4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read online

  He raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Surely you are not going to retire and deprive Venice of your fine talent.”

  “Not at all. At least, not yet. I merely want a place where I can retreat from the hubbub of the city and rest my voice for a few weeks at a time.”

  “I see,” he replied. “I imagine the adulation of the crowds must turn onerous at times.”

  “It is a bit tiresome to be on constant view. In the country I’ll be able to refresh myself in peace and tranquility.”

  “I’m afraid to say that the vicinity of Molina Mori has not been exactly tranquil of late.”

  “No, of course not.” I kept my tone regretful but light. “But surely the tragedies at the Villa Dolfini are an aberration. This is such a beautiful place, far from the madness of the city. It’s hard to believe that murder has intruded on this paradise.”

  “Now you’re beginning to sound as wholeheartedly romantic as Vincenzo Dolfini.”

  “Am I?” My smile was innocent.

  Luvisi invited me to take a seat by the fire, summoned the footman, and ordered coffee. A perfect choice. In this very masculine room hung with paintings of dogs and horses and smelling of tobacco, we could settle in over our warm cups like men who had known each other for years.

  Once the footman had served us and withdrawn, the talk again turned to available estates. “I can think of nothing up for sale at present,” Luvisi said. “Most families around here tend to hang onto their land.”

  “A pity. I thought that since Signor Dolfini had only recently acquired his property…” I took a sip of the pungent brew and let my words hang in the air, hoping Luvisi would feel compelled to elaborate. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “The sale of the neighboring estate was a singular occurrence. Perhaps you’ve heard that my cousin Annibale once owned it, before his wife died.”

  “Nita told me something of the sort.”

  “What Nita didn’t tell you—because I kept the matter between myself and Vincenzo Dolfini—” My host set his cup and saucer back on the tray with a delicate rattle. “Is that I’ve made the man several offers for it.”

  “When?”

  “The first was late last winter, before he had even taken residence. I appealed to his sense of justice. When my cousin lost the estate at the Ridotto, he was wild with grief and despair. If he had been himself, he would never have let the estate leave family hands. Given that a greedy foreigner won the lot, Annibale should have contacted me, confessed what he’d done in good time for me to buy it back. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Events moved quickly and Dolfini became the owner. When the news reached me, I immediately offered Dolfini more than he had paid—the man deserved something for his trouble, after all.”

  “He refused you?”

  Luvisi nodded, leaning forward. His lion’s mane of hair was gathered back by a thin black ribbon, but enough light strands escaped to make a halo of silvered gold around his head. “Vincenzo Dolfini’s concept of justice differs considerably from mine. Dolfini only understands the ruthless give and take of the marketplace, not the fair play of gentlemen.”

  “You must have been very disappointed, a blood relation cut off from land that by ancient tradition should be yours.”

  “Disappointed?” He gazed at me for a moment, head tilted. “Deeply wounded best describes my reaction. Annibale’s former land curls within mine like a walnut in its shell. Now that nut has been crushed.” He sat back to stare at the fire with his hands tented under his chin. If I wasn’t mistaken, his eyes grew moist.

  I bent to my coffee, suddenly uncomfortable with the emotions my questions were arousing. But then I reminded myself that I had come to gather information, not cultivate a friendship. I asked, “What was your next move?”

  “I waited,” he replied simply. A wan smile returned to his face as he topped off his coffee with a stream of warmer brew from the pot. “Will you join me?”

  I held out my cup, all ears.

  “Yes…” he continued. “I waited and watched. As I rode my fields, I watched wagons piled with the Dolfini household goods trundle down the road toward their new villa. They had brought a shocking load for a summer’s stay—it must have required an entire fleet of barges to row it across the lagoon.

  “And then I caught sight of Octavia Dolfini riding in an open carriage beside her husband. An unfortunate footman was risking his footing to cover her with an immense sunshade. The signora was corseted and painted in the latest French fashion, as proud as the Queen of Sheba, with a face like the hitching end of my old mule.” He laughed, loudly and good-naturedly. “I’d already determined that Dolfini knew nothing about farming. He’ll be ready to sell in a month, I thought.”

