As I was losing myself in that wonderful fairy tale, the harbinger of truth was trotting through the door, white-faced and terrified.
“Signori,” cried the young footman Adamo. “Help, please. Upstairs.”
Chapter Fifteen
From the door of the chamber, nothing in the lamp-lit room looked amiss. The room’s one bed was several steps away; its bedspread of Lombardy lace held an untidy pile of men’s clothing, and Jean-Louis’ jacket hung over a bedpost. Across the room, before the flickering fireplace, a hip bath sat in a nest of Turkish toweling. Jean-Louis filled the tub. He had his back to the door and his feet stretched toward the warmth of the flames. A rolled up towel supported his head against the lip of the tin tub. Quite comfortable, it appeared, as Jean-Louis was very still. Asleep, Grisella had said.
But Adamo hadn’t summoned us because Jean-Louis was sleeping.
I turned back toward the corridor, intent on intercepting Grisella, but didn’t see my sister. Instead Vincenzo was rushing toward me with Alphonso on his heels. Master and valet quickly moved to the tub to gaze down on Jean-Louis. Vincenzo stared with eyes bulging and mouth agape. Alphonso turned the color of a fish’s belly and made a run for the door. I took his place, dimly aware of Gussie and the others bunching in behind me.
I must have been becoming accustomed to corpses, because I trembled only slightly at this one. Jean-Louis’ usual cool stare had changed to round-eyed surprise, probably at the weapon that had punctured his throat. From near his jaw, a strange object protruded at an acute angle. It was a brass shaft that ended in a round disk with a hole in its center. Blood trailed from the place where it met Jean-Louis’ white neck, changed course at his collar bone, and meandered through the black hairs sprinkled over his chest. It seemed a very small trickle, but it was enough to make the tub water glisten like liquid rubies.
“What is that thing sticking out of his throat?” Vincenzo shivered despite his quilted dressing gown. “Some sort of dagger?”
“It’s one of the hands from the clock in the hall.” To my horror, I heard laughter welling out of my throat but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Our murderer couldn’t find his pendulum, so he was forced to pillage the clock for another weapon.”
Vincenzo sent me a dark glance. “Adamo, go check the clock,” he ordered.
As the slap of energetic footfalls sounded down the corridor, I forced myself to calm down and take a cooler look. The crimson water had overflowed the tub and soaked into the margins of the white toweling, and a puddle had formed around the soap and scrub brush that lay near Jean-Louis’ flaccid right hand. At his left hand, an overturned brandy glass caught the firelight.
The footman returned, bursting through the door. “Signor Amato is right about the clock. The big hand is gone.”
Grisella followed Adamo into the room. Clutching her spangled scarf to her stomach, she breathed in shallow gasps. “You all ran out of the salon so fast, I couldn’t keep up with you.” She took hold of a bedpost for support and searched our grim faces. “What has happened? Is Jean-Louis ill?”
As she pushed away from the bed, I sprang to block her path. “You mustn’t see this,” I said. “He’s been stabbed. He’s dead.”
“No, not my husband!” With a wail of anguish, she put her hands to her face and doubled over. I embraced her, and she leaned her weight against me like a trusting child. As we crept from the chamber together, I dimly heard Vincenzo ask, “Is Captain Forti still about the place?”
I steered Grisella next door to my room. As soon as I had her in the chair, she collapsed with head thrown back and eyelids flickering. Gussie quickly fetched another glass of brandy from the decanter downstairs. Little by little, taking small sips from the glass in my hand, she soon revived sufficiently to converse. First I gently described the method by which the Frenchman had been killed, then I asked a few questions.
“When did you leave Jean-Louis?”
“I don’t know exactly. So much has happened this evening, I’ve lost track of the time.” Twin daubs of color stained Grisella’s pale cheeks, and her dark eyes seemed as round as saucers. “He made me scrub his back and talk to him while he soaked. He nodded off gradually… Jean-Louis drinks wine like mother’s milk, but brandy always puts him to sleep… at least, it did…” She sighed and continued, “Once I saw he was snoring, I came straight down to the salon.”
I thought back. “That must have been around eleven o’clock.”
She nodded miserably.
“Was anyone else upstairs?”
“Some servants were moving around earlier, but I didn’t see anyone on my way down.”
“Octavia?”
My sister shook her head gravely. “All was quiet in her corridor.”
“Vincenzo gave her a sleeping powder,” said Gussie, shrugging. “I heard Nita say while we were still eating.”
I considered, gnawing at a knuckle. I already suspected my sister of being more involved with the deaths in Constantinople than she would admit, and from her own mouth, I had heard how Jean-Louis misused her. Now he was dead. I had to ask the question.
“Grisella, did you stab Jean-Louis?”
A wary light flashed in her eyes, but she answered without hesitation. “No, Tito. I swear on my soul that Jean-Louis was sleeping peacefully in his bath when I left our room.”
One thing made me believe her. Death must have been nearly instantaneous for Jean-Louis, but the damp stains that soaked the toweling around the tub indicated he had churned up a few splashes in his death throes. I saw no way that Grisella could have committed that murder without getting a drop of blood-red water on her white clothing, and a red stain would have been even more evident than the brown coffee spill that trailed down the front of her robe.
“Don’t think ill of me.” She lifted trembling hands to her brow, and her mouth pulled to one side. “Have pity on me, brother. I need your help now more than ever.”
“Why do you need me? You are an accomplished soprano. You can go back to Paris and make your own arrangements. You are well known there, and the theater managers are sure to embrace you.”
“I can’t, Tito. Don’t you see? I’ve never been on my own. I don’t know how to make travel arrangements or negotiate contracts. Besides, I need someone to look after me when the fits are at their worst.”
“You could hire a companion,” I suggested. “Or find a manager who won’t abuse you as Jean-Louis did. Someone worthy of your trust.”
“Trust?!” She sprang from the chair, wringing her scarf in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. “How do I know who to trust? I left my home and my family for a man who promised his eternal love. Instead, he tired of me in the space of a year and gave me to his brothers to use at their pleasure. The last of them sold me off to a Russian who treated me no better. Vladimir always promised to take me back to St. Petersburg, but he lied, too. When his work in Constantinople was finished, he meant to pass me off to a Turk. Monsters! All of them!”
Swaying on her feet, Grisella burst into wild, convulsive sobs. Gussie patted her shoulder while murmuring, “There, there,” and I fetched her scarf that had fallen to the floor. When I pressed it into her hand, she embraced me with all her might.
My own arms seemed to tighten around her trembling body with a will of their own.
Grisella whispered, voice brimming with entreaty, “Don’t you understand, Tito? You are the only one I trust—the only person in the world who can help me. There was never a woman more wretched than I—never a woman more in need of her family. You must take me home.” She tilted her head back and looked me in the eye. “Please, you must. I promise you will never be sorry. I’ll be the meekest, most biddable sister that ever was. I’ll let myself be guided by you and Annetta in all things.”
How could I refuse her? With her husband in all but name dead a few p
aces away? Only a brother with a heart of ice could betray her as so many others had done.
***
It was my turn to be questioned. At long last.
Once Captain Forti had arrived, official wheels had begun to turn. Everyone in the villa had been herded into the salon under the watchful eyes of a pair of deputies stationed between the fluted entrance columns. One by one, we had been summoned. I’d watched as singers and servants had returned from Captain Forti with expressions that spanned anxiety to relief. After giving her statement, Grisella had curled herself into the corner of the sofa with head bowed and hand to her brow.
Now I was the last but one. Gussie was the only other person who hadn’t been questioned.
“Signor Amato,” a deputy announced in a flat tone.
Heartened by a flashing smile from my brother-in-law, I rose and followed the man out of the salon. If he knew he was escorting a singer who had entertained kings and princes, he didn’t show it. Like the other deputies, he was merely a peasant who had traded a lifetime tied to another man’s land for a uniform with shiny buttons. Our footfalls echoed down the long corridor and challenged the oppressive silence that pervaded the villa. The air was so tense and still, the very house might have been holding its breath.
The deputy delivered me to Vincenzo’s study. Bookshelves covered the walls, punctuated here and there by maps of the estate and its environs. Captain Forti had installed himself behind Vincenzo’s desk as if he were the master of the villa or perhaps the entire territory. In the lamplight, the varnished walnut desktop glowed like a watery expanse. Floating on its surface was one lone sheet of paper turned writing side down.
The constable rubbed his jaw as he gave me a cold, silent assessment. He did not invite me to sit. He had brought a black-clad secretary who was stationed at a smaller clerk’s desk with quill and ink pot ready to take notes.
“Statement of Tito Amato,” Captain Forti barked at the secretary.
The particulars were quickly disposed of. Under rapid-fire questioning, I accounted for my whereabouts all evening and named the people who had been eating and drinking together for the several hours leading up to Jean-Louis’ murder.
“So,” the constable continued more slowly. “While the opera company was drowning its disappointment in spirits, the only persons unaccounted for were a few servants, Signor and Signora Dolfini… and your sister.”
It was not a question, but a statement of fact. Grisella must have told Captain Forti of our true relationship. Why? My mouth had gone dry and the pause was reaching an uncomfortable length when I simply answered, “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you inform me that you and Madame Fouquet are related?” The constable’s teeth clicked impatiently.
“I didn’t think it had any bearing on the murders.”
“You think, eh?”
There was the scratch of the secretary’s pen, then another silent pause.
Captain Forti continued, “Once again, you’re trespassing on my territory. Your wrong-headed deductions are becoming a nuisance. Just give me the truth and I’ll interpret it.”
“Yes, Captain. I understand.”
“Good. Now we might get somewhere.” He nodded tersely. “Did your sister and her husband have a contented marriage?”
“Sticking strictly to the truth, Jean-Louis Fouquet was not Grisella’s husband—that’s my sister’s given name—Grisella.”
He nodded again.
I went on, “She and Jean-Louis merely lived together as man and wife without the blessing of a priest. Did Grisella tell you that, as well?”
“She did not, but somehow I’m not surprised. You opera people are steeped in false identities and stage deceptions. The principles of decent folk mean nothing to you.”
I felt my face reddening. “Don’t paint us all with the same brush, Captain.”
“No? Do you deny that you have a renegade Jewess living in your home as your mistress?”
The constable pressed on before my astonished tongue could respond. “When I was first informed of the nasty business here at the Villa Dolfini, I sent a man to make a few inquiries in Venice. I like to know who I’m dealing with, you see. It’s quite a menagerie you have there on the Campo dei Polli.” He showed his unnaturally white teeth in a grimace. “Now, I ask you again. Did your sister and her so-called husband get on well?”
“Before coming to prepare Maestro Weber’s opera, I had not seen Grisella for many years,” I answered carefully. “But from what I’ve gathered in the past few days, they had differing ideas about how her career should be conducted.”
“Did Fouquet treat her cruelly?”
“Surely that’s for her to say.”
“She admits that he beat her.”
“Well, then—”
“But only after I confronted her with the statements that others had given. According to your fellow singers, she sometimes had bruises.”
I wet my lips. “That is true.”
“Had you offered to intercede between your sister and… Monsieur Fouquet.”
“We had discussed the possibility of her returning to the family home in Venice.”
“Without Monsieur Fouquet.”
“That’s right.”
The secretary penned frantically.
Captain Forti nodded grimly. “Was the Frenchman included in that discussion?”
“No. If it came to Grisella leaving Jean-Louis, we were going to inform him when it seemed judicious to do so.”
“And when would that be? Surely you and your sister had some understanding between you.”
I gaped at the man, more than a little disconcerted by the tack the constable’s questions were taking. The last thing I wanted was to be pushed into discussing Alessandro’s letters and the strains they had caused between Grisella and me. “I can’t really say,” I answered vaguely. “We hadn’t decided on a definite course of events, but I was thinking we should wait until the end of rehearsals here, when the opera was ready to be taken to the theater in Venice.”
“Why?”
“Well, such a discussion was bound to cause a bit of unpleasantness…”
“More than a bit, I should think.” Captain Forti slowly rose to his feet. Using one forefinger, he gave the paper on the desk a push. It sailed toward me, and I made a grab for it.
“Look it over,” he continued.
Greatly puzzled, I ran my eyes over a standard theatrical contract notarized with an embossed seal. I’d signed many of these in my time, including one for Tamerlano, but this wasn’t my contract. Madame Gabrielle Fouquet was named as the artist, and Jean-Louis had signed as her representative. The thing that made me gulp was the salary. For her role as Asteria, Grisella would receive half again what I’d been promised. Either Karl or Octavia must have been absolutely determined to tempt Grisella away from Paris.
Captain Forti was staring at me, grinding his teeth.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Signor Dolfini supplied it from his records. A generous sum is it not?”
I had to agree that it was.
“Exactly.” Captain Forti leaned forward, fingers splayed on the shiny desktop. “Not a sum that Jean-Louis Fouquet would simply wave goodby to as you and your sister skipped down the road to Venice without him.”
“He was entitled to a percentage. We could have made some suitable arrangement.”
“Why should he agree to forfeit any of what he expected? Indeed—why should you?”
I drew a long shuddering breath. “What are you implying?”
“That perhaps the easiest way to rid yourselves of the Frenchman was to kill him.”
My jaw dropped. “You can’t suspect me. After the concert broke up, I was in the dining room or salon the entire evening.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A few exaggerated words from Emilio and Captain Forti believed that I had schemed with Grisella to kill Jean-Louis. My temples began to throb; the blood drummed in my ears.
Meeting the constable’s uncompromising gaze, I said, “You’re on the wrong track, Captain. I had nothing to do with the man’s death, and I don’t see how Grisella could have either. She came down from their room without a drop of blood on the Turkish costume she’d been wearing all evening and joined in our talk without the slightest sign of distress.”
“I’ve yet to work it all out, Signor Amato, but I will in time. My method is simple and sure. I come upon something that doesn’t smell right and follow its trail wherever it leads. The secrecy over your relationship, the story your sister just told me about her flight from Constantinople—it all smells to high heaven. Why would a decent Italian woman consent to live among infidels? Or pretend to be French? Upon my soul, I don’t know which is worse.”
I took an involuntary step back. I wanted to scream at the constable’s stupidity but forced myself to be silent. Captain Forti was a man on a mission, hot on the trail of his latest quarry. He was so convinced that he was right, anything I might say would only make things worse. I was certain his next words would order my arrest, but a brisk rapping intervened.
Displaying a toothy scowl, Captain Forti shifted his eyes to the door. “Come in,” he ordered in a raised voice.
The same deputy who had conducted me to the study entered, clutching Ernesto in an iron grip. He pushed the sweating, rumpled steward forward and announced, “The peasant Santini has escaped, and this man refuses to answer any questions. We just barely stopped him from going after Santini himself.”
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 23