The Devil in Music (11 page)

"And
what do they mean to do about it?"

"I
assume they'll move heaven and earth to find Orfeo, but the devil
only knows how they're to succeed, when they don't know his name or
what he looks like. And of course, after four and a half years, he
could be very nearly anywhere."

"Isn't
there anyone who can give a description of him?"

"Two
servants lived with him, a gardener and his daughter, but the
gardener is dead of a genuine heart attack, apparently and the
authorities have lost sight of the girl. The singing teacher,
Maestro Donati, is blind, and his servant, Tonio Farese, disappeared
the day after the murder."

"Upon
my soul!" MacGregor shook his head. "Then they'll never
find Orfeo. They might as well look for an elephant in the moon!"

"Well,
actually " Julian began.

"Oh,
Lord!" MacGregor groaned. "I know that look! It means
you're about to tie an already tangled web into Gordian knots!"

"I
just wanted to suggest," said Julian mildly, "that the
authorities, the newspapers, and the Malvezzi family all seem to be
ignoring the most intriguing possibility."

"What's
that?"

"That
Orfeo didn't kill the marchese."

"But
he ran away after the murder and hasn't been heard of since. That
doesn't exactly suggest he had nothing to hide."

"A
man may have something to hide without being a murderer. But it
isn't anything I've read about Orfeo that makes me wonder it's what I
know of the marchese's relatives. The Malvezzi are a very turbulent
family. Lodovico never got on with his son. He'd quarrelled
bitterly with his son's wife, because she ran away with the singer
Va-leriano. He and his brother were estranged by political
differences. And he'd taken as his second wife a much younger woman,
by all accounts a great beauty, who may have had reasons for wanting
to be a widow."

"How
do you know so much about it?"

"It's
common knowledge in Italy. The Italians aren't like us: they have no
shame or reticence about their passions. We draw a veil of decorum
over our love affairs and family conflicts. The Italians unabashedly
love and hate in the glare of public notice. I don't suspect any of
the marchese's relatives more than another I've never met them. But
I did meet the marchese."

"You
did? When?"

"Some
years ago, when I lived on the Continent."

"What
was he like?"

Julian's
gaze turned inward. "He was a colossus of a man over six feet
tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of dark hair streaked white at
the temples, a beaked nose, and eyes very nearly gold. He had a long
stride, and a vitality so powerful that it seems extraordinary a mere
bit of lead could quench it. And he was as proud as Lucifer. But he
forgot his aristocratic prejudices the moment he met anyone who
genuinely loved music. Any fruit vendor or cafe waiter who had
something eloquent to say about Catalani's scales or Velluti's trill
could become his friend. I was very young and knew almost no one in
Milan, but I did know something about music, and that gave me an
opportunity to talk with him at some length."

"He
certainly made an impression on you."

"I
think he did on everyone who knew him. I also think he was the kind
of man who made enemies, because he gave no quarter to anyone who
crossed him."

"Perhaps
he made an enemy of this Orfeo," said MacGregor.

"Perhaps.
The newspapers don't say much about their relationship, or any
reason Orfeo might have had to kill him."

"Well,
I must own, you've got me interested in this business. It's just as
well you're going to Italy you'll hear how it all ends and can write
to me about it."

"Yes,"
said Julian musingly. "I'll let you know what happens."

MacGregor
looked him hard in the eyes. "Kestrel, what are you thinking?
What are you going to do?"

"Well,
as you know, I've had a little experience with murder investigations
"

"If
you mean you've solved murders that baffled even the Bow Street
Runners, I know that, yes."

"
so it occurred to me I might go to Milan and find out if I could be
of any use to the police or the Malvezzi family."

"This
being of use to the family does it include finding out if one of them
killed the marchese?"

"If
it does, I shan't make any secret of it. They would guess in any
case, by the questions I asked them."

"Well,
why should they let you a foreigner, someone they don't know from
Adam come asking them questions and trying to prove one of them a
murderer?"

"My
dear fellow, I don't know. Perhaps because, being English myself, I
may be able to help them find Orfeo. Set a thief to catch a thief,
as my friend Vance says. If they tell me to go to the devil, what
have I lost? I was going to Italy in any case."

"You've
quite made up your mind to this, haven't you?"

"I
hadn't before," Julian reflected, "but I seem to have
persuaded myself."

He
pulled the bell-rope by the fireplace. A waiter appeared. "Please
send my manservant up," said Julian in French. The waiter bowed
himself out.

"Well,
I suppose you must know what you're doing," said MacGregor, in a
tone that implied the opposite.

Julian
smiled. "I wouldn't make any such rash pronouncement as that.
But this may be the investigation of a lifetime, and I can't miss
it."

Julian's
valet came in. He was small and lithe, about twenty-one years old,
with a round face and iridescent brown eyes. "Sir?"

"Dipper,
I'm going to Milan."

Dipper's
face closed up. "I thought you would, sir."

"Dipper
doesn't approve of my Italian project," Julian told MacGregor.

"It
ain't my place to approve or not approve of what you do, sir."

"Good
God," said Julian. "This is quite serious. It's only when
I'm in your blackest books that you begin talking like a servant."

Dipper
refused to be drawn. "When shall I have our traps packed, sir?"

