2 - Painted Veil (27 page)

The strain between Morelli and his wife was no revelation. If I was to solve the mystery of Luca’s murder, I needed to know if Morelli had assumed the persona of Dr. Palantinus. I decided on an oblique approach. “I fear you are outmatched. Unless you have an income of your own, your husband is bound to prevail. In a struggle of this type, the heavier purse always wins.”

She sighed. “My purse is as light as air. Leonardo’s only slightly heavier.”

“But the Morelli family has been in the Golden Book since the founding of the Republic.”

“My husband is rich in titled ancestors, but they don’t pay the bills. If truth be told, we would do better without his pedigree. The Morelli name requires responsibilities that end up costing more than they bring in. The wedding present for the Doge’s daughter cost the earth, but what of it? Leonardo marched in the procession with the other heads of noble families, so we had to give the same as they did. We’ll be dining on nothing more than watermelon and polenta for weeks.”

I gestured to the gilded walls surrounding us. “I would have guessed that your husband possessed a considerable fortune. Otherwise, how would all this be possible?”

Isabella leaned back on one arm, calmer now, face pale but composed. “It’s all a sham. We use our private suites and a few receiving rooms. The rest of the
palazzo
is a moldering wreck. Still Leonardo insists on continuing with opulent pretense. My foolish husband will pawn his own clothing to lay a table to entertain a few senators, then send Fabrizio to buy him a suit from a ragshop in the ghetto. Somehow he always contrives to keep some cash flowing.”

“Signor Morelli doesn’t strike me as the merchanting type. I wonder how he does it.”

“I’m really not sure. He doesn’t discuss his activities with me. I’ve always thought that he scraped along by begging loans from associates and finding a few windfalls at the gaming tables. The man certainly has no head for business. None of the Morelli family ever did. We wouldn’t be in this fix if his father Stefano hadn’t lost the family fortune.”

I let my eyes question her, but even that was unnecessary. Isabella was overflowing with contempt for Morelli and his entire clan and was determined to express it.

“Oh, yes. Stefano was Leonardo’s father, an only son of an only son, just as my husband is. Unlike my husband, Stefano was a wastrel, a good-for-nothing addicted to wine and gambling. Do you know how quickly a fortune can be lost at the Ridotto?”

“I have an idea,” I replied, remembering my own father’s misadventures in that state-sponsored gambling hell.

She continued, “Leonardo grew up with every privilege, including the expectation of inheriting a comfortable estate. He excelled at scholarship—even now he always has his nose in a book of some ancient lore. But thanks to his father’s extravagance, Leonardo was forced to give up his dreams of studying at Padua and take a position of secretary with the Venetian delegation to King Louis’ court. He’s been bitter ever since.”

“The entire fortune was lost to gambling?”

“No, there was more to it, but it’s a mystery to me.” She shook her head. “Leonardo has always refused to speak of it, except to rail against the Jews, of course.”

I caught my breath. “Jews? How did they figure into the family’s downfall?”

Her eyes narrowed at the vehemence of my question. “I don’t really know, Tito, only that Leonardo has always blamed them.”

Springing from the floor, I offered my arm to help my hostess rise. Isabella had recovered from her spate of anger. “Surely you’re not going?” she asked in a husky tone.

I hated to disappoint her, but time was of the essence. After kissing her hand, I left the
palazzo
and headed for the theater as quickly as possible.

Chapter 28

By the time I arrived at the San Marco’s gondola landing, dark clouds had delivered an early twilight. I lifted my nose. The sharp Adriatic wind blowing down the narrow canals carried the scent of rain. I took the steps up to the theater two at a time, nerves tingling with anticipation. The hunt for Palantinus was nearing its end—I could feel it.

Most of the cast were in their dressing rooms, beginning the transformation to the larger-than-life characters they played, but I went below stage, to the green room that contained a table and chairs and a few dilapidated sofas. After watching one performance of
Cesare
, Carpani had declared that he didn’t really care for singing and installed himself in the green room for the duration of the opera’s run. I found the clerk making notes in his huge black book.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Shouldn’t you be dressing?”

