3 - Cruel Music (20 page)

Pompetti broke in, eyes glittering. “Italy will follow. Our petty dukedoms and principalities will fall like a house of cards. With a pope ready to lead us back to the Golden Age, Italia will reunite and rise again.”

I sat thunderstruck—what nonsense they were gabbling— heresy, revolution, the very destruction of society. I might have been listening to lunatics raving from behind the bars of a madhouse. I remembered what Gussie had said about Lady Mary’s father gleaning his wealth from plantations in the West Indies. How did she reconcile living off the sweat of African slaves with the ideals she spouted? And Prince Pompetti—if he desired equality, why didn’t he sell his treasures and his fine palazzo and live as a common man?

These questions and more crowded my mouth, but I bit my tongue and instead asked, “You spoke of a bargain with Cardinal Fabiani. Had Gemma alerted him to your…activities?”

A rueful expression crossed Lady Mary’s face. “Gemma may have been sent here as a spy, but she quickly became one of us. We’re not the only ones with secrets, you see. Fabiani has a few of his own that Gemma was only too pleased to reveal.”

“She became your go-between?” I asked.

Pompetti nodded. “We were weaving a pattern of strange alliances, and Gemma acted as the shuttle. It’s odd, really. I hate the behemoth of a church that Lorenzo Fabiani serves, yet I find the man generous and charming. I don’t mind playing his game for the nonce—if it guarantees that our goals will be attained.”

“The papal throne for Cardinal Di Noce,” I observed, glancing up at the orange-robed figure who still hovered above me. Stepping back, he folded his hands under his robe and arranged his lips into the serene smile of an oriental deity.

Pompetti agreed with a short nod. “It’s within our grasp—if the old man in the Quirinal would just see fit to die.”

“And Fabiani plays your game,” I mused, “because he values his luxurious way of life above all else. He believes Cardinal Di Noce will allow him to retain his position.” A position
also endangered by some secret that Gemma had revealed, I reminded myself.

Lady Mary was fanning herself in irritated jerks, darting angry looks at Pompetti. I addressed her.

“I fancy you don’t share His Highness’ assessment of Cardinal Fabiani.”

“I don’t doubt that Fabiani will keep his part of the bargain,” she replied, fanning furiously, “but I’d hardly call it charming to murder a defenseless girl.”

Pompetti went red in the face and mumbled, “Cara mia, we mustn’t leap to conclusions.”

Lady Mary snapped her fan shut. “My deduction is based on sound logic. Gemma’s description of our full moon gathering was valuable to your friend Fabiani in one respect—in someone else’s hands, it could be employed to ensure a very different result.” Shooting me a look, she flipped the fan open again. “Some would use it to see Di Noce disgraced and excommunicated. We know that no one from our circle would have dared harm a girl under our protection. So who is left to benefit from her death?”

Pompetti rose, mouth hardening. “And now two more are privy to our secret.”

The air of camaraderie that Di Noce’s benevolent disposition had created vanished in an instant. The atmosphere in the room once again grew close and tense. Without thinking, I let my hand stray to the place where I usually kept my dagger only to find the belt that supported the curve-making panniers. I threw Liya a glance that held as much longing as apology.

“I’ll not condone violence, Aurelio.” Di Noce’s black eyes flashed and his voice sliced the air like a saber. In a heartbeat, the mild-mannered priest had changed to a leader capable of commanding an army, or at least one proud Roman aristocrat.

In the end they let us leave, Liya clinging to my arm with trembling fingers. Di Noce and Lady Mary stayed behind, but Pompetti saw us down the long corridor. Just before we reached the door that led to the forecourt and freedom, he ordered me to a halt.

I felt his hot breath as he whispered at my shoulder, “If my plans go awry, I’ll know who to blame—and no one, not even the goddess herself, will stop me from killing you in the most painful way I can devise.”

Chapter Twenty

The next morning, I crept into Mass like a man still unsteady from his sickbed. As I expected, Rossobelli pulled me aside the minute that Cardinal Fabiani had recited the Dismissal.

“I hope your voice is returning,” the abate said. “His Eminence tossed and turned all night, pining for your sweet songs.”

“I’m doing much better,” I replied in a carefully modulated croak. “But to speed my full recovery, I intend to consult a physician.”

“Oh, my feeble brain. You should have said something. The shame—” Rossobelli pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “—that I did not give a thought to calling for a doctor the moment I heard you were ill. I’ll send at once—for His Eminence’s personal physician.”

“No,” I answered quickly. “I require a doctor well-versed in vocal ailments. I’m going to the Argentina to inquire who treats the leading singers there. That will be the man to put my throat in order.”

Rossobelli offered me the use of a carriage. This time I accepted.
I had much to accomplish, yet my excuse of finding a doctor would only stretch so far. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have minded walking. The Romans advise that if you don’t like the weather you need only wait a few hours. How true. As I climbed into Fabiani’s third-best carriage, the sun warmed my back like a day in May, and it was hard to believe that the banks of the Tiber had glistened with ice only the night before.

The doorman at the theater passed me in with a nod of recognition, and I soon found Liya sewing ruffles on a flouncey gown worn by a headless dressmaker’s dummy. She greeted me with a kiss, and I held her for a too-brief moment of dizzying delight. There was no time for more. She took me to the empty auditorium where Gaetano Tucci sat with his chin on his walking stick. He looked as mournful as a criminal hearing himself sentenced to the galleys.

“You must have thought I neglected my promise,” I began by way of greeting.

He gazed at me through half-closed eyes. “I can’t say I was surprised…considering that Cardinal Fabiani warned me of your treachery.”

“As Liya surely explained, I did write your letter. It was stolen from my manservant, along with another.” I handed him several folded pages. “I’ve rewritten it, even better than the first. Go on, read it. It’s not sealed.”

Holding the letter at arm’s length, Tucci read silently, then sat up tall, much cheered. “Thank you. It’s a generous recommendation. With this, I should have no problem finding a position in Venice.” He surprised me by popping out of the seat as if he meant to start his journey that very moment.

“Will you answer one more question about the Villa Fabiani before you set off?” I gave him no chance to refuse, tacking one question onto the heels of another. “If the marchesa wanted to hide something important, where would she put it?”

“Small or large,” he asked quickly.

“Medium, I think, but flat.”

“Try the kitchen—the larders are her favorite.” He turned to go, then paused. Before I knew it, he was hugging my neck, suddenly overflowing with emotion. “I’m going to sing again. My career isn’t over, after all.”

I patted his back awkwardly. “Venice will love you—your arias will have the gondoliers in tears.”

Tucci cracked a huge grin and nearly ran for the door.

I watched him go with more than a hint of envy. Tucci would have an entire opera house luxuriating in ecstatic bliss, while my talents were restricted to playing operatic nanny to one fussy cardinal.

***

Despite my longing for the stage, helping a fellow singer regain his confidence improved my mood considerably. I returned to the carriage with a jaunty step. “They have recommended an English specialist of great renown,” I rasped to the driver. “On to this address at once.”

The carriage clattered through the sunny streets and back over the Tiber. We soon drew up before the lodgings of the famous Dr. Augustus Rumbolt. I found Gussie in banyan and breeches, ostensibly perusing morning journals and nibbling toast, but actually fretting over my excursion to the palazzo.

“Tito,” he asked immediately, “what happened? Did you discover anything useful?”

“All will be revealed in time, but just now, we have to hurry.” Tugging at his sleeve, I spun him out of the light gown, and pulled a clean shirt over his head. Gussie in turn tucked the tails into his breeches and made quick work of his neckcloth.

“Here,” I cried, spotting a black satchel peeking from beneath his bed. “What’s in that bag?”

“My supplies. I brought a sketch block and some charcoal and paints in case I found time to do some work.”

“Perfect—carry it with you. It looks just like a doctor’s.”

