Good, I thought. Word still hadn’t got round the villa that Gabrielle Fouquet was really Grisella Amato. I wasn’t ready to face the questions that revelation would bring just yet.
A new voice chimed in, and I recognized Mario’s bald tones. “I just hope the constable and his men catch that madman soon. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder all the time. Besides, we need to get back to Venice.”
“Just so,” his brother Lucca added. “We’ll have to hustle to find positions for the new opera season. I suppose our old chairs at the San Moise are already filled.”
A loud rattle followed, and I pictured coffee slopping over the rim of a delicate cup. “Don’t speak to me of the new season,” Octavia thundered. “I won’t hear a word about arias or librettos or composers. Especially not lying, deceiving, snake-in-the-grass composers.”
A moment of strained silence.
Romeo spoke up warily. “I suppose you’ll be glad to get us all out of your hair.”
Octavia must have signaled her agreement in no uncertain terms, because Emilio instantly turned peevish.
“We’re certainly not here for our health,” the castrato complained. “Captain Forti has made prisoners of us, and now that the peasant’s flight proves his guilt, I don’t understand why. The murders are solved. It’s just a matter of bringing the man in to face justice.”
Romeo’s bass rumbled, “I suppose the constable wants to be certain he acted alone. After all…”
I heard soft footfalls on carpet an instant before a subdued male voice murmured behind me: “Good morning, Tito.”
A hand fell on my shoulder. Hoping I didn’t appear as furtive as I felt, I turned to face Vincenzo. His face was haggard, the skin gray and loose as a husk.
“Are you coming in to breakfast?”
I shook my head. “I was just thinking that my appetite seems to have deserted me.”
He smiled weakly. “We must keep our strength up, though, mustn’t we. It won’t do to let events beat us down.”
“Just now, a bit of air would do me more good than food. I’m going for a walk.”
“Suit yourself.” He sighed and entered the dining room as if girding himself for battle.
So much for above stairs, but what about the servants? Since Vincenzo had just come down, his valet would be clearing up his bath and shaving gear. The footmen would be waiting at table, perhaps ferrying dishes to or from the kitchen by the back stairs. If I could be sure that Nita or the other maid wasn’t out in the kitchen garden, I could proceed in the direction of the stable undetected.
After retrieving my outdoor attire from the cloakroom, I took the stairs that led down to the kitchen and hurried along the narrow passage. The minutes seemed to be flying by, and I cursed myself for listening too long outside the dining room. At the kitchen, I paused with my cloak slung over my arm. Pots bubbled over the fire, releasing billows of steam that shrouded the smoke-stained bricks. Nita was standing at the long table with her back to me. She seemed totally engrossed in plucking feathers off a goose, and her helper was nowhere in sight.
I continued along the passage more slowly, nosing my way through the unfamiliar warren of larders and work rooms. Soon a rhythmic thumping met my ears, accompanied by unmistakable gasps and moans. Ah, the other maid. But who was sharing her pleasure?
Creeping silently, I peered around the edge of a dingy curtain at the entrance to a long, narrow storage room. Enough light filtered down from a dirty window near the ceiling for me to make out oil jars, baskets of potatoes, pails, and sacks of other provisions stacked along the wall. At the far end of the space was a heaving tangle of bare flesh atop some folded sacks. The thinner of the two maids had her skirt bunched around her waist. One of Captain Forti’s deputies was taking her from behind, and she winced with each thrust. Yes, I was certain the man was a deputy. His blue coat with the bright brass buttons lay discarded on the tiles.
Running on tiptoe, I tried first one passage and then another until I located an outside door. Once on the sunny path that ringed the back lawn, I pulled my watch from a waistcoat pocket. Only ten minutes until Gussie planned to slip into the stables.
Though the blood was coursing through my veins, I forced myself to saunter like a man with no particular destination. I passed the sprawling vegetable garden, several barrows piled with orange pumpkins, the shed that held the olive press, and finally reached the stable yard.
The yard formed a stone quadrangle open on one end with carriage bays to my left, empty kennels before me, and the building that housed the horses forming the other side. In the center of the yard was a hitching post, and against this leaned a boy on a backless chair, cracking hazelnuts for all he was worth.
I hailed the fellow with a cheery greeting and a twiddle of my fingers. “Going for a little walk,” I announced, exaggerating my already high speaking voice. I pointed my stick at the grove of elm and hazel that spread out on a gentle incline beyond the stables. “Can’t get lost in these woods, can I?”
He turned a rum eye on me, seeing just what I wanted him to. The infamous exploits of many of my fellow singers had led people, even stable boys, to expect certain things of a castrato: refined manners, extravagant impulses, a delicate sensibility, and above all, more talent than brains.
Not ceasing his nutcracking, the boy called back, “No one is supposed to go off the estate.”
“Oh, yes, I know.” I tittered a high laugh as I continued on toward the trees. “I’m not going far, just a morning stroll on a beautiful day.”
I found the grove perfect for my purpose. Under the trees, its lush soil nurtured a thicket of small bushes, ferns, and thick vines. Above, the hazels’ broad leaves were turning brown, and higher still, the elms were shriveled and yellow. Enough foliage remained on the branches to throw great patches of undergrowth into dusky shadow. As I leaned on my stick, envisioning my next move, a bird hooted, mellow and throaty. I took it as my clarion call.
With a carefully modulated shriek designed to carry no farther than the stable yard, I turned and ran back down the path. My feet churned up dust and small rocks went flying. The boy darted out of the stable yard, and I called, “Help me, please. For the love of God.”
Under a tangle of dark hair, the boy’s broad face registered surprise and irritation. Swiping his hair from his eyes, he half-turned toward the villa.
“No, don’t run off.” I spoke in a terrified whisper as I skidded to a halt. “You must come with me. That mad murderer is loose in the wood. I saw him.”
“Then I must fetch a deputy, Signore.”
The boy was poised to flee, so I seized him by the collar of his faded jacket.
“No, no. You mustn’t leave me here alone. The killer that Captain Forti is chasing is hiding in the woods. He’s stalking me, I’m certain, but I can’t run another step.” I huffed and puffed and, for good measure, patted my heart dramatically. “You can’t run off with that monster loose.”
The boy curled his lip. “It’s only that crazy old mute, Santini,” he replied with the arrogance of the young and healthy. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“You can catch him, then. Come—” I tugged at his collar. “I’ll show you where I saw him. It’s just into the wood, not far.”
The boy dug in his heels, casting a glance back into the stable yard. I used the silver knob on my stick to turn his face squarely back toward me. I’d seen something he hadn’t: Gussie peering around the corner of the building.
“Think what a hero you can be. If you capture Santini, the older fellows will come back and be forced to hang their heads in shame.”
His dark eyes glowed. “Will there be a reward?” he asked as he shifted energetically from foot to foot.
“I shouldn’t be surprised. If you can bring Santini in, I’ll contribute a zecchino myself.”
He
thought less than a moment before grabbing a hay fork and taking off for the wood. As he brandished his makeshift weapon, his excited treble rang out, “Hurry, Signore, show me where you saw him.”
Cleto, as the boy was known, turned out to be a tireless tracker. He poked his long fork in every bush and weedy hillock of the grove, and I suffered more than a few pangs of guilt as he insisted on searching far longer than I knew to be necessary. When we finally headed back to the stable yard, Cleto looked so dejected that I gave him his zecchino anyway. I held another in reserve if he got in trouble over Alfana’s disappearance.
***
I passed the next several hours in the most acute state of anxiety, believing that Gussie was speeding toward Venice, but not certain. What if Alfana stepped in a rabbit hole? What if Gussie reached the Brenta too late for the Burchiello? Grisella also caused me a good deal of grief.
