Whispers of Vivaldi Read online

  I was warming to this theory when Messer Grande entered. He was carrying Torani’s silver-headed stick as if it were a ceremonial mace.

  “We found this in the garden shrubbery—Signora Dall’Agata has identified it as Torani’s. The silver is sparkling, wiped clean, but it could have served as a bludgeon.” He thumped the knob into his palm with the cadence of a funeral march. “It wouldn’t have taken much strength to crack the old man’s skull with one well-placed blow. A small man could have done it. Or a woman. Don’t you think, my friend?” Then he lifted one corner of his mouth and said, “Sit down, Tito.”

  I did as he asked, grateful that Messer Grande appeared to remember our friendship. He laid Torani’s stick on the Savio’s broad desk and sat across from me. He took some time arranging his robes, and then propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his prominent chin. “What can you tell me, Tito?”

  “Maestro Torani was killed by someone he knew.”

  “I was hoping you would start with something I couldn’t figure out for myself.”

  I licked my lips. “It was someone who made him angry enough to strip off his wig and throw it at the nearest horizontal surface.”

  “Yes, I knew Rinaldo Torani well enough to also make that deduction.”

  “And I did warn you about Lorenzo Caprioli—after the maestro’s gondola was rammed.”

  “So you did.”

  The chief constable fell silent, nodding. Surprisingly enough, it was a companionable silence. While the Ca’Passoni sighed and creaked under the depredations of time, water, wind, and hundreds of feet, Messer Grande—Andrea—and I sat quietly. I couldn’t guess what was in his mind, but I was remembering our previous partnership and taking his current measure.

  The man who fulfilled the solemn duties of Messer Grande was of a much warmer humor than any other chief constable I’d ever sparred with. I knew Andrea to be both intelligent and fair, with a mild cynical streak that should have run much deeper considering what he must have seen in his tenure. By some miracle of principle or personality, this Messer Grande had escaped the inclination for bribery which plagued much of Venetian officialdom.

  Which didn’t mean Andrea wouldn’t haul me straight to the guardhouse if he was convinced I killed Torani.

  Eventually he said, “You understand I must know who mangled your chest.”

  “A mere scratch,” I said under my breath. Then, louder: “The story isn’t pretty, and it involves a young woman’s honor.”

  He lifted an eyebrow into his high forehead. “Don’t you mean her dishonor?”

  I shrugged.

  “We reap what we sow, Tito. Isn’t that what the priests teach us? That should hold true for the kitchen maid or her mistress.”

  I’d almost forgotten about Andrea’s Masonic ideals—he rarely spoke of them to men outside of that shadowy society. The equality of all was one of its more revolutionary notions. I suppose he’d once felt safe in confiding that philosophy to me; theater folk are known for tolerating conduct that others might find odd.

  He continued, “Unless Signorina Beatrice bashed Torani’s skull herself, I believe that I can keep her name under wraps.”

  “You’re very quick tonight.”

  It was his turn to shrug. “I had Signor Passoni make a list of those who attended the reception. There were few unmarried women on it. Among them, Beatrice has the most to lose.”

  I nodded, then told him everything about Grillo, not stinting my suspicions or glossing over my efforts to neutralize his gossip.

  He took it all in with an air of rueful disappointment at mankind in general. Only one thing seemed to significantly trouble him. “Tito, I’m astonished. You really let that flagrant rogue dupe you out of twenty ducats?”

  As I nodded shamefully, a light tapping came from the door.

  “Avanti,” the senior constable cried.

  The door opened on a slight figure—Giuseppe Balbi. The violinist looked miserable; his thin back was bowed, and his eyes were glassy. He stammered out, “Your sergeant…he said I could…well, that it would be all right…”

  Andrea rose. So did I. He said, “You have something to tell me, Signor Balbi?”

  Words spilled from the violinist’s lips like the wriggling catch from a fisherman’s net. “It’s not right. Not right, I say. That Tito should be blamed for the murder. One of the guests tonight was saying hateful, awful things about Maestro Torani. And he wasn’t even invited. He snuck in under cover of that mask, and he said to me, ‘cats should claw Torani’s skin, dogs should gnaw his bones, and lice should devour him.’”

  Balbi came to a breathless halt. He regarded Andrea with wet, bulging eyes. More than half-afraid, I thought. A Messer Grande in full regalia does tend to have that effect on people.

  “Who said these things?” Andrea made his tone smooth and mellow. He was trying to calm the twitchy violinist.

  Balbi gulped air, then spat out, “Signor Caprioli from the Teatro Grimani.”

  “What?” That was me, booming at my loudest rasp.

  “Yes, Tito.” The violinist bobbed his head at me in the suggestion of a bow. “Signor Caprioli was masked…that’s how he must have got past the footman at the door. He had the temerity to seek me out and ask me to come work for him at the Grimani. He talked against our theater in a vengeful, horrible way, but despite all, I stood up for Maestro Torani. For you, too. For all of us!”

  “What did Lorenzo Caprioli want you to do at the Grimani?” asked Messer Grande.

  “Why, he asked me to lead their orchestra. What else?” Balbi’s diffident manner suddenly became so confident that I drew a shocked breath. He continued in a metallic tone, “Caprioli offered to top my current salary by a quarter. I said no, never.” He twisted his shoulders. “I wouldn’t play for that trash. He’s more interested in whoring out his ballet girls and orange sellers than offering good music.”

  Andrea had opened his mouth to ask another question, but I interrupted. “Wait, Giuseppe, you said that Caprioli was masked? Did he cover his face with a white leather mask?”

  “That’s right. He shifted it to the side of his head as we talked.”

  “And was he wearing a suit of turquoise blue?”

  Balbi rolled his eyes. “Just so—the dolt has execrable taste in all things.”

  Andrea questioned me with a lifted eyebrow.

  “I saw Caprioli, too, about twenty minutes before the concert began. I just didn’t recognize him at the time.”

  “When did Caprioli make his offer to you?” Andrea turned back to face Balbi.

  The violinist’s timidity had returned. “I suppose…” He fingered his lip, seeming to have trouble making up his mind. “Ah, yes…it must have been right before the concert. I was on my way to the kitchen where we musicians were to have our supper.”

  “Where precisely?”

  Balbi spread his arms. His cheeks bunched in a frown. “A corridor. I don’t know which one—a footman led us there—I hung back when Signor Caprioli called my name. But it was not far from the kitchen steps, I think.” He nodded. “Yes…I could hear the clanking of pots and smell the aroma of meat and onions.”

  “Where did Caprioli go when he left you?”

  “Off, away from the kitchen. I don’t really know where he ended up—I didn’t see him again.”

  “How was he?” Andrea was firing questions now, apparently no longer intent on calming the violinist.

  Balbi appeared to think, then said, “He was well.”

  “No, man. I don’t care about the state of his health. I want to know how he was behaving.”

  “Oh. Once I had refused him, he was angry. He cursed me for a fool.”

  Andrea whirled. “Tito, did you see Caprioli again? During or after the concert?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm…”

&nbs
p; I was familiar with the look that settled on Messer Grande’s face. Documents were leaping from drawer to drawer in the cabinet that made up his spectacular memory.

  “You’ve been very helpful, Signor Balbi.” He unfurled a red sleeve in dismissal. “Now you may leave us.”

  “As you wish, Excellency.” Balbi bowed himself from the study, but not before sending me a covert smile.

  I raised a smile in return. Balbi could be a genial idiot at times, but it had taken courage to seek out Messer Grande and volunteer his information. According to the clandestine ways of our Republic, Balbi’s report to the chief constable could very well have the effect of pinning a target on his back. At the very least, one of the government’s confidenti would shadow him to his coffee house, his snuff merchant’s, and the theater for a few weeks. Many men in Balbi’s position would have slunk out of the Ca’Passoni as soon as they had leave and tried to forget anything they had seen or heard.

  Once Andrea and I were alone, I began spouting troubling questions. Chief among them was the issue of Lorenzo Caprioli’s presence at the Ca’Passoni. Any of Caprioli’s bravos—and Grillo—could slit your throat and listen to your death rattle without a trace of remorse. But if Caprioli had ordered Torani’s death, he wouldn’t have attended the reception. Indeed, the canny manager of the Teatro Grimani would have made himself very visible at the opposite end of the island, as far from the Ca’Passoni as possible. Wouldn’t he? I peered into Andrea’s ruddy face for confirmation.

  My old friend gripped my shoulder, making me wince openly. “Perhaps not such a mere scratch, eh?” As I nodded, the fine wrinkles around his eyes deepened. His mouth made a hard line. “You can’t help me this time, Tito. I must ask my own questions, find my own answers.”

  “But…” I sucked in a long breath, “but I must discover who murdered Torani. Don’t you see? He was like a father to me. He was my father—my musical father.”

  “It is you who doesn’t see. You have much to gain by Torani’s death. With him out of the way, you have a clear path to become the permanent director of the Teatro San Marco. Some men would find that ample motive for murder.” His lips drooped, and he inclined his gaze downward. “And then there’s that bloody shirt.”

  “I told you how that happened!”

  “I believe you. But until I can find Grillo and confirm the fight and the injury you delivered to him, certain…influential men…will remain convinced of your guilt.”

  “Did you look at the candle stand?”

  He nodded. “Wiped as clean as Maestro Torani’s stick.”

  An unpleasant warmth spread through me—Grillo might never be found—he could have made his delayed trip to the mainland and simply kept running. Andrea’s hand on my shoulder suddenly felt very heavy. My voice came out in a whisper: “Are you arresting me?”

  “Not tonight.” His hand fell away, and he stepped back. Without a smile. “I think perhaps you should go home now.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I think perhaps I’d better.”

  Chapter Twelve

  One more humiliation awaited me.

  When I returned to the foyer, Liya, Gussie, and Annetta were standing in a gloomy knot by the front entrance, watched over by Passoni’s frowning major domo. All the other guests had apparently departed. I glanced into the salon. The huge chandelier had been lowered so that a footman could extinguish its candles. The glowing points winked out one by one, and the raspy rhythm of a dozen brooms sounded from the dimming hall. Near the archway, a maid was on her knees scrubbing on a stain with a soapy brush.

  I met Liya’s gaze as I crossed the foyer. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with weariness. Her lips looked as if they had forgotten how to smile. She was hiding inside herself, I knew, harboring emotions that would emerge later.

  Before I reached her, the Savio materialized from a darkened room opposite the salon. Had he been waiting for me there in the blackness, working himself into a lather? He’d removed his wig and fine coat. His loosened cravat straggled down his shirt front. As he approached, he swung his arms deliberately, and his breath came quickly.

  “Hold on, Signor Amato. I have something to say.” His senatorial voice reverberated off the marble surfaces like chiming bells. His breath smelled of brandy. “You will not return to the Teatro San Marco—tomorrow or any other day.”

  A chill passed over me. “Are you canceling The False Duke, then?”

  “No.”

  “But, I have singers who must be rehearsed.”

  “Do you not understand?” The Savio curled his lip. “I’ve made other arrangements to complete the opera. You are no longer in the Teatro San Marco’s employ.”

  With that simple statement, I was cast into limbo.

  ***

  The next day dawned bright, cool, and clear, but I stayed abed as the morning waned. Part of me wanted to stay in bed forever. Liya had rebandaged my wound with a soothing balm, but her ministrations failed to roust me from between the sheets. My worried wife finally dressed for the day and set out for the market. She left the double doors to our small balcony cocked open with the outside shutters flung back against the stucco. Gauzy draperies billowed inward, and the seagulls’ cries as they soared and dipped over the Cannaregio punctuated my gloomy thoughts. I was aching inside, and I couldn’t decide which hurt more: Maestro Torani’s death or the Savio’s callous dismissal.