  “You approached him again?” I prompted.

  He nodded slowly. “I sweetened my offer considerably, but I hadn’t counted on Dolfini’s resolve, and I’d neglected to consider the steward.”

  “Ernesto?”

  “Ernesto.” Luvisi nodded again. “On his own, he had already seen to the early spring planting, and once Dolfini arrived with his eager, featherbrained plans, Ernesto showed himself to be a master of diplomacy. Truly, the man has missed his calling. He should be carrying out missions of the greatest delicacy for the Doge’s court. Somehow he managed to finish the planting, prune the grapes, and keep the entire farm on an even keel while convincing Dolfini that he was doing just as he’d directed. Of course Dolfini didn’t want to sell. Everything was going swimmingly.”

  “Are you going to try again?”

  “No.” Luvisi shook his head emphatically. “I told Dolfini that my last offer was just that. If he turned me down, I would consider him a cad and a blackguard, but I would never again seek to rejoin the Luvisi estates. I now consider my legacy his to manage as best he can.”

  I sipped at my coffee, then began diffidently, “I just thought… Signor Dolfini might be feeling beleaguered… with two murders in the past week and no arrest of the killer in sight. The villa is practically in chaos. Everyone is so nervous, the bare footfall of a maid in the corridor causes shudders and squeals.”

  Luvisi was following me with absorption, but he merely said, “Dolfini seems convinced that he can handle the matter. For the sake of everyone on the estate, I wish him good luck.”

  “I must say, you seem quite reconciled to the division of the Luvisi holdings. Is there no trace of a lingering grudge?”

  He shifted in his chair and sent me a peculiar smile. “An ill will creates good for no man, especially its bearer.”

  When I didn’t answer at once, his smile grew wider and he said, “I’d heard you fancied yourself adept at solving mysteries. What are you going to ask me about next? My whereabouts on the nights of the murders?”

  I forced myself to chuckle. “You caught me out, Signore. Once I’d heard the story of how Vincenzo Dolfini bought his estate, I couldn’t help wondering if there was bad blood or if you might feel justified in causing trouble for him. So if you wouldn’t mind… just to indulge my love for puzzles… where were you?”

  I was relieved when Luvisi began to chuckle, as well.

  “You’ll have to look elsewhere for your murderer, Signor Amato. When both the stranger and the singer were killed, I was in bed with my good wife. If she hadn’t gone into Molina Mori, she would tell you so herself.”

  It seemed a good time to take my leave; Signor Luvisi had suffered my impertinent questions with a generous forbearance that could only be stretched so far. Before the footman showed me out, I posed just one more. “Do you know of any household in the district that has guests from far away?” I went on to describe the woman I’d seen peering through the Dolfini gates.

  “I know who you must be speaking of. I haven’t seen the lady, but my wife has. A dull little bird putting up at the Post house with her two little ones. She claims to
be awaiting her husband, a soldier who is leaving his regiment and is to meet her shortly, but it’s most unusual.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, a woman alone, waiting for a husband who never seems to come. She watches from the window in her room nearly all day, they say. And according to the old cats who make such things their business, the poor woman hasn’t had so much as a letter from him. Seems a pity, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  As I left the Villa Luvisi, I stepped off the circular drive and peeped in the windows of the barchessa that corresponded to the one where Gussie’s studio had been set up. Instead of an easel and paint brushes, I saw a brown and white bull with horns that must have been a full yard wide. He was pulling wisps of hay from a rack just like the one where Gussie had found Carmela’s nightshift.

  Deep in thought, I continued toward the open gate. The sun had made a third-act appearance and was casting long shadows over the lawn. I could feel its warmth soaking through the cloak on my back. Once I’d reached the public road, I paused and cast an appraising glance in the direction of the village. For reasons I had yet to fully consider, I was interested in finding out more about the soldier’s drab wife. But the walk into Molina Mori and back to the Villa Dolfini would throw me past my time. I had promised Karl I would return to rehearsal by five at the latest. With a sigh, I headed east.

