4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read online

  Nails ripped through wood, and a sickening miasma enveloped us. Dust to dust, the priests say, but this once lovely girl had yet to become one with the earth. Strands of rusty red hair surrounded a face that had melted into a nightmare mask of teeth, bone, and blackened hide. A shroud stained with the fluids of corruption covered what was left of the body. In truth, family, if it had been Grisella, I would never have recognized her.

  Yusuf Ali discovered the ring that told the tale. As he tried to wrest it from the little finger of the corpse’s left hand, that appendage snapped like a dry twig. He handed it to me. With bile rising in my throat, I removed the slim circle and held it to the lantern. The metal was dull and dark, but the design inscribed on it was still visible: two overlapping hearts.

  By the time I reached home, pink streaks shone in the eastern sky, and the crescent sails of fishing boats bobbed atop the waters of the Golden Horn. I thought I might never sleep again, certain I would see Danika’s grotesque skull whenever I closed my eyes, but I was wrong. I had barely told Zuhal all that had occurred when I sank into dreamless oblivion with my head in her lap. That night, refreshed in body and spirit, I set out for Pera. Without Calamaro.

  Yanus raised his eyebrows when he found me sitting on his anteroom divan, but his surprise didn’t cripple his bargaining skills. To gain admittance to Sefa’s chamber, I had to give nearly twice what I’d paid before. The woman jumped up from her bed the minute I’d shut the door behind me.

  “What are you doing here?” Trembling with anger, Sefa threw a shawl over her gauzy nightshift and faced me squarely. Her voice rose to a shriek. “You’re supposed to be on your way to Wallachia.”

  Promising news, I insisted that she quiet down. As she scanned my solemn features, her anger quickly turned to fright. She seemed to steel herself for the worst.

  I began by placing the ring in her hand. By the time I had finished recounting our foray to the cemetery, Sefa had stumbled backward to the bed and covered her face with her hands. Sobbing mightily, she asked me questions I couldn’t answer. How was Danika killed? Had she suffered?

  I will never understand women. I wanted to help, I truly did. I tried to comfort Sefa with words, then produced a handkerchief and started to wipe her cheeks. She twisted angrily away. “Get out,” she cried. “Just go. I need to be alone.” In case I didn’t fully understand, she grabbed a candlestick from the bedside table and threw it at my head.

  I hopped backward, dodging. “I can’t go,” I said firmly. “I’ve kept my part of our bargain, and you owe me some information. I won’t leave until I have it.”

  Sefa pushed herself up on one hand. Her dark hair streamed over her shoulders, making a frame for the pale face harshened by grief. She answered in a guttural whisper. “Not now, damn you. Some other time.”

  I’m not proud of my next words, but the prospect of returning to The Red Tulip turned my stomach. “I’ve paid for your time, and dearly, too. Do you want me to call Yanus and demand he return my money? Tell him you’re less than satisfactory?”

  Sefa wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. She hissed like a cornered cat, then lay back and pulled the bedclothes over her head. I slowly counted to twenty, then clicked the door open and called for a servant. In low tones, I told the boy what I wanted.

  A whisper escaped the satin quilt. “You bastard. Yanus will beat me until I can’t stand.”

  I crossed the floor and jerked her cover off. “I ordered wine, but if you don’t start talking, Yanus will be next.”

  Sefa called me every vile name the Turkish language contains, adding a few Arabic and Italian for good measure. She was starting on her stock of Greek curses when the wine arrived. Red-eyed and resentful, Sefa clutched her glass and drained it dry before she would consent to talk sensibly. Even then, the facts of the matter were liberally mixed with outbursts of grief-distraught anger. I will endeavor to summarize.

  On her knees in the passage beside Yanus’ office, ear glued to the wall, Sefa had listened in on a conversation. She had risked sneaking away from her work because she had observed Yanus ushering in “a very tall Russian gentleman of military bearing.” Apparently, it was Yanus’ bowing and scraping that had aroused her curiosity. Sefa couldn’t remember when her owner and tormentor had bent his knee to anyone.

