3 - Cruel Music Read online

  So she remembered who I was. It must be one of her better days. I was eager to discover what else she might remember.

  “I was sorry to hear that Gemma is no longer with us,” I ventured. “I hope you’re not missing your maid too much.”

  She made a face. “That slyboots. She left without a word to me, you know. On our Tuscany estate, the servants understood that loyalty to the family came first. They did everything they could to oblige and protect us. These Romans follow their whims and do exactly as they please.”

  “Did Gemma have whims?”

  “More than whims. A lover! She thought I didn’t know, but the stupid girl was transparent as glass.” The marchesa cackled with glee. “I caught him once, coming away from the back stairway setting his breeches to rights. Gemma came up a moment later. You must know him—the young man who serves the Venetian ambassador—the one who looks like an angel in a Botticelli painting.”

  “Ah,” I murmured. “You are speaking of Abate Massimo Lenci.”

  “Is that his name?” She plucked at her straggling silver locks. “A beautiful boy, but a bit womanish and pale. He dresses far too well for an abate and looks like he runs from the sunshine. Not the rugged sort at all…” She trailed off with a dreamy smile.

  “I’m told that Abate Lenci enjoyed tending the grapevines on his father’s farm—before he was brought to Rome by his uncles, that is.”

  “Hm…” The marchesa was still lost in her thoughts but suddenly roused and shook her head. “With that pretty face, he could have any woman he wants, I should think. I wonder why he wastes his time on a dirty little thief.”

  My hands faltered on the keys. “A thief? Gemma?”

  “Stole my things she did. Took my chocolate pot and the cups that go with it. Took my silver brush and put a cheap one in its place.” The marchesa’s voice rose. “Thought I wouldn’t notice. Crazy—that’s what they call me, don’t they?” Her gaze suddenly darted to the corners of the salon and her fists clenched. “Don’t they? Don’t they?”

  “Who, My Lady? Who would say such a thing?” I patted her arm in a vain effort to calm her.

  “Everyone. Even the footman at the door taunts me.” She jumped up, poised for flight. “Even you. You think I’m crazy, too. I can see it in your face.”

  “No, no, My Lady. Not at all. I’m concerned for you. If things are missing, you must tell the cardinal. Your son will sort it all out.”

  “I have told him,” she wailed. “Lorenzo doesn’t believe me. He says I just forget where I put things. But Lorenzo doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. Gemma steals my things and hides them, then I have to steal them back and hide them from her.”

  “My Lady…” I started helplessly. But the marchesa had taken off. She ran headlong across the shiny floor, stumbling and weeping. Matilda threw her mending aside. With a surprising burst of speed, she intercepted the marchesa before the old woman covered half the distance to the door. I trotted toward the struggling pair, but before I could reach them, the marchesa surrendered with barely a whimper. Matilda warned me away with a shake of her head and a finger to her lips. Then she guided the marchesa toward the upper floors, promising a trayful of sweets and ices.

  I made quick use of my newfound freedom. It had been several days since my visit to the opera house, but I had been too disturbed to write Tucci’s letter of introduction or to finish my oft-interrupted missive to Gussie. I returned to my room and opened the secretary to sharpen a quill. Benito must have been attending to duties elsewhere in the great house, so I was blessed with peace and quiet for the first time in days.

  Tucci’s letter flowed easily from my pen, but Gussie’s presented a problem. I was accustomed to pouring out all my thoughts to my friend and brother-in-law, and I knew that he and Annetta must be hungering for news, but I didn’t fancy consigning a candid letter to the pouch on the mail coach bound for Venice. A letter brandishing my home address could easily fall into the hands of a Montorio minion. I shook my head, wondering if I was merely being cautious or if the marchesa’s unwarranted suspicions were rubbing off on me.

