3 - Cruel Music Read online

  I returned to the pavilion as quickly as I could. The cardinal had vanished. Rossobelli was pacing nervously. The abate must have returned to the villa while I’d been off waking Benelli, for he now wore a short, hooded cloak. He ran to me and clapped my cheeks between cold, damp palms. “Thank God,” he squeaked. “Is it all arranged?”

  I nodded.

  He opened his watch, then closed it with a decisive click. Gemma’s body stretched full-length on the floor, cocooned in her cloak like the larva of a giant moth. “Grab her head,” ordered Rossobelli. “I’ll take the feet.”

  “Must we?” I swallowed hard. “I mean, isn’t this going to make things even worse? Surely a magistrate could see that the marchesa is not in her right mind. She wouldn’t be hauled before the criminal court. She could be secured somewhere…a comfortable place where she can’t hurt anyone else.”

  The abate simply rolled his eyes and tapped his watch with a meaningful frown.

  The girl made a light burden. Even so, it was a job getting her down the hidden stairway and through the portion of the aqueduct that descended to the Tiber. As we picked our way along, I asked, “How did you happen to discover her?”

  Rossobelli shifted his hold on the lantern, throwing a harlequin pattern of light and shadow over the damp walls. “I was making my midnight rounds, checking to see that all the doors were locked and all the servants where they should be.”

  “I would expect the housekeeper to perform that chore.”

  “Signora Battista is a lazy cow, in bed by ten almost every night. While she snores the evening away, footmen gamble at cards, maids sneak out to meet lovers, and the bootboy makes himself sick trying to learn to smoke a pipe.”

  “You check the pavilion every night?”

  “No. I look out for Cardinal Fabiani’s interests as best I can, but even I cannot do everything. I secure the house and leave the gardener to see to the grounds.”

  “And the stables?”

  “They are beyond the stand of trees on the other side of the villa from the garden. Well away from the house, thank heaven.”

  “Then—oof.” I stumbled over a rough juncture. Falling to my knees, I struggled to keep the maid’s head from hitting the hard floor.

  Rossobelli seemed glad of the short respite. He was breathing hard and continued his story in ragged gasps. “I went out to the pavilion…because the footman on duty at the front door said that Marchesa Fabiani had been tearing through the hall, mumbling about going to the garden for an ice…when I found a back door standing open…I knew it would be easier for me to retrieve the marchesa myself rather than track down Matilda.”

  Having secured my hold on our burden, I rose shakily. “Did you meet anyone on the way out to the garden?”

  “No.”

  “Hear anything, see anything?”

  “Such as?”

  “Footsteps, someone running away.”

  “Of course not. I’m sure Marchesa Fabiani was in the larder by then. By the time I found her, she’d spilled flour all over the tiles and had eaten her way through an entire cold pie. She must have run away and found her hiding place as soon as she saw what she’d done.”

  “Matilda was supposed to be watching the marchesa?”

  “That is true. His Eminence had given Gemma the night off.”

  “When did she leave the villa?”

  “Not long after the conversazioni—after I assured myself that the marchesa was settled in her room with Matilda.”

  “Where was Gemma going?”

  “How would I know? It’s not my business to keep track of the servants when they’re out of the villa.”

  “But she was on the grounds, in the pavilion. At least she was when she was killed. What do you suppose Gemma was doing there?”

  Rossobelli heaved a deep sigh and suddenly became very busy rearranging his hold on Gemma and the lantern. As he resumed his reverse march through the tunnel, his feet seemed to slip and he threw out a hand to break his fall.

  After more grunting and fumbling, I repeated the question.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he finally replied, shrugging under Gemma’s weight. “Why don’t you ask your friend Abate Lenci?”

  Before I could speak again, Rossobelli bade me shut my mouth so he could mind his footing. Thus, we pushed on toward the Tiber in silence, soon emerging to fight our way through a thicket of bushes and brush that lined the riverside. Once on the bank, we set Gemma down, then straightened to rub our arms and stretch our backs.

