‘It’s quite a story: lust, betrayal, murder, the usual ingredients. But quite honestly,’ I shrugged and gestured vaguely at the various chapels on either side of the nave as we strolled along, ‘I’m on a fool’s errand here. This was where Gesualdo married Maria D’Avalos but there’s no record of where she was buried and Gesualdo is in the church of the Gesù Nuovo round the corner.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t go there instead of here.’
I laughed and it echoed a bit too loudly. There weren’t that many people about, but we happened to be passing one of the church officials. He frowned and put his finger to his lips.
‘Oh, no, I had to come here,’ I whispered. ‘We’re only a few feet from where the murder took place. And there’s a story – made up I’m sure – that a monk committed necrophilia on the church steps.’
‘Good grief.’
‘Didn’t you feel a cold shiver as you walked up them?’
We’d been walking side by side, but he turned towards me and I could see he was wondering if I was serious.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ I said. ‘I didn’t either. If anywhere is haunted then it’s the palace round the corner, but I’m not one for that sort of th … ow!’ I’d smacked the corner of a pew. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Oh dear.’ Duncan took my elbow. ‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes, yes. No problem.’ I rubbed my arm vigorously. ‘Probably those vengeful spirits I offended.’ We sauntered on, past the Chapel of St Martin, which housed the Carafa family monument and where Fabrizio was buried.
‘Shall we get that coffee now?’ I suggested, tired of the church’s lofty oppression. ‘You can tell me what you’re doing in this part of the world.’
I liked Duncan. Not in a like like way, but he was easy to be with and relaxed even though I’d only just met him. There was no angst about him, none apparent anyway. Speaking poor Italian hardly counted.
‘Me?’ he said. ‘I’m on a mission too as it happens, although nobody got murdered in my chap’s story. Same era as yours though and surprising really as the Inquisition had it in for him for a long time.’
We left the piazza on the opposite side from where I had arrived, and immediately I got the impression of being in a better part of town. The air had taken on a balmy quality, not as sweet as Sorrento but not smelly either. There was less graffiti and rubbish and we sat outside a little cafe in the shade, tacitly agreeing not to mind the heart-stopping roar from the Vespas that regularly screamed around the corner only a few feet from our table.
We were so engrossed with each other’s stories that two coffees and a glass of wine went by. Then, as another noisy bike almost clipped the leg of my chair, it occurred to me that I had no idea what the time was and in a sudden panic, I looked at my watch.
Duncan raised an eyebrow. ‘Meeting someone?’
‘Only the hydrofoil back to Sorrento. It’s okay though, I have an hour and a half. I need to get back for dinner, otherwise my mother will alert Interpol.’
Duncan was researching the life of Giambattista Della Porta, a Neapolitan scientist, dramatist, and writer of books on just about everything, including cryptography, horticulture and optics.
‘He lived to eighty?’ I put my cup down on its saucer. ‘That’s ancient for then. I wonder if Gesualdo knew him.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. Della Porta certainly came to San Domenico Maggiore. He was part of an academy that met there in 1589. Chances are your man saw one of his plays.’
‘Probably did. The murders took place in 1590.’ We were delighted at the coincidence. ‘Did he publish anything, your man?’ I brought out the photocopies from my bag. ‘Look at this. It’s the frontispiece of a madrigal book that’s turned up in Exeter Museum.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Duncan. ‘That’s one of the best I’ve ever seen.’
‘Have you seen many like this then?’
‘I’ve seen a few, yes. Della Porta published all sorts of things but the frontispieces have always been benign. Fanciful, yes but not macabre like this.’
‘I’m trying to find out about it. Who, why and how did it end up in Exeter?’
‘Well, what a good job it is you’ve met me!’ Duncan said, not a little pleased.
‘Really? You know about this sort of thing?’
‘Nothing at all, but I know a man who does. There’s a little shop in the Piazzetta Nilo that specialises in antiquarian books. I went there only this morning. Why don’t you take it to show them? We can go now.’ He swallowed the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth with a quick flourish of his napkin and waved at the waiter. ‘Although,’ he said, looking sheepish, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do all the talking.’
