur?" snapped Grimani. "I might expect
these English schismatics to laugh at the saints, but you are a
Catholic. From you, such conduct is an outrage."

"A
thousand pardons, my dear Commissario," de la Marque said

suavely.
"But, really, have you has anyone ever met a girl who would
dash out her brains sooner than open her legs?"

"I
believe I have," MacGregor said sternly.

"Ah,
but I meant outside the pages of Walter Scott!" de la Marque
rejoined.

"I
defer to your greater experience," said Julian. "I've
never been obliged to give a woman that choice."

There
was a general laugh. De la Marque's eyes glinted, acknowledging the
hit and promising a riposte.

"None
of this excuses your blasphemy against the saint," Grimani told
de la Marque.

"I
assure you, Signer Commissario, I meant no disrespect to Santa
Pelagia. I was only pointing out her uniqueness. If I ever meet a
young lady capable of jumping off a roof to preserve her virtue, I
vow here and now to light a hundred candles at Santa Pelagia's altar.
Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I promised to copy out some
French verses for Marchesa Malvezzi in exchange for the flower in her
hair, and I want to finish before it wilts."

De
la Marque bowed and sauntered off. Everyone looked at Julian to see
how he took this parting sally. His rivalry with de la Marque for
the marchesa was becoming all too public. But it was an unequal
contest, Julian thought, because de la Marque could pursue her
actively and openly, while he himself was shackled by his need to
maintain some semblance of objectivity about her, as long as she was
a suspect in the murder he was trying to solve.

He
remained conversing on the terrace until Fletcher and St. Carr took
their leave, and the others began to retire indoors. He and
MacGregor were the last to leave the terrace. As they were ascending
the majestic double stairway to the villa entrance, a shadowy male
figure emerged from one of the servants' doors below. Julian saw the
glint of gold earrings, and laid a detaining hand on MacGregor's arm.
"Guido!" he called softly.

Guido
turned sharply and clapped a hand to his right trouser pocket where
he kept his knife, no doubt. He peered up at Julian and MacGregor,
his own face fully illumined by a lamp at the foot of the stairs.
"Signer?"

Julian
said, very clearly and deliberately, "Homicidae linguam Latinam
intelkgunt?"

Guido
started violently and crossed himself. His upturned eyes were wide
with comprehension and alarm. "Si-signor?" he repeated.

"It
was a joke," Julian explained.

Guido
began backing slowly away. Just before he was swallowed up in the
darkness, he pointed the fore and little fingers of one hand at
Julian and made stabbing motions.

"What
is he doing?" MacGregor asked.

"He's
making the sign of the cuckold's horns," said Julian, "calling
down bad luck on me."

"He's
brazen enough!" MacGregor marvelled. "Well, are you going
to tell me what this little drama was all about? Why did you ask him
if murderers understand Latin in Latin?"

"For
the obvious reason, my dear fellow: to see if he understands it
himself."

"Why
did you want to know that?"

"Because
I wanted to find out just how educated he is. Dipper discovered he
can read and write, which I thought very rum in a Neapolitan servant.
Now it seems he's conversant with Latin as well."

"Couldn't
he have guessed at your meaning, given the resemblance between Latin
and Italian?"

"Perhaps
he could, but he didn't. He grasped what I said without having to
puzzle over the words."

"And
he got in a fair pucker when you asked him what you did,"
MacGregor pointed out eagerly.

"Yes.
But I don't think we can infer much from that. My question sounded
like an accusation, and accusations frighten even the innocent. That
he's well educated and would rather no one knew it is tolerably
clear. Whether he's a murderer is something else again."

On
Thursday it rained, and the lake was unutterably dreary. The
mountains were all in shades of grey: dark woods, bald patches of
granite, summits bathed in billowy mist. The villa servants went
about shivering and muttering, "Brutt temp!" while the
fishermen frantically made for shore, leaving the lake to the
screaming, swooping gulls.

Grimani
seemed, perversely, to thrive in such weather. He spent most of the
day collecting reports from the gendarmes and soldiers who had been
making enquiries and searches in the neighbourhood. In the late
afternoon, he sought out Julian in the billiard room, where he was
having a game with MacGregor. "Would you like to join us?"
asked Julian pleasantly.

"I
would like to speak with you about what you are pleased to call your
investigation. I'm going to Como tomorrow with Comandante Von Krauss
to make a report to the prefect, and I require a full report of your
progress, in the unlikely event you have made any."

"Why
should you assume he hasn't made progress?" MacGregor demanded,
when Julian had translated this for him.

"Because
I haven't seen him do anything practical. Oh, I know you've
interviewed a few people, Signer Kestrel. My men have kept track of
your activities. But I've interviewed them as well, and they have
nothing to add to the statements they gave four and a half years ago.
You've done nothing else but daydream and roam about the gardens.
Can you claim to have discovered anything useful?"

"No,
Signor Commissario. I cannot claim that." At all events,
thought Julian, not without showing far too much of my hand so early
in the game.

Grimani's
lip curled as if to say, I thought as much.

"You
can't expect Kestrel to solve the murder in a week," protested
MacGregor, "when no one else has been able to do it in four and
a half years! I haven't heard that you've accomplished anything to
the purpose, either."