“Whoa, Tito. I can’t keep up with you.” Gussie slicked his tousled hair down with water from a basin, leaving off to catch a black ribbon I retrieved from the floor and tossed across the room. “What are we playacting now? Doctors?”

“Only you, for the driver’s benefit—just long enough to get across the city.” I plucked a somber jacket from a peg, and with Gussie appearing suitably learned and wise, we descended to the street and set out for the Consolazione.

The ride gave me more than enough time to recount the events of the Lupercan celebration. Gussie appeared more startled with each revelation, but agreed to postpone further discussion until after we had visited Benito.

On reaching our destination, I sent our conveyance back to the villa. Gussie and I mounted the steps. Thanks to the genial morning sunshine streaming through high windows, Benito’s ward had a more cheerful appearance. Unfortunately, the nauseous smells and painful groans were as unsettling as before.

Benito lay like a wax effigy. His eyelids were sunken and lips cracked, but at least fresh bandages wrapped his head and his arms rested on tightly tucked, clean sheets.

I called his name several times, in increasingly strident tones, but he made no response. I’d barely registered a deep qualm of misgiving when Sister Regina bustled between the screens.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, moving to gauge my manservant’s temperature with the back of her hand on his brow.

“How his he?”

“Holding his own.” Her hand jumped to his cheek, then to his wrist. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

“Has he spoken?”

The nurse straightened, keeping two fingers on Benito’s pulse. Her face was swollen, as if she’d passed the night without sleep, and the borders of her wimple cut into her rounded cheeks. She shook her head. “He rouses a bit when his other friend comes, flutters his eyes and moans, but we’ve not been able to distinguish any words.”

“His other friend would be a footman in sky blue livery?”

“That’s right. A stocky fellow, built like a prize fighter. He tries to give orders like he’s one of the doctors.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” she assured me gravely. “He asks for a damp cloth, a fresh chamber pot, a cup of tea—as if we would let him try to pour tea down the throat of a head injury.”

“Surely Benito has had some sort of sustenance?” Gussie broke in.

“Of course. We’ve managed to get some broth down him—but then, we’re trained to administer fluids without choking him.”

I stroked Benito’s uninjured arm, willing him to open his eyes and inquire what all the fuss was about. It was several moments before I could force myself back to the business at hand. “How many times has the footman been here?”

“Three. Twice yesterday and once the day before. As you requested, he’s not been allowed to be alone with the patient. Nor have any of the other visitors.”

“There have been others?”

She nodded her chin toward Gussie. “He came last night.”

“Oh, yes. I know about him.”

“And the abate who was with you the first day. He’s been back once.”

Rossobelli—that was a surprise. “What did the abate do while he was here?”

“Tried to roll him about, as if he were merely sleeping and a bit of shaking would wake him.” Angry dots of reds sprang to her cheeks. “Of course, I stopped him immediately and ordered him out in no uncertain terms.”

“You’ve done very well, Sister. You’re as fierce as a Hyrcanian tiger, but a good deal more attractive.”

“Oh—” Her flush deepened and she lowered her gaze. “It’s for the children. I don’t mind extra work if it will help the little ones.”

I stayed a few more minutes, patting Benito’s hands and cheeks and murmuring reassurance. Despite my best efforts, he failed to rouse for me as he had for Guido. As a parting gesture, I leaned close and promised that he would be home before the first swallows of spring returned to nest on the Campo dei Polli. No matter what Fate had in store for me, I had resolved to send Benito back to Venice as soon as he was well enough to travel.

As far as the men who ran my dear manservant down, if I managed to find them, they would have as much to fear from me as from Benito’s hotheaded Guido. It was unfortunate that the beggar had not noticed the name of a business on the cart. Countless such carts ply the streets of Rome, and since the driver of this one was not known in the Trastevere, I had no starting point for a search.

***

It was barely midday, but I left the hospital in the mood for a bracing glass of wine. Gussie knew just the place.

“If it still exists—” he said, covering the sloped pavement with rapid strides, swinging his black satchel. “—a café where the barman discourages prying eyes and ears, and each man keeps his business to himself. I spent quite a bit of time there when I was visiting Rome in the clutches of my tutor. The old fellow couldn’t make the climb.”

I soon saw what he meant. The narrow street ascended through brick and stucco caverns filled with lines of laundry and squealing children, then funneled into a staircase that seemed to be an endless flight to nowhere. With an anonymous stone wall on one side and dense vegetation on the other, I was unable to discern which of Rome’s many hills we were climbing. By the time we reached a square that contained a small fountain and a few homes with ground floors let out to shops, I was huffing and puffing.

“Ah, there it is.” Gussie smiled for the first time that day.

We passed through a smoky, dim interior and stepped onto a sun-flooded terrace. Following a waiter’s gesture, we took an empty table by the stone railing. I blinked at the sky of enameled blue, and a springlike breeze ruffled my hair. Before us spread a panorama of brown-tiled roofs, treetops, and square church towers. Between the buildings, the Tiber glinted in short stretches, and in the distance, the white dome of St. Peter’s towered over its neighbors, blending into pale ivory clouds.

Caught up in the view, I didn’t speak until a glass of Montepulciano was in my hand and Gussie had asked me if last night’s confrontation at the Palazzo Pompetti had brought me any closer to identifying Gemma’s murderer.

“At least we know the sort of ritual Gemma witnessed on the night of her death,” I answered.

“Do you think she realized that Cardinal Di Noce is part of Pompetti’s cult?”

“It seems likely. According to Liya, the group doesn’t wear masks for their full moon devotions—that ritual is more informal, almost like a party. There’s a bit of business around the fire, then they share a meal of cakes and wine, all at the same table, in perfect equality.”

“That put Gemma in possession of some damning information.”

I nodded, taking a sip of the mellow, ruby wine.

“Then we must take a look at the people who would want to ensure that Gemma would never be able to discredit Di Noce.”

I held up a forefinger. “Number one is Abate Rossobelli. He is adamant that the Ancona port project proceed to completion and well understands that Stefano Montorio is as much against it as Cardinal Di Noce is in favor. If Rossobelli knew that Gemma could scuttle Di Noce’s chances of winning the election, he would have considered it his civic duty to murder her on the spot.”

“Could he have known? Wasn’t he the one who discovered her body?”

“So I was led to believe. He said he checked the pavilion while he was hunting the marchesa after a footman had spied her out of her room.” My gaze followed a small striped lizard as it crept out from a crack to sun itself on the railing. “I wish I knew more about what had happened in that pavilion before Rossobelli summoned me. I suspect that Gemma met the cardinal there to tell him about Pompetti’s gathering. Given the dark garden and open windows, nearly anyone could have overheard her report.”

“What about Stefano Montorio? If Di Noce were out of the running, the Venetian would surely be elected. He would be torn away from his beloved experiments and forced into a position he describes as…what did you tell me?”

“His worst nightmare—yes. But Lenci said that he and his uncle left Fabiani’s conversazioni together. They supped, and then conducted experiments at the Palazzo Venezia until the small hours of the night.”

The waiter reappeared and raised his bottle questioningly. Gussie nodded toward our glasses. He held his tongue until the man was well away, then asked, “How far are you willing to trust this young abate? It strikes me that he has divided loyalties. Zio Antonio is determined to have a Montorio pope, while Zio Stefano is just as determined to avoid that fate. Which uncle does Lenci serve?”

“Like any bred in the bone Montorio, he serves himself. He’s ready to jump any way that brings him benefit, but I’ve come to believe that neither he, nor anyone else from outside the villa, killed Gemma.”

“Because of the attack on Benito?” Gussie’s friendly face darkened.

I nodded. “The Montorio faction would have loved to get their hands on my letters, but there simply wasn’t time for Lenci to have arranged to steal them in such a fashion. Benito approached someone in the villa for directions. The sight of him waving those fat letters made someone very nervous—someone with the connections to order a hauler’s cart into a wild ride.”

“Given the time constraints, the cart must have been making deliveries in the area, maybe even at the villa itself.”