“I will, in a moment. After you tell me how your master’s father lost the Morelli fortune.”

“What?” The clerk whipped his glasses off his nose and half rose from his chair.

“You heard me.” I forced him down with a heavy hand to his shoulder. “Stefano Morelli had dealings with a Jew that paupered the family.”

“Really, this is inexcusable.” His bony shoulders were shaking. “What makes you think I would know anything about my master’s personal business?”

With a burst of energy,
I jerked his chair around to face me. “Before Morelli hired you, you worked for the court of probate and estates. I know you for a careful man, a man who relishes detail like no other. You would never have accepted Morelli’s offer without checking up on your prospective employer.” Placing both hands on the arms of his chair, I leaned over and put my nose two inches from his. “Now, out with it. Tell me what you know.”

Carpani answered with a reedy tremor, eyes darting toward the door. “My master won’t tolerate discussion of such private matters.”

I sighed, suddenly exhausted by the rigors of the day. The first strains of violins drifted down from the orchestra pit. I moved my hands to Carpani’s coat lapels and gave the little man a rough shake. Surprised at my own violence, I said grimly, “I’m due on stage in twenty minutes. Speak now or I’ll make sure this turkey neck of yours never makes another sound.”

“All right, all right.” Fixing me with bulging eyes, Carpani drew a black rectangle from an inside pocket. It was a notebook, a miniature twin to the thick book on the table.

“Go on,” I growled.

Nodding, he cleared his throat and turned the little book’s pages with a hook-like finger. “It’s all in here,” he commenced. “For decades the Morelli family entrusted their fortune to a shipping house that traded in the Levant and paid a regular interest of six percent. Stefano’s father drew a good income from the investment and owned some warehouses besides. He sent Stefano to the University at Padua and expected him to eventually take his seat on the Great Council and apply himself to the art of government, but Stefano’s wayward passions destroyed his father’s hopes.”

He bent his head and turned a page. Upstairs, the brass and woodwinds joined the violins. I had no time for a leisurely recounting of Morelli’s family history. I grabbed the book, only to find it scrawled with meaningless signs.

“My own cipher,” he said apologetically.

I shoved the book back in his hands. “Go on. Hurry!”

“Stefano inherited the family estate when Leonardo was sixteen. By the time my master reached his majority, his father had lost the family’s warehouses and was barely covering his gaming debts with the interest from the shipping investments. In 1718, while my master was still away in France, Stefano needed a large sum of money. Quickly. A clever Hebrew had been keeping an eye on the reckless fool and was ready with an offer—the money Stefano needed in trade for the inheritance of the Morelli shares in the shipping house.”

“But that’s illegal,” I broke in. “The Senate banned the practice of selling inheritances so they wouldn’t be burdened with the upkeep of more impoverished aristocrats.”

Carpani nodded. “That is so, but not before Stefano concluded his deal. That unusually perspicacious law was passed at a later date. Stefano collected three thousand ducats from the Jew. But instead of paying his creditors, he lost it all in one wild night at the Ridotto, then went straight home and hung himself from the canopy rails of his own bed. The Jew received the shares in the shipping firm. My master inherited a decaying
palazzo
and a stack of tradesmen’s notes.”

I shook my head. “No wonder Morelli has such a bilious nature, he was done a great injustice. To sell his son’s birthright, Stefano must have been exceedingly greedy and shortsighted.”

Carpani snorted in disgust. “Apparently. But my master refuses to blame his father. In his eyes, a Morelli can do no wrong, whatever sort of blackguard he is. No, my master has always blamed the Jew who dangled an attractive prospect before a heedless, drink-addled fool.”

“Who was this Jew?”