  Yanus addressed the Russian only as Your Illustrious Highness. Over and over, the brothel owner begged his pardon for the necessity of arranging the meeting in such squalid conditions and apologized for being part of such an appalling business. For his part, the Russian replied in frosty tones and refused offers of food or drink as if Yanus were offering him the dog’s dinner. The Russian soon wearied of Yanus’ fawning and declared that he would depart if Chevrier was not brought to him immediately. This was followed by scurrying steps and a door opening and closing.

  That part of the conversation was conducted in Turkish, but once Yanus had delivered Chevrier and departed, French became the order of the day. Sefa had only a smattering of that language, but she understood the most important point: Chevrier had come by the property of some very exalted person named Anna and was holding it for ransom. The Russian gentleman was furious, but willing to pay handsomely for its return.

  Sefa believed that Grisella must have stolen a casket of fabulous jewels from this Anna and was using Chevrier as her middleman. I was beginning to form another idea.

  I asked if anyone had uttered a word about gems or jewelry.

  She admitted not.

  Then I exhorted the unhappy woman to think back to anything that might help me piece the puzzle together.

  Sefa’s swollen eyelids drooped. She drove her fingers along her scalp and pulled at her hair. “I’ve told you everything. Something was handed over. Money was exchanged. I don’t know what it was for.”

  “Did they mention a sum?”

  “No. I heard clinking sounds, like coins pouring out on a hard surface and being gathered up again. Chevrier said, ‘We have a bargain.’ That’s when I slipped away. I’d been in the passage far too long.”

  “Did you see the Russian leave?” I asked.

  “Yes,” She replied with a drawn out sigh. “I was pretending to sweep the stairs. The gentleman couldn’t wait to get out of here. Yanus tried more flattering words, but he pushed him aside, grabbed his cloak and hat from the doorkeeper, and marched out without a backward glance.”

  “Was the Russian carrying anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “A box or a bag.”

  “Oh.” Sefa squeezed her eyes shut. “No. Whatever Chevrier sold him must have fit in a pocket.”

  There was nothing else to be learned at The Red Tulip. I left Sefa to her grief, disappearing as fast as the Russian gentleman.

  You have probably come to the same conclusion that I have, family. “This Anna” is undoubtedly Anna Ivanova, Empress of All the Russias, and the Russian gentleman is her consul in Constantinople. Grisella’s association with Count Paninovich must have embroiled her in some very nasty business indeed.

  Constantinople is not known as “city of the world’s desire” for nothing. Sitting on a crucial waterway that links the Mediterranean to the Black Sea, it controls all trade from that quarter. If the city were in Russian hands, they would gain southern access and be free to sail from ports that aren’t frozen with ice six months of the year. A very attractive prospect.

  Though Russian traders and envoys are tolerated here, no one in the Sultan’s court ever forgets Russia’s continuing designs on the Bosphorus. Military skirmishes have broken out on the Russo-Turkish border several times in the last few years, and I predict that out-and-out war looms in our future. I shudder to think what intrigue Count Paninovich had embarked on. I would really rather not know. It’s safer that way.

  And so I must tell you, I have no intention of investigating this matter further. In my
efforts to find our sister, I have neglected our business at the warehouse most shamefully. My father-in-law would never complain, but my absence has put a burden on him. That must stop. Grisella has again taken up with the blackest of rogues, and I will no longer make excuses for her. Tito or Gussie, if you want to comb Europe for Grisella and her Frenchman, more power to you, but I am finished!

  Forgive my bitterness, family. It stems from disappointment. Though Allah forgives those who repent, I never knew our little sister to repent of anything.

  Please write. I hope for a letter on every mail coach, and I embrace you all in my heart.

  Ever your loving,

  Alessandro (or Iskender, if you would care to know the Muslim name that Zuhal has bestowed on me)

  The image of Danika’s corpse lingered in my mind for some minutes, even after I had crossed to the wash basin and splashed bracingly cold water on my cheeks. I tried to will the horror away by rereading the last part of the letter and pondering what Jean-Louis could have sold to the Russian consul. When Gussie burst into our room, he found me deep in thought.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Tito,” my brother-in-law cried, “you’re wanted. You must come down to the salon at once!”

