4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (3 page)

Octavia then introduced a man who had just come onto the loggia, the basso Romeo Battaglia. I fear my jaw dropped when Romeo announced that he was singing Bazajet, the Ottoman sultan defeated and humiliated by Tamerlano. Bazajet was a tragic figure who was allotted almost as many arias as my character. In scoring the role for a low voice, Maestro Weber had made an audacious choice.

I could see that the mellow depth and power of Romeo’s basso would serve the drama well. But what would Venice make of it? The Venice that reveled in the acrobatic roulades and endless trills of the castrati? I had only to hit high C to bring the box holders to their feet with wild applause, while a poor basso could sing his heart out and be ignored by those who couldn’t be bothered to raise their heads from their card games or their socializing. I glanced toward the composer. Maestro Karl Weber must have a stiffer backbone than it appeared.

If Romeo Battaglia had any qualms, be didn’t show them. He planted himself before me with feet spread wide, took frequent swallows of wine, and discussed his role with the heedless enthusiasm of a puppy chasing a ball—a very large puppy of the sheep-herding variety. The loose curls of his formal wig hung to his shoulders, and his waistcoat swelled over a well-padded belly that jiggled whenever he laughed, which seemed to be a frequent occurrence. I put his age at a callow twenty-five.

Romeo didn’t strike me as the sort of fellow who would carry on like the man we had overheard as we came downstairs, but I couldn’t help noticing that he was the only male of the company to follow Gussie and me onto the loggia. After the young basso had invoked the names of some mutual acquaintances and praised the musical taste of our hostess, he retreated so that Octavia could present the accompanists.

I had worked with Mario and Lucca Gecco several times before. They were short, weasel-thin fiddlers who had been making the rounds of theater orchestras since long before I made my stage debut. As competent, but uninspired players, they fulfilled menial roles in the spectacles where musicians of greater talent achieved sublime heights. To them, the opera was merely a way to put bread on the table. I found it difficult to appreciate their philosophy. Though my vocation had been forced upon me, I always gave it my best and experienced boundless joy in using the amazing voice that the knife had bestowed. To do otherwise would make a mockery of my sacrifice. I exchanged only a few words with Mario and Lucca before they retreated to down another glass of wine before dinner.

“But where are the ladies?” I asked my hostess. The cast contained two female characters. Asteria was Bajazet’s daughter, a Turkish beauty who would inflame my lust, and Princess Irene was my faithful betrothed. I had yet to see a sign of either.

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Madame Fouquet is in her room, battling an attack of migraine.”

“That would be our prima donna, the French soprano?”

Octavia nodded. “Our Asteria.”

“I am most anxious to meet her. I hear Madame Fouquet has captivated the Parisian audiences to the point of provoking them to riot if she refuses to give encores.”

“I can well believe it, but you will have to wait until tomorrow to be caught in her snare. I doubt that she or her husband will join us tonight.”

I cocked my head at the bitterness of her tone.

“It’s her régime, you see. Madame Fouquet takes exquisite care of herself. She has a time to eat, a time to rest, a time to gargle and spray her tonsils. And if she comes down with one of her headaches, rehearsals must grind to a halt until she feels ready to continue.”

I chuckled. “True prima donna behavior. I know some castrati who are equally guilty. I suppose a certain amount of temperament goes with the territory.”

Octavia snorted. “Gabrielle Fouquet can cosset her pretty throat on her own time. I’m funding this opera, not only the singers, but every last inch of canvas and drop of paint once we take it to the theater. Now that you’ve arrived to complete the company, there will be no more time wasted.” She smiled broadly, exposing healthy teeth and a glistening expanse of pink gum. “One way or another, Madame Fouquet will be brought to heel.”

The appearance of Nita at the doorway, apron showing evidence of a kitchen catastrophe, took my hostess away.

I was drifting toward the rail to attempt to shift Maestro Weber’s attention away from his latest melody when I felt a tug at my sleeve. “Tito?” The voice was soft, almost intimate.

I spun around, then had to lower my chin to meet Carmela Costa’s eyes. Petite, compact, with an intelligent gaze that seemed at odds with her loose, pink mouth, Carmela was a soprano I had often appeared with. Tonight, a simple chignon confined her lightly powdered hair, and a sprinkling of Alençon lace ornamented her rose satin gown. The effect was a delicate spring flower peeking through an unexpected April frost. Octavia Dolfini could use a few fashion lessons from Carmela.

“Hello, old friend.” The soprano smiled, then gabbled on, “I’ve been dawdling tonight. I just came down. What a treat to find that you’ve arrived. I was so pleased when I heard you had joined the cast, but surprised, too. I’d heard you were in Rome.”

“I was for a while, but happy to be back. The pope’s hand rests a little too heavily on the Roman opera houses for my taste.” I detected a speculative look in Carmela’s gray eyes. “Was there another reason why you were surprised?”

She pulled on one of the teardrop pearls that hung from her ear lobes. “Well…”

“Speak freely. I doubt you could tell me anything I haven’t thought of myself.”

“All right, if you like. Since your role contains so many bravura arias, I expected that Maestro Weber would engage a singer with a sustained fortissimo, someone who can raise the roof, as they say. Your excellence lies in other directions.”

“You don’t think my expressive style is up to the task?”

“Let’s just say that rehearsals are likely to be… interesting. Our maestro doesn’t stint his criticism. You may want to gird yourself in mental armor.”

I shrugged, then glanced toward the German. He had moved to converse with Romeo and Emilio, but he was still well out of earshot. “Maestro Weber must think I can sing Tamerlano. He cast me, after all.”

When Carmela narrowed her eyes, I remembered what an avid collector of backstage intrigue she was. And how much she enjoyed springing her information on unsuspecting innocents.

“What do you know, my lovely friend? Out with it, or I’ll make sure I stumble over your entrance in each of our duets.” Not certain whether I was joking or not, I smiled to make Carmela think I was.

“Only this, Tito dear. Maestro Weber didn’t want you for the part. The French songbird was the one who insisted.”

“Madame Fouquet?”

“Umm.” She rolled the sound on her tongue like a mouthful of chocolate. “Gabrielle Fouquet refused to join the cast unless you were engaged for the title role. Absolutely adamant, they tell me. Maestro Weber and Signora Dolfini were so determined to have the new French sensation sing Asteria, they finally agreed. At some point, you must have impressed her most satisfactorily.” She finished with a questioning eyebrow and a knowing pout.

“But I’ve never met the lady,” I replied, well aware of Carmela’s titillating implication. Many women were enchanted by my kind. During performances, they cheered, moaned, and swooned. They threw flowers. Once the curtain came down, they fought like tigresses to get backstage. It was not true, as many thought, that we castrati were unable to complete the act of love. Some of us were quite able to fulfill our admirers’ desires, though none of us were able to plant the seed that would lead to pregnancy. Most women deemed this another point in our favor.

“Really, Carmela,” I continued. “I don’t think I had even heard of Madame Fouquet until a few months ago when she burst on the scene at the Italian Opera in Paris. Has she been to Venice, do you know?”

“Her husband says she has sung only in France and Germany. He should know. He has managed her career from the beginning.”

“Is he a singer, as well?”

“No, he’s rather close-mouthed about both their backgrounds, but I gather that he’s been knocking around several countries as an impresario.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jean-Louis Fouquet.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of the man.”

She responded with an impish grin. “You wouldn’t have. The type of talent he engages runs more to ridottos and masquerades, the sort that gentlemen frequent.”

“I wonder how he came to hook a soprano of his wife’s caliber,” I murmured.

She shrugged. “Even the worst fisherman gets lucky sometimes.”

Carmela’s words heightened my curiosity about Gabrielle Fouquet, but as it appeared I would not set eyes on the lady until the morrow, I changed the subject. “What about you? You must have been on an extended tour. Now that I recall, our last opera together was over two years ago.”

She looked out at the darkening sky, again pulling on her earring. “Yes, quite an extended tour.”

“Where did you sing?”

“Last month I sang at the Italian Opera in Paris. That’s where I made the acquaintance of the Fouquets, not that they mix with other singers any more than is necessary. ”

“And before that?”

“Oh, here and there. We’re all such vagabonds, aren’t we? Singing for our suppers wherever they’ll have us.”

“I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed more often. There are only so many opera houses, after all. Before Rome, I spent some months in Dresden—a very congenial city for musicians. Did your tour take you there, by any—”

“Oh, look,” Carmela interrupted, pointing excitedly. “A shooting star. Did you see it?”

I hadn’t.

The soprano squeezed her eyes shut and brought fingertips to her lips. “I must make a wish. Quiet now, while I think.”

Before I could question her further, a bell summoned us to dinner. I offered Carmela my arm, and Octavia bustled onto the loggia to claim Maestro Weber. The other men straggled across the salon and into the dining room.

Dinner had come straight from the farm to the table. Freshly caught trout, pork cutlets drizzled with a sauce of golden raisins, polenta with wild mushrooms, wine bottled in the estate’s own cantina: these delicacies and more absorbed the guests’ attention and hampered conversation.

The meal held only one incident of note, an embarrassing one that I would rather forget. During the soup course, I was dipping my spoon when a sudden pair of blasts shook the room like an artillery discharge. I jumped and my little finger upended the flat rim of my soup plate. It was pumpkin soup, unfortunately. Bright orange flooded the white linen cloth.

Everyone except Karl guffawed at the top of their lungs. Looking back, I believe they had all been waiting for just such an occurrence.

“Oh, Tito, don’t worry. Sit back.” Octavia spoke through her giggles as I mopped frantically with my napkin. “The boys will take care of it.” She motioned to one of the young footmen stationed on each end of the marquetry sideboard. “Bring Signor Amato another bowl.”

“What is that infernal racket?” I asked, for the banging continued, coursing through the villa in rhythmic volleys, now very close, now diminishing in the distance.

“The shutters,” Octavia exclaimed, cheeks red from laughter. “Every night Ernesto closes the shutters, and every morning before breakfast he opens them. Fortunately, the morning operation is not as noisy.”

“How many shutters do you have?” I asked, struggling to regain my dignity.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she answered. “I can’t be bothered with the details of this place.”

“I know,” said Emilio. “It’s thirty-eight pairs. Every slam is burned into my brain.”

I looked around the dining room. It was an inside room; the walls were covered in moss green damask punctuated by mirrors instead of windows. Apparently I would not witness the procedure until another night.

Carmela was no longer laughing. She ran her fingers nervously up and down the stem of her wine glass. “Why do you go to such trouble to secure the house? Is this part of the country infested with bandits?”

Octavia dismissed Carmela’s worry with a wave of her fork. “No bandits around here. It’s quite peaceful, really. Trespassing and filching poultry are the only crimes that keep the self-styled
Capitano della Compagna
from his interminable riding and hunting.”

“Who is he?” asked Carmela.

“Captain Forti, the high constable posted at Molina Mori. He was in the army once, the hero of some battle or other, so he insists on being called Captain. As an officer of the law, he leaves much to be desired, but he’s all we have.”

“If the country isn’t crime-ridden, then why do we endure this nightly fusillade?” Emilio looked up and down the table, perhaps seeking support for a request that the shutters remain open.

“My husband has already fought that battle with Ernesto,” Octavia replied. “The shutters must be closed at night because they have always been closed at night. Ernesto’s father closed and latched them when he was steward, and his father before him. It’s useless to argue with the man. If he’s not begging money to repair a fence or purchase a new plow, he’s lecturing Vincenzo on the history of the estate.”

Karl had been listening with a nasty frown. He touched his napkin to his lips, then cocked his thin face toward Octavia. The composer spoke the first words I’d heard from him with a noticeable German accent: “But Vincenzo is master, now. His word should be law.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes and nodded thoughtfully.

Pretending to dab at a spot of soup on my sleeve, Carmela leaned close and whispered, “Karl shouldn’t complain. If Vincenzo were truly the master, he would apply his boot to the seat of some German breeches and Karl would find himself on the public road with his bags flying past his head.”

Chapter Three

Later, in our room, after enduring a round of Octavia’s wavering arias sung at an alarming volume, I sat up to read through Alessandro’s letter one more time. Gussie’s gentle snores and the muted chimes of the long-case clock in the hall were my only company. At home, I would have heard the soft dip of oars on the canal beside our house, the warning cries of the boatmen as they navigated around corners, perhaps a burst of revelry from a distant square. Compared to Venice, the countryside around the villa was unnervingly quiet. At one point, a dog let fly with a cascade of barks. Otherwise, silence reigned. I didn’t get very far into the letter. I missed Liya. This trip marked the first time we had been apart since our marriage. Though I knew she would welcome the pay I earned for
Tamerlano
, being away from her made me feel oddly out of joint. I burrowed back into the cushions, rubbed my ribs where they’d been bruised in the carriage accident, and let images of my beautiful Jewess run through my mind: her warm skin, her sweet-smelling hair, the notch at the base of her neck that seemed perfect for bestowing kisses.

The candle burned itself out on my reverie, but I didn’t bother to relight it. Closing heavy eyelids, I let Alessandro’s letter slip from my fingers and allowed sleep to claim me inch by inch. I remained in its silent cocoon until, just outside our door, a woman screamed.

The terrified yelps had me on my feet in an instant, heart racing and eyes straining. Our room was as black as the inside of a tar barrel.

“By Jove!” Gussie exclaimed, feet hitting the floor an instant after mine. He swore as he crashed into something hard. I echoed him as I tripped over the shoes I’d left forgotten by my chair. By the time we’d fumbled our way through the door, the screams had diluted to stuttering sobs.

Carmela Costa was standing in the center of the dark hall, surrounded by a nimbus of yellow light. She held a candlestick aloft with a firm hand, but her chin was trembling and so was the hand that clutched her nightshift. As our fellow guests spilled out of their rooms, exclaiming loudly and bearing more candles, the cause of Carmela’s distress became obvious.

A man lay at her feet. He was dressed for outdoors in dark clothing and boots of black leather that laced up to his knees. His head was turned sharply, so that he seemed to be staring directly at Carmela’s shapely ankle. He wasn’t moving.

“Is he dead?” Gussie asked.

I took in the chestnut hair, loosened from its ribbon, spreading across the patterned carpet. Blood caked a concave patch at his temple and matted the flowing locks.

“It would seem so.” I was amazed at how steady my voice sounded. My heart was pounding against my ribs as if I’d just run a foot-race.

“We must see.” Gussie knelt and curled his long fingers around the man’s wrist.

Carmela shuffled back, still sobbing in noisy gulps. By common consent, the rest of the company formed a shield around her, patting her shoulders, whispering questions, and casting horrified looks at the body.

Gussie shook his head. “No pulse. And he’s not breathing.”

“Are you sure?” Emilio’s high voice sliced through the general murmur.

“Quite sure. He’s not stone cold, but he’s most certainly dead.”

How could it be otherwise, I thought. Someone had bashed his head in. The instrument of his demise still lay beside him: a shiny brass disk attached to a thin rod of duller metal. The brass was smeared with dried blood, forming an obscene caricature of a rose.

I stooped beside Gussie and studied the object. It looked so familiar, glinting in the shifting candlelight. Yet I couldn’t place it.

“What is this thing?” I asked.

Thanks to his keen artist’s eye, my brother-in-law had the answer immediately. Gussie pointed, and everyone’s gaze followed his outstretched finger toward the long-case clock that overlooked the intersecting corridors like a stoic, unflagging sentinel. This soldier of time had sustained a wound. Its regular ticking had ceased, and the narrow door of its case hung open. The brass hands on its enamel-white dial were nearly vertical. Two minutes to midnight: the exact time that the pendulum had been jerked from its case to do murder.

“For God’s sake! What’s happened?” Octavia burst out of the west wing to interrupt our stricken tableau.

I expected fits and hysterics, but our hostess was made of sterner stuff. She took the situation in at a glance, made a solemn sign of the cross, and sent one of the Gecco brothers to fetch her husband. I noticed that he sprinted down the corridor to the east wing; the Dolfinis must sleep as far apart from each other as the confines of the villa would allow.

Octavia prowled the length of the hall while we waited for Vincenzo. The ruffles of her loose dressing gown swirled like foam on the crest of a wave. “Who is this man?” she asked. “Surely one of you must know him.”

The assembled company murmured negatively, shook their heads.