  I’d trudged a dutiful quarter mile or so when a farm wagon drew up alongside. Santini gazed at me from the driver’s seat, slack-jawed and devoid of curiosity. Manuel and Zuzu rode on the bed of the wagon with some provision sacks.

  “Signor Amato,” the boy cried. “We’ll give you a ride.”

  I hopped on the back. Manuel appeared head over heels with delight at having one of the players who had invaded the villa all to himself. As the wagon jolted along, he plied me with questions about my operatic travels. We made ourselves comfortable against some sacks of rice, and with Zuzu’s head on my knee, I told Manuel about London and Madrid and the other great cities I had visited.

  Santini didn’t seem to be listening. He handled the reins in silence, never taking his eyes off the road. I sensed no dissatisfaction or resentment in the man, rather a void in the place where most people displayed their feelings. “Does he ever speak?” I asked Manuel, lowering my voice and jerking my head toward the front of the wagon.

  “Once in a while, when he gets excited,” Manuel replied, also in low tones. “There was an accident a few years ago, you see. When I was still young.”

  I suppressed a smile. If this boy no longer considered himself young, my twenty-eight years must seem positively ancient.

  Manuel continued, “A horse trod on Santini’s head. He lay as still as death for a good week or more. Finally he came to, but he’s never been the same. He’s strong in body, but his senses are still weak. Papa watches out for him, and if Papa is busy, he asks me or Basilio to take charge. Mostly me, even though Basilio is older. Papa says my head is tacked on straighter than Basilio’s.”

  “Is your brother forgetful?”

  “No…” The boy drew out the word, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. “Hotheaded, more like. It’s just that you never know what Basilio is going to do.”

  “Ah, I see, he gets in trouble.”

  Manuel nodded vigorously. “He gets us both in trouble. He acts before he thinks, while I like to think things through.”

  As I smiled at Manuel’s unassuming assessment, the boy surprised me by drawing a square of folded cream-colored paper out of his woolen waistcoat. “Before I forget, we stopped at the Post. This letter is addressed to you.”

  I immediately saw that Benito had forwarded another missive from Alessandro. My pulse quickened. Why was my brother writing again so soon? He had closed yesterday’s letter with the intention of boarding a ship for Varna. With the unexpected missive burning like a hot coal in my pocket, I endured the rest of the ride to the villa, then another extended rehearsal.

  Karl was in a particularly dark mood. He dismissed the others and drilled me through all six of my solo arias. Try as I might, I didn’t seem to be able to produce the precise effects he intended. The more I taxed my throat, the more zealous his corrections. Threatening to recall me if he thought of anything further, he finally ended my torture and I was able to escape to my room. Gussie had not returned from his painting, but I could wait no longer. I tore into the letter.

  Constantinople, 5th September 1740

  My dear family,

  Have I told you what a clever, sweet wife I have? Behind Zuhal’s beautiful black eyes lies a brain that sometimes astonishes even me. She sends her greetings, by the way. Especially to you, Annetta. We have both been worrying over your condition, so much so that Zuhal consulted a wise woman well-known in our district. From her, she obtained the recipe for a cordial said to raise the spirits of women laid low by childbirth. I copied it into Italian and will enclose it in these pages. We pray it brings the roses back to your cheeks.

  And what besides recipes, you may ask, makes Zuhal such a prize among women? Simply that she has saved me no end of time and trouble. The day after my visit to The Red Tulip, she was helping me pack my case for a departure on the morning tide. Cursing the bargain I’d made with Sefa, I had arranged passage on a sloop bearing grain to the Balkans. So you can see how my wife proposed her splendid plan, I will recount the scene in its entirety.

