Under the Guise of Death Read online

  Under the Guise of Death

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgements

  Murder Will Follow

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “Open a window. I’m suffocating.”

  Lady Bantham snapped her fingers at the maid fussing with the heavy brocade skirt of the costume she was to wear to the party tonight. Just the idea of having to put on something so warm made sweat break out on her brow. It was far too stuffy in Venice to hide under dense fabrics and makeup and masks. But the party would begin in just a few hours and there was no way to avoid it.

  Unless she wanted people to whisper about her, say she didn’t want to appear at the feast thrown by the former father-in-law of her husband. The man whose daughter she had replaced as Lady Bantham.

  She clenched her hands shut a moment, her nails digging into her palms. “Open that window! Now.”

  “Yes, your ladyship. Right away, your ladyship.” The maid dropped the costume on the bed and hurried to the window. The latch squeaked as she struggled to get it open. The sound rattled across Lady Bantham’s tight nerve ends and she rushed forward. “Leave it be. I will do it myself. Tend to the costume. I don’t want to see any crinkles in it.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” The maid curtseyed clumsily and darted back to the bed.

  Lady Bantham pulled the window open and closed her eyes for a moment as a breeze stroked her hot cheeks. The sound of splashing water came from below and laughter rang out. She didn’t have to look down to know it would be the occupants of one of the many gondolas crowding Venice’s narrow waterways. In a city that had no streets to speak of, at least not in comparison to London or Paris, transportation was easiest achieved across water. Gondolas were employed for the tourists and many palazzo owners had their own private boats. Tonight they would travel to the party in such a boat.

  Italian voices carried across the water, bickering about something. She suspected it came from the left where the canal, on which their host lived, turned right to pass a small market. The sellers felt it necessary to argue with each other incessantly, about the places allotted, the sun or the shade, the customers that one seemed to lure away from the other. At least she imagined it was about that. Her Italian was rudimentary at best.

  Her mother’s voice echoed in the back of her head that she never tried hard enough and that girls who never tried would never amount to anything.

  But dear Mother, she countered, leaning her hands on the windowsill, I do amount to something now. I’m a lady, something you can only have dreamed of.

  But those words would forever have to remain in her head. There was no mother any more to whom to say them. She rested in a shallow grave, under a cheap headstone. And Lady Bantham tried to forget she had ever been in that sad churchyard, with the village spinsters lifting their lacy curtains as she had passed through the metal gate to find a coach to take her away from the depressing mediocrity that ruled everything.

  Perhaps she had never tried hard in the village because there had been nothing to try for, nothing to achieve. But once she had left it behind, arriving in London with just a few possessions and no idea what she would do there, except that it had to be somehow better than what her life had been before, she had worked hard. To build an illusion. That was what people wanted, didn’t they? An illusion. A beautiful image they could believe in. The suggestion of beauty, class, a hint of mystery and tragedy that the newspapers were so fond of.

  The breeze caressed her cheeks again, carrying a scent into her nostrils. The scent of water that had become warm and stale and… poisonous.

  She shivered a moment, backing away from the window. Even Venice seemed to smell of decay.

  Of death.

  Rubbing her arms, she turned to watch the maid who was busy arranging the collar on the costume. It would close around her neck like a hangman’s noose, wringing the air from her throat, her lungs. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t attend this party tonight.

  But she had to. After all, she wasn’t to blame.

  A knock on the door made her start back and collide with the window frame. For a moment, she sensed the depth behind her, the plunge until her body would hit the water. But the window was too small to fall out.

  The maid had gone to the door and spoken to someone in the corridor. Then she turned around, holding a paper parcel in her hands. “I don’t understand what they said, your ladyship. But this must be for you.”

  Lady Bantham felt a rush of excitement at this unexpected intrusion on her macabre mood. “Give it to me,” she demanded, rushing to the maid and snatching the parcel from her hands. It was heavier than expected and she carried it to the bed and put it down, tearing impatiently at the string securing it. When the maid had mentioned something for her, she had expected flowers or chocolate from a secret admirer. After all, Venice was a city of romance, of passion, even of the forbidden kind. Italian men were daring enough to want a married woman, and she was vain enough to indulge in such a compliment. She wouldn’t encourage it, or perhaps just from a distance. If she even knew who the secret admirer could be. But this parcel would certainly not contain flowers or chocolate. It seemed to hold fabric.

  She folded the paper away and held her breath as a gorgeous dress lay there, of smooth red silk trimmed with black lace. Not heavy and restraining but light and fiery, like the dance it was made for. A flamenco dress. Including a lace headdress and a fan. She picked it up and snapped it open, unfolding a scene of tiny houses and a castle painted against fiery skies. The brushstrokes were delicate and assured, turning it into a masterpiece to carry around.

  She took a deep breath, drawing the sense of freedom of this amazing gift deep into her being. Who could have sent it? She turned over the paper in which it had arrived but there was no name on it. Not a clue left anywhere as to whom she had to thank for it.