  While I was warming the wax to seal Tucci’s letter, a happy thought struck me. The singer planned to set out for Venice as soon as I furnished him with the introduction to my old musical director. He surely wouldn’t mind carrying an extra letter. After all, I was doing the man a generous favor. I took Gussie’s letter out of my writing case and launched into a detailed account of the misfortunes that had befallen me since my arrival in Rome. I indulged my errant speculations about all and sundry, then closed with a bracing note meant for Alessandro. I thought it unlikely that my brother would be allowed any messages, but if anyone could convince a guard to show some compassion and pass the note to Alessandro, it would be my sweet sister Annetta.

  I was sealing the second letter when Benito arrived with a basket full of freshly laundered shirts and underclothes.

  “Ah, just in time. Do you know the Piazza d’Espagna?” I asked my manservant. If I could evade Rossobelli’s sharp eyes, I might be able to get away long enough to visit Liya.

  Benito shook his head.

  I sighed, drumming the letters against my palm. “I want to stop by the theater, but there won’t be time to deliver these as well. The Piazza d’Espagna lies on the opposite side of the city from the Teatro Argentina.”

  “I’ll go, Master. I’ll ask someone the way. The Piazza d’Espagna shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  I had not seen Liya since her vision at the scaldino. She had sent two messages by a Trastevere urchin, each a scrap of paper bearing the single word Patience. That virtue was wearing thin. I was more anxious than ever to gain admission to the Palazzo Pompetti. I was also dying to hold Liya once again in my arms. The apostate Jewess was the one bright spot in the sorry travesty my life had become.

  Benito extended his palm. His eagerness was almost palpable. My manservant must have felt as caged as I did.

  “These go to Signor Tucci at Number 38. You must explain that he’s to deliver one to the Campo di Polli.” I handed the letters over. “Be careful,” I cautioned as the little man grabbed his cloak and disappeared through the door.

  I’d donned my jacket and was searching for my watch when I heard a soft scraping at my door, almost as if a dog was pawing to be let in. I crossed the room with light steps and halted with my hand on the doorknob. The knob moved slowly under my fingers, but it wasn’t my hand that supplied the power. I ground my teeth, full of anger. The person on the other side of the door must have seen Benito leave. Assuming that I must still be with the marchesa, he thought he could safely search my room. Of course it was a he. It was Rossobelli—fearful, earnest Rossobelli, absolutely convinced that I meant to ruin Di Noce’s chance to be the next pope and thus destroy his home city of Ancona for good.

  I pulled the knob with all my might. A black-clad abate stumbled over the threshold. He swung around to latch the door, then clapped a hand on my shoulder. I was staring into the wide blue eyes of Massimo Lenci.

  “Thank God, you’re still here,” he cried. “I just met Benito on the stairs. He told me you were going out. Zio Stefano is downstairs with Cardinal Fabiani. I have only a few minutes.”

  ***

  “Gemma’s gone. I made inquiries at the Palazzo Pompetti. She hasn’t been there for over a week.” Lenci’s boyish face had turned hard. He paced my small balcony. Three strides forward, turn, and three back. “Why did you bring me out here, anyway?”

  I jerked my chin toward my chamber. “In there, the walls have ears. Here, we’re in little danger of being overheard if you keep your voice down.”

  Nodding and modulating his tone, he said, “You told me she disappeared, and I thought you didn’t know what you were talking about. Now it seems you know more than I do.”

  “How did you get in the palazzo?”

 
“Walked up to the service door as bold as brass. I bought a box of powder from a wigmaker’s shop—French, the best there is. I announced that Gemma had ordered it and insisted that it be delivered only to her hands.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got an earful. Gemma hasn’t been to the palazzo since a week ago Friday. She was supposed to dress Lady Mary’s hair for the opera premiere the next evening, but she failed to keep the appointment. Lady Mary had every maid in the house lending a hand, but they say she still went out looking like a mare with a nosegay of flowers stuck in her mane.”

  A smile crept to my lips. “An apt description. I was there. Lady Mary and Prince Pompetti joined us in Cardinal Fabiani’s box.”

  “The prince was furious because all the attempts to coif his lady made them late.”

  I nodded. “Weren’t you afraid you’d be recognized at the palazzo? Surely some of Pompetti’s servants have seen you in the ambassador’s retinue. They would wonder why the nephew of Di Noce’s arch rival would appear at their master’s door with a box of hair powder.”

  “Don’t think me a fool, Signore. I played the part of a messenger—quite well, actually. I put on my oldest breeches and a jacket I used to wear to ride out to check the grapes. I even smeared some dirt on my stockings, tied my hair back with a piece of string, and wore a battered hat I’d dug out of the trash.” He shuddered and shrugged at the same time. “Besides, it was worth the risk.”

  “Worth the risk to find the whereabouts of a girl who only…what did you tell me? Serves your needs?”

  Lenci’s cheeks flushed brick red. “I wish I’d never said that,” he said miserably.

  I stared at the young abate, taking in the tight jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the leanness of his cheeks. Gemma’s disappearance seemed to have played on his deepest emotions. But there were still the scratches on his hands. Almost healed, barely visible now.

  “Your hands seem much improved,” I observed.

  Lenci glanced down, shaking his head impatiently. “That’s of no consequence.”

  “It could be.”

  “Why?”

  “In determining whether or not I’m going to trust you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I crossed my arms with a sigh. “You said you cut your hands on broken glass, but when Cardinal Montorio took me into his workroom, he denied that there had been any accident with the electrical jars.”

  Lenci rolled his eyes. “Zio Stefano thinks he’s the greatest natural philosopher since Galileo. He never admits to a mistake, and he won’t be gainsaid. If he tells you the sky is green, he expects you to agree. No matter what he told you, the truth is that I cut my hands on his shattered Leyden jars. He merely replaced them with fresh ones that he had on hand.”

  I stared at Lenci’s serious young face, then gazed at the roof of the pavilion over the garden’s bare branches. The cool breeze ruffled my hair and I pushed it back into place. Should I tell Lenci what befell his lover in the garden, or was he leading me down another blind alley in this maze of deception?

  “Why do my hands matter, anyway?”

  I remained silent, still unsure.

  “Signor Amato, you must tell me. I fear for Gemma. And I am not the only one. Her mother is beside herself with worry.”

  “Gemma has family in Rome?”

  He nodded. “Her mother is a widow who depends on her children’s wages. Gemma has several brothers who are in the pope’s army. Her sister works as a laundress at a foundling home. It actually took me several days to find the house—Gemma had only mentioned the general neighborhood. It’s a ramshackle place on the Tiber near the Hebrew ghetto, the smelliest, most pestilential place in Rome.”

  “I gather that Gemma’s mother hasn’t seen her, either.”

  “No. Gemma stops by every Sunday. She’s missed two Sundays, now, and the last was her mother’s name day—unheard of for Gemma to miss that.”

  “Has her family searched for her?” I asked, still hesitating.

  “Absolutely. The sister came here to the Villa Fabiani at the end of last week. She questioned the housekeeper, who turned her over to Rossobelli. He fed her some story about Gemma walking out without giving notice. He showed no concern for Gemma’s welfare—as much as called her a whore. Said he ‘thinks there might be a man involved—a bargeman from the river.’ Ha!” Lenci hit his fist into his palm. “He’s more than a sanctimonious clod. He’s an outright liar.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Are you so sure?”

  Lenci was silent for a moment. His pink tongue flicked around his lips. “You speak of trust, Signor Amato. I’m giving you mine by telling you that I’m absolutely certain Gemma never left here of her own free will. Gemma shared quarters with Teresa, the head house maid. They were friends…Gemma was supposed to keep me a secret, but…you know how women talk. Yesterday, when Zio Stefano dismissed me before he went in to Cardinal Fabiani, I saw my chance to seek Teresa out. I found her brushing the carpet in the second floor hallway. She didn’t want to talk at first, but when she saw I wouldn’t be put off, she told me about the night Gemma disappeared. Gemma didn’t pack her bags, Rossobelli did. He did his dirty work in the dark. Teresa pretended to be asleep, but she wasn’t. She watched from under the covers as he whisked Gemma’s things into a bag and crept out the door.”

  “Has she told anyone else of this?”

  “Not yet. Teresa rather fancies keeping her position, but I don’t think she’ll lie to a magistrate. Unemployment is far superior to prison.”

  “A magistrate?” Hearing my voice raise to a squeak, I cleared my throat and asked as calmly as I could, “How did a magistrate get involved?”

  “Since Gemma’s family received no satisfaction from Rossobelli, they called in a city magistrate. So far, he’s only checked the hospitals and ordered the constables to be on the alert for…for any bodies in the river or back alleys.” Lenci choked over those last words, then toughened his tone. “He’ll no doubt widen his investigation once I give him Teresa’s information. I wonder how Rossobelli will like being grilled by Mario Sertori? I’ve heard he’s a hard man, not nearly so impressed with churchmen as the rest of Rome.”

  I displayed what I judged to be an appropriate expression of surprise. Behind my carefully molded features, my mind was racing. Fabiani would protect his mother at all costs and direct his toady Rossobelli to do the same. I’d been in Rome long enough to learn that the city was under the direct regime of its own governor: a prelate, of course, ultimately answerable to the pope, but one who oversaw a cadre of laymen. In the way of petty officials everywhere, these constables, magistrates, and judges enjoyed pulling the noses of their social superiors whenever they were handed the opportunity. I asked myself, how would Fabiani respond if this Mario Sertori pressed the question of Gemma’s disappearance?

  A cold ball of fear took possession of my stomach and rapidly expanded to chill my entire being. Fabiani’s plan was suddenly crystal clear. I saw why I’d been called to carry Gemma’s body away. It was more than a simple exercise of power. Gemma was of little account in Fabiani’s book, a mere servant, and he hoped she would be quickly forgotten. But if her body did chance to surface or anyone showed up at the villa making troublesome inquiries, Cardinal Fabiani had groomed me as a custom-made scapegoat. By involving old Benelli, the cardinal had even guaranteed a witness to my criminal behavior.

  I heard Lenci’s voice through the drumming of the blood in my ears. “You’ve gone pale. Are you ill?” he asked, starting forward in concern.

  I made my decision in that instant. Like an understudy tapped to replace an ailing prima donna, the mystery of Gemma’s murder suddenly moved from the ranks of the chorus to centerstage. To protect my own neck, I had to discover the maid’s killer, and I knew I couldn’t do it alone.

  “Abate Lenci,”
I began. “I’m afraid I have some very bad…” I stopped when a persistent pounding on my door penetrated through my chamber to the balcony. “Wait, I must answer that,” I murmured. “Stay here, out of sight.”

  I sprinted across my sitting room. With each resounding knock, the door jumped in its frame. I jerked it open. Another abate greeted me—Rossobelli, his cheeks bright red with exertion.

  “Signor Amato,” he cried, panting. “You must come right away. Your man Benito’s been run down—badly hurt. They took him to the Consolazione.”

  Part Three

  “Pretexts are not wanting when one wishes to use them.”

  —Carlo Goldoni

  Chapter Fifteen

  The hospital of Santa Maria della Consolazione lay across the Tiber, at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. Abate Rossobelli had called for a carriage and insisted on climbing in after me.

  He perched on the front seat, facing me, canting his head this way and that: a gigantic, white-faced crow exuding an air of genteel concern. “You must allow me to accompany you. Cardinal Fabiani would think me remiss if I allowed you to make this difficult journey alone.”

  I nodded.

  Holding my gaze, he raised his fist and rapped on the roof for the driver to start on.

  Out in the streets, a bright sun beamed down on throngs of Romans going about their everyday business. Most of the faces that turned toward the carriage sporting the cardinal’s coat of arms mixed a flicker of curiosity with the tedium of oft-repeated activities. At that moment, I would have traded my vocal cords for the boredom of an ordinary day. My mind was in a tumult. Rossobelli explained that a boy had run from the Trastevere with the news that a servant from the Villa Fabiani had been run down by a drayman’s cart. The lad’s description left no doubt of Benito’s identity: finocchio, he’d called him, a poof. I peppered Rossobelli with questions about his injuries, but the abate couldn’t say. The boy had been more interested in collecting a few coins than furnishing details.