  Zuhal began by observing that I had not told Sefa about the Frankish man who appeared at the yali to collect the body of the other red-haired woman. “Did you think that Danika’s lover couldn’t bear the truth?” she asked, handing me a woolen scarf to wear onboard ship.

  I confess I was nonplused for a moment, surprised that Zuhal knew of such relationships between women. When will I learn? Though they watch the world from behind the veil, these Turkish women know everything.

  “I didn’t think that Sefa would believe me,” I answered. “She has little reason to trust the word of any man. She demands tangible proof.”

  “The silver ring.”

  “Either the ring or the name of Danika’s brother.”

  “Surely it is not an expensive piece—this ring. Not worth stealing, I mean.”

  “No, Yanus would never have allowed either of the women to keep anything of value. The ring is merely a trinket, probably more lead than silver. Sefa told me she’d scratched a crude drawing of entwined hearts into its soft metal.”

  “Then…” Zuhal bent to unpack my case.

  “Wait! What are you doing, woman?” I was annoyed, you see, in no mood for delay.

  She straightened, smiling. “We both know where the ring must be, husband. Retrieve it and save yourself a journey into the wilds of the mountains.”

  I stood astounded. Could my wife possibly mean what I thought? The ring likely encircled the finger of a rotting corpse sealed within the coffin beneath Grisella’s grave marker. Did Zuhal mean for me to dig it up?

  “Why not?” she said. “All manner of grief could overtake you on this journey. The ship could encounter foul weather or pirates, and once you’ve reached Varna, you still have to cross mountains and forests filled with runaway peasants who would kill a man for a pair of boots, much less a good horse.”

  “I’m not afraid. Before I met you, I traveled through worse places and lived to tell the tale.”

  Zuhal came to my side and pressed her head onto my shoulder. “I know how brave you are, but I would die of worry if you took off to the Balkans by yourself. I suffer badly enough when you sail to Venice in a convoy protected by a military fleet.” She underscored her words with a fervent caress.

  The rest of the evening would be of no interest to you. Let me just say that I eventually came to see the wisdom in Zuhal’s plan. Though the idea of opening the grave was distasteful, the sooner I delivered proof of Danika’s fate to Sefa, the sooner I w
ould know what devilment Grisella and Chevrier had been up to. Happily, I had only one day to wait until the dark of the moon. Plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements.

  Christians have been buried in the cemetery behind the church of St. Anthony since the days of Byzantine rule, protected by an iron fence and a hedge of interlocking evergreens. It is fortunate that the Greek churches follow the practice of the Roman in leaving the transept open so their faithful can offer up prayers at any time they feel the need. Abusing their generosity made me feel like a scoundrel, but as our Aunt Carlotta used to say, “Needs do as needs must.”

  So, one hour past midnight, stealing myself to the shame of idolatry and reciting the most beautiful names of Allah in my head, I entered a side chapel and made a show of kissing St. Anthony’s feet. I lit a candle and fell to my knees, straining my ears for the step of a priest or sacristan. I needn’t have bothered. The church was deserted and utterly quiet. After a few minutes I made my way through a back door, crossed to the cemetery gate, and undid the bolt. Yusuf Ali and several loyal workers from our warehouse awaited me, all clad in black robes.

  The rest was a vile business. I had provided our party with sharp spades, but the ground was hard from the dry summer and the sexton had buried the coffin deep. Taking turns, the workers and I dug for what seemed like hours. Yusuf Ali kept watch in a sliver of light emitted by a lantern with a sliding shade. Just when I was coming to the conclusion that the grave must be empty after all, my spade clunked on wood.

  At my muffled cackle of success, my father-in-law jumped down into the pit and opened the lantern’s shade to its fullest. He helped me scrape dirt from the coffin lid and then produced a hammer and chisel from beneath his robes. After working the blade beneath the lid, Yusuf Ali paused to question me with his loving gaze. “My son,” he asked, “are you prepared for whatever we may find?”

  Covering my nose with the sleeve of my jacket, I urged him to proceed.