The Devil in Music (38 page)

"What
I think about Orfeo," said de la Marque succinctly, "is
that he is becoming a bit of a bore. So I can't persuade you to come
with me?"

"Are
you afraid I might find it tiresome here, with nothing to do but talk
with the marchesa all evening?"

A
smile spread across de la Marque's face. "One of many things I
find both delightful and disconcerting about you is that one can say
so little to you, and convey so much. Ah well, I shall have to leave
La Beatrice to you for the evening. Bacchus and Venus are calling to
me irresistibly."

They
went out onto the terrace. De la Marque took leave of the marchesa
and went off down the shore path. Julian and the others stood along
the balustrade, looking expectantly toward the village harbour where
the fireworks were to take place. The night was perfect for such an
entertainment: the sky a soft sable flecked with stars, the breeze
caressing, the air deliciously warm. Skeins of music from all around
the lake were woven in a wild, sweet symphony.

All
at once a rocket sailed into the sky, flinging a shower of sparks
down to the lake. Another and another followed. A great Catherine
wheel erected on the pier began to spin, throwing out tongues of
fire. The marchesa laughed and clapped her hands. Julian had never
seen her so unguarded and carefree.

He
hated to leave her when the fireworks were over. He had never wanted
so much to be alone with her. The investigation came first the
damned investigation, which was always thrusting itself between them.
He had a duty to do, and must discharge it.

He
excused himself and went inside. In the Hall of Marbles he took an
oil lamp from a cabinet and lit it at one of the wall sconces. On

his
way to the library, he passed Cupid and Psyche, locked in their
breathless, eternal embrace. He averted his eyes.

He
seated himself at a writing-table by the library window, overlooking
the terrace and the lake. The glass panes caught the glow of his
lamp and threw it back, increasing the light but blocking out the
view. He found a sheet of writing-paper, sharpened a quill, and
commenced:

Villa
Malvezzi 8 October 1825 My dear Vance,

I
hope this finds you as well as you deserve to be in other words, in a
deal better health than could be expected in a London autumn. But
don't suppose me basking in sunshine here. The mist that hangs over
these mountains would put a London particular to shame.

I
am writing to ask a favour of you, and in that connexion, to give you
an account of the most remarkable murder case I've ever encountered..
.

After
the fireworks, MacGregor lingered by the balustrade, watching the
revellers come out on the lake in boats. Some drifted dreamily,
while others laughed, sang, drank, and called to friends across the
water. Occasionally a quarrel broke out, and there was much shaking
of fists and shouting of obscenities, but no blows. MacGregor had
long since observed that in minor matters, the bark of Italians was
worse than their bite.

He
was enjoying watching the villagers enjoy themselves. Of course it
was a scandalous way to celebrate a religious holiday. A whiff of
brimstone borne on the soft south wind from the scene of the
fireworks reminded him of the fate reserved for idolatrous papists.
He did not want to think about that now. He liked these people. And
he admitted to himself in moments like this that he was not sure he
believed in eternal damnation, anyway. If that made him a bad
Christian, so be it.

He
glanced around to see what his fellow guests were about. Kestrel was
inside writing his letter; MacGregor could just make him out at a
table by the library window, a lamp lighting his work. Franceses

and
Valeriano had gone for a walk in the garden. The marchesa and Carlo
were seated a short way back, beside the little rectangular lily pond
at the centre of the terrace. Grimani had drawn a chair up to one of
the lanterns and was reading reports. Donati sat near MacGregor at
the balustrade, and seemed to take as much pleasure in the sounds of
the revels on the lake the laughter, snatches of song, and rhythmic
plash of oars as MacGregor did in the sight of them.

"You
seem so contented," MacGregor stammered to him in very bad
Milanese.

"I
beg your pardon," said Donati apologetically, as if it were his
hearing rather than MacGregor's speech that was at fault. "I
don't understand."

Carlo
came over to them. "Allow me to interpret for you."

"Thank
you," said MacGregor, and continued in English, "I was
wondering how you manage to keep in such good temper, when the rest
of us are never satisfied for two minutes together."

"Old
and blind as I am, do you mean?" said Donati, smiling. "I
suppose I expect less of life, and so enjoy what pleasures I do find
all the more. And I feel I still have something of value to offer my
music, my teaching. I can never be lonely while young singers seek
me out for guidance and encouragement. Of course, I'm not as
fortunate as you. Even in Italy, there will never be as much need
for a singing teacher as for those who can heal the sick."

"But
" MacGregor broke off, his tongue tied by embarrassment. Yet
what did it matter what these people thought of him? He would
probably never see them again after he returned to England. "I
sometimes wonder what will become of me when I'm too old and infirm
to work any longer."

"I
trust that day will be long in coming," said Donati. "But
when it does, it will simply mean that it's no longer God's plan for
you to do the work of the world."

"But
why should it be God's plan for me to be useless?"

Donati
smiled gently. "Perhaps because He wishes to bring you closer
to Him, and He can't get your attention any other way."

A
figure came onto the terrace from the lakeside path. MacGregor could
not tell who it was until he stepped into the light of the lamps
along the balustrade. "Do you need anything, Maestro?" he
asked gruffly.

"No,
Sebastiano, I'm fine. Go to the village and enjoy yourself."

"I'd
rather practise my singing."

"Of
course you may if you like. But you've worked hard for weeks. You
deserve a holiday."

"I'd
rather practise," Sebastiano said stonily.

Donati
shook his head. "Do as you will."

Sebastiano
went inside.

"He's
not very happy here," Donati told MacGregor and Carlo. "He's
accustomed to town life. And he left a sweetheart behind in Pavia."

"That's
hard on a boy his age," said MacGregor.

"Yes,"
said Donati. "And her husband is so jealous, she doesn't dare
write to him."

MacGregor
shook his head over the extraordinary morals of this country. "Why
can't he find a girl who isn't married?"

"You
would have him ruin a virgin?" said Donati, horrified.

"No,
no!" expostulated MacGregor. "I would have him marry
one!"

"He
hasn't any money to marry on," said Donati.

"Then
he can stay celibate," grumbled MacGregor. "Your priests
do."

Carlo
laughed out loud. "Who told you so?"

From
inside the villa came Sebastiano's voice:

"All'idea
di quel metal lo portentoso, onnipossente ..."

It
was that duet from The Barber of Seville again the one Sebastiano had
been practising ever since they came to the villa. MacGregor knew by
now what it was all about: Figaro the barber was instructing the
hero, Count Almaviva, to disguise himself as a drunken soldier in
order get into the house of his beloved Rosina. Sebastiano sang
Figaro's part and used the piano for Almaviva's.

"Do
you think he'll make a success of it as a singer, Maestro?"
MacGregor asked.

"He
shows great promise," said Donati. "His voice is warm and
flexible, he works hard, and he has the temperament."

"The
temperament?" said MacGregor.

"Endurance,
single-mindedness, vanity. The courage to hold his own with
impresarios and rivals, and the humility to defer to patrons and the
public. Now, Orfeo " Donati's voice softened. "He had the

more
remarkable voice, but he didn't have the temperament. Not at all."

"Che
invenzione, che invenzione prelibata!" sang Sebastiano. What
an idea, what a marvelous idea!

"I
liked that tune once," said MacGregor, "but after hearing
it every night for a week "

"Hush!"
Donati started up. "Listen!"

MacGregor
listened. At first he heard only the same confounded "Che
invenzione, che invenzione." Then he caught his breath. Above
Sebastiano's jaunty baritone was another voice, soaring and sweet.
Someone was singing the tenor part.

Sebastiano
broke off. The tenor voice was heard alone, but only for a moment.
Then it began again in a different strain ardent, beguiling,
languorous:

"Un'aura
amorosa Del nostro tesoro Un dolce ristoro Al cor porgerd"

MacGregor,
Donati, Grimani, Carlo, and the marchesa listened, transfixed.
Sebastiano came out of the house and stood protectively beside
Donati. MacGregor looked about for Kestrel, then saw his tail coated
figure on the library balcony, silhouetted against the light behind
it. He was looking to his right, along the facade of the villa
toward the south terrace. MacGregor realized the voice was coming
from there.

"Un'aura
amorosa Del nostro tesoro ..."

"He
always did like Mozart," said Donati quietly.

"Who?"
demanded Grimani.

"Orfeo,
Signer Commissario. That is Orfeo."

the
spell was broken. Grimani and Carlo tore across the terrace toward
the south side of the villa. The singing stopped. MacGregor shouted
"Kestrel! Maestro Donati says it's Orfeo!"

The
figure on the balcony vanished. The next minute, Kestrel joined
MacGregor on the terrace. He sprang agilely onto the balustrade,
unhooked a lantern from a column at one end, and jumped down again.
MacGregor started to run toward the south terrace, then saw that
Kestrel was running the other way, along the lake shore to the north.
"Where are you going?"

Kestrel
did not answer. MacGregor ran after him. "There's no gate on
this side for him to get out," he panted.

"He
could have left a boat on the shingle," said Kestrel. "Or
he could hazard his chances and swim."

They
slowed their pace and looked over the side of the embankment, Kestrel
holding the lantern aloft. There was no boat on the shingle, and no
sign of a swimmer. Further out on the lake, the holiday boats still
bobbed, the revellers laughing and singing. It would have been
child's play for Orfeo to lose himself among them.

Kestrel
and MacGregor had nearly reached the caves that bounded the garden on
the north side, when Kestrel stopped before a small, stunted tree at
the edge of the embankment. By the lantern-light, MacGregor saw a
strip of white linen tied in a bow around one of the branches.
Kestrel surveyed it briefly, then untied it and put it in his
tailcoat pocket.

"Does
it mean something?" MacGregor asked.

"It
may. I daresay Commissario Grimani would have liked to see

it
in situ, but I couldn't count on its being still here by the time he
came to see it."

"Why
would anyone remove it?"

"That
depends very much on why anyone put it here at all."

"You
think Orfeo, running for his life and about to jump off the
embankment, stopped to tie a bit of rag to a tree in a neat little
bow? Why in blazes should he do that?"

"My
dear fellow, I don't know. Perhaps Orfeo didn't put it here at all.
He may have run south, toward the garden gate. He may be taking
coffee in the villa drawing room. But if he did escape this way, he
might have left this as a signal to someone that he got away safely."

MacGregor
shook his head, at a loss. "What shall we do now?"

"Continue
as far as the caves, then turn back and see if the others have fared
any better. I can't see any point in wandering aimlessly about the
garden. Orfeo might have concealed himself temporarily, but sooner
or later assuming he doesn't mean to give himself up he'll have to
escape, by land or water. So it's the shore and the garden gate that
should be watched."