  A full moon hovered over the dark bulk of the Janiculum, casting a net of silver threads on the waters of the Tiber. Straining my eyes, I saw Benelli and his rowboat standing out as a dark form bobbing in the channel. Rossobelli pulled his hood forward, raised the lantern, and moved it back and forth.

  “This is as far as I go.” Rossobelli’s whisper was tentative, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying.

  “What? I can’t manage alone.”

  “You won’t be alone,” he answered with more determination. “Benelli is old, but the girl is tiny. He will help you get her into the boat and row you out to the river’s deepest pool.” Turning swiftly, Rossobelli blended back into the shadows before I could voice further protests.

  I hardly like to recall the rest of that terrible night. Acutely aware that mine was the only face the old woodsman could associate with this criminal undertaking, I presided over Gemma’s watery, unsanctified burial on a deserted stretch of river north of the city. As her weighted corpse sank with barely a gurgle, it seemed to take the few remaining scraps of my youthful innocence with it. I couldn’t have felt more befouled if I’d murdered the girl myself.

  After Benelli had returned me to the dry land of his vegetable garden, I headed back to the villa at a dirgelike pace. Bare winter branches formed a skeletal canopy over the gravel lane and filtered the moonlight into pale, angled shafts. With the chill air sweeping the cobwebs from between my ears, I reached a worrisome conclusion: Cardinal Fabiani’s theory about Gemma’s murder was as full of holes as a fisherman’s net.

  At first, in the rush to conceal the deed, I’d accepted his belief that the old marchesa had strangled Gemma in a fit of lunacy, but the more I considered, the more I doubted. The scarf around Gemma’s neck had indeed appeared to be one of the marchesa’s, but I’d seen the old lady shed her shawls and scarves as easily as a tree scatters autumn leaves. Gemma was always picking them up. Until she could return them to her charge’s shoulders, she would tuck them in her sleeve or tie them about her waist. Poor Gemma could have been carrying the instrument of her demise on her own person.

  That was only the starting point for my questions. As I reached the edge of the wooded Fabiani estate, I paused to picture the marchesa’s pipestem arms and bony shoulders. Even in the fury of madness, could the elderly woman have possibly mustered the bodily strength to overcome a strong, healthy girl? To tighten the silk around her neck until she grew limp and still? I had never witnessed a strangling, but I supposed that it must take several minutes.

  With the wind soughing in the limbs above, I left the lane and ascended the narrow path to a gate that I’d barely noticed on my wild flight to Benelli’s hut. The gate stood half open, its iron bars set in a corner of the stout garden wall well away from the house. I gave the gate a shove, but the hinges didn’t budge. Wrapping both hands around the bars, I redoubled my efforts. The gate barely moved. Looking down, I saw why. Tussocks of dried grass and weeds were matted thickly around its base. I’d wager this gate hadn’t been shut since last spring.

  I picked my way through the terraced herb beds and shining pools, anxious to return to my chamber, but the moonlit paths were deceptive. Rounding a tall evergreen, I found myself in the graveled yard that surrounded the pavilion on three sides. With pulse pounding, I approached the miniature lo
dge and stopped at the doorway. The interior was totally black; I had no desire to go farther. Like a perfumed scent that lingers once a woman has passed, an air of menace hung over this place.

  Hanging my head, profoundly wishing that I had never followed Rossobelli down the hidden stair in the first place, my gaze was caught by a piece of metal that glinted in the moonlight. A thick, leaf-bare vine arose from one side of the doorway to twine over the arched entrance. Something dangled from a low tendril: a good-sized pendant worked in silver and attached to a leather cord. Faster than a Monte dealer, I palmed the bauble and gave a tug. The light was too dim to examine my prize properly so I transferred it to the pocket of my breeches.

