3 - Cruel Music (17 page)

I sighed; time was wasting and I must make myself ready. Cardinal Fabiani had planned an excursion to the Capranica, an opera house that rivaled the Argentina. Just he and I. The official reason for the cardinal’s invitation was to hear my critique of the production, but I believed that Fabiani really wanted to enjoy the opera without the need to entertain guests who would rather chat than listen. Stepping back into the sitting room, I was surprised to hear someone moving about in my bed chamber.

I approached gingerly and peered around the doorway.

In the shadows, a stocky figure hunched over my wash stand. Crossing to the bedroom window on noiseless cat feet, I threw back the drape. The dim twilight revealed Guido, mouth frozen in a wide circle, clutching a steaming pitcher.

“Ah, Signore. You startled me.” The footman recovered himself to bow respectfully. “I’ve brought some warm water, and I’ll have your fire going in a moment.”

“Of course, thank you.” I sank down on the window seat, feeling more than a little foolish.

Guido continued his work with an industrious air, fetching my dressing gown, arranging my brushes, and laying out soap and towels.

I removed my jacket and began to untie my shirt. The day’s exertions had left me feeling sticky and grimy. When Guido left to fetch a taper, I made a beeline for the wash basin, soaped up a cloth, and reveled in the touch of the warm water bathing my skin.

“Which suit of clothing will you be wanting, Signore?” The footman had reappeared to light the lamps.

“I can take care of that, Guido. You can go now—no need to play valet.”

“Abate Rossobelli has given me leave to assist you with whatever you need.” He drew himself up, chin elevated at a sharp angle. “I may only be a footman, but I’ve watched the valets often enough. There’s nothing they do that I can’t.”

“Are you sure? It means more work for you.”

“A man in my position has few ways to improve himself, Signore.”

I searched his young, stubborn face and understood. To move up the servant ranks, a footman must acquire new skills. If Guido didn’t take advantage of opportunities as they presented themselves, he could end up like Roberto, still minding the door and running the halls with a bent back and creaky knees.

“All right, Guido. Benito’s duties are now yours. You can start by handing me that towel.”

He complied with a grateful bow and said, “Now, I don’t suppose you will be requiring a shave?”

“No,” I answered dryly.

“Then which suit?”

I made my choice, and Guido proceeded to fit me out for the evening. Touched by his determined but clumsy efforts to handle powder and paint, I tried to forget that I didn’t particularly care for the man. I sensed a hot temper behind his carefully molded smile, and I could easily picture him in the middle of one of the street fights that I had seen break out over nothing more than an unconsidered glance or chance rubbing of shoulders. Where Venetians of the lower classes confined themselves to wild outbursts of invective, Romans quickly advanced to blows or the brandishing of the wicked little knives that both men and women kept about their persons.

But Benito had taken this coarse Roman to his heart; for my manservant’s sake, I tried to be accommodating. “Were you able to spend much time at the hospital?” I asked as Guido draped my shoulders to protect my jacket from the final dusting of wig powder.

“A few minutes only. I don’t know if Benito could hear me, but I knelt at his bedside and made him a solemn promise.”

“Yes?”

The footman’s face darkened. He worked the powder bellows with a vengeance, creating a white cloud above my head. “I vowed that the people who did this will pay. Whatever a man is, he should be able to walk down the street without fearing for his life.”

I suppressed a sneeze behind the paper cone that protected my nose. “Are you saying that Benito was attacked because of his feminine ways?”

“It would not be the first time, Signore. Romans like their men to be men and their women…well, you know what I mean.”

I immediately thought back to the opera that had starred the lovely Albertini. “Yet your countrymen pile into the opera house to see boys singing women’s roles.”

“Well, that’s different. Everyone knows that the singers are playacting. All in fun, you might say. But a man in the street who looks more like a woman in manly attire—it strikes some as a personal offense—they feel like they’re being tricked.”

Accustomed to easygoing Venetian ways, that possibility had not occurred to me. I was wondering if Guido’s theory could possibly fit the scene the beggar had described when my neophyte valet slammed the bellows on the dressing table with a crash. Over the rim of the paper cone, I beheld three images of his scowling face reflected in my tri-fold mirror.

“By the blood of our Lord, I won’t let Benito go unavenged,” his deep voice rumbled. “I’ll find out who did this and see them pay. Benito can count on me—and so can you, Signore.”

“Er, yes. An admirable sentiment,” I replied weakly, somewhat shaken by Guido’s display of raw emotion. I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat. “Tell me, how was Benito when you left?”

“No change. The nurse that attended him like a sentry said he may lie like that for some time.”

Glad to hear that Sister Regina was keeping her part of our bargain, I nodded thoughtfully. “Guido, did you happen to see Benito earlier today, before he left the villa?”

“Just for a moment.”

“Where?”

“He was passing through the back courtyard. I caught his eye, but he didn’t stop. He seemed in a hurry.”

“Did you see him speak to anyone?”

“He might have done. There was a lot of activity about. Cardinal Montorio’s carriage had just arrived. Pope Clement is bad, they say—sinking fast. Whenever
Il Papa
takes another turn for the worse, the Venetians are sure to pay a call.”

I snorted into my cone. “Do all the servants understand that Cardinal Fabiani is the lever that could raise either Montorio or Di Noce to the throne?”

“Certainly. We dine and sup on speculation—at least we did until old Red Chaps banned talk of the election.” Guido whisked the cloth away with a snap, then seemed unsure of how to deal with the resulting storm of powder.

I handed him a curved brush. He stared at it for a few seconds, then applied its bristles to my back and shoulders.

“Why did Rossobelli do that?” I asked.

“He said it’s none of our business—that better men, guided by the Holy Spirit, will make the decision—and that it’s blasphemous to talk about the conclave like it’s a horse race.”

“Hmm. I’ve seen horse races that were easier to predict.” I sought his eyes in the mirror. “What do you think, Guido? Who would you like to see as pope—Di Noce or Montorio?”

“It makes no difference to me. A fresh pope brings fresh promises, but give him several months and all will be forgotten. We have a saying here in Rome—The Tiber stinks no matter who sits in St. Peter’s.” With an eloquent shrug, he replaced the brush and passed me the hand mirror.

I swiveled my chin this way and that. It was a fine job for an aspiring valet. I told him so and received a humble grin in response.

Leaving Guido to tidy my suite, I hurried downstairs to meet Cardinal Fabiani for our night at the opera. The great hall was empty except for the footman serving as porter. It was old Roberto.

“Is the cardinal not down?” I asked.

“His Eminence has been in his reception room this past half hour,” he replied.

“Alone?”

“No, Signore.”

“With a gentleman?”

He sniffed. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call him that.”

“Ah, Tito,” Cardinal Fabiani hailed me from across the hall. His scarlet cloak flapped around his ankles as he advanced with a man who was a stranger to me, a solid column of a man with lank, iron gray hair that framed his face like a pair of curtains. The stranger’s eyes were gray as well, and their penetrating gaze lingered on everything it touched, as if even the walls were conspiring to hide a guilty secret.

“Don’t think I’ve forsaken you,” Fabiani said. “We’ll be leaving in a moment. But first, I have someone here who would like to ask you a few questions. I…” Fabiani hesitated as if searching for words or perhaps assessing our societal ranks to decide who should be presented to whom.

His companion had no patience for such niceties. He gave me a clipped bow and gestured back toward the cardinal’s reception room. “I am Magistrate Sertori,” he informed me. “This way, if you please.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Don’t worry, Tito.” Cardinal Fabiani raised his voice over the rattle and squeak of the carriage, seemingly elated to be on our way to the opera at last. “Where there is no body, there can be no crime.”

I glanced out the window. A north wind had blown up, and many of the people we passed on the shadowy pavements were muffled in furs and quilted gowns. I nestled into my cloak, as chilled by the memory of the interrogation I’d just endured as by the weather. Though I’d denied all knowledge of Gemma’s whereabouts, Magistrate Sertori had kept me for the better part of an hour, repeating the same questions and drilling me with his icy gaze.

“But Your Eminence,” I said, “with all due respect, Magistrate Sertori suspects that there is. He knows that Abate Rossobelli spirited Gemma’s things out of her room.”

The cardinal fingered his chin. “Yes. I’ve been wondering how Sertori knew to pressure our little Teresa into telling her tale.”

I shrugged, unwilling to name Abate Lenci as the likely informant.

“At any rate,” he continued, “what Sertori suspects and what he can prove are two very different matters.”

“He will have Teresa’s testimony.”

“I doubt that. Teresa hails from Naples. Like so many young girls, she came to Rome in search of a rich husband. Since the proper swain has not presented himself, I think it’s time for Teresa to return to her family.”

“And if Teresa disagrees?”

“She won’t,” he replied with a pleasant smile. “Teresa is not as fresh as she used to be, and she knows it. Tomorrow, she’ll snatch the dowry I offer and be rolling down the Via Campana before Sertori has finished his breakfast. In a few days, she’ll be in Bourbon territory, well out of his reach.”

“What if Sertori questions old Benelli?”

“Why should he? No one knows of Benelli’s involvement besides you and me and Rossobelli.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “Unfortunately, I’m not Abate Rossobelli’s favorite person.”

Fabiani drew his brows together. “Is this a personal enmity? Or political?”

“We both know that your secretary is squarely in Prince Pompetti’s camp where the next pope is concerned. It’s only logical that Rossobelli would resent anyone linked to the Montorio cause.”

The cardinal nodded, encouraging me to go on.

I spoke carefully. “Sometimes I think Rossobelli would do anything to see Di Noce elevated to the papacy.”

The cardinal considered for a moment, then his scarlet cloak began quaking, and he threw back his head in a deep chuckle. “You see Rossobelli as a murderer? Oh Tito, that’s rich.”

Laughing outright, he wiped his eyes with the back of his gloves. They were scarlet too, of course, and embroidered with the papal crest. Why not the Fabiani crest, I wondered as the cardinal’s laughter filled the carriage.

“Our friend from Ancona doesn’t have the backbone for violence, Tito. He’s a bookworm, not a ruffian of the streets. Why, the man nearly faints when the cat walks by with a dead mouse.”

“Actually, Your Eminence, I was thinking more along the lines of Abate Rossobelli ridding the villa of my pernicious Venetian influence by setting me up as Gemma’s murderer.”

The cardinal stopped laughing. “Oh, is that what you meant?” He cleared his throat. “Of course, what can I be thinking? Gemma was a servant, a person of no significance in society or government. How could killing a powerless maid help Cardinal Di Noce?”

“How indeed?” I asked quietly.

Like a magic lantern show, the cardinal’s face displayed an array of emotions as the carriage passed from light to shadow and back into light. For one brief moment, I felt I had gained the upper hand. Then the cardinal collected himself.

“Tito, we both know why Gemma was killed and who did the deed. My mother rebels against the strictures that her mental state requires, but someone has to look after her and keep her safe. I am most particular about that.” He inhaled deeply. “Perhaps Gemma did her job too well. Let’s just say that the affair is a tragedy all around—but not one to be compounded by involving a magistrate, eh?”

I nodded slowly.

The cardinal’s mood became expansive again. “As far as Sertori knows, Gemma left the villa for parts unknown and Rossobelli cleared out her cupboard. A little servant problem, nothing out of the ordinary. If the three of us keep our heads, there is nothing at all to worry about.”

Yes, we three, what a merry trio. Sinking farther down into my cloak, I wondered who had stolen my letter to make it a quartet.

“Cheer up, my young friend.” The cardinal braced himself against the leather cushions as we took a sharp turn into the Piazza Capranica. “Tonight, we see
La Serva Padrona
, a comic opera about a maid who turns the tables on her master. I’ve been told it’s quite amusing, so no long faces allowed.”

The carriage stopped and the theater loomed above us, a slice of shimmering marble surrounded by a noisy crowd. As soon as the grooms jumped down to lower the stairs, five or six women clutching ragged, inadequate shawls rushed forward clamoring for coins. The grooms raised their elbows to knock them back.

“Stop,” Cardinal Fabiani ordered. “Let them come.”

Crouching in the carriage, I watched Fabiani stand tall and toss several handfuls of silver from the top step. His regal figure framed against the ebony carriage drawn by a matched pair of Arabian steeds must have made a grand impression. As he descended, the beggars scrambled after his largesse, blessing his name and his soul. The crowd parted to speed his way into the building, and the more richly dressed theater patrons bowed or curtsied. Many broke into spontaneous applause as the cardinal passed.

I followed in his wake, observing his humble protestations and gracious waves, absolutely certain that he had stage managed the whole business.

***

Much later, after watching an operatic maid draw laughs for tricking her master in ways that would have had her dismissed, if not beaten, in the real world, I slid wearily between my cool sheets. Considering the heaviness of my limbs and the prickling of my eyelids, I expected sleep to come as soon as my head hit the pillow. Not so. Even though I was well aware that Benito’s bed in the adjoining dressing room was empty, I found myself listening for the wheeze of his high-pitched snores. Instead, I heard the sounds of the villa adjusting to the change in temperature: the creak of wooden joists; the chink of stone settling on stone; the pad of stealthy, bare feet.

My eyes flew open. Had I dreamed that last? I strained my ears in the darkness. There it was again: a few steps, then a pause, and more running steps.

It took only a moment to slip into the dressing gown that I’d left folded on top of the covers. I grabbed an unlit candlestick as I shoved my feet in my slippers. Once I was out in the broad corridor with the flickering wall lamps, I illuminated the candle and moved in the direction the steps had taken. Passing the cardinal’s suite, I stopped to press my ear to his door. Quiet reigned. A few more steps, and I turned right to enter the long, straight hallway that led to the northwest wing.

Halfway along was a niche that held a large Chinese vase, but it seemed that the vase had been overturned and a gauzy, indistinct figure was struggling to right it. Quickly, I jumped back around the corner and took a more careful look. Lowering the blue and white vase to the carpet, the figure turned a bit, just enough for me to recognize the marchesa.

I raced toward her. “Marchesa Fabiani,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

She sat on the floor with the vase between her legs. A look of alarm spread over her old features when she first caught sight of me, but it quickly faded as I knelt beside her.

“Oh, it’s you—the music man. Here, help me—you have long arms.”

“What is it?”

“I put something in this vase—some time ago—and I can’t reach it.” Her arm was buried up to her shoulder.

“Let me see.”

She scooted back. I grasped the neck of the vase and tilted it from side to side in the glow of the candle. Only smooth ceramic met my gaze.

“It’s empty, My Lady.”

“No, it can’t be.”

As she seemed likely to throw herself on the delicate porcelain once again, I encircled the upturned vase with my arms and stood up. I shook the pot vigorously, to no avail.

“You see,” I said, still whispering. “Empty. Now, let me take you back to bed.”

A look of desperation glinted from her eyes. Before I could settle the vase in its proper place, she came up on one knee, teetered a bit, and took off down the hall with her nightdress straggling behind. I sprinted after her. How could such an elderly lady move so fast?

I thought I had her cornered when she halted before a floor-length tapestry that pictured a group of ancient Romans reclining at a banquet table. The corridor had come to an end. There was nowhere else to run.

Hoping she didn’t have a weapon hidden in her gown, I advanced by inches. I didn’t share the cardinal’s belief that his mother had killed Gemma, but I hadn’t forgotten that she had been ready to do violence to Guido over a lemon ice. As my pulse pounded, the marchesa raised the edge of the tapestry as if she meant to hide herself behind it. She then astonished me by disappearing into what appeared to be solid wall.

I jerked the fabric aside to see a section of wall cocked inward at an acute angle.

“Hurry,” she cried as she descended into darkness. “I need your light.”

