4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read online

  “We saw one of your boys,” Gussie put in. “He wanted to help fix our carriage wheel, but Ernesto sent him back with the pig.”

  “That was Manuel. He’s fourteen. Basilio is just a year older. They’ve been working in the hemp all day.” She bit her lip and looked toward the door. “I really should be seeing to their supper.”

  “Go on, then. We’ll say a few prayers for the unfortunate stranger.”

  “God be praised,” she answered, keeping her eyes on the door and touching the small crucifix that hung in the hollow of her throat. I noticed that her fingers slid down to caress the shadowy cleft between her breasts as she ducked her head to clear the lintel and pass into the night.

  Pia’s breadth and height had taken up a good deal of space, but somehow, after she’d gone, the ice house seemed even smaller.

  Gussie also seemed affected by the change in the atmosphere. He shook his head like a dog emerging from a stream. “What an amazing woman. I’d love to paint her.”

  “A portrait? Of a peasant woman?”

  “I’d seat her on a throne in a field of ripe wheat, as naked as the day she was born, with her black hair streaming over her shoulders. I’d crown her with a wreath of red and yellow grapes and call it… Harvest. No… The Bounty of the Harvest.”

  I chuckled. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what Vincenzo had in mind when he asked you to paint the estate.”

  “Nevertheless, think how impressive that could be. Something to make the Academy sit up and take notice.”

  My poor brother-in-law. Though Gussie’s talent was obvious and his pictures sold well, the Venetian painters’ guild had turned down his request for admittance for four years running. The tradition-bound Academy was not about to sully its register with the name of an Englishman, even one who had adopted Venice as his permanent home.

  I grasped his shoulder. “The Devil take the Academy. Let’s see what we can make of this corpse.”

  Our mysterious friend had been dead almost twenty-four hours. Long enough for his limbs to stiffen and his skin to mottle where it met the rug-covered shelf, but not long enough for the stench of corruption to take hold. Nevertheless, we made haste, mindful of the passing time and wanting to avoid any awkward questions our late arrival at supper would provoke. Gussie helped me undo the linen winding sheet, but the stranger’s pale, pitiful nakedness had no stories to tell. He was simply a well-cared for, virile male in his early middle years.

  We wrapped him back up, and I bent over his face. Very lightly, I ran my fingertips over his upper lip.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Gussie.

  “Does it seem that this patch of skin under his nose is lighter than the rest of his face?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it. But what does that signify?”

  “It tells me he’s a Russian, not just a man with a Russian pistol.” I elaborated after Gussie shot me a fish-eyed stare. “Carmela gave me an account of her adventures in St. Petersburg. She mentioned that the men of a certain class wear mustaches in honor of their late Czar.”

  “Yes, I saw a Russian delegation in London once, all bushy mustaches and tall sealskin hats. The only other man you might see with facial hair would be a Mohammedan of some sort, and our examination proves that our poor fellow doesn’t follow their tenets. But he doesn’t have…” Gussie shook his head, then broke into an eye-crinkling grin. “Oh, I see what you mean. He had a mustache and shaved it off. Quite recently.”

  I nodded. “His cheeks are lightly tanned and toughened like a man who spent at least a few hours a day in the open, but his upper lip is as pale and soft as an infant’s.”

  “You think he didn’t want to be recognized?”

  “Perhaps,” I answered, as I used both hands to part the hair over his shattered temple. “It’s also possible that he shaved because he didn’t want to stand out or call attention to himself. Hmm, this is odd…”

  “What is it, Tito?”

  I frowned. I’m not unduly squeamish, but probing a dead man’s skull isn’t high on my list of preferred activities. Above the Russian’s left ear, at the center of the concave depression that I expected to find, my forefinger encountered a deep, narrow well of flesh, bone, and a yielding substance that I didn’t even want to name. “Dio mio! He has a hole in his skull. The clock pendulum couldn’t have caused this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I stepped back and ransacked my jacket for a handkerchief. Wiping my hands more times than was strictly necessary, I replied, “You take a look.”

  Gussie traded places with me. With a greenish cast to his complexion, he gingerly repeated my examination, then straightened with a solemn frown. He reached for his own handkerchief and brought something else out of his pocket. Candlelight glinted off a metal blade: the slender knife that he used to sharpen his drawing pencils and chalks.

  I closed my eyes as Gussie probed the Russian’s skull, but opened them when I heard his sharp exhalation. With the tip of his knife, he rolled something on the cambric square that covered his outstretched palm. I stepped close and peered over his shoulder at a ball of lead shot.

  ***

  We escaped to our room after a tedious supper dominated by Octavia’s cooing attempts to coax Karl from a melancholy silence. Ernesto, this time accompanied by his silent shadow Santini, had already made his rounds and closed the shutters. In the enclosed space, the air felt heavy and the pale green walls seemed as bleak as the stones of a prison cell.

  “This is a damned rotten business,” Gussie muttered.

  “What? The composer who’s set himself up as Octavia’s plaything while her husband looks the other way? Or someone arranging the body to look as if the Russian was killed by the pendulum instead of a gunshot?”

  My brother-in-law threw off his jacket and slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Both, I suppose.”

  “I can sympathize with Maestro Weber’s position,” I replied. “Few composers can afford to mount productions loaded with the best singers and the lavish scenic effects that audiences expect. That leaves a lot of talented fellows scrambling to find a patron with a deep purse and an itch for speculation.”

  “Don’t the backers make money? Everyone from the humblest gondolier to Doge Pisani goes to the opera.”

  “Some backers succeed royally. Domenico Viviani, for instance, when he owned the Teatro San Stefano. But most lose their shirts. So many things can go wrong—the fickle public takes an instant dislike to the prima donna, a visiting star cancels at the last moment, a fire destroys the scenery. Expecting an opera to make you rich is sheer lunacy.”

  “Then why do so many of the wealthy gamble their fortunes?”

  “Some are genuine music lovers. Some are simply mad for the stage and relish being a part of its inside workings. Others, like our hostess I suspect, seek to raise their stock in society by becoming connoisseurs who discover hidden genius. Maestro Weber is lucky to have attracted Octavia’s interest.”

  Gussie snorted. “That’s debatable. I have a feeling that the formidable Octavia forces the poor chap to earn every zecchino two times over. Vincenzo is hardly an idiot. I keep wondering why he allows such a flagrant affair right under his nose.”

  “Saintly forbearance?”

  “I doubt it. I believe that Vincenzo simply grew weary of arguing years ago and finds life a good deal pleasanter if he lets Octavia have her head.”

  I threw my jacket on the bed, poured some water in the basin, and grinned as I splashed my face. “I bow to your wisdom, my sage elder. Can you also supply as easy an explanation for that bullet that now resides in your pocket?”

  “I’ll have to think on that one a bit.” He produced the lead ball and gave it a quizzical squint. “Obviously, the Russian wasn’t killed inside the villa—someone would have heard the shot.”

 
“His body must have been carried in from the outside,” I replied as I toweled dry. “The only one of our company who has the strength to accomplish that on his own is Romeo Battaglia.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. What about Jean-Louis? I saw him taking some sun with his shirtsleeves rolled back. Under his fancy clothing, the Frenchman is all muscle and sinew.”

  “No, not Jean-Louis.” I shook my head firmly.

  “Why not? When we discovered the body, did you not notice that he wore his outside shoes while everyone else in the corridor was in slippers or barefoot?”

  “I noticed, but it means nothing. A pair of shoes can be changed in the twinkling of an eye.” I added hastily, “It’s much more likely that two people acted together.”

  Gussie pulled his chin back. Concern flickered in his blue eyes. “Tito, I’m surprised at you. You act as if you’re afraid to even speculate that Grisella’s husband might be involved. It’s not like you to shy away from the obvious, even if it’s not to your liking.”

  A light knock forestalled my reply, and Giovanni’s boyish face appeared around the door. “Your letter is on its way, Signor Amato.”

  “Oh, yes.” Our foray to the ice house had almost made me forget the footman’s errand. I fetched my jacket to find the zecchino I’d promised.

  “There’s more,” he said, fanning a fistful of letters like a winning hand of cards.

  “You found those waiting for me?”

  “Just this one.” He handed over the thickest missive. “These others are addressed to the German.”

  I raised my eyebrows at the letters in his hand. They all bore the same curlicued, feminine hand. “Maestro Weber must be quite the correspondent.”

  Giovanni shook his head. “Oh, he doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even read them, just tears them to bits or feeds them to the fire the minute I give them over. Doesn’t even seem to appreciate the trouble I go to fetching them from the Post.” The footman presented his palm with a smile, obviously hoping I would place a suitable value on his efforts.

  I added a few small coins to Giovanni’s zecchino and sent him on his way. Gussie hurried over, the mystery of the murdered stranger put aside. “Is the letter from Liya? Is there some trouble at home?”

  “It’s Benito’s writing.” I broke the red seal and removed a short note wrapped around another sealed packet. “He says this letter from Alessandro arrived soon after we left the house. He thought it might be important so he posted it at once.”

  “Let’s see it, then.” Gussie lit the table lamp with a wax-tipped spill and we both drew up chairs. I slid my thumb under Alessandro’s seal and spread his pages out in the circle of lamplight.

  Constantinople, 28th August 1740

  Dear family,

  Excuse my scrawl. I write in haste, eager that you should know my good news as soon as possible. Grisella may yet be alive!

  Gussie gave a low whistle and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I say, Tito. For once you’re a nose ahead of Alessandro.”

  “Shush. This isn’t a horse race. Let’s see what he’s found out.”

  Pray don’t blame me for leaping to conclusions. What else is a man to think when he stands over a grave with his sister’s name carved on the tombstone? I’m still not certain, but I’ll set my roundabout tale down as best I can, and you can come to your own conclusions.

  It began with my sulking around the warehouse, the thought of our sister held as a virtual prisoner gnawing at my vitals like the fox in the old fable. Grisella’s actions disgraced us, it is true, but while I conducted business only a few miles away, she was sinned against by a procession of brutes. After my esteemed father-in-law’s efforts to draw me out of my black mood failed, he insisted that I put work aside, follow Grisella’s trail through our city, and do whatever could be done to restore honor.

  I decided to start at the site of the yali that was consumed in the fire. It didn’t take long to find. Many people on the western shore of the Bosphorus remembered the blaze. Like the mythical phoenix, another yali has risen from the ruins, an imposing mansion with a bay that juts out over the rolling blue water and, on its landward side, well-tended gardens enclosed by a high wall. By design, I arrived at the hottest hour of the day. The inhabitants of the house would be within, taking their rest behind the shutters that admitted the delicious breeze. I hoped to find a servant who had been around long enough to provide some useful information.

  I was in luck. As I paused at the gate, only one sound carried: the rasp of a rake on the pebbled drive. My entrance startled a peacock into uttering a shrill cry and spreading his sapphire train. A giant came to investigate. He carried a rake and wore an immaculate caftan and neatly folded green turban. A eunuch, of course, a white eunuch.

  Tito, you cannot imagine how many altered men walk the streets of Constantinople. They are not mutilated in a quest for heavenly voices as in Italy. Evil, unvarnished greed is the only explanation. The poor creatures are captured as boys in Wallachia and the Balkans and carried back to Turkey to be turned into tractable slaves and servants. And Tito, I shudder to report that their surgery is even worse than what you were forced to undergo. Their entire generative organs are cut away so that the needs of nature must be accomplished through a hollow straw. If I could change just one feature of my adopted homeland it would be this barbaric practice.

  But I digress. Sebboy, for that was his name, told me he has worked on this shore for thirty of his forty years and that Count Paninovich was once his master. In our language, Sebboy would be called Gillyflower. All the young eunuchs, black and white, are given these ridiculous names. There are Daisies and Hyacinths on every corner.

  So, this Sebboy claimed to remember Grisella well, as he had served as her companion when not occupied with other duties. Such relationships are common here, especially in wealthy households where several wives or concubines compete for their husband’s attention. These eunuchs fill the hours with music and witty conversation, fend off annoyances, and supply news from the outside. I suppose it is natural for women shuttered away from the world to make a bond with men removed from society by their cruel mutilation. I sincerely hope I never give Zuhal any cause to wish for such a companion.

  I am sorry, dear ones, your patience must be wearing thin. I can see Annetta’s red cheeks and Gussie about to bite his pipe stem in two. Without further meanderings, I will set our conversation down exactly as it happened.

  I identified myself as Grisella’s brother, and Sebboy immediately fell on my neck, babbling and weeping.

  “Where is my sweet mistress?” he asked. “Does she go well?”

  I scratched my head. Didn’t the fellow know? “But she died in the fire,” I replied.

  “That is what some believe, but Sebboy knows better.”

  “Some?”

  “The master’s countrymen. When Paninovich Effendi burned up in the fire, five men came from the embassy. They were very angry. They herded all the servants into the cookhouse that sat away from the ruined yali and asked many questions.”

  “About what?”

  “How the fire started. What had we done to fight the blaze. Where the master kept his valuables. They kept us in there all night and part of the next day without food or water, even the old ones. If they thought we weren’t telling the truth they beat us.”

  “What was the truth?”

  He shrugged. “Only Allah knows the truth. I just know that my mistress and Paninovich Effendi were upstairs. All the servants were downstairs eating the evening meal. It was windy that night and the window draperies were blowing in the breeze. Some thought the fabric caught fire from a lamp…” A deep crease formed between his eyebrows, and he shrugged again.

  “What did the men from the embassy do then?”

  “They took Paninovich Effendi’s body away. To send back to their coun
try, I believe. The other body they left. To them it was no more than the furniture and carpets that had burned to ashes.”

  “The other body? But you said my sister did not die.”

  “No, while the others were dipping buckets in the fountain and running to throw water on the raging fire, I saw my mistress run away into the trees.” He pointed toward a cypress grove that stood beside the wall on the other side of the garden.

  “In all the panic, could you have been mistaken?”

  He propped his chin on his rake and thought a moment. “No, it could only have been my mistress. The glow from the flames shone on the red hair streaming down her back. I know her hair… I brushed it often.”

  “Did you go after her?”

  “Not right away. The roof fell in and showered sparks everywhere. By the time we had the small fires put out, the cypress grove was empty.”

  “Then who was the other body?”

  “It is a mystery. When the ashes had cooled, the embassy men locked the doors of the cookhouse and went to sort through the rubble. The other sillies were weeping and chattering like a flock of chickens, but I kept my head. I got on a stool and unhinged a stove pipe so that I could watch through the hole. I was amazed to see them lay the body of a woman beside that of my master’s. She was badly burned, but enough of her hair remained to show its red color. I have no idea who this woman was or how she came to be in the house.”

  “Could she have been one of the female servants?”

  “No, they were all in the cookhouse. And none of them had red hair.”

  “You didn’t tell the Russians about Grisella escaping the fire?”

  “No, the men were very angry. When I saw that they accepted the woman’s body as my mistress, I thought, Allah wills it. My mistress is well away, and who is Sebboy to upset the will of Allah?”

  “Someone arranged for the woman’s burial, though. I’ve seen the tombstone.”