Vincenzo might share my qualms. On the loggia, he’d had the look of a sad, beaten man. His face was still ashen, but his flared nostrils and clenched jaw told me that his disappointment had turned to anger. Without further conversation, Vincenzo strode down the portico stairs, and set off in the direction of the barchessa with new determination.
Octavia was a different story. For the first time since Karl’s wife had intruded on the concert, Octavia was her old, high-handed self. Beaming a broad smile, she gave instructions that dinner be hastened so that we could all make plans to leave the villa. A carriage could be provided, baskets of food for the road. She trotted inside—to make a list, no doubt. Romeo and Emilio trailed in her wake.
A few steps away, Grisella stood with pale hands crossed over her dark mourning clothes. She had listened to Ernesto’s tale in wide-eyed wonder; now she narrowed her gaze to slits and glided toward me. Her skirts made a dry rustle on the portico tiles, and a smile thinned her lips. “When will we be leaving for Venice, Tito?”
The question was asked softly, but it burned my ears like acid.
I don’t think I answered with so much as a grunt. Suddenly filled with panic, I felt my heart hammering in my chest and every sinew in my legs taut as a bow string. Without conscious thought, I turned and ran.
My flying steps took me around the house in the opposite direction from that Vincenzo had taken. Past the stables where Cleto looked up from his nutcracking with a puzzled grimace. On and on until I lost myself in the woods I had used for my play-acting only that morning.
Chapter Seventeen
Somewhere on the hillside, I slowed to a walk. Sweat soaked my neckcloth, and my raspy breath was the loudest sound in the grove. I trudged on, acutely aware that I was only putting off the inevitable. Before the day was over, I would have to break my sister’s heart, but just then I needed to close my mind to everything except simply moving forward.
The woods became thicker, closing in with the odor of dying vegetation. Mushrooms configured in obscene shapes sprouted from fallen branches, and above, the ragged orange and gold leaves changed to a uniform brown. The dwindling path grew steeper, leading me on until it split at the summit of a ridge.
The left-hand fork plunged into deep gloom that would have made a wonderful stage-set for a descent to the underworld. Lichen-furred rocks fell away in natural stairsteps, and shoulder-high bushes fingered thorny branches across the path. The other fork appeared to continue a short way before emerging into a sunlit clearing. Being no fool, I directed my steps in that direction, paused for a moment in the last of the cool shade, then narrowed my eyes as I stepped into the light.
An outcropping of limestone made a natural vantage point for the plain below. Marveling at the view, I found a convenient boulder and sat down to catch my breath. The air was so clear, the distant cone-shaped hills appeared to be within a mere ten minutes’ walk. Their slopes flamed with autumn glory, but the estate that spread out directly below held greater interest for me.
The Villa Dolfini inhabited the land in a harmonious sweep of avenue, house, lake, and gardens. Farther from the main house, at the heart of the estate, tenant workers’ cottages sat at the border of vineyards and fields. Merely tracing the paths that wandered between red-roofed buildings and ripe crops was a balm to my burning brain. From this distance, all appeared tranquil, lush, productive. It was almost impossible to believe that three murders had occurred within those peaceful confines.
With chin in hand and elbow on knee, I tried to picture the villa as it must have been two centuries ago, newly built. From then until now, its people had toiled in mutual dependence and put down roots as deep as the trees in the woods behind me. One man alone cannot cultivate the land and tend the animals. It requires many hands, each bringing different skills and talents. And over it all the landowner must reign as a benevolent ruler. Grapes and grains and olives cannot be bullied. Especially grapes, as Vincenzo had found to his sorrow.
Vincenzo. I scratched my chin. Poor Vincenzo, so well-meaning and enthusiastic, yet so ineffective. According to Nita, life at the villa had been good until the grief-stricken Annibale Luvisi allowed it to pass into the hands of the iron merchant and his ambitious, opera-mad wife. Vincenzo might understand every last detail of iron working, but the nurturing relationship of the landowner to his estate eluded him. He had allowed Octavia to squander extravagant sums on famous singers while the basic needs of the farm were ignored. No wonder he and his steward had clashed.
At the thought of Ernesto, my gaze lit on his neat cottage drowsing under the bright blue sky. A thread of white smoke ascended from its chimney. A woman, the magnificent Pia I presumed, came out of the house and crossed to the garden with a basket on her hip. I watched as she bent to pick something for Ernesto and the boys’ supper. I didn’t find Pia nearly as entrancing as Gussie did, but I had to agree with his theory that she was one of the prime reasons Vincenzo resented having to leave the countryside for Venice.
Pia’s husband must be within, still smarting over Captain Forti’s arrest of the hapless Santini. Ernesto fretted over the mute like his own flesh and blood. Even accounting for the excellent care that the steward lavished on everything connected with the estate, his shielding of Santini seemed oddly out of proportion. But that was Ernesto, as proud of the Villa Dolfini as if it were his own.
Ernesto. I sat up tall, brushing away a bee that buzzed near my ear. Observing the villa from this height, letting my mind rove back through my stay, I began to examine the steward from a fresh perspective. Suddenly, separate incidents that had seemed unrelated began to arrange themselves into an orderly flow.
At the beginning of the planting season, the Dolfinis had arrived to upset the time-tested balance that kept the Villa Dolfini running smoothly. Who would have been most discomfited by the new regime? Ernesto, of course. To protect the people and animals and crops that depended on him, the steward had extended himself to the utmost. Still, Vincenzo’s meddling and Octavia’s whims had undermined his efforts.
How perplexed Ernesto must have been to see a troupe of singers invade the villa, how frustrated to have his grape harvest threatened. In addition to those insults, the new master might be bedding his own wife. How much could the conscientious steward be expected to endure? Ernesto must have wanted the Dolfinis off the estate more than anything else in the world.
That must be it! I slapped my palm on my thigh. Ernesto committed the murders to send Vincenzo and Octavia running straight back to the city where they so obviously belonged. A warm rush of relief suffused me. Grisella was most certainly a liar, but she wasn’t an outright killer. Ernesto was our midnight murderer. He had to be.
I shifted excitedly on my rocky seat, staring down at the steward’s house as if my eyes could bore a hole straight through the roof tiles. Why had I not suspected Ernesto before? The man had a sense of nobility about him, it was true, but he also had convenient access to the villa. Opening and closing the shutters gave him a perfect opportunity to plot and spy. And to help him execute his plans, he took the key to the villa’s front door away with him every night.
Following my trail of thought, I could see why Santini’s arrest had thrown Ernesto into such turmoil. The steward was not a monster; he was more like a madman who appears perfectly sane until someone innocently mentions the topic that sparks his mania. In fact, Ernesto probably believed committing murder was no more a sin that culling weak animals from the herd, merely a distasteful part of his overall duty. But his well-laid scheme had come to a bad end. The innocent Santini had been accused of Ernesto’s crimes, and now the steward’s guilt knew no bounds.
I had many questions left to answer. Thanks to Alessandro’s letter that I had read only that morning, I was now certain that the Russian stranger had been one of the Empress’ agents trailing Grisella and Jean-Louis, but how had Ernesto come to put a bullet in his brain? I
could see why Carmela had been killed and immersed in the grapes; it was fitting revenge for the concert that threatened the vintage. But why had Jean-Louis been chosen as a victim? What did the prominent use of the clock signify? And perhaps most important, had Ernesto acted alone?
I recalled what the steward had said at our first meeting, when he discovered our carriage wheel bouncing over the field: Signor Luvisi and I have an understanding. He had been talking about invading Luvisi’s land to retrieve the loose sow, but what if there was more to this understanding? My curiosity had been aroused by the intense conversation the two men had been having before the concert last night. Jean-Louis’ murder had driven it from my head. Now it returned in full force.
I sprang up and trotted to the other side of the limestone outcrop. Peering down, I saw a wooded stream separating the two estates. Beyond that thread of silver, the domed Villa Luvisi shimmered in the sunlight like the phantom twin of the Villa Dolfini. If I judged correctly, the dark path that continued over the ridge would be the quickest route to the neighboring villa.
In two minutes, I was hammering down the lichen-covered stones, dodging the thorns that plucked at the fabric of my jacket.
***
Despite my disheveled appearance, Signor Luvisi received me in his study with the same grace as before. Thanks to the ever-grinding gossip mill that flourishes in country places, he had already been informed of Jean-Louis’ murder and Santini’s capture.
“It saddens me to my core,” he said, shaking his noble head. “Never has such wickedness invaded our peaceful corner of the country. Men have killed each other in the heat of anger, that’s to be expected now and again. But planned, deliberate murder? Three within the span of a few days? It’s… unthinkable.”
“Signor Dolfini seems equally affected,” I replied. “He isn’t looking at all well.”
Luvisi leaned forward in his leather chair and sent me a speculative look. “Does he agree with Captain Forti? Does he believe that Santini committed these murders?”
“I don’t think so, but Octavia and my fellow musicians seem to accept it. The shaggy peasant is such a convenient culprit. He is completely unable to defend himself, and though the peasants on the estate seem troubled by his arrest, no one is brave enough to speak up for him except Ernesto. Indeed, the steward takes his part to an astonishing degree. I find that… puzzling.”
Luvisi’s gaze turned flinty. “Puzzling or suspicious?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Hmm, still investigating, I see.” He gave my stained breeches and torn jacket a searching glance. “What have you been up to? You look as though you’ve been dragged behind a cart.”
“Actually, I’ve been up on the ridge that lies between the two estates, taking in the view and… studying the problem.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No, not today,” I answered, suddenly ravenous.
Signor Luvisi went to the door and called to a footman. Before resuming his seat, he fetched a glass of wine from a carafe and removed the lid from a china box that contained sweet biