4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read online

  Her little feet moved quickly. After throwing on my jacket, I was forced to break into a trot to overtake her. “The other red-haired girl at the yali in Constantinople—who was she?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, Tito. I was the only woman in Vladimir’s household.”

  “Alessandro talked to a servant named Sebboy. Do you remember him?”

  “Yes,” she replied, forging toward the house, staring straight ahead.

  I briefly summarized what Sebboy had reported to Alessandro.

  That news stopped my sister in her tracks. She turned abruptly, and a gruff voice I hadn’t heard for many years rumbled from her throat. “Did Sebboy tell the Russians I escaped the fire?”

  “No.”

  She gave a barely audible sigh. “Well, then there’s no cause for worry.”

  “Sebboy’s story suggests that a girl who could have been your double died in the fire. Doesn’t that raise a few worries for you?”

  She didn’t answer, but started walking again, more slowly this time. I kept silent. When we reached the wide, stone steps leading up to the portico, she paused and faced me with one hand to her forehead. Shading her eyes as if the sun that only peeked from behind the clouds were blinding her, she said, “I only know what Jean-Louis told me. When I ran from the yali, the fire was still raging. Searching that strange city for Jean-Louis was my final bid for freedom, and I can assure you it was no easy matter. By the time I found him, I was nearly perished with fear and exhaustion.”

  She bit her lip, and then continued, “He handed me over to his landlady, a sweet, dutiful Christian woman. She tended to me while he hurried to make arrangements. When we sailed out of the Golden Horn a day or two later, I was in such a state of collapse, I barely knew my own name. If there was any deception over the grave, put it down to Jean-Louis, not me.”

  Imagining the terrors my sister must have faced raised my protective instincts to new heights, but a further, disconcerting thought rapidly followed. “Sebboy said that the Russians who came to the yali were interested in where Count Paninovich stored his valuables. What do you suppose—”

  Grisella stopped me with a violent shake of her head. Her tears had begun to flow again. “Oh, Tito, don’t ask. It’s all such a blur. If you knew everything I’ve endured, you would understand. Please don’t press me for answers I don’t have.” She stroked my cheek and whispered, “Now I must compose myself before Jean-Louis returns. Adieu for now, dear brother. You know how much I’m counting on you.”

  She kissed her gloved fingertips and, after touching them to my lips in a feather-light caress, hurried into the house.

  ***

  I would have welcomed a glass of brandy. But getting a drink meant going back into the increasingly contentious confines of the villa. I could stomach only so much of Octavia’s musical pretensions, our maestro’s moods, and the wall of indifference concerning the murder in our midst. Body? What body? If we ignore it, perhaps it will go away, had become the unspoken rule.

  Preferring the open air, I again set off down the drive. I’d made a sacred promise, given Grisella my word. Now I had to assess what I’d let myself in for.

  The world at large held the women of my city in low repute, and I had to admit that many of Venice’s fair daughters did behave very badly. There was no arguing that my city’s famed courtesans were among the prime attractions for the foreign visitor. Behind the dazzling façade of our prolonged Carnevale, however, there existed legions of respectable wives and widows who functioned as exacting judges in the court of public opinion. The irregular marriage I’d forged with Liya had already run afoul of their standard-bearers. Once I brought the infamous Grisella home, it would be a wonder if our neighbors ever spoke to any of us again.

  I reckoned that Annetta could weather the storm. When she realized that our little sister was safe and well, she would be beside herself with a joy that no amount of social embarrassment could dampen. A new spring came into my steps as I imagined Gussie and me ushering Grisella through our door. Her miraculous return might be just the tonic that would restore Annetta to her old self.

  My steps slowed again when I thought of Jean-Louis. One look at the Frenchman would tell you that he was not a man to be trifled with. Though he had no advantage of breeding or education, he clearly possessed animal cunning backed by an uncompromising will. Jean-Louis had invested a great deal in Grisella. Once he realized she meant to return to her family, he would fight tooth and nail to keep her.

  I paused in the middle of the drive, drawing in a deep breath of crisp September air, and suddenly realized that I was headed the wrong way. What I needed above all was to talk the whole business over with Gussie, and he was in the vineyard making sketches of the workers bringing in the grapes. I swung right and left, trying to figure the shortest route across the fields, until the sight of an unexpected onlooker gave me a start.

  The front gates lay fifty strides away, curving stanchions of wrought iron set into a five-foot stone wall. The gates were closed, but at this time of day, probably not locked. The woman standing in the public road on the other side could hardly have been described as menacing. Short and slim, she seemed hardly larger than a child. She wore a short brown cloak over a plain blue gown, and a lank coil of yellow hair dusted one shoulder.

  It must have been the suddenness of her appearance that unnerved me. Or perhaps the intensity of her gaze. Beneath her unseasonable straw hat, dark eyes shone above a blunt nose and meager, unsmiling mouth.

  Curious, I started forward only to see her turn and hasten away. Her boots kicked up her skirt as she passed from sight. Who was this solemn little creature? Not a peasant. And certainly not a Venetian. If my brief moment of observation was at all telling, she could have been a companion or governess of the sort English or German families always seemed to have in tow. Perhaps she was a guest at a neighboring estate and was merely taking a walk. Word of the murder had spread; she might have been curious to view the site of the grisly deed. Whoever she was, she had nothing to do with me.

  I decided to skirt the east side of the villa and take the garden path that led to the bridge over the ornamental lake. Once on the other side, beyond the cypress trees, I passed a rambling cottage. Its walls were washed a pale corn yellow, and its red roof wasn’t missing a single tile. A lovingly tended vegetable plot crowned with drooping sunflowers spread out to one side. Ernesto’s house, I’d been told. Except for several chickens scratching in the dirt, it was deserted.

  Ten more minutes of brisk walking took me past a few tenant houses and then to the vineyard. While the rest of the estate drowsed in the afternoon sun, these trellised rows hummed with activity. Ernesto had obviously hired extra labor. A bevy of harvesters moved along the vines, bending and stooping. Knife blades flashed, and shallow, oval baskets received dusky clusters of blue-black grapes. A festive atmosphere reigned. Many of the men and woman were singing in unison, a sprightly old tune to make the work go faster.

  I spotted Ernesto’s son Manuel picking at the end of one row. Now that I had met Pia, I could see where his soft, brown eyes and swelling cheeks came from. The curly haired boy beside him could only be his brother Basilio; he was the spitting image of their father, right down to his broad shoulders and proud carriage. Zuzu, the big white dog who was never far from her two young masters, padded up and down the row snapping at the bees swarming to taste the sweet, fragrant produce. Manuel saw me watching and waved.

  I returned his greeting and moved along to find Gussie sketching an ox-cart bearing a large, open container. Ernesto was on the ground, Santini astride the bed of the cart. Balancing heaping baskets on their heads, the workers conveyed their loads to the steward for inspection. Ernesto tossed any clusters that didn’t meet his exacting standards on a waste pile. At his nod, the workers then handed their baskets up to Santini who tipped shining strea
ms of grapes into the container. His stained shirt clung to his back and chest, and the sticky juice rolling down his forearms and cheeks made it appear as if his sweat had turned to purple.

  Gussie was also hard at work: all concentration, tongue between his teeth, gaze flicking up and down. I peered over his shoulder at the gray page. In animated strokes of red and white chalk, he captured the rough-coated, muscular oxen as they patiently waited to haul the precious cargo to the house. Then he traded his chalk for a pencil and jotted some notes in the corner.

  “What are you writing?” I asked.

  “Measurements. Notes on color for when I start painting.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Soon, I hope. Vincenzo has settled on twelve different scenes.”

  “Can you finish them all before the opera is ready for Venice?”

  “Probably not, but I can get them to the point where I can finish up in my studio at home.” As he spoke, Gussie tore the top sheet off his sketching block and slipped it in his portfolio. Only then did he give me his full attention. “What have you been up to this morning, Tito? You look as if you’re about to burst.”

  “There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about,” I said carefully, watching the grape pickers line up for Ernesto’s inspection. Giovanni and the other footmen were joking with the farm workers in easy familiarity as they waited. The harvest must provide a welcome distraction from their regular duties. “Are you coming in to dinner?”

  Gussie shook his head. “Can’t. I need to do some figure studies. Vincenzo is most particular that nothing is missed.”

  “You must eat.”

  “Have you ever known me to go hungry?” He smiled and patted his sturdy mid-section. “I’ll eat with the workers. I’m told they have quite a spread when the day’s work is done.”

  “Where is Vincenzo anyway? I’d expect him to be right in the middle of all this.”

  “He’s at the house, in the cantina. The crushing of his grapes seems to interest him more than the picking.” Gussie finished with a knowing wink that told me he’d say more if we were alone.

  “What?” I whispered.

  He shook his head a fraction of an inch. “Just stop by the cantina before dinner. I’ll be interested to hear your impressions.”

  I returned to the villa on the rutted dirt path employed by the ox-cart. It led around the west side of the great lawn and skirted the stable yard and kitchen garden before bringing me to the house. The cantina was on the ground floor, down a gently sloping ramp. I had to mind my footing; many years of rolling barrels had formed a trough-like depression down the center.

  At the bottom of the ramp, a planked door stood invitingly open. I stepped inside. Scores of lamps and candles illuminated a red-brick chamber. Vaulted bays stacked with oak casks pierced the walls, and containers of grapes waited to be added to the stomping vat at the opposite end of the cantina. As I crossed the flagstones coated with purple juice, the soles of my shoes stuck with each step.

  Vincenzo acknowledged me with a nod as I joined him at the raised, knee-high vat. Romeo and Jean-Louis had also come down to watch the stomping. The Frenchman must have returned from his mysterious errand while I was in the vineyard. I itched to ask him where he’d been, but the look he sent me over his beaked nose discouraged questions. Though I knew it to be impossible, it was almost as if he’d found out that I was planning to carry his breadwinner off to Venice.

  I took a deep breath. The cantina air was cool and damp, concentrating the scent of the fruit until it was almost overpowering. A slurry of grapes, juice, stems, and skins filled the vat to within two handbreadths of the top. Everyone was watching Pia move through the cloying stew in slow, continuous circles. She raised her knees high and brought her feet down with mindful intensity. Several other stompers had removed their shoes and were awaiting their turns.

  Despite the hard work Pia seemed to be enjoying herself. Her cheeks glowed, and curls of black hair escaped her kerchief and plastered themselves to her neck. To free her legs, she’d pulled the back hem of her bright green skirt to the front and tucked it firmly into her waistband. The pliant flesh of her bare thighs emerged from the folds of cloth around her hips and gleamed with sweat. The graceful curves of her calves were stained a reddish-purple.

  Now I knew what Gussie had meant me to see. Not Pia, but Vincenzo watching Pia. Our host was positively drooling.

  ***

  It was late that evening before Gussie and I had a chance to talk. He had thrown himself on his bed in our room, boots crossed at the ankle and hands behind his head.

  “It’s as plain as that crack on the ceiling, Tito. Vincenzo loves playing the country gentleman, but if it weren’t for Pia he would be content to return to Venice when all the other landowners leave their villas for the cold season.”

  “She does present a certain earthy charm,” I replied. I was at the table attempting to darn the toe of a stocking by flickering lamplight. Saying that Benito’s presence was sorely missed would be a gross understatement.

  Gussie rose up on one elbow. “A certain charm? Upon my word, is that all you can say? I find her nothing short of magnificent. I wonder if Vincenzo has bedded her. Would he dare…?” He sank back into the pillow and stared meditatively at the ceiling.

  “Dare Octavia’s wrath, you mean? I think he’s accustomed to that. What complaint could she make, after all, while she dangles Karl like a fish on her line for everyone to admire?”

