The Devil in Music (15 page)

"But
why? I have no reason to hide. Some people seem to expect me to
lock myself away and go into mourning. But I've done that already,
four and a half years ago, when Lodovico died. He's no more dead now
than he was then, merely because we've learned he was killed by a
base assassin, rather than by a weak heart. What I owe him now isn't
empty pageantry, but vengeance." She lifted her slim brows.
"The word surprises you?"

"Most
English people would say justice."

"They
would mean the same thing."

"Not
quite the same. Justice is a principle, vengeance a passion."

"I
owe my husband a passion," she said simply. "Anything less
would be a poor return for all he did for me."

Julian
pondered the paradox of making a decision to feel a passion weighing
it on scales of obligation and gratitude. Yet would such a passion
be any less real than a spontaneous desire of the heart? Might it
not be all the more powerful for being directed and disciplined, as
trained troops are more effective than raw recruits?

He
could not pursue the conversation. The tenor Rubini had stepped to
the front of the stage to sing his opening air, and his admirers
hissed ferociously for silence. At first he did not receive the
usual rapt attention; too many gazes were riveted to Marchesa
Malvezzi and her new cavalier. Rubini must have perceived this, for
he redoubled his efforts, embroidering his song with arpeggios,
double scales, and trills, till his feats of strength and breath left
the audience gasping. He finished amid a storm of applause so
violent that the Austrian soldiers in the pit began shouting for
order, and the gendarmes guarding the doors advanced on the audience,
brandishing their bayonets.

Marchesa
Malvezzi gazed down at the stage like a marble goddess, remote and
still. "That's a beautiful air," she said quietly.

Julian
wondered what it was like for her to hear a tenor voice, believing as
she probably did that a tenor had made her a widow. He supposed it
would depend very much on what she had felt for her imperious, much
older husband.

She
suddenly looked at him and smiled. "Shall we talk of why I
arranged to meet you here? My brother-in-law showed me your letter
offering to help in the investigation of my husband's murder. He
thought we should accept, but Commissario Grimani disagreed. I must
tell you, I don't like Commissario Grimani. Indeed, I can't acquit
myself of a desire to bring you into the investigation just to annoy
him."

"I
can understand the impulse. He sent me a letter this afternoon that
wasn't calculated to make us bosom friends."

She
studied him, her head tilted musingly. "Why do you wish to
investigate my husband's murder?"

"In
part, because he was kind to me some years ago, when I first visited
Milan. But chiefly because solving murders is by way of being my
metier. And I don't wish to sound unfeeling but this is a
particularly intriguing and extraordinary case."

"You
wrote to Carlo that you've solved murders before that you've worked
with the Bow Street Runners."

She
pronounced these English words so adorably that Julian was
momentarily distracted. "Yes. I've solved two murders with a
Runner named Peter Vance and two more on my own or rather, without
Vance. Naturally one never solves a murder alone."

She
smiled. "I'm to conclude from that speech that you're extremely
modest, and therefore your achievements must be all the more
remarkable."

"Modesty
alone doesn't prove a man a hero. But it's incontrovertible that
immodesty makes him a bore."

"Very
true. Tell me: how would you go about solving my husband's murder?"

"It
appears to me that it's never been investigated in a thorough and
organised fashion. So I should begin by casting my nets very widely.
Naturally I should find out all I could about the singer known as
Orfeo. But I should also have to scrutinize everyone else who had a
motive and can't set up an alibi."

"Everyone?"
she echoed.

"Everyone
who benefited by his death, or had cause to desire it."

"That
might include the people closest to him even his family."

"If
they're innocent, they have no reason to object to answering
questions."

Her
lip curled. "In England, are the innocent never wrongly
accused? You must have a far more perfect legal system than we can
aspire to."

"In
England it takes a great deal of evidence even to accuse, let alone
convict, a member of a family as eminent as your husband's. I don't
believe Italy is any different in that respect."

"But
it's obvious that Orfeo killed my husband. He quarrelled with him
the day before he died, he ran away on the night of the murder, and
he had a pistol with him at the villa."

"I
grant you, it seems overwhelmingly likely that Orfeo committed the
murder. But I should be doing you a disservice by not keeping an
open mind."

"A
greater disservice than you would by treating my husband's family as
suspects?" She added, with calm curiosity, "And will I be
among your suspects, too?"

The
audience began crying "Zitti, zitti!" their hissing
adjuration for silence. The heroine of the opera had just been
captured by Turkish privateers, and the audience wanted to hear her
sing of how she would outwit them:

"I
know from experience the effect of a languishing look, a little sigh.
I know how to tame men. Gentle or rough, cold or fiery, they're all
alike: They all hunger for happiness from a pretty woman."

The
marchesa listened, the subtlest of smiles playing around her lips.
Julian watched her, thinking: At least in Italy men admit that
beautiful women reduce us to drivelling idiocy. Englishmen are
forever trying to ignore their burning blood and burgeoning trousers.
We're determined to walk on water in which Italian men would be
happy to drown.

He
said with cool composure, "May I answer your question with a
question, Marchesa? Where were you and what were you doing on the
night of March fourteenth, 1821?"

She
regarded him in silence. He had an idea that she wanted to see if
she could intimidate him into taking his question back. He met her
gaze, testing her mettle, as she was testing his. If she were too
proud or too afraid to answer his question, she would be of little
use as an ally.