  I slowly raised my head from the letter. “Karl will have to simmer for a bit, Gussie. Alessandro has written again, and I’m not budging an inch until you’ve read this.”

  “No, it’s not Karl who wants you. Everyone in the house has been summoned.” He continued in breathless tones, “The constable Captain Forti has arrived, and he’s belching fire and brimstone.”

  Not surprising—a drenching rain was hardly favorable weather for hunting boar. Still, I had begun to think the high constable would never make an appearance. The rigors of rehearsal, the company drawing together in the face of violence, and the pressure to keep my own family secrets had all combined to make the Villa Dolfini seem as isolated as an Alpine fortress. But now that Captain Forti had breached our defenses, Gussie and I needed to reach a decision.

  Heaving a sigh, I deposited Alessandro’s neatly written pages on the table. I weighed them down with the unlit lamp, then tilted my gaze toward my brother-in-law. “What do you think? Do we tell Captain Forti what we’ve found?”

  Grim and white-faced, Gussie replied, “He doesn’t appear to be a man we’d like to cross. I’m for giving him the bullet and the nightshift and washing our hands of the whole matter.”

  He continued in that vein all the way downstairs. I’d seldom known Gussie’s customary good humor to be so thoroughly dampened.

  In the salon, we found the opera company, Jean-Louis, Octavia, Vincenzo, and the entire household staff already assembled. Ernesto also stood in attendance, occupying an awkward space between the servants lined up against the wall and the villa’s higher ranking residents, who were seated in closer proximity to the constable’s formidable gaze.

  Captain Forti was a little under six feet in height, with a florid complexion and a gray campaign wig that stood up like a bristle brush on top. His dark eyes were close-set and sharp, and his thin lips stretched over a bulging set of artificial teeth. Like many old soldiers, he walked with a slight limp. The constable’s entire person contrived to give the impression of a man who is bothered by his teeth, short on tolerance at the best of times, and a whisker away from dressing down anyone who had the temerity to get in his way.

  Gussie and I tucked ourselves behind Vincenzo’s wing chair as Captain Forti rapped out a steady stream of commentary in front of the crackling fire. Evidence of dried mud on his boots and brown cord breeches made me think he had not even stopped to change his clothing before hastening to the villa. Indeed, as his summary of our tragic events unfolded, we learned that Captain Forti had been on the estate for several hours and had lost no time initiating his investigation.

  The ice house had been his first stop, and of course this battlefield veteran had recognized a gunshot wound to the head of the murdered stranger. This fit very well with information he’d wrested from a tenant who lived beyond the vineyard. He’d been outside seeing to a sick donkey and recalled hearing a loud shot and seeing a flash of powder sometime before midnight on that fatal night.

  “I’m surprised he hadn’t mentioned it before.” The Captain swept his gaze over the assembled company, baring his outsize teeth in a grimace.

  “We get a lot of rabbit poachers in the woods this time of year,” Ernesto replied, “so a stray gunshot wouldn’t be likely to cause comment. Especially as no one knew the stranger had been shot.”

  Captain Forti gave a brisk nod. “It’s the disappearance of the bullet that should have lain within the victim’s deteriorating skull that I find of paramount interest. Lead doesn’t dissolve into thin air. Someone interfered with the corpse and I want to know who and why.”

  Gussie sent me an anxious look. I nodded quickly.

  “Captain,” Gussie announced as he fished the little ball of lead from his waistcoat pocket, “I have the bullet here.”

  Vincenzo sprang from his chair with a gasp of astonishment.

  Captain Forti crossed the rug to stand beside him. “Who are you?” he asked curtly.

  “Augustus Rumbolt, Captain, at your service.”

  “You’re English.” The constable’s bristly eyebrows arched in surprise. “You can’t be a singer. Everyone knows the English can’t sing. What are you doing here at the villa?”

  “Signor Rumbolt is an artist of great repute,” answered Vincenzo. “I’ve hired him to paint scenes of my estate.”