My sister rose in the late morning. Pale and listless in one of her plainer gowns of midnight blue, she shakily installed herself on a chaise in the salon and took a steady stream of condolences. Mario surprised me by giving her an impromptu concert on his violin, and Octavia set up her embroidery frame near at hand. Thus, Grisella was never alone and that suited me just fine. She kept sending me timorous smiles and once or twice suggested that a walk might lift her spirits. I ignored her by keeping my nose buried in some month-old gazettes. Just then, I didn’t care to engage in another emotional scene with my sister.
Near dinner time, Vincenzo wandered in and crossed the salon to gaze wistfully out toward his back lawn. The musicians were clustered around the harpsichord talking among themselves, and Octavia was gamefully trying to demonstrate a new embroidery stitch for the unheeding Grisella. There wouldn’t be a better time to catch Vincenzo alone, so I joined him at the glass doors and asked him to step out on the loggia. He agreed with a disinterested nod.
The day had grown warmer than October had a right to be, and a light breeze had sprung up. For a moment, Vincenzo and I stood at the loggia rail drinking in the fine weather that was quite capable of turning bitter within a matter of hours. Then I explained that we’d had a letter about an emergency at home and confessed to Gussie’s theft of Alfana. I ended with the assurance that the horse would be returned forthwith.
Vincenzo sighed. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get my paintings of the estate, will I?”
His question silenced me for a moment. The master of the villa was more concerned over paintings than the unintended loan of a good horse? “Signor Dolfini,” I said haltingly, “I confess that the news from Venice was so dire that Gussie didn’t even consider his work. I’m sure he’ll make some arrangement to finish your scenes once this crisis has passed.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why do you say that?”
Vincenzo shrugged his broad shoulders. “Six months ago, I came here with the highest hopes you could imagine—a peaceful retreat from the city, crops and animals flourishing under my care, a veritable paradise. I thought this was where I belonged, but I was a fool. What a mess I’ve made of it all.”
“Running a farm is difficult. You must give yourself time to learn the ways of the country.”
“I could live here for ten years and not be a successful farmer. I believed the grape harvest wouldn’t be harmed by a few days either way. Ernesto warned me, but I pressed forward, and now we’re stuck with a vintage they tell me will taste no better than horse piss.” He shook his head and his hands tightened on the railing. “My instincts are for manufacturing, not agriculture, and it appears that I’m too old to change.”
The sorrow in his voice made me forget my own worries for the moment. “Signor Dolfini, you condemn yourself too severely. You are hardly old, and you have an excellent steward to guide you in your new pursuit.”
“Ernesto must think I’m a terrible meddler. I try to put what I’ve read into practice, but apparently you can’t learn farming from a book. I get in Ernesto’s way more than anything else. If only I had been born on the land as he was, instead of on our crowded island.”
“Think of it this way—once the casting of iron implements must have been a complete mystery to you, but gradually you came to know that trade like the back of your hand. You can learn farming the same way. I know many singers who were forced to master another calling when their voices could no longer support them. One of them now runs a very prosperous vineyard.”
“Truly?” he asked, a hopeful smile hovering on his lips.
I nodded vigorously, but his smile died.
“But that singer hasn’t had three people murdered on his estate, has he?”
“No,” I admitted, “but unless you’re the murderer, you can hardly blame yourself for that, can you?”
As my companion stared mournfully toward the distant hills, Octavia fluttered her handkerchief at the salon door. “Vincenzo,” she screeched. “You’re wanted. Santini has been captured.”
The master of the estate whirled and hurried across the sun swept tiles.
I followed, feeling a prickle of dread along my spine.
***
“We found him up in the hills, hiding in a deserted charcoal burner’s hut.” Ernesto jumped down from a black wagon driven by one of Captain Forti’s deputies. “Now they’re holding him in the lock-up at Molina Mori.”
The front drive was crowded with laborers who must have been working close enough to the road to see the wagon trundle up from the village. They clustered around Ernesto, and their excited questions seemed to bedevil the steward as sorely as a swarm of mosquitoes. Batting his hands in front of his face, Ernesto climbed the steps to the columned portico.
Vincenzo and Octavia waited at the top, surrounded by musicians and servants. Grisella hovered near me until I sidestepped away and planted myself beside a waist-high jardinière of vines and geraniums.
“Captain Forti sent the wagon to fetch his deputies,” Ernesto said. He swayed on his feet, face gray with fatigue. “He’s called them back in and says the singers are free to go.”
A loud cheer arose from the Gecco brothers and they both scrambled back inside the house. To pack their trunks, I presumed. Romeo and Emilio nodded cheerfully, but stayed outside to hear the rest of the news. I glanced at Grisella just long enough to see her eyes also light up.
“Forti didn’t come with you?” Vincenzo asked.
“No, we found Santini early this morning and the constable questioned him as soon as we returned to Molina Mori. It took Captain Forti several hours, but he finally got the confession he wanted. Now he’s gone to secure a warrant to have Santini moved to the jail in Padua.”
Vincenzo swallowed hard. “Did they hurt him badly?”
“How else would Captain Forti get Santini to admit to the three murders? Only hours before, after I was forced to help those brutes take him, Santini swore to me that he’d had nothing to do with any of the deaths.”
Several voices, mostly those of my fellow musicians, chimed in with support for Captain Forti. Emilio’s scathing soprano carried more loudly than the others: “Of course, the peasant would say he was innocent once he’s been arrested. But Carmela’s nightshift was practically in his bed. And he ran, for God’s sake.”
In brusque tones, Vincenzo ordered everyone to be silent, then placed a hand on the exhausted steward’s shoulder. “Tell us how he was captured.”
Ernesto shuddered and passed a hand over his brow. He began in a level voice, “I used to take Santini with me when I went up into the hills to secure fuel for the stoves. A charcoal burner maintained a kiln there for many years, but when the timber began to run out, he moved on and the kiln went cold. It’s been several years, but I thought Santini might remember and seek refuge there. Sure enough, we found tracks leading to the hut. Captain Forti wanted to burst in with pistols cocked, but I convinced him to let me risk only myself. Call
ing Santini’s name, I pushed the door open and found him huddled in the corner. He was in a pitiful state, filthy, cold, hungry.”
Ernesto heaved a sigh and continued, “He trusts me, so I was able to keep him calm and allow himself to be put in the manacles. I rode in the wagon beside him all the way back to Molina Mori, surrounded by deputies. In his hoarse whispers, Santini swore his innocence over and over… by the Blood of the Savior, by the bones of Saint Mark… on his dear mother’s salvation…”
Ernesto trembled violently. His voice rose. “When we reached the village, I begged Forti to listen to reason. But the constable was too busy showing off his prize to Mayor Bartoli and every lazy facchini who gathered round. The deputies dragged Santini into the lock-up and barred the door to me. I found my way to an alley behind the building and listened to him scream while they did their worst. I beat on the bricks… trying somehow to make them stop… but there was nothing I could do…”
Ernesto’s voice faltered. He hung his head and gazed at his hands, which I now saw were bruised and swollen. All at once, the steward’s sturdy shoulders began to shake in gasping sobs. He twisted his neck, fighting the tears that engulfed him.
Vincenzo’s eyes went wide with shock, but he soon collected himself and encircled the smaller man in a solid embrace. Pounding Ernesto on the back, he said, “You’ve done everything a man of honor could do. Now you must rest and tend to yourself.”
The steward shook his head wildly, but Vincenzo continued in masterful tones, “You’re no good to Santini or me in this condition, and we both need you at your best. Ah, here is your good wife. Let her take you home…”
I hadn’t noticed Pia joining the group of workers who had hung on every word of Ernesto’s story, but now many hands pushed her forward. After a shy curtsy to Vincenzo, she took charge of her husband and led him away.
The black wagon, bearing the full complement of deputies, was already halfway down the drive. The crowd began drifting away, the laborers and servants shaking their heads and muttering among themselves. I thought I knew why. They had worked alongside Santini for many years, knew his character and his limitations through and through. Like me, they understood he was no more capable of carrying out the elaborate midnight murders than an African ape.
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 25