The Devil in Music (47 page)

"This
all sounds like so much whipt syllabub all froth and no substance.
But very well: say Marchese Lodovico had information about the
Angeli, and say that for some reason or other he kept it to himself.
Who do you think gave him the information?"

Julian
leaned back against the wall, looking thoughtfully up at the white
and grey puffs of cloud slowly filling the sky. "If our
Carbonaro is also our murderer, we should be looking for him among
Marchese Lodovico's relations and longtime friends."

"How
do you make that out?"

"It's
almost certain he was killed by someone close to him. Remember the
glove. Whoever used it to summon him to the belvedere knew a secret
about him that even his wife and brother claim ignorance of, yet one
that exerted such power over him that he came to the rendezvous he,
to whom obedience and submission were as foreign as Mohammedanism.
That glove is of the greatest importance. It might be the very
thread to lead us through this labyrinth if only we knew how to use
it."

Julian
continued, "We also know the murderer was familiar with Marchese
Lodovico's property. He found his way to Castello Malvezzi at dead
of night to leave the note and glove, and he singled out the
belvedere as the place of meeting."

"All
right: so we have a murderer who was one of the Angeli and

was
also on close terms with Marchese Lodovico. What else can you daub
into your portrait of this person?"

"As
long as we're painting in bold strokes, let's eliminate Marchese
Lodovico's servants. Northern Italian Carbonari tend to be educated,
international in outlook, with close ties to the French. Now, we
know of two people close to Lodovico Malvezzi who fit that
description: his brother, who was an official of the French Kingdom
of Italy, and his wife, whose first husband was one of Bonaparte's
officers. Carlo has no known ties with the secret societies, and one
might think that if he were a Carbonaro, he wouldn't espouse
republican ideals as openly as he does. But for him, moderate
liberalism may well be a better mask for radicalism than a false
conversion to orthodoxy. And it seems highly significant that he
suddenly acquired a Neapolitan servant a fortnight before his brother
was murdered, at a time when Naples was in the throes of a Carbonaro
revolt.

"The
marchesa never expresses any political views beyond an offhand
contempt for the police, and she affects not to have been much
attached to Philippe de Goncourt. But she wears his portrait
faithfully on her wrist. Was it a coincidence that she was in Turin
when the rebellion broke out there in March of 1821? Or was she
carrying messages between the Angeli and the Piedmontese rebels? And
what does it mean that de la Marque claims to have been in Turin as
well?

"We
don't know much about Rinaldo's politics, but we do know that
Marchese Lodovico belittled and tyrannized over him. Perhaps, not
daring to defy his father openly, he avenged himself by consorting
with Lodovico's political enemies."

"And
perhaps I'm a Dutchman," said MacGregor. "We've as much
evidence of the one as the other."

Julian
smiled. "My dear fellow, there's some merit in theorizing
without evidence. If we don't have patterns in mind we may not
recognize the evidence when it conics. We do have one concrete
ground for suspecting Rinaldo: he isn't here. One would have
expected him to return to Milan, or at least to write, once it became
public knowledge that his father's death was murder."

"That's
true," acknowledged MacGregor. "The marchesa and Carlo
still haven't heard from him?"

"They
say not. But post on the Continent is infernally slow. If Rinaldo
is in some far-off country Russia, for instance the news of his
father's murder may not have reached him yet, or he may still be on
his way home.

"Now
then: Signora Argenti and Valeriano. They don't seem at all
political, but if they'd somehow become privy to Carbonaro secrets,
they might have dangled them before Marchese Lodovico as a lure to
allow Signora Argenti to see her children."

"If
they'd done that," MacGregor objected, "why would they have
killed him?"

"Perhaps
they kept their part of the bargain, but he didn't keep his. Yes, I
know, my dear fellow another flight of speculation. Let's approach
this conundrum another way. If one of these people Carlo, the
marchesa, Rinaldo, Signora Argenti, or Valeriano gave Marchese
Lodovico information about the Angeli, when and how was the
information passed? The marchesa had the best opportunity, since she
lived with him. Carlo is another possibility: he lived in Parma but
says he visited Milan, and when he did, he stayed at Casa Malvezzi.
Rinaldo seems to be out of the running: he was away travelling for
months before his father's death, and when he returned to Milan,
Lodovico had already gone to the lake with Orfeo. Signora Argenti
and Valeriano lived in Venice, but they came to the Lake of Como
while Marchese Lodovico was there, and may have offered him the
information then."

Julian
sighed. "Then again, it's possible that the murder has nothing
whatever to do with the Carbonari. Rinaldo may have killed Lodovico
to inherit his property and escape from his domination. Carlo may
have killed him in a burst of frustration over his own fall from
power and Lodovico's wrenching the villa from him. The marchesa may
have killed him in order to gain her independence and a beautiful
villa in which to enjoy it. Signora Argenti or Valeriano may have
killed him in the hope that once he was out of the way, Rinaldo would
relent and allow Signora Argenti access to her children."

MacGregor
sprang up and started pacing. "We haven't got anywhere!"

"We
have got everywhere," Julian amended ruefully. "Which
comes to the same thing."

MacGregor
stopped walking. "What about Orfeo? If he knows something, you
can't afford not to find out who he is. Who do you think he's most
likely to be: Fletcher, St. Carr, or de la Marque?"

Julian
considered. "De la Marque has the musical knowledge. And the
fact that his native tongue is French would explain why Orfeo sounded
French to Maestro Donati."

"He
certainly doesn't fit Lucia's description of Orfeo," MacGregor

declared.
"She says Orfeo was so chivalrous, he rescued her from Tonio
but wouldn't touch her himself. De la Marque is an arrant rake."

"Or
so he would have us believe." Julian pondered. "Do you
know what troubles me most about the idea of de la Marque as Orfeo?
Musically, his personality is wrong. De la Marque plays half a dozen
instruments very accurately, and with no expression whatsoever.
Maestro Donati says Orfeo was a thoughtful, sensitive artist. It's
actually quite difficult for a good musician to pretend to be a bad
one. It would better to pretend to have no musical knowledge at
all."

"Like
Fletcher," MacGregor said eagerly.

"Yes,
like Fletcher, who is exactly the right age to be Orfeo, who was on
the Continent when Orfeo was, and who has something of the character
that Lucia and Donati ascribe to Orfeo. St. Carr is the least
promising of the three: he's too young, and, I think, quite genuinely
bird witted Though I don't believe he's without intellects: they're
merely sluggish from disuse. I should guess he's a much indulged
only child, who has always been treated as if he were unable to look
after himself. His parents began it, and Fletcher takes his cue from
them."

MacGregor
was about to reply, when his attention was diverted. "Look,"
he said, "the water's covered your ring."

"So
it has." Julian picked up the ring, shook the water off it, and
replaced it on his little finger. He felt better for this
discussion. Yet he could not help asking himself how many more times
this spring would ebb and flow before Orfeo was in custody, the
investigation was closed, and the real murderer went free. How many
days, how many hours

He
resolutely banished these thoughts. Consulting his watch, he said,
"It's half-past three. We had better go back to the villa and
dress for dinner." ,

"You'll
be very distressed to hear it," the marchesa told her guests
when they met in the drawing room before dinner, "but
Commissario Grimani has sent word he won't be joining us. He's
dining with Comandante Von Krauss."

A
ripple of pleasure ran through the company. The next moment, they
heard someone pounding on the front door. "It seems we're not
to be free of Grimani, after all," said Carlo. "Only the
police knock like that."

"The
door isn't locked," said the marchesa. "I told the
servants to

leave
it open for Monsieur de la Marque, because he hasn't returned for
dinner."

The
knocking stopped. A servant must have answered the door. The next
moment, sharp footsteps sounded in the Hall of Marbles, and a young
male voice shouted in Milanese, "Where is the marchesa? I
demand to see her at once!"

"Heavens."
The marchesa came unhurriedly to her feet. "Ri-naldo."

Francesca
gave a little cry and ran to Valeriano, who put a sheltering arm
around her. The next moment, a man burst into the room. He was
about thirty, of middling height, with a reedy figure and round eyes
of a pale, watery brown. He had a low forehead and almost no chin,
so that his face seemed all eyes, nose, and mouth, like a monkey's.
His clothes, though of rich material and extravagant cut, were
rumpled and travel-stained, and his brown hair was disheveled.

"My
dear Rinaldo!" Carlo sprang forward and embraced him heartily,
kissing him on both cheeks. "Thank God and the Madonna you've
arrived safe and sound! I've been worried about you."

"Not
so worried as that comes to!" Rinaldo flashed back. "While
I was away, you could play head of the family. You could take the
lead in investigating my father's murder without so much as a by-your
leave from me! Am I Marchese Malvezzi, or are you?"

"You
are, of course, Rinaldo. But you were away no one knew where to find
you. Something had to be done at once."

"What
business is it of yours? My father never had any use for you!"

Carlo
froze, then looked at his nephew steadily, saying nothing. Julian
had no difficulty reading his mind: He had still less for you, my
boy, and everyone knew it.

"Where
are the police?" Rinaldo demanded. "I want to know why
it's taken them almost five years to tell me my father was murdered.
It's an outrage!"

"Yes,
Rinaldo," said Beatrice. "We were all very angry about it.
But I'm afraid you can't see Commissario Grimani at present. He's
dining out."

She
came forward, extending her hands for him to kiss in greeting.

He
looked as if he would have liked to slap them down. "How dare
you have all these people here to investigate my father's murder
without me? You've never held me of any account! You've always
treated me as if I weren't good enough to fill my father's shoes!"

"Don't
be silly, Rinaldo." She regarded him with a faint, derisive
smile. "Talking of shoes, would you be good enough to go
outside and scrape yours off? You're tracking dirt on the carpet."

Rinaldo
flushed. "You treat me like a child. You go out of your way to
insult me. But what's worse than all the rest what I never can
forgive you invited that whore to stay under your roof!"

He
turned, pointing a trembling finger across the room at Francesca.

"For
the love of God, Rinaldo," said Carlo, "she is still your
wife."

"Yes,
she's my wife, God send her to perdition!" Rinaldo bore down on
Francesca. "How dare you show your face here, among my family,
my friends! Look at me, you cringing slut! You can make a fool of
me for six years, but you can't look me in the eyes "

Valeriano
stepped between them. "Signor Marchese, if you must quarrel, I
beg you will do so with me."

"You
speak for her, Signor Gelding?" Rinaldo choked. "You dare
speak for her to me, to me?"

"Rinaldo,
this is not the time or the place." Carlo laid a hand on his
nephew's shoulder. "Consider that we have guests. I haven't
even had a chance to introduce them to you. Come."

Rinaldo
allowed himself to be led away, though his eyes remained malignantly
fixed on Francesca and Valeriano. Carlo said, "I believe you
know Maestro Donati."

"Yes,"
said Rinaldo. "Your servant, Maestro."