The Devil in Music (56 page)

"Yes,
Signor Commissario."

"Then
you will deliver these notes to them as swiftly as possible. You
will not loiter along the way, and you will not speak to anyone
anyone, do you understand? about this crime."

"Yes,
Signor Commissario."

Julian
thought this was asking too much of Bruno, chatterbox that he was.
But he kept this to himself. Grimani had made it abundantly clear
that he took no interest in Julian Kestrel's views of human
character.

"Thank
you for your assistance, signori," said Grimani to Julian and
MacGregor. "Now please be good enough to dress and join the
others in the drawing room."

"Isn't
anybody going to look for Marchesa Francesca?" said MacGregor.

"I've
requested that Comandante Von Krauss and Signor Ruga initiate a
search for her," Grimani said. "If there are any results
that are pertinent for you to know, you will be advised."

Julian
and MacGregor had no choice but to withdraw. "How do you like
that?" MacGregor fumed. "After all the help we gave him,
he talks as if the murder were none of our business!"

"You
know he's not overfond of amateurs," said Julian absently.

MacGregor
cocked his head at him. "Do you think he's right? About
Marchesa Francesca's killing her husband?"

"It's
hard to imagine. But Rinaldo had insulted her, laid violent hands on
her, torn her from her lover. Who can say what she might have been
driven to, locked in with him and at his mercy?"

"Poor
woman." MacGregor shook his head sombrely.

"We
don't know that she's guilty," Julian reminded him. "But
if she isn't where is she?"

Julian
and MacGregor came down to the drawing room some twenty minutes
later, having washed, dressed, and, in Julian's case, shaved. For
once Julian envied MacGregor his thick, salt-and-pepper beard. He
himself would have been glad to be relieved of the need to handle a
razor this morning.

The
company were scattered about the drawing room, tense yet aimless.
Fletcher stared doggedly at the ornate Malvezzi family tree, as if he
had set himself the task of memorizing it. St. Carr leaned against
the nearby wall, restlessly kicking the' skirting-board. Carlo stood
with his elbow propped on the mantelpiece and his face sunk in his
hand. Donati occupied a chair in a corner, Sebastiano standing
sentinel beside him. De la Marque sat with Beatrice on the turquoise
and white striped sofa, leaning close to her and talking with her
softly.

Julian
felt a stab of jealous frustration. While he had been poring over
bloodstains and candle wax, de la Marque had been here comforting and
cheering Beatrice with some success, to judge by her faint smile and
de la Marque's triumphant glow. What did de la Marque care how she
felt? Her shock, her vulnerability, were merely to be played upon
for his own obvious ends. But what do you care, either, Julian asked
himself in all honesty, when you grudge her consolation because it
doesn't come from you?

When
she saw Julian, she rose and came to him. She was dressed in her
white dimity morning frock, with the black veil she usually wore to
church draped lightly over her head and around her shoulders. She
laid her fingertips eagerly on his arm. "Signor Kestrel, what
news?"

"Grimani
has sent Bruno with messages for Von Krauss, Ruga, Curioni, and Don
Cristoforo."

"But
what have you learned so far?" she pressed him.

Julian
limited himself to obvious and elementary facts. For all the damning
evidence against Francesca, her guilt was by no means proved. Until
it was, God help him, he must regard the whole family, including this
woman, as suspects. "Marchese Rinaldo's death was clearly
murder. He was killed with the razor from his dressing-case "

"Is
that Signer Kestrel?" Donati half rose from his chair in the
corner, holding out questing hands.

"Yes,
Maestro." Julian went to him quickly. He saw with concern what
this second murder had done to the old man. His sightless eyes were
red with weeping, and he looked so gossamer-frail, a breeze might
have blown him away.

"Signer
Kestrel." Donati raised his hands as if in supplication. "How
could this have happened? Why did it happen?"

"I
don't know, Maestro. But I swear to you, upon my honour, that I will
find out."

Ernesto
came in. "Comandante Von Krauss and Signer Ruga are here, Your
Ladyship. Commissario Grimani ordered me to show them straight up to
him. They've left some soldiers waiting on the terrace."

"Offer
the soldiers refreshment," said Beatrice. "And if they're
going to be milling about for some time, ask them to take off their
sabres. They do tend to knock into the urns and lampposts."

"Yes,
Your Ladyship." Ernesto bowed and withdrew.

Julian
returned to the marchesa. "There's something I should like to
ask you."

"Of
course there is," she said, with a wry smile. "I never
doubted you would ask more questions than you would answer."

"Yesterday
evening you told me you'd asked Marchese Rinaldo to stay the night
because you were afraid of what Francesca might do if she were
isolated with him at Castello Malvezzi. What did you mean?"

"What
did I mean?" Her slim brows drew together. "Not that I
expected her to attack or harm him. She's so gentle, I can hardly
imagine it, even now. I believe I was more afraid she would lay
hands on herself. But I really didn't think it out."

They
were interrupted by the arrival of Don Cristoforo, who hastened
upstairs to administer the Last Rites to Rinaldo. Julian knew that
Rinaldo would not be officially pronounced dead until this was done,
whereupon, by a compassionate fiction, he would be treated as having
received the sacraments before he died.

The
marchesa called for fresh pots of coffee, and the others sub sided
into restless inactivity again. Julian at last decided to go outside
and have a look around, in spite of Grimani's orders to remain
indoors.

On
his way down the stairs to the terrace, he was met by half a dozen
blond soldiers politely requesting him, in German-accented Italian,
to go back inside. He submitted with grace, having no other choice.
But as he was returning up the stairs, a noise from across the
terrace caught his ears. He looked around. A sergeant and two
soldiers were just stepping onto the terrace from the shore path.
Walking between the soldiers, shoulders slumped, head drooping, was
Francesca.

One
of the soldiers waiting on the terrace raced up the steps past Julian
to alert Grimani, no doubt. Julian remained looking over the
stairway balustrade. Francesca's guards brought her to the foot of
the stairs. Her hair was half undone, her pale-yellow gown creased
and dirty, with grass-stains around the hem. Her white petticoat
showed through a long rent in the skirt. Though the morning was
chilly, she had no shawl, and her cheeks were red and pinched, her
hands crossed over her breast and chafing her upper arms.

When
she saw Julian, her taut face relaxed ever so slightly. She must
have been relieved to see any man not in uniform. He started down to
her, but two soldiers crossed their bayonets at the bottom of the
stairs, blocking his way. "We can't permit you to speak to the
prisoner, signor," said one.

"The
prisoner?" faltered Francesca.

"At
least allow me to give her my coat," said Julian.

"We
can't permit that, either," said the soldier, regretful but
firm. "We don't know what may be in the pockets."

Julian
reined in his exasperation. "Then perhaps you'll be good enough
to search me."

"That
won't be necessary," said Grimani's voice.

Julian
looked around to the top of the stairs. Grimani stood there, a look
of cold satisfaction on his face. He was flanked by Von Krauss,
handsome and immaculate in his white coat with gold epaulets, and
Ruga, his plump face pasty and anxious.

Grimani
looked a question at Von Krauss, who inclined his head, allowing
Grimani to take the lead. "Sergeant," said Grimani, "your
report."

The
sergeant stepped forward smartly, saluted, and said, "We found
Marchesa Francesca in the villa chapel, Signor Commissario, at the
south westernmost corner of the garden. She was on her knees

before
the statue of the Madonna. When we came in, she got to her feet
quickly and seemed frightened."

"Did
she say anything?" asked Grimani.

"Yes,
Signer Commissario." The sergeant's stalwart soldier's mask
slipped a little. He looked suddenly like a good-hearted peasant
from some Alpine village, confronted by the unthinkable. "She
said she'd been asking the Madonna for forgiveness and guidance.
Then she said, "Perhaps I shouldn't have done it, but I wanted
so desperately to get away." "

All
eyes turned to Francesca, appalled.

She
shrank from the stares and would have turned away, but the soldiers
restrained her and held her facing Grimani, Von Krauss, and Ruga, who
looked down on her from the top of the stairs like judges from the
bench. She asked in a small voice, "Does does Rinaldo really
mean to charge me with a crime just for running away from him?"

"That
is absurd, Marchesa Francesca," said Grimani. "You can't
suppose your husband survived such an attack?"

"Attack?"
Her colour faded. In a voice as high as a little girl's, she asked,
"What what do you mean?"

"I
mean that your husband lies murdered in his bed, Marchesa Francesca.
As you well know."

Francesca
collapsed.

Francesca
was revived and brought inside to recuperate a little before being
questioned. Grimani, Von Krauss, and Ruga remained on the terrace
for a brief council of war, which Julian was permitted to overhear.
Ruga was to go back to the village to calm the agitation there, while
Von Krauss would return to his barracks, where he had other pressing
business. Soldiers and gendarmes would be seconded to Grimani, who
would supervise the investigation of Rinaldo's murder from the villa.
If he determined there were adequate grounds to make an arrest, Ruga
would provide him with a warrant.

Julian
also learned that Dr. Curioni had been summoned to an outlying
hamlet and might not return for some time. This was to Julian's
advantage, because Grimani wanted a doctor present when he
interrogated Francesca, both to judge whether her statements were
consistent with the medical evidence, and to tend her in the event of
another collapse. He had no choice but to rely on MacGregor, and

as
Zanetti was busy questioning servants, he was compelled to ask Julian
to be his interpreter once more.

Before
they went inside to join Francesca, Julian asked if he might pose a
few questions to the sergeant. Grimani grudgingly called the
sergeant over. Julian asked, "When you found Marchesa Francesca
in the chapel and brought her here, did she give any sign that she
knew her husband was dead?"

"No,
signer. After she said what I reported just now, I told her she
should make her confession to the police, not to me. From then on,
she only said one thing more."

"What
was that?"

The
sergeant thought a moment, then repeated carefully, " "Holy
Mother, forgive me, I know it's a sin, but I wish I had died in
climbing down from the balcony." "

"Climbing
down from the balcony!" exclaimed Grimani. "Are you sure
you heard her aright?"

"Yes,
Signor Commissario. "Climbing down from the balcony."
That's what she said."

Grimani
looked up to the balcony of Rinaldo's room, three stories above and
bare of any trees or trellising. "That's ridiculous. She must
think us utter fools."

"She
may not mean this balcony," said Julian slowly. "The room
also has a balcony over the south terrace."

"No
one could climb down from that one, either," said Grimani,
"least of all a woman. She's either lying or mad."

"Did
she resist coming with you?" Julian asked the sergeant.

"No,
signer. She came very meekly."

"Did
she?" said Julian thoughtfully.