  “Actually, it was Ernesto’s wrath I had in mind. I’ve been watching him. Though each crop demands a different set of skills and knowledge, he manages them all quite competently. He must also cope with the motley collection of workers attached to the estate. I talked to one poor fellow who sneezes whenever he gets near hay, whether in the field or stable. Ernesto has put him in charge of the olives. When there are no duties in the olive grove, he picks mushrooms in the forest. I could give you a hundred other examples. My point is that despite Vincenzo’s bumbling interference, Ernesto has this estate running like a piece of finely tuned clockwork. Quite proud of it all, is our Ernesto.”

  I nodded, stretching the stocking over my fingers to check my needlework. “Yet he is never impertinent,” I said. “Though he must be seething over the early grape harvest, he’s carrying out Vincenzo’s orders to the letter.”

  “So far Ernesto’s patience seems to outweigh his frustrations,” Gussie agreed, “but if the steward caught the master of the villa with his wife, I’d hate to witness the result.”

  “You believe Ernesto is capable of violence?”

  Gussie thought for a long moment. “Who knows? Let’s just hope we never have the occasion to find out.”

  I was thinking, too, remembering the evening Vincenzo had stolen into the villa while the others were playing blind man’s bluff. Had an assignation with Pia been the cause of his uncommonly jaunty mood? By the time Gussie and I had calculated the potential consequences of such a mismatched romance in all its ribald and tragic permutations, the clock in the corridor was striking eleven.

  “Where did the time go?” I exclaimed. “I still need to tell you about Grisella.”

  Gussie sat up and swung his legs down to the floor. I tossed my darning aside to perch on the opposite bed and recount all. In the main, my brother-in-law reacted to the idea of installing Grisella on the Campo dei Polli much better than I’d hoped. His first concern was any negative effect her presence might have on our houseful of youngsters. As a new father to Liya’s son, I’m ashamed to say that I hadn’t so much as considered that question. In the end, it was the possibility of raising Annetta’s spirits that carried the day.

  “All right.” Gussie made a rueful face. “I agree that Grisella has a rightful place in our home… as long as she behaves herself. Now tell me how you propose to handle Jean-Louis.”

 
“Honestly,” I answered, slapping my hands on my knees. “Grisella’s life in Turkey was fraught with falsehood and deception. If she’s to start a new life with us, she’ll have to agree to truth and plain speaking. We’ll begin by facing Jean-Louis together, with Grisella admitting that I’m her brother.”

  Gussie rubbed his jaw. With a frown, he said, “A noble plan, Tito, but I don’t know if it’s the best way to handle that canny Frenchman. Jean-Louis wouldn’t respect the truth if it jumped up and bit him in the nose.”

  “Well, what do you advise?” I countered.

  Instead of answering, Gussie tipped his head back to study the crack in the ceiling once again. I didn’t press my question, and we soon readied ourselves for sleep and extinguished the lamp.

  Thus passed the last day of relative calm at the Villa Dolfini. When we awoke early the next morning, the fire was dead and Ernesto had not yet made his rounds. To quell the darkness, Gussie opened our shutters himself. Swathed in quilted dressing gowns that barely kept the room’s chill at bay, we gazed out on a mist-shrouded landscape. Across the sloping fields, the trees I knew to be dressed in their red and gold finery were hulking gray shapes. All was still. The villa could have been a galleon sailing through a sea of fog, far from any civilized shore.

  Neither of us had slept well or long enough. We moved about our room with heavy-lidded eyes, barely speaking, seeing to small personal tasks while we waited for a footman to bring hot water. Five or ten minutes must have passed when we were startled to full wakefulness by a loud exclamation of surprise. We streaked into the corridor to find Alphonso, Vincenzo’s valet, planted open-mouthed before the long-case clock.

  The timepiece had again stopped ticking. The door to its case was ajar, and a quick glance told me the aperture was empty. Above, the brass hands pointed straight to heaven, a double-tipped arrow poised in flight.

  Midnight.

  Chapter Ten