The Devil in Music (22 page)

"What
other Carbonaro sects are there?"

Raversi's
eyes shone with the eagerness of a man in love with his subject.
"The first Carbonari came from Naples. Some of them were
charcoal-burners, which explains their name, but many were the sort
of bandits and cut-throats who infest that region. They originally
banded together to drive Bonaparte out of Italy, but after they'd
succeeded, they turned on their legitimate rulers and demanded
republican reforms. Educated men, who ought to have known better,
joined their ranks. Anybody may be one of them your servant, your
mistress, your friend.

"Naples
is still a hotbed of Carbonari, but now sects have sprung up all over
Italy. At the time of my poor friend's murder, our Milanese
Carbonari were plotting uprisings to coincide with the Piedmontese
revolt. Many of the ringleaders are now in prison, thank God and the
Madonna, but there's a sect who blasphemously call themselves Angeli
though the police call them devils whose conspiracy was never fully
uncovered. It's to be feared that many of them are still at
liberty."

Julian
leaned back in his chair. Its timbers made a faint splintering
sound, and he decided it would be the better part of valour to get up
and walk about. "Signer Conte, if Orfeo killed Marchese
Lodovico in order to foment a rebellion, wouldn't he have found some
means to make the murder public? What does a political incendiary
gain from an act of violence, if no one knows of it? The very motive
that led you to conceal the murder would prompt the Carbonari to
trumpet it to the skies."

"What
are you suggesting?" Raversi's eyes narrowed. "That the
murder wasn't political?"

"I'm
suggesting that, if it was, the motive can't have been merely to
spark a revolt or frighten the Austrians. No: the Carbonari must
have believed Marchese Lodovico could do them some specific harm.
And what could that harm be but exposure of their identities or
plans?"

Raversi
grew, if possible, paler. "How could Lodovico have had it in
his power to do that?"

"If
we knew that, we might be within an ace of solving his murder."

Raversi
came slowly to his feet. "Young man, I wonder if you have any
idea what you're meddling in how dangerous these secret societies can
be. Do you know they take oaths to kill in cold blood any traitors
within their ranks, or enemies outside them? For your own sake, I
urge you not to cross swords with them. Leave that to the police."

"I'm
grateful for your warning, Signer Conte, but I should be breaking my
faith with Marchesa Malvezzi if I ignored the forces that both you
and Commissario Grimani believe are behind this crime."

"You
would hazard your safety perhaps your life fighting an enemy you
can't see?"

Julian
regarded him curiously. "You fight the Carbonari, Signor Conte.
Aren't you afraid of their vengeance?"

"I
do my duty. Signer Kestrel. My conscience demands no less."
"My honour is equally importunate. I've pledged myself to solve
this murder, and solve it I will."

Julian
walked home by way of the Contrada Santa Margherita, past the
imposing palace where the Milanese police had their headquarters, and
where political prisoners were kept until convicted and sentenced.
The church bells were sounding the half-hour after five when he
entered Piazza San Fedele, where the Bella Venezia stood. As he
approached the inn, he saw that there was a commotion in the portico.
Waiters and porters were talking animatedly and waving their hands,
while out in the piazza two muddy itinerant friars, a fruit-seller
trundling a wheelbarrow, and a peasant with a basket of live roosters
had gathered to see what the fuss was about. The roosters added
greatly to the din, but over it Julian made out a voice he knew:

"Kestrel.
K-E-S-T-R-E-L. He is here? Well, why didn't you say so? Slow down,
can't you? I can't understand a word you're saying. He's out? When
will he be back? Quando er quando vie ne Here, what are you about?
I haven't said you could take that! I don't know yet if I'm staying!
Leave go, or I'll call a constable! Lord knows there are enough of
'em about!"

One
of the waiters caught sight of Julian and cried out in relief. The
group broke apart to reveal Dr. MacGregor, red-faced and
dishevelled, playing tug of war with a burly manservant over his
portmanteau.

"My
dear fellow," said Julian blankly, "England is in the other
direction."

"I
know that!" MacGregor exploded. "Don't you think I've
been reminding myself of it ever since I left Geneva?" He shook
his head helplessly. "I just couldn't stop thinking about what
Dipper said that you'd got yourself over head and ears into something
really dangerous. I felt responsible for you. If nothing else, I
could never face Philippa again if anything happened to you, and I'd
let you go alone."

Philippa
Fontclair was the fearsomely precocious daughter of a country squire
in MacGregor's neighbourhood. Julian and she were fast friends, and
kept up a lively correspondence.

"Don't
ask me what I expected to do for you," MacGregor finished. "I
can't see that I'll be any earthly use. I've come all this way, and
eaten more rice than any self-respecting Briton should have to in a

lifetime,
and for what? Can you say in all honesty that you're glad to see
me?"

Julian
would have liked to keep MacGregor out of any danger that might
exist. Yet he answered from the heart, "My dear fellow, I've
missed your common sense and stubborn scepticism ever since I
embarked on this investigation, and now that you're here, I can't
conceive of how I ever expected to succeed without you."

MacGregor
stared. "Do you really mean that?" he asked gruffly.

"You
shall see, when I inflict an account of all my adventures on you and
demand to know your impressions. Have you dined?"

"No.
I only arrived an hour ago, and enquired for you at the police
office. They seem to know everything about everybody. So I came
here, and now this rascal's trying to make off with my trunk."