  “Then how did you come by this?” Captain Forti demanded as he snatched the bullet from my brother-in-law’s open palm. Tact was required. Fortunately, Gussie possessed that virtue in abundance. Introducing me and making our visit to the ice house seem the most natural activity in the world, he related how we had come upon our discovery and carefully put it aside until the proper authorities arrived to take charge of it.

  Over the chair that separated us, Captain Forti eyed us with cold disdain. “I hope you two don’t consider yourselves more capable of solving these crimes than the Doge’s appointed representative.”

  “Certainly not!” Gussie wore an expression of abject innocence.

  “Because there’s no one who can hunt down a criminal faster than I can. See here—” With a confident nod, the constable dug in a capacious pocket and removed the stranger’s pistol. “Signor Dolfini has furnished this clue that’s been sitting on the shelf in his study, completely unnoticed.”

  Vincenzo cringed as Forti waved the pistol about.

  “I instantly identified it to be of Russian make,” the constable continued, “and I’m certain that the identity of the first victim can’t be far behind. That’s where experience gets you.”

  “Of course.” I bowed my head in what I hoped he would interpret as shame. “You must excuse our clumsy efforts, Captain. We were merely trying to be of assistance.”

  Captain Forti rocked back on his heels. “Is there any other way you upstart bloodhounds have tried to be of assistance.”

  “Well, I did find one small thing…” Gussie said, shuffling his feet uneasily. While he fidgeted, I noticed Jean-Louis casually drape an arm over Grisella’s shoulder. It had begun to twitch, and her mouth was drawing to one side.

  “Out with it, man,” commanded Captain Forti.

  “I have one of Carmela Costa’s nightshifts—”

  “You dog! You were with my Carmela?” That was Romeo, struggling to lift his bulk from the low couch. He sank back down as Emilio jerked on the back of his jacket.

  “No!” said Gussie. “I simply came across it. I was tearing off paint rags without even knowing what it was. It was Tito who recognized the shift. I’m afraid it shows some signs of… a struggle.”

  Puzzled looks flew around the salon. Jean-Louis hugged Gr
isella more tightly.

  “Where is this garment?” asked the constable.

  “In the barchessa, where I found it.”

  “Then that is where we will continue.” Captain Forti’s teeth clicked decisively. “Signor Dolfini, conduct us, if you please.”

  Vincenzo stood tall and smoothed out his waistcoat as if grateful for any small task that acknowledged him as master of the villa. He offered his arm to Octavia, but she ignored him and took Karl’s instead. Under Captain Forti’s inquisitive gaze, our embarrassed host moved out of the salon and started down the corridor. The musicians followed, crowding through the entryway, then the steward and a clot of curious servants.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Gussie whispered, clearly anxious to join the rush.

  I returned his whisper. “You go on and keep your eyes open. I’ll be there in a moment.” I nodded my chin toward Grisella and Jean-Louis, who were tarrying in the salon.

  The Frenchman approached Captain Forti. “My wife is not well. All this excitement has given her a terrible headache. I beg your leave for her to withdraw to our room.”

  The constable eyed Grisella narrowly. With drooping shoulders, my sister raised a pale hand to her brow and parted her lips with a sigh. It was a classic operatic gesture; she struck just such a pose at the end of one of Asteria’s more pathetic arias. But Captain Forti was clearly impressed.

  “You may take your ease, Signora,” he said with a curt nod.

  “Merci, Capitaine,” Grisella responded in a wan whisper, with a flutter of her eyelashes.

  Jean-Louis gave her a gentle push in the direction of the staircase and then stepped toward the straggling line of servants headed toward the barchessa.

  “You’re not going up to tend to your wife?” an obviously surprised Captain Forti asked. “You have my permission.”

  Jean-Louis halted, and for once the Frenchman’s characteristic sang-froid deserted him. His looked everywhere except at the constable. “Ah, no… Madame Fouquet will be fine once she lies down… it wouldn’t be fair to the others if I stayed behind.” Without waiting for a reply, he ducked his head and hurried to fall in behind the rest of the party.