She led me down a hidden staircase, similar to the one that started behind the cardinal’s priedieu. No amount of cajoling would convince the marchesa to return to her room, so there was nothing to do but keep on her heels. When I judged that we had reached the first level, the staircase dumped us at a door which opened into the back of yet another tapestry. I took the lead. Slinking between the fabric and the wall, I emerged into the villa’s huge dining hall.

The marchesa sped toward the unlit fireplace, but I paused to examine the tapestry. Its faded threads depicted some unfortunate Sabine women being dragged down an ancient staircase in the infamous Roman attack. I was beginning to see a pattern: a passage behind the banqueting tapestry led to the dining hall, this one provided an alternate route upstairs. The close-fitting doors could be opened with the flick of a simple thumb latch. How clever the Renaissance architect had been; the untrained eye would never have spotted the unaccounted for space between the walls.

I turned and held my candle aloft. The tiny panes that made up the French doors in the opposite wall twinkled in my light. Beyond the glass, all was black. I took a few steps toward the marble mantelpiece where the marchesa grunted and groaned, rendered wordless by frustration.

Using the soft, firm tones that seemed to work so well for the cardinal, I said, “It’s all right, My Lady. I’ll help you. What are you trying to do?”

She beat at the mantel with an open palm.

I gave her shoulder a tentative pat. “Just slow down and think. Tell me what you want.”

“The…the…that thing,” she finally gasped, pointing to the mantel clock, which was an ormolu elephant carrying an elegant timepiece on its howdah. “A catch…in here.” She tapped the footed stand.

We both held our breath as my fingers probed the frets and flutes that supported the elephant. The tick of the clock and the soughing of the wind in the chimney were the only sounds.

“Underneath,” she murmured, gradually calming.

“Ah, I have it.” By touch, I slid a tiny rod to my right. The elephant swung back, revealing a shallow drawer that harbored a glittering pair of earrings. Emeralds and diamonds, unless I missed my guess.

The marchesa bobbed to her tiptoes and snatched the jewels. She gave them one disgusted glance before throwing them to the floor with a brittle clatter.

“My Lady…?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

Marchesa Fabiani tottered to the dining table and sank down on a heavy oak chair. Shoulders sagging, she sobbed like my two-year-old niece when her brother was teasing her. “It’s not there,” she wailed. “I’ll never find it.”

“What, My Lady? What are you looking for?”

Wiping her nose with her trailing sleeve, she gulped and answered, “His portrait—a small one—the only one I have.”

“Whose portrait?”

A sly smile spread across her lips as she removed the heavy, crested ring that seemed to enjoy permanent residence on her forefinger. Showing none of the difficulties that she’d had with the clock, she gave the ring a series of twists, and the pearl-rimmed crest popped up to reveal a painted miniature.

“A lover’s eye!” I exclaimed, after she’d handed it to me.

She nodded appreciatively.

I bent over the tiny painting and studied it by the candle’s wavering glow. It was a fine example of an ingenious token, usually worn as a memento of a distant lover, and popular because it preserved the lover’s identity. Instead of picturing the full face, the miniature represented only one eye with its brow and part of a nose. The marchesa’s token showed a glittering dark brown eye topped by a shaggy brow.

“I take it you are searching for the full portrait of this man.”

She nodded, stretching her hand toward the ring. “The artist painted that while he was doing the portrait.”

I snapped the cover shut, stroked her blue-veined finger, and gently replaced the ring. She raised it to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Who is he, My Lady?” I asked softly.

“Lorenzo’s father.” She opened her eyes. Unshed tears made them sparkle like a young woman’s. “I wrote a note on the back of the portrait, then I put it somewhere for safekeeping…” Her voice cracked and the tears spilled down her cheeks.

“A note, My Lady?”

She pounded her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I forget, you see, and I mustn’t ever forget him. He was the love of my life. I wrote both our names and Lorenzo’s right on the canvas—as a sort of secret family history—then I signed it. I’ll always be able to recognize my own signature, won’t I?”

I sighed as she gripped my arm and gave it a little shake. A screech made us both turn our heads toward the arched entryway.