  A few false starts set me on the path that led to the villa, but one last surprise awaited: the doors were locked front and back. Even if I screwed up my courage to return to the pavilion, I had no lamp to locate the catch on the hidden entrance or to navigate the blackness of the aqueduct.

  Ringing the bell cord at the main portico seemed to be my only option. A sleepy Guido answered. I’d concocted a tale about becoming lost on a midnight walk, but Benito’s friend handed me a better story. With a knowing smirk, Guido couldn’t resist making a joke about a eunuch stumbling home after trying his luck in the bordellos of the Trastevere.

  “Ah, you caught me out. See here…” I ran my hands over my sweat-stained shirt and torn lace. “Your Roman whores are even more dangerous than our Venetian ones. The jades fought among themselves as if they couldn’t wait to bed me, but once I was at their mercy, they stole my purse and rolled me out the door without jacket or cloak.”

  Guido laughed, and I saw that his looks were more remarkable than I had first thought. He had removed his cheap servant’s wig to reveal thick, almost blue black curls, and the pleasing proportions of his features were marred only by the vestiges of a fight that had once rearranged his nose. I could see why Benito was smitten.

  He said, “You should have let me know what you wanted. Your man could have easily arranged it. I can supply you with a woman who won’t pilfer your pockets, one who knows some jolly tricks that might suit you most particularly.” With a leer, he added, “Like our Lord, she performs the miracle of bringing the dead to life.”

  “I’ll remember that.” I nodded, forcing a smile. “Have you been on duty here all night?”

  “Since ten o’clock.”

  “Am I the first to disturb your rest?”

  He shrugged. “The old lady got loose.”

  “Oh, what time was that?”

  “Halfway between eleven and midnight. I told Rossobelli about it, then I didn’t see her anymore. All in all, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Perhaps for you, I thought, but instead asked, “How did you have the bad luck to draw night porter’s duty?”

  “Night duty’s a nevermind for me. After Rossobelli comes around there’s hardly anyone about, and a fellow can follow his thoughts without getting sent on a hundred errands.” A cocky grin contorted his well-shaped lips. “But old Red Chaps does give me more than my share.”

  “Are you in Abate Rossobelli’s bad graces, then?”

  “I think he sees it as a kind of penance.” Guido winked. “For my sins.”

  Heaving a parting chuckle, I directed my weary steps toward the upper floors. By the time I reached my room and lit a lamp to examine the silver pendant, dawn was breaking over the hills of Rome.

  Chapter Nine

  The morning was nearly spent when I arose with a pounding headache. Refusing solid food, I sipped at a cup of warm chocolate while I dressed to go out. No unwilling service, be it disposing of a body or warbling a serenade, was going to keep me from seeing Liya.

  Using my map, I found the Teatro Argentina on a busy corner at the intersection of two streets lined with churches and shuttered houses painted in muted shades of russet and ocher. In contrast to the theaters of Venice, it was of modest size and presented an unassuming face to the street. A graceful young man with bleached hair governed the stage door. He clearly saw me as an irritant in his well-oiled day. “No one here by that name,” he answered curtly when I asked for Signorina Del’Vecchio.

  “But I saw her only yesterday. She told me to meet her. I had the idea that she works here.”

  “Don’t know the lady.” He shrugged and moved to shut the door.

  From the depths of the theater, the familiar sounds of an opera company preparing for a performance met my ears. Suddenly, Liya’s throaty laugh separated itself from the general din, and her smiling face popped over the doorkeeper’s shoulder.

  “Tito, wait there. I’ll just be a minute. I need my shawl.”

  The straw-haired young man swept me from head to toe with a curious glance. “If that’s who you want, why didn’t you just say so?” he muttered before slouching off.

  Waiting, I massaged my temples in the gloomy alley that ran between the theater and a taller building that blocked the early afternoon sun. I couldn’t help comparing the Argentina with my theater back in Venice. If I had appeared at the San Marco stage door, colleagues and friends would have gathered round and embraced me, hustled me to the green room, broken out bottle and glasses. Old wives caution the young: Take care how you wish. I was learning that lesson on a bitter road. After the drudgery of Dresden, it had been my heartfelt wish to shun the theater for months on end. Now, I would sing a four-act opera every night rather than be subject to Cardinal Fabiani’s sinister intrigues.

  When the door opened again, Liya’s apologetic smile sent those thoughts flying. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you before,” she said. “I’m Liya Pellegrina now.”

  My breath hung in my throat. What fresh torment was this? “You’re married?” I stammered. “Who? How long?”

  “Still leaping to conclusions, I see.” She slipped an arm under mine and started our progress to the street. “I took a new name when I left the ghetto. I feared that Papa would send someone to bring me back, and that’s the last thing I wanted. A clean break was best…or so I thought at the time.”

  “I see,” I murmured in relief. “A new name for a new life. And Pellegrina—pilgrim—what could be more apt?”

  She nodded.

  I confess I stared at her profile like a boy entranced by his first fireworks display. Liya was even more beautiful than the image I had treasured in my mind these past five years. Her loose black hair made a striking frame for the exotic plane of her cheekbones, and her olive skin seemed as soft and supple as rose petals. Her eyes were the only thing that truly surprised me. Their black orbs had changed—for the better. In Venice, they’d often flamed with bonfires of resentment and frustration. Now they shone with a quiet, steady contentment. Whatever new life Liya had found seemed to suit her.

  “Do you make masks and headdresses for the Argentina?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I sew on the costumes as well. The boys’ gowns mainly. I’ve developed quite a knack for creating a bosom where there is none. And giving sixteen-year-olds who have no hips the swell of—” Liya broke off at my look of alarm. “Surely you’ve seen an opera here in Rome.”

  “I haven’t had time—I just arrived several days ago—but I know the Church forbids women on the stage. It was the same at my conservatorio in Naples. We all had to take our turns playing the women’s parts.”

  I fancy Liya had never thought of me in that light. She raised an inquiring eyebrow, but there was something more important afoot. My mysterious follower had returned and was studying the theater’s front entrance from the pavement across the street. I didn’t like the intensity of his gaze or the way he was muttering to himself.

  “Liya,” I whispered, dropping my mouth to her ear. “That man over there, the tall one in the Roman hat.” She half turned. “No, don’t look at him. He was following me yesterday, when I saw you outside the Pantheon. Now he’s on m
y heels again. I want to shake him off, but I barely know my way around Rome. Which way should we go?”

  She made a moue of concern. With eyes lowered under lush lashes, she took a quick peek, then astounded me by raising her hand in a friendly wave. The tall stranger responded in kind. Smiling, he stepped into the street, but almost immediately paused. He extended his long neck forward and back, like a goose scooping up grain. A carriage rolled by, and when it had passed, he was gone.

  “That’s odd.” Liya cocked her head, trailing her fragrant hair on my sleeve. “He’ll usually risk life and limb to run across the street and tell you his troubles.”

  “You know the man?”

  “Of course. That’s our poor Tucci. He sang with the company here until a wealthy cardinal hired him away. Those who know music say Tucci’s voice has no equal, and I suppose he does sing admirably fine. I just know that he’s a lamb—always pleasant—never raised a fuss over his costumes like so many singers. Everyone makes a pet of him. But lately he’s gone a bit round the bend. His patron turned him out several weeks ago, and Maestro Ucellini won’t hire him back. He says it would be financial folly to engage a singer that Cardinal Fabiani has discarded. Now, poor Tucci acts like a woefully lost lamb. He’s been coming to the theater every day, bleating about his sad tale and begging for scraps of news.”

  We’d been strolling as Liya recounted Tucci’s story. Now she stopped and dropped my arm. “But Tito, what makes you think Tucci is following you? You’ve just come to Rome. He couldn’t even know you…unless you’ve sung together in other cities, perhaps?”