“I have a name, but the man is long gone. The Jew took his newly won riches and immediately set out for England. Unable to take revenge on his foe, my master transferred his anger onto the entire race. To him, the ghetto is no more than a nest of vipers. He rails against the Hebrews constantly. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it hundreds of times: ‘Swindling thieves who make capons of us all, they should all be thrown into the waves.’”

My blood ran cold. Carpani had just repeated a phrase from Palantinus’ pamphlet. I had to be sure. I asked quickly, “Did you say capons?”

He gave an embarrassed little nod. “My master’s words, not mine.”

Of course they were. The puzzling phrase from Dr. Palantinus’ pamphlet that had repeated itself endlessly in my head: “Hebrew swindlers who make capons of us all.”

While the shifty Magister went to great lengths to hide his face, his very words revealed him. Morelli must be Palantinus—he had to be. That he had killed Luca and authored the pamphlet I had no doubt, but how was I going to convince Messer Grande?

***

Maestro Torani was furious, but he held the curtain until Benito made me presentable for the stage. Instead of singing, I wanted to shriek Morelli’s crime to the audience that filled the boxes and the pit, but I realized what a foolhardy course of action that would be. Messer Grande was fixed in his belief that Isacco killed Luca. That unseasoned official was not about to back down and arrest a member of the aristocracy because a singer playing detective had noticed a few matching words. What I needed was a plan, a foolproof plan that would convince Messer Grande of Morelli’s guilt before the nobleman had another opportunity to be rid of me.

It helped that
Cesare
was so far along in its run that I could perform my part without much thought. As I sang my way through that next to last performance, keeping a wary eye out for open trap doors and plummeting sandbags, I worked out the details of my scheme to snare Morelli. Early the next morning, I put Gussie on the boat to Padua, set Liya and Annetta to work at the Del’Vecchios’ new shop in the ghetto, and gave Benito a long list of needed ingredients. At my heartfelt pleading, even Aldo and Maestro Torani agreed to help.

Later that evening,
Cesare in Egitto
went out in a blaze of glory. My voice was back in top form and my side barely hurt at all. For his part, Florio kept his pompous airs in check and made an earnest attempt to be part of the company. Our final duet had always been a sore point; Florio had never cared for my timing or ornamentation. But this time, with Florio consenting to follow my lead, I relinquished all traces of jealousy, and we melded our voices in one sustained, ravishing bout of ecstasy. Women swooned, gondoliers went wild, and within minutes, the stage was covered with flowers. After four encores, Torani had to leave the harpsichord and beg the audience to let the opera proceed to its finale.

My mission didn’t give me time to savor the triumph. As Ministro del Teatro, Signor Morelli was obliged to host a reception to celebrate the close of the opera’s run. This gathering at his
palazzo
suited my purposes exactly. By the time I had changed and seen to a few last-minute details, it was after midnight and most of Morelli’s guests had arrived. I looked for the master of the house as Annetta and I mounted the stairs to the torchlit portico, but Morelli was not greeting his guests in person. Fabrizio was attending the tall double doors at the entryway. I didn’t recognize any of the other servants who were collecting hats and cloaks, minding candles, or serving food and drink. As I had assumed he must, Morelli had hired them for that night only.

The main reception hall was ablaze with light from hundreds of wax tapers. Their flames reflected off the shiny terrazzo floor and the carved marble frieze running around the upper walls. A few tapestries hung from a molding below the frieze, but the focal point of the great hall was a broad alcove that served as a podium where a harpsichord and a few second-rate violins were tearing through a tinkling minuet. Four slender columns divided the semicircular podium and supported a railed balcony above.

The Savio, attended by Messer Grande on one side and his dowdy wife on the other, was holding court at the hall’s arched entrance opposite the musicians’ podium. His face was beaming with pride as Venice’s leading aristocrats approached him to praise
Cesare’s
splendid run. Judging by the credit he took, a person would have thought the old military man had been composer, librettist, designer, and director all rolled into one.

The mistress of the
palazzo
, dressed more somberly than I had ever seen her, moved from group to group, stopping to issue a word of welcome to each richly dressed party. I recognized several older men among the guests as Brethren who had been present at the last meeting of the Temple of the Golden Seraphim. When I caught Isabella’s eye, she gave me a sad, little smile and came sailing over.

“Are the preparations for your mysterious show in order?” she asked.

“I believe so.”

“Oh goody, I love surprises. Anything to liven up this dull crowd.”

“It should certainly accomplish that,” I replied, keeping my smile as bland as possible.

After circulating a bit more, I spotted Morelli hovering around the serving table. He was eyeing the guests as if he expected to catch them filching expensive tidbits to carry away in their pockets. I avoided our host for the while. I would not be ready to speak to him until Torani gave me a sign that all was ready. Carpani was also easy to avoid. The clerk was sitting against the wall with some black-gowned dowagers, twisting his hands and nervously patting his cheap wig, looking positively lost without either of his notebooks.

While waiting for Torani’s signal, I let Rosa engage me in conversation. She had already made a pretty apology for stealing my mask in the San Benedetto garden, so we were friends once more. Her cavalier, Bassano Gritti, was absent. He had finally switched his affections to the dancer that Madame Dumas had mentioned. Florio had joined us by the time Torani appeared at a side door and gave me his nod. Morelli was just approaching. Though Florio and I stood side by side, the nobleman turned his back to me as he addressed my companion.

“Signor Florio, I was hoping you would favor my guests with a few songs. With
Cesare
concluded, it may be our last opportunity to hear the voice that has kept us so royally entertained these past weeks.”

I sent Florio a wink over Morelli’s shoulder. The singer let a pained expression cross his face; he massaged his throat with one hand. “How kind, Ministro, but I regret I must decline. Our last encore strained my vocal cords and I find myself unable to sing a note.” He gestured toward me. “But I am sure Tito would be glad to take my place.”

Morelli scowled. His guests expected the singers to entertain them; it was a tradition that Morelli would break at the peril of his treasured social position. But Florio was pleading indisposition, and Emma had decided to skip the reception altogether. As
secondo uomo
, I was next in order of importance. Morelli acknowledged me with a sour expression. “I suppose you have something prepared. You singers always do.”

“Oh, yes, Excellency. I’ve prepared something your guests will find most interesting.”

The nobleman moved to the center of the reception hall and clapped his hands. The babble of conversation and laughter gradually lulled. Men lowered their wine glasses and women snapped their fans shut. “Good friends and honored guests,” Morelli declaimed, “I have the pleasure to present one of Venice’s favorite singers, a
castrato
of singular talent, Signor Tito Amato.”

All eyes turned toward me. I crossed the salon and stepped onto the orchestra’s podium, but instead of producing music to accompany a song, I addressed the servants. “For the special treat that I have arranged, the room must be darkened. Put out the candles—hurry now—out in the foyer, too.”

The footmen hired for the party heeded my command, but Fabrizio shot me a venomous look and hurried to his master’s side. Morelli had blanched as white as Luca’s body in the Doge’s storeroom. I could almost read the nobleman’s thoughts. He knew I was up to something, but his guests were smiling and whispering among themselves, clearly anticipating a novel amusement. Should he order the footmen to stop, thus disappointing the crowd? Or go along with whatever transpired? Morelli looked around the darkening hall and gave Fabrizio a tiny shake of his head. The proud aristocrat had decided to see it through!

“Signor Morelli,” I cried, descending from the podium. “As our host and most excellent Ministro del Teatro, you should have the best view. Stand here by me and prepare to be amazed.” I took a position several lengthy strides from the alcove, then bowed to the Savio and his shadow, Messer Grande. “Attend him, Excellencies, if you please.” The three men moved to my side. The Savio and Messer Grande showed bemused expressions, but Morelli worked his jaw back and forth like a man suffering from a particularly vicious toothache.

A few women giggled nervously as the vast room filled with dark shadows. I sent up a silent prayer. I didn’t want even to guess what the consequences would be if my plan failed.