"I
should like to leave tomorrow, when Dr. MacGregor starts for
England. We shall have the deuce and all to do before then. We'll
need passports for Austrian Italy, and that means obtaining
signatures from our own consul and visas from a representative of
Lombardy-Venetia. It's an infernal nuisance getting into the Italian
states at all events, if you do it legally. Still, I daresay we can
be ready to leave by noon tomorrow. Will you order a post-chaise for
that time?"

I'll
do it, but I won't like it, said Dipper's eyes. "Will that be
all, sir?"

"Yes.
I don't want to detain you I'm sure you have a great many
chambermaids and milliners' apprentices to take leave of."

Dipper
went out. Julian looked after him wryly. "My valet has
disowned me. I shall blow out my brains between here and
Domodossola."

"What's
all this about?" MacGregor demanded. "Why doesn't Dipper
like this Italian business of yours?"

Julian
shrugged. "Perhaps he thinks I should confine myself to
domestic murders."

"He's
never opposed any project of yours before. In fact, I've never seen
the two of you at odds about anything."

"That's
because you're not there when I dress in the morning. We have quite
violent disagreements about starch."

"Seriously
"

"Seriously,
as you know, Dipper was once in the habit of finding things before
they were lost, and he still isn't overfond of the police. He's
resigned himself to hobnobbing with Bow Street Runners at home, but
the prospect of mixing with Milanese gendarmes may be too much for
him."

"Rubbish!
What he likes or dislikes is nothing to the purpose. He'd lie down
in the road and let a coach-and-four run over him if you asked him
to. So why doesn't he want to do this?"

"I
can't speak for him," said Julian more soberly. "You had
better ask him."

He
went over to the window, which was still blurred and battered with
rain. MacGregor followed, about to start remonstrating again. Then
his brows drew together. "Look here: should you be travelling
in this downpour? All the Guidobooks warn about the autumn rains in
Italy. They say the rivers overflow and flood the roads and wash
whole bridges away."

MacGregor's
Guidobooks had been a source of dire predictions throughout their
journey. Julian had often been tempted to pitch them out of the
carriage window. "The worst rains are still a few weeks away.
And the Simplon is an excellent road."

"A
good road won't stop you catching your death of cold." Julian
laid a hand on his shoulder. "If I'm going to die in Italy, my
dear fellow, I shall do it more artistically."

MacGregor
was unable to catch Dipper alone for the rest of that day. While
Kestrel rushed about collecting visas if anyone as cool and unruffled
as Kestrel could be said to rush Dipper was out replenishing their
stores of everything from soap and toothpowder to brandy and
ammunition. MacGregor had been a little taken aback to see that
Kestrel travelled with a case of pistols; it reminded him of tales he
had heard of bandits on Continental roads. Certainly they had passed
through some rough terrain that seemed ideal for an ambush. But the
only danger that ever seemed to worry Kestrel was that he might not
find a suitable place to have his linen cleaned.

The
hours hung heavy on MacGregor's hands. He hated this idleness. Only
old people and invalids sat about toasting their feet in the middle
of a Monday afternoon. People like his friend Dr. Greeley, bored
and broken, ending his days in a dreary watering place, surrounded by
strangers. MacGregor had visited him there and could not forget his
restless hands, his vain attempts to walk or write, the tears in his
eyes when he could not even feed or clean himself. MacGregor had
stayed with him as long as he could, and when he left, he had prayed,
sinfully, to die before he became inactive and useless.

He
sprang up, bundled himself into his greatcoat, and went out for a
tramp in the rain. Geneva was as bustling and businesslike as ever.
MacGregor admired its cleanliness and order and its hard-working,
educated people. Yet he was secretly disappointed in it for not
being Continental enough. And this made no sense, because the
Continent had been nothing but an ordeal to him. He found it a
constant struggle to get through the simplest rituals of life:
ordering meals, looking after his clothes, obtaining candles or
writing-paper. He had thought he knew French, because he could read
French medical treatises. But when he tried to speak it, he got all
muddled, and waiters and postillions looked at him with weary
patience or outright contempt. Kestrel, of course, spoke French and
Italian like a native and knew all the local customs, so MacGregor
rarely had to fend for himself. But it was embarrassing to be led
about like a child, to be always confused and helpless.

He
knew he had been testy and ungracious had not really given Europe a
chance. But how could he, when home tugged insistently at his
heartstrings, and a cruel voice kept whispering in his ear: Don't
stay away too long! They may find they can do without you! He was
ashamed to confess all this to Kestrel did not see how Kestrel could
understand in any case. At his age, a man could not grasp what it
was to grow old.

MacGregor
walked as far as the quai on the northern bank of Lake Geneva. From
here there was a famous view of Mont Blanc, but the sky had never
been clear enough for MacGregor to see it. He never would see it
now. Tomorrow he was departing for England, with a courier Kestrel
had engaged to escort him. The prospect did not give him the
satisfaction he had expected. To be sure, he was relieved to be
going home, but it was the relief of a defeated army after its
surrender. As he walked back to his inn in the gathering dusk,
passing the little church where John Knox had preached Protestantism
three centuries ago, he told himself that Knox would not have let
homesickness, stubborn pride, and embarrassment drive him away from
the Continent. But Knox had had the Reformation to inspire him, and
his congregation to Guido and protect. That was what MacGregor
missed: a worthy focus for his energies. Continental travel was
nothing but idleness and art, and MacGregor condemned the one and was
uncomfortable with the other.