  The corridor door clicked open, and Benito entered bearing a blue and white chocolate pot that exuded a wisp of vapor. Thank the Virgin for small miracles! I slid up onto my pillows and motioned my manservant over with a weary hand.

  He shook his head. With deliberate steps, he crossed the chamber to the opposite wall. Then he deposited his tray on my dressing table, crossed his arms over his flowered waistcoat, and sent me a look that could have presaged the challenge to a duel.

  “Benito, I warn you…” I started with a groan and finished with the growl of a boatyard cur.

  “No, Master. If you want your chocolate, you must come and get it.” He lifted the porcelain pot and poured an enticing stream into the cup.

  Anger forced blood through my veins. I jerked the bedclothes aside. My feet hit the floor. “No one would blame me for discharging you for insubordination.”

  He merely shrugged and fixed me with his bright canary gaze.

  My anger flew as quickly as it had come. “All right, Benito, you win.” Glumly, I shrugged into my dressing gown. “I suppose I can’t keep to my bed forever.”

  I had my chocolate in silence, then padded about the chamber in bare feet, stopping to splash my face at the wash bowl. Benito handed me a clean shirt and underclothes without comment. Once I began to feel like one of the living, I settled in at my dressing table and allowed Benito to arrange my hair. I closed my eyes as he drew the brush through my hair in long, relaxing strokes. Presently, he sensed that I was ready to discuss the previous night’s tragedy.

  Benito told me what he’d gleaned, and in truth, if I’d employed any other man, I would find it disconcerting that a servant could discover so much about his master’s business. But Benito was Benito and as much a part of my life as my right arm—I filled him in on the rest.

  “You want to believe Grillo killed Maestro Torani,” he observed, cocking a graceful eyebrow.

  “At Lorenzo Caprioli’s direction, yes. Those two make a perfect pair of villains.”

  “But Master, it seems to me that Signor Caprioli had already achieved his first goal.” Benito’s beady gaze met mine in the dressing table’s oval mirror. “By smashing Maestro Torani’s gondola, he’d removed him from day-to-day preparations for the opera. You were put in charge and, according to everything I saw and heard around the theater, you were managing in fine style and headed for a great success. If Caprioli paid Grillo to kill anyone, it should have been you.”

  My hand flew to my bandaged wound. “He ver
y nearly did.”

  “Sheer happenstance.” Benito waved the brush airily. “Grillo wouldn’t have attacked you if you hadn’t interrupted his debauchery.”

  “Perhaps he was only saving me for later,” I answered slowly. “Treat himself to the daughter of the house, then kill Tito Amato.”

  I paused to wonder how long the affair between Beatrice and Grillo had been going on. The speed with which he’d maneuvered the girl into an intimate position on the sofa implied an ongoing relationship. I also wondered who else might know about the lovers.

  After a sigh, I continued, “There was another reason for Caprioli to put the maestro out of the way. Torani still had the ears of influential Senators—they’ve been depending on him for counsel on the state opera house for years. Even last night, he pulled himself out of his sick bed to rally support for the San Marco to retain its Senate sponsorship.”

  As Benito moved to fetch the curling tongs from his little alcohol stove, I felt a prickling along my spine. Last night, I hadn’t fully digested Signor Balbi’s information before the Savio delivered his final blow. This morning, the logical consequences of Caprioli’s presence at the Ca’Passoni became clearer. The director of the Teatro Grimani hadn’t gained access to the reception merely to seek out a new lead violinist; he had come for the same reason as Maestro Torani. With his identity disguised under a mask, Caprioli must have been seeking out Senators to toady, bootlick, and otherwise curry favor. His plans to destroy the San Marco were continuing apace.

  “Ah, you’re thinking. Good.” Benito pulled the hair above my left ear onto two fingers and deftly rolled it on the warm tongs. “Move beyond your dislike of Grillo and Caprioli and tell me about the other passions aroused by The False Duke.”

  I smiled. For a moment I was carried back to happier days and the solving of puzzles that didn’t cut so close to my heart. “Why don’t you tell me about the passions you’ve noticed?” I countered.