She set on her husband as soon as he rounded the corner. “This man is dead, Vincenzo, and no one seems to know him. Tell me who he is immediately.”

Vincenzo knelt by the body. Removing his velvet nightcap and twisting it in his hands, the master of the villa studied the dead man’s face for a long moment. Slowly, calmly, he asked, “What makes you think I know him, Octavia?”

“You ride out on the estate all the time. And visit the neighbors, too. You know all the laborers for miles around.”

Vincenzo shoved his nightcap in the pocket of his dressing gown. He reached for the lifeless hand. After a moment’s examination, he said, “This poor unfortunate is plainly dressed, to be sure, but he is no working man. His palms are smooth as silk. And look at these nails. Clean, neatly trimmed, buffed to a shine.
The man is a gentleman, but not one of my acquaintance.”

I agreed with his assessment. The corpse was that of a youngish man with high cheekbones and slender features which would have been quite handsome in life. His dark breeches were finely woven cord, and his snug, waist-length jacket was the sort worn for dancing or fencing lessons. An adept fencer, I guessed, for rather than the lithe limbs of a dancer, he displayed the well-muscled form of a sportsman with a midsection just beginning to expand.

“Search his pockets,” Octavia ordered.

Vincenzo complied. “They are empty.”

“Totally empty?” Octavia drew an exasperated breath. “No purse? No tobacco?”

“Not so much as a coin or flake of snuff, my dear.”

Octavia moved to stand over the body. She stared straight down into its wax-like face. Her nostrils flared, her hands balled into fists, and the toe of one satin slipper jogged up and down. I half-expected her to kick the corpse in frustration.

“Who
can
he be?” she finally asked again.

“I know,” said Karl Weber. The composer had slunk from the west wing a few moments before, barefoot and wrapped in a banyan of paislied silk. Above the riotous blues and oranges, his face was pale as a sheet of parchment. “He’s a thief who broke in to steal my music.”

Vincenzo’s knees cracked as he stood, and his voice thickened with anger. “You know this man who invaded my home?”

Karl shook his head. “He’s a complete stranger. But my score must surely be the most valuable thing in the villa. I’ve taken great pains with
Il Gran Tamerlano
and created an entirely new entertainment, a thoroughly human drama, with flesh and blood characters instead of pasteboard gods and heroes.
Tamerlano
will take Venice by storm, then the rest of Europe. This man must be a rival composer out to steal my thunder.”

Doubtful glances passed between the singers. The Gecco brothers laughed outright.

Vincenzo answered, “That would give you an excellent reason to hit him over the head.”

“No, no.” The composer’s eyebrows shot up. “I haven’t been in this corridor since I retired for the night. I only meant… I can see why a jealous composer might be skulking around.”

A tallish man stood apart from the group, holding his candle to one side, casting his face into shadow. As he stepped forward, the dancing flame illuminated a beaked nose and cool, detached stare. His wide triangular jawline was taut with an emotion I couldn’t identify. I assumed this must be Jean-Louis Fouquet, the Frenchman who had missed dinner to tend to his wife’s headache. In the general confusion following Carmela’s panicked screams, I’d barely been aware of him coming from his room with his wife clinging to his side. She had immediately gasped and threatened to be sick, giving me only a glimpse of a violet-sprigged nightshift and blond locks tumbling from a lavender nightcap as her husband thrust her back through the door. Since then, the Frenchman had been watching quietly, but now he spoke up as if he could restrain himself no longer.

“It’s perfectly obvious. Our mystery man is a handsome devil, dressed for stealth. He was meeting someone in secret.” Jean-Louis turned his pointed gaze on the only unattached woman of the company. “For a lover’s tryst.”

Carmela had been sheltering against Romeo’s stalwart chest—a tiny nightingale in the branches of a great oak. At the Frenchman’s accusation, she dropped her fragile persona, flung Romeo’s arm away, and rounded on Jean-Louis. “Well, aren’t you the slimy, stinking frog-eater? I’ll have you know that I never saw this man until I tripped over him ten minutes ago. If he was keeping an assignation with anyone, it would be your sluttish wife who pushes her tits about like peaches for sale to any man who relishes a bite.”