The man in the shop was suspicious. It was as if I’d taken in an old sketch to an art expert and it turned out to be by Leonardo. I felt rather glad I’d only taken a photocopy otherwise I might have feared for our lives. Communication was tortuous and there was much arm waving and repeated phrases that meant nothing to me. Eventually, he phoned a friend.
‘Cinque minuti,’ he said, holding up five fingers so even I got it.
While waiting, Duncan and I browsed and found a small volume of madrigals by Monteverdi, but the frontispiece was a melee of cherubs and muses, no demons at all.
The friend turned out to be the boss, Signor Pace – more Al Pacino than Marlon Brando – a man in his sixties. He spoke measured English with a very attractive accent. When he saw the frontispiece, he was as taken aback as everyone else.
‘You have the original?’
‘Yes. Well, not me, Exeter Museum in England has it.’
He nodded, took a small eyeglass from his pocket and began an examination. Duncan and I exchanged glances. The atmosphere in the little shop had taken a solemn turn and I could feel my heart beating faster than usual. All that coffee. Signor Pace muttered under his breath, in Italian of course, and every now and then the assistant, who had busied himself shuffling a few bits of paper, gave us a sharp look. I felt like jumping up and down and shouting: Well? Well? Tell us …
The atmosphere in the shop reminded me of Robert’s house, musty and bookish, due to the rows of leather bound volumes that lined the walls. It didn’t look as if Signor Pace and his assistant had opened some of them for a long time. A clock on the wall struck the half past. I had another hour before the boat.
After five interminable minutes, Signor Pace offered me the eyeglass. ‘Look here,’ he said pointing, ‘at the flames of hell. The letters C, the ampersand and P?’
What a difference magnification made! The workmanship was truly astonishing. A tiny pile of books being consumed by the flames, and various musical instruments, a lute and a viol. I hadn’t even noticed them before, let alone the letters.
‘Yes, yes. I see.’
He pointed to the bottom of the C, ‘this say it is from after 1600. Before this date, we know the C is plain. Here, the letter surface is not quite flat and the ink makes a little pool.’
We were talking about a millimetre at most but still, I could see what he meant.
‘Do you know who did the engraving?’
‘Ah …’ he shrugged. ‘The quality? Yes, I make a guess. But the subject? I don’t know.’ He sighed deeply and turned to his assistant. They spoke together in extremely rapid Italian. I looked at the clock again and at Duncan.
‘I’ll have to go soon.’
Duncan looked at his watch and frowned. ‘Ask him if he could find out more for you?’
‘Good idea.’ But before I got the chance, Signor Pace asked if he could photocopy my photocopy. If I left him my email address, he would do some research and let me know the results. There was a photocopier in the back room, it would not take long. Of course I agreed, and wrote down my address for both Signor Pace and Duncan, who produced a well-thumbed reporter’s notebook for the purpose.
There were some high decibel curses from the back room. Perhaps the paper was jammed? After much thumping, whirring and the mani
c percussion solo most printers and copiers perform when they’re getting ready, I heard the sound of a successful print.
I was ready to run, but Signor Pace put his hand on my arm when I picked up the copy from the counter.
‘Please,’ he said, his eyes flicking around from my face, the shop, the street. ‘I’m wondering if you have had any …’ he seemed to search for the word, ‘… troubles lately?’
‘Troubles?’ It was out of the blue, as if someone had told me I looked ill, when I felt perfectly well. ‘What do you mean?’
The assistant said something under his breath but Signor Pace hushed him. ‘I am not alarming you,’ he said, although that was exactly what he’d done, ‘but a frontispiece like this, is not at all, how you say, everyday?’
‘I should think not.’ I said it louder than I meant.
‘It may be nothing …’ he spoke so hesitantly, I thought I might explode. The clock was ticking away but I knew I needed to hear what he had to say.
‘Please,’ I said, putting my bag down on the floor. ‘Do tell me.’
I arrived at the ferry in time to see its wake still washing against the quay. I couldn’t blame Duncan; he could limp as fast as I could run.
‘Damn,’ I said. ‘Damn and bloody bollocks. Now what?’
‘Ouch, that sounds painful,’ he said. ‘Well then, the way I see it, you have two options: catch a train – there’s bound to be one sometime this evening. Though I have to warn you, all the guide books beware bandits and ne’er do wells on that line, or—’
‘Or?’ I said, gloomily. ‘What other choice is there?’
‘Or you could phone your mother to tell her you’re all right, then come back to my hotel and spend the night there. What do you think?’
Chapter Eighteen
Napoli 1590
‘Fabrizio will come here at four hours of the night,’ Donna Maria said as if it were perfectly normal for another woman’s husband to visit so late. ‘I want you to keep a lookout.’
We sat at opposite sides of a chessboard on a small table at one end of the sala, away from all the commotions of the kitchen. She folded the note that Laura had delivered and gave it to me so that I could burn it. The evenings were cooling down now that we were into October, and Donna Maria liked a fire. I did too, such luxury! It also meant I didn’t have to keep singeing my fingers burning the notes in a candle flame.
Don Carlo still didn’t know about Donna Maria and Fabrizio. Right under his long dank nose they were, and not quiet. True, he spent most of his time with the musicians that came from as far away as England to benefit from cook’s talent and the comfortable beds at the palazzo. When no one was visiting, he’d spend hours by himself in the music room plucking away on his lutes, of which he had many. And of course he’d go off hunting at a moment’s notice. But even so! I never expected the secret to remain intact for one year, let alone two.
When the weather was fine, we went to Chiaia in the carriage, but rain was coming more frequently. Sadly it did nothing to quench the ardour of my lady and Don Fabrizio.
‘Is … is that wise, my lady?’
‘Wise, Silvia? Wise?’ She stood up, knocking several of the pieces over. ‘There is nothing wise in this world!’ Her cheeks flushed, she began to pace up and down, offering a mixture of prayers and curses to the air. I said nothing and replaced her king and queen on what I believed were the correct squares. ‘Isn’t it quite clear,’ she went on, adjusting her bodice in the sort of manner that I’m sure Fabrizio, and probably every man in Italy, would enjoy, ‘that he and I are meant to be together?’
‘I don’t know, my lady.’
‘Of course, we are! Beauty is a gift, Silvia. A gift from God. Is it not His purpose that two such blessed people should love one another?’
‘Err …’ A cold hand thrust itself into my chest and began squeezing. I’d often wondered why fat and leery Father Strozzi could be considered holy, but if the church said so, I wasn’t going to argue. And Donna Maria was a princess. I remembered one of the English musicians telling me their Queen’s father, King Henry, had taken on the role of Holy Father in England. He wasn’t struck down by a thunderbolt, so perhaps royalty did have an ear to the Lord’s purposes.
The puddles in the street below glistened in the moonlight. It was a breezy night and my lamp’s little flame jumped back and forth, threatening to go out. I had to keep standing up to stop myself from falling asleep so I leaned out of the window and caught any conversation that was passing. Being so late, it was mostly the songs and complaints of those with too much wine inside them. At one point a couple came by, and they stopped in the doorway opposite, right by the church. The shadow deepened as a cloud crossed the moon, but I saw the flick of a red skirt rising and it wasn’t difficult to know what happened next.
Then, as the night bells tolled four, I heard the clip clop of hooves. Two horses stopped at the end of the street but only one rider dismounted, giving the reins to the other. The Duke strode towards me, face turned up, searching for the flame that signalled all was well. I covered the light, once, twice, three times, then ran down the spiral staircase in my cloth slippers. I’d oiled the lock on the side door especially and it slipped back without the slightest sound.
‘Silvia!’ Fabrizio whispered, too loudly for my liking, and I put my finger to my lips. He put his arm round my shoulders and gave me a kiss on the forehead. ‘You are a good girl.’
I felt his breath on my face and I must say that it wasn’t at all unpleasant. He hastened up the stairs to Donna Maria’s chamber. I followed much more slowly, for it is quite something to be kissed by the handsomest man in Italy, however fleetingly. Laura was already asleep even though she was supposed to be guarding the door that led into the outer chamber. I had half a mind to shake her awake but could think of no sensible reason for doing so.
While Don Carlo was away, the night visits weren’t too bad, except that Laura and I became gradually more and more cross and distracted through lack of sleep. Donna Maria stayed late in her bed but we were up as usual with our work to do. The afternoons were set aside for Donna Maria to receive visitors once prayers were said, and the most fraught visit of all was that of the Duke’s wife.
‘Let’s have a birthday party for Emmanuele!’ Donna Maria clapped her hands together and turned to me. ‘That’s a good idea. Don’t you think so, Silvia?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ I said, as demurely as I could under the circumstances.
Fabrizo’s wife, Donna Maria Carafa sat opposite us. Her face, which I remembered was apt to crease into laughter, remained composed. At the other end of the sala her four children, our Margarita and little Emmanuele, asleep in his cradle, were all watched over by his nurse. They had the board and dice on the table and every now and then we would hear cheering from one and complaints from the others as luck made its choice.
I shouldn’t have been there at all. In the room, perhaps, sewing quietly on a bench a little way behind, but not sitting beside her. This was another of Donna Maria’s madnesses. She had it in her head that if she behaved outrageously in lots of ways then no one would notice her one huge outrage. It was only when Donna Maria Carafa left that the painful tangle in my stomach began to ease.
For the visit, Donna Maria made sure all the serving dishes were changed for the beautiful blue ones that came from Firenze and were only used at feasts. She’d also instructed that the fine tapestries hanging in her chamber should be moved to the sala, and she had me dress her in a gown that was trimmed with silver thread and white fur at the neck and wrist. The purpose of all this care made me even more uncomfortable. It was quite usual for things to be moved about the place, but the particular and unnecessary show, plus the elevating of servants such as myself, would be greeted very badly by the other ladies Donna Maria visited.
Don Carlo was often away hunting and I was extremely glad of it. He’d looked at me coolly ever since returning to Napoli, and Laura told me that she’d heard a remark by him that
mentioned my name and the word ‘witch’ close together. Nothing could be more dreadful. She was lying, I told myself, although I’d seen the gleam of triumph in her eyes. I avoided Don Carlo if I could, but when Donna Maria took it into her head to give me status that I wasn’t due and certainly didn’t want, I knew that he would come to a very unfavourable conclusion. If Salvo had had something apart from a crucifix nearby to drop into the castle’s music room, Don Carlo might have sought the ear of the Inquisition.
The only people excited about the party were Donna Maria and Margarita, who was a little cross that her birthday had gone by without such a celebration, but she was given promises and I was to sew new sleeves and a bodice for her. The menu and matter of who was going to be seated where at the table for the evening feast took much discussion. Don Carlo would be on one side of his wife, but who would be on the other?
‘Do you remember the last feast?’ I said to Donna Maria after she’d agreed on only eleven courses and I’d given the cook a long list of requirements.
‘Oh, Silvia. How could I forget?’ She laughed like a gleeful child. ‘Did I tell you that Fabrizio grasped my hand under the tablecloth?’
‘Many times, my lady. Shall we try the new way with your hair now?’ I was determined that her unruly hair should be plaited and pinned into the new net, and it wasn't easy. And probably I pulled too hard.
‘Ow!’ she said. ‘Take care.’
‘I’m sorry, but …’
‘Oh, what is it, Silvia? You seem so vexed this morning.’
I hesitated but could not hold back. ‘Please don’t sit with Don Fabrizio again, my lady. I beg you. It would be a terrible mistake. It really would.’ I stood quite still with one of her braids in my hand.
For a while she was silent and I could not tell her feelings, but then she reached up and took my hand, holding it against her cheek.
‘I’m glad you’re here, Silvia,’ she said, with the catch of tears in her voice. ‘Please don’t think badly of me. I hardly know what to do these days.’
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