"Perhaps
you ought to let him," Julian suggested mildly. "You do
need a place to stay tonight."

He
said a few words in Milanese. The servants scattered. A porter bore
away MacGregor's trunk, and several bowing waiters promised that a
room would be ready for him in a twinkling. Julian saw him settled
there, then went to his own room to dress for dinner. Afterward, he
sent Dipper to see if he could be of any help to MacGregor. He soon
had cause to regret this act of kindness: MacGregor marched into his
private parlour and accosted him. "Dipper says you're ill. Why
didn't you tell me at once?"

"It's
nothing the merest touch of catarrh. I'm nearly over it."

"I'll
be the judge of that. Sit down and open your mouth."

"My
dear fellow "

"Do
as I say."

Julian
resignedly took his seat at the table and opened his mouth. MacGregor
peered down his throat. "I don't see any inflammation," he
said grudgingly. "But you'd better go to bed early tonight and
wrap a piece of flannel around your throat."

"I'm
afraid I'm obliged to go to the opera."

"Obliged,
fiddlesticks!"

"I
have to see Marchesa Malvezzi, to tell her you've arrived present you
to her, if you care to come with me. You see, tomorrow morning I
leave for the Lake of Como with her and her brother-in-law "

"Upon
my soul! You certainly haven't wasted any time!"

"
and I want to give her an opportunity to invite you to go with us."

"Why
should she? She doesn't know me from Adam."

"I
shall tell her that you are my invaluable partner, and that without
your bracing influence I should never get up till midafternoon, and
should spend the rest of the day admiring my reflection in my boots."

"Hmph!
It's probably no more than you do in London." Mac-Gregor added
curiously, "What is she like the marchesa?"

To
Julian's annoyance, he found himself looking off airily, exactly the
way Dipper did when asked to talk about a girl he fancied. "She's
beautiful, elegant, and charming. She has great confidence and
courage. She's devilish clever, and would probably be an
accomplished liar if the need arose."

MacGregor
regarded him keenly. Julian restrained himself from fidgeting, and
even leaned back in his chair with an appearance of ease.

"She
hasn't married again?" said MacGregor.

"No.
And as far as I know, she hasn't a lover."

"Well,
you'd hardly expect to know about a thing like that!"

"Oh,
love affairs are more or less open secrets in Milan, at least among
people of the Malvezzis' rank. And gentlemen allow their wives equal
licence, which is at least more fair than forcing them to condone
their husbands' infidelity, while they themselves can take lovers
only in secret, at the risk of a 'crim con' lawsuit and eternal
disgrace."

"What
you're saying is, the Milanese solve the problem of vice by having
twice as much of it!"

"I
can see we shan't see eye to eye about this. Why don't I tell you
about the murder?"

They
sat down to a dinner of veal shank, saffron rice with truffles ("Rice
again!" grumbled MacGregor. "Don't these Milanese eat
anything else?"), and asparagus in browned butter. There was
also a relish made from wild rose bays, which the Milanese called
gratta-cuu "arse scratchers" because of the thorns. The
meal finished with cheese from nearby Gorgonzola and fruit with pan
era the thick local cream. MacGregor complained that it was all too
heavy and spicy, but Julian noticed that he ate a good deal all the
same.

He
summarized for MacGregor all he had learned about the Malvezzis.
MacGregor was too well fed to pace about as he usually did when they
discussed a murder, so he contented himself with sitting back in his
chair and knitting his brows in fierce concentration. At length he
said, "Orfeo still seems the most likely suspect. But I can see
why you're troubled about the family. Rinaldo came into a title and
a fortune when his father died, and freed himself from Lodovico's

domination
into the bargain. The marchesa inherited the villa though it's hard
to see her killing her husband just for that. And if she'd fallen in
love with another man well, from all you've told me, being cuckolded
is no more than a flea-bite to husbands in this benighted country."

"Milanese
men aren't lacking in pluck or passion in matters of the heart. They
simply don't waste jealousy on women they aren't in love with, which
is why they wink at infidelity in their wives, but cut up savage if
their mistresses so much as glance at another man. If Lodovico
Malvezzi happened to be in love with his wife, he wouldn't have
tolerated her having a cavalier serv ente

"He
certainly got on the high ropes when his daughter-in-law took up with
one."

"Francesca
left her husband outright, which is breaking the rules of the game.
What's more, she threw herself away upon the most common of
commoners. By all accounts, Valeriano's mother was a Venetian
prostitute, and his father could have been anybody."

"You've
said he was a singer. Is there any chance he might have known
Orfeo?"

"I
shall certainly ask him about it. But Orfeo was a complete unknown,
while Valeriano is one of the most renowned singers of his
generation. Before Lodovico Malvezzi drove him from the stage five or
six years ago, he was the only male soprano besides Velluti who could
still command major roles and major salaries."

"Male
soprano?" MacGregor started, then shook his head sombrely. "I
didn't realize he was one of those poor creatures."

"Those
poor creatures, as you call them, have been the greatest singers in
history."

"Do
you mean to say that you a humane man, I know, and a Christian, I
hope approve of mutilating the human body just to create a voice?"

"I
don't say I approve. But the castrati deserve better than to be
spoken of as cripples or victims. They're the undisputed masters of
their art bred up to singing from childhood, and possessed of an
instrument unrivalled in power and range." He added, "If
it's any comfort to you, even in Italy there's a revulsion of feeling
against them. When Velluti retires, there won't be anyone to take
his place."