Jean-Louis reddened, but refused to give ground. “Certainly not my Gabrielle. Frenchwomen see no reason to hide their beauty, but her honor is above reproach. Besides, we arrived only days ago and know no one in Italy outside this villa. If not you, this man must have been visiting one of the maids.” A stamp from his booted heel underscored his theory.

I glanced toward the group of servants gathered in a tight knot by the back stairs. Three young footmen watched quietly, faces aflame with curiosity, while Nita made an unsuccessful attempt to shield two maids from the grisly sight on the carpet. Determined not to miss a crumb of excitement, the girls craned over and around her flannel-clad bulk. One was plump with greasy, spotty skin. The other was a lank collection of bones with a gap the size of my thumb between her front teeth.

“Nonsense,” Octavia spoke to Jean-Louis, but echoed my thought. She then swung around to Carmela. “But you
were
the one who discovered him. What were you doing out in the hall?”

“Well…” Carmela hesitated a moment. “I was on my way down to the laundry. I gave Nita some things I needed washed and pressed for tomorrow, but she never brought them back up. I
couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d fetch them myself.”

“Then you must have heard something,” I responded quickly.

“Yes,” Vincenzo took a stern, official tone. “This man must have cried out as he was struck. Perhaps there was a scuffle.”

“I was reading.” Carmela knit her brows. “I started a novel that Gabrielle loaned me, but it was too silly for words. I eventually dozed off for a bit. Something did wake me, but it wasn’t a cry. That was when I decided to go down to the laundry.”

“What did you hear?” Emilio’s soprano rose to a squeak.

“Footsteps. Very light, like someone running on his toes. I assumed it was—” She started to glance to her right, toward Karl, I thought. Then she checked herself. “Well, I supposed it must be one of us, but now I see it couldn’t have been. It must have been the killer.”

Heads swiveled right and left. Nightclothes rustled as they were drawn tightly over hunched shoulders. An errant draft extinguished several candles, and the gray shadows deepened to black. They seemed to expand with a life of their own, creeping toward the edge of the carpet, clouding vision. For the first time, Carmela’s candlestick began to tremble.

The soprano drifted back toward Romeo, but his attention was trained on the huge armoire at the rear of the corridor.

With a sudden bellow, the big basso knocked his fellow singers aside and charged the hulking piece of furniture. His body hit the wood with a smack, and he twisted the handles with fists that might have bent an iron bar. The doors wouldn’t budge.

“
Scusi
, Signore.” With a deft move, one of the footmen jiggled the handles, then stepped away. “The latch tends to catch.”

Romeo threw the doors open, and bounced back, shoulders braced for a fight. I got to my feet and squeezed between the Gecco brothers to catch a closer look. Neatly folded quilts and blankets made a colorful ladder on one side of the armoire; the other was stuffed with Turkish toweling.

Romeo turned, cheeks blazing red. He shrugged. “It seemed like a perfect place for someone to hide.”

Relief rippled through the corridor in the form of sighs and nervous chuckles. The singers and musicians were recovering their usual aplomb. Those with flickering tapers touched them to dead wicks. One by one, the added lights forced the shadows to retreat. Competing opinions on what should be done next sounded from every corner.

Fortunately, Vincenzo was ready to take charge. He lifted his chin and sucked in his cheeks. It seemed as if he’d suddenly grown two inches. “Adamo, Tullio,” he ordered the footmen. “Search the attics. Shine your lights in every place big enough for a man to hide and report anything that looks uncommon. And for God’s sake, see where Alphonso has gotten to.”

“Alphonso?” I whispered.

Gussie muttered near my ear, “Vincenzo’s valet, older than God and hard of hearing. I met him earlier this evening.”

Vincenzo gestured toward the third footman. “Giovanni, you come downstairs with me.”

A look passed between Octavia and Karl. “I’ll come, too,” the composer announced. “Three sets of eyes are worth more than two.” He started forward, but Vincenzo shot a hand to his chest.

“I can’t sort this out with a pack of music makers running all over the house. I’ll thank you to return to your room and stay there.” Our host sent a dark look around the company. Vincenzo recognized what Carmela apparently hadn’t: there was no reason why the killer wasn’t one of our own.