  Could it be a gift from her husband?

  No. He was too stuffy for that, too straight-laced and decent. He would consider such a dress scandalous.

  Which was exactly why she would wear it.

  She turned to her maid, finding the girl closely behind her, gawking at the fan. It didn’t irritate her as it might have, and she found herself saying in a friendly tone, “It is very pretty, isn’t it, Rose?”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” The maid lowered her head, blushing as if caught red-handed.

  “I agree with you. It is very pretty.” Clasping the fan to her chest, Lady Bantham spun around the room, humming some notes she recalled from part of the intoxicating rhythm of the flamenco. “I will wear this tonight. Put away the other garment.”

  “But…” The maid looked overtaken, even daring to raise her eyes with a questioning look.

  “You heard what I said. Do it.” Lady Bantham continued to dance and hum, holding the fan close to her heart. The sense of foreboding that had grabbed her at the window,
when the stench of stale water had risen in her nose, had evaporated and the promise of a wonderful night at the party unravelled in front of her like an inviting vision. She’d be the star of the night. Everyone would look at her and admire her or envy her. Men would desire her. She’d dance every dance and…

  Be happy.

  * * *

  Outside the palazzo a bent over figure in black scurried away from the door where she had delivered the parcel. The butler accepting it had barely looked at her twice. To him she was no better than the beggar who sat on the dock where the gondolas stopped, lifting his blind eyes to the passersby and holding out his palms hoping for a moment of mercy.

  She dipped into her pocket and produced a handful of coins. She stopped beside him and let the coins rain into his outstretched palms. Surprise flashed across his features and he murmured a repeated “grazie, grazie,” followed by a stream of rapid Italian probably pouring the blessings of all the saints over her. She could use them.

  She straightened up to her full height as she gestured for a gondola to come over to her and take her along. Yes, she could really use them tonight.

  Chapter Two

  The notes floated freely from the violin, hovered on the air: stretched out and haunting. He listened to them, unconsciously almost, as his mind was preparing the next set of notes, his fingers moving with lightning speed to the next grasp. In the past it had been difficult and many a session had ended in frustration. But these days it was easy, or at least easier, and he revelled in the sense of accomplishment that warmed his veins as he played.

  If his master knew this, he would reprimand him saying vanity didn’t befit a musician who was only a tool for the muse. But Leonardo didn’t believe that. He was so much more than a tool. He wasn’t like the violin in someone’s hands – no, he was the hands, he was the creator. It all began with him.

  Suddenly his ear detected a false note among the beautiful outdrawn melody and his fingers came to a screeching halt. His brain raced to explain how he could have made such a mistake, not hitting a note too short or too long, but playing something completely different, out of tune; a dissonant which was disturbing by its sheer magnitude. Like a stone thrown in a pond, cracking the surface, splitting it open.

  It kept on going.

  He looked at his hand; at the violin as if to ascertain it was no longer playing. Of course it was not, he had stopped. Then what was that music?

  It wasn’t like the music from the street musicians that sometimes tormented his ears until he sent a servant down to pay them to leave. No, it was better played, rhythmic, engrossing.

  Not classical, not high and lofty like the piece he had been rehearsing, but earthly and passionate, warm like a woman’s lips.

  The lips of the woman he had kissed the night this piece had been played.

  Leonardo threw down his violin so wildly that the strings sang in protest. He ran to the window and looked down on the square. It was full of tourists, ambling along the stately pillars of the high buildings and stopping to point up at some representation of a historical figure or ancient god.

  Leonardo was used to the tourists, their dress; his eyes darted around looking for the player of the music that had suddenly struck fire to his breast. A fire that felt like a deadly arrow wound, taking his life’s breath away. He had kissed her, he had danced with her and the next morning she had been dead.

  Luckily, Marcheti had said. Now no one would know. No one would talk about it.

  He had smiled like he had personally arranged for the accident, for the bend in the road where the car had swerved, for the tree it had plowed into.

  Leonardo sucked in breath as he stared down. The music had stopped. He didn’t see anyone with an instrument anywhere around. Had he imagined it?

  Was he going crazy?

  He lifted a hand to press against his clammy forehead. It wasn’t the first time the question about his sanity had gone through his mind. Or the first time he had asked himself whether Marcheti had been involved in Olivia’s death. After all, she had been rushing to meet him when she had died.

  A door closed behind him, and he swirled round. Marcheti stood in the room looking at him with a hitched brow. “You were playing masterfully and then suddenly you stopped. You are not tired. It is not time to eat. Keep playing.”

  Having given his orders, short and brusque as ever, the elderly man wanted to turn away, but Leonardo stepped forward. “Did you hear the music? Outside? The flamenco dance?”

  Marcheti’s bright blue eyes looked at him, a strange fire lighting up in them. “Flamenco?” he repeated slowly. “In Venice?”

  “I heard it clearly. It disturbed my rehearsal.”

  “I’m certain it won’t happen again.”

  “Did you send the musician away?” Leonardo felt a sudden piercing sense of loss. “Why did you send him away? Make him come back.”

  “I sent no one away.” Marcheti turned to the door. “Finish your rehearsal.”

  Leonardo rushed after him and grabbed his shoulder. “Make him come back. Now.”

  Marcheti flinched under his grasp. “Release me at once. What has got into you?”

  “You made me betray her. You made me leave her.” The words rushed from Leonardo’s mouth, welling up from the wound inside of him where the music had struck like a dagger. “She didn’t know what she was doing, didn’t look where she was driving, because of you. It’s all your fault. You wanted to separate us. You!”

  Marcheti turned to him, his back pressed against the door as Leonardo forced him against it, still holding onto his shoulder.

  Marcheti laughed, a short, dry laugh. “You speak of the lady who died in England? The wife of another man?”

  “I loved her and she loved me.” Putting it into words made the emotion spring to life again, like it had happened only yesterday. “You separated us.”

  “Convention separated you. Her husband stood between you. She was a married woman! When will you see that? I only saved you from embarrassment. I saved your career, your future, your marriage to Giulieta Calvieri.”

  “You should marry Giulieta Calvieri,” Leonardo hissed. “The way you lust after her, or rather after her money.”

  Marcheti lifted his hand and slapped him in the face. It wasn’t a hard stroke, but a soft, humiliating slap like his schoolmaster had given him as a boy to put him in his place.

  Leonardo felt the sting of it spread across his entire body. Here he was, a grown man, being treated like a child, who couldn’t decide for himself.

  Here he was, engaged to be married to a widow, ten years his senior just so his master and guardian could have access to her money.

  It was despicable. He was despicable to ever have agreed to such a plan.

  He turned away from Marcheti and paced the room. “I heard the flamenco. It must be a sign. A sign not to go through with the marriage. It is wrong.”

  Marcheti laughed again. “It’s too late now. In a few days’ time you will be her husband.”

  “But don’t you see what is happening here? Olivia is telling me from beyond the grave that she won’t let me go. She owns me. She died for me, so she’s entitled to me. If I marry another, she will have her revenge.” He wrung his hands. “She may kill me.”

  * * *

  Marco Marcheti stood and watched his protégé, the boy he had taken into his care when he had been a scared, crying six-year-old who had lost both his parents in a sea disaster. A scared boy with a sensitive nature, too many fears and questions about life and death. A boy with a huge talent too. A boy who could make the violin sing like no other. Marcheti had taken all of his whims for granted in the hope that he could bring this talent to full fruition.

  Sometimes it could still make him mad how Leonardo didn’t realize his gift. How he toyed with it, going horse riding and risking hurting his hands. How he wasted his nights on wine and women.

  How he had almost ruined it all that one summer in England, falling for a married woman. B
elieving he loved her.

  Marcheti suppressed laughter. Love! It was the grand word silly young men used to explain for their mistakes. But there was no such thing. He wouldn’t allow it. Leonardo’s future had been planned down to every detail. In exchange for all the long hard years Marcheti had invested teaching him, grooming him, he would marry well and repay him with a life of luxury where nothing would be too expensive or too much. Nothing out of reach.

  As a man who had denied himself many things in life, Marcheti ached to indulge, for once, in luxury, in riches. To let go and fall into the fine soft pillows of a good life. A life he deserved, he had earned.

  No, he had not hesitated one moment when he had realized that the dream was about to be snatched away from him. Lady Bantham would never be Leonardo’s lover. Let alone his bride. A divorcée with nothing to her name?

  Marcheti closed his eyes a moment to control the rage that took hold of him again, as he pondered what he had pondered back then. The bleak future he had seen for Leonardo and himself if the boy went on with his silly infatuation. It had been nothing more than that.

  It was done with.

  But apparently it was not.

  Music.

  Which he had not heard.

  He opened his eyes and said in a soft persuading tone, “You must have been mistaken. You must have heard some other sound and because you were playing—”

  “I have perfect hearing!” Leonardo shouted at him. He turned white as he stood there, clenching his hands as he had when he had been eight or ten and learning the violin, but never quickly enough for his liking. He had always wanted to go faster, be better than he was.

  “I know what I heard. I want the musician to come back and tell me why he was playing this.”

  “There was no musician. Complete your rehearsal. We have a party to attend tonight.”

  “Yes. At his house.” Leonardo stared at him with wide pleading eyes. “Olivia’s father. I told you weeks ago I would not go there, not play there.”

  “You’ll see there is nothing to it. Sir James doesn’t know you were ever… a friend of his daughter.” Friend was definitely not the word to capture what had been between those two people, but Marcheti didn’t want to enrage Leonardo any further. “He only knows you as the gifted musician you are.”