Her
face relaxed into a smile. "As you may know, in March of 1821
there was a rebellion in Piedmont. I'd gone to the capital, Turin,
for a visit while Lodovico was at the Lake of Como with his tenor.
My friends urgently advised me to return to Milan, or least to
retreat to Novara, which was held by a loyalist garrison. At first I
didn't take the warnings seriously. I couldn't conceive that the
rebels would try to harm me they seemed too taken up with squabbling
among themselves to fight their enemies. But in the end I was afraid
Lodovico would worry about me if I didn't leave Turin. I started for
Milan by way of Novara, but on the way I heard that there were rebel
forces on the road ahead. I turned north and continued till I
reached Bel-gi rate It's a village on the western shore of Lake
Maggiore."

"Yes,
I passed it on my way here from Geneva. It seems rather far out of
your way."

"There
was no agreeable place to stay between the Novara road and Lake
Maggiore. And I could easily return to Lombardy by crossing the
lake. But I decided to spend a few days in Belgirate first. I found
it charming, with spring approaching, the first flowers in bloom, and
no social obligations. If Lodovico could enjoy a lakeside idyll, why
couldn't I?"

"I
believe I heard something of this story," said Julian, as if he
had only just recalled it. "Someone mentioned that Marchese
Rinaldo had gone searching for you in Piedmont."

"Poor
Rinaldo. Yes, he heard I'd left Turin, and when I didn't arrive in
Milan, he went looking for me. He meandered about Piedmont in a
great deal of confusion, but finally he found me in Belgirate and
brought me back to Milan." She finished sombrely, "That
was when we learned that Lodovico was dead."

"I'm
sorry. Can you remember when you arrived in Belgirate, and when you
left?"

"Not
precisely. But I know I was there when Lodovico died. It's the sort
of thing you think about when you hear that someone close to you is
dead: where was I, and what trivial thing was I thinking of, while he
was drawing his last breath?"

"His
death must have been a great blow to you."

"Oh,
yes. I was very fond of him. And he seemed so indestructible bright
as the sun, enduring as the Alps."

"Yes,"
said Julian thoughtfully, "that was my impression of him, too."

"And
yet you can't have known him very well."

He
shrugged. "It isn't necessary to know a whirlwind very well, to
feel its force."

She
seemed to come to a decision. "Signor Kestrel, I have no doubt
that Orfeo killed my husband. I don't for a moment suspect anyone
else. But I think this thorough enquiry you propose to make may
reveal information about him that the police might not discover. Our
police have many virtues. They're diligent, thorough, and
persistent. But they lack imagination, and I'm afraid that will
cripple them in trying to solve a crime like this. It isn't an
ordinary street robbery, it has none of the signs of a crime of
passion there isn't even any proof that it was political, though
Commissario Grimani seems to take that for granted."

"But
surely that's in his interest." Julian sank his voice, mindful
of the spies that infested every public gathering in Milan. "Aren't
the rights of an accused person greatly curtailed in political
cases?"

"I
hadn't thought of that," she said slowly. "That would be a
great advantage to him in securing a conviction assuming he ever
finds Orfeo. I know he's determined to solve this crime. He thinks
it will gain him advancement, and I daresay he's right. But his very
ambition may hold him back from posing impertinent questions to
important people. Now you, Signor Kestrel, have proved that you
don't suffer from that constraint."

Julian
bowed.

She
smiled. "In short, I accept your offer. And I place myself
under your command. Tell me what I can do for you."

Vistas
opened before his eyes that had nothing to do with the investigation.
"To begin with, will you be good enough to tell me all you know
about Orfeo?"

"Certainly.
But first excuse me a moment I've been very remiss about greeting my
guests."

While
she exchanged pleasantries with the latest arrivals, Julian glanced
past her toward the box on their right. A middle-aged priest had
been flirting shamelessly with the lady at the front of that box, but
now he withdrew, and a young man with bold black brows and a
moustache moved into his place. He did not take the coveted seat
behind the hostess, but stood leaning over her to look at the stage
through a little cylindrical eyeglass. Julian was about to look away
then he noticed something that piqued his interest. Pretending to be
absorbed in the opera, he studied the young man out of the corner of
his eye.

He
was twenty-five or thirty, with artfully tumbled black curls, a dark
complexion, and dazzling white teeth. His moustache was thin and
well trimmed; Julian suspected he was vain about it. On the
Continent, as in England, moustaches were rarely worn by anyone not
in the military. But this man's easy, lounging pose had nothing in
common with the upright bearing of an officer.

The
marchesa turned back to Julian. "You were asking me about
Orfeo. I'm afraid I can't tell you very much. I never met him or
heard him sing. Lodovico spoke of him from time to time before he
took him to the villa, but only to praise his voice and build castles
in the air about his prospects."

"He
never wanted you to hear him sing?"

"Oh,
no. He didn't want to share him with anyone. He was madly in love
with him."

Julian's
brows rose as high as they would go.

"Do
I shock you, Signor Kestrel?" she asked, smiling.

"Extremely,
marchesa. I can't conceive that any man who could call you his wife
should fall in love with a tenor or anyone else."

"I
didn't mean that he loved him as he would love a woman. But that
sort of love was of little account to him. It was merely an appetite
to be satisfied, like hunger or thirst. A fine voice moved him to
tears to transports of sweet pain and sweeter ecstasy. There's a
phenomenon called melomania I once heard a doctor speak of it.
Lodovico suffered from it. He was truly a little mad when it came to
music." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "The curious
thing is that he never took a singer as his mistress. His passions
for singers were always chaste. He once told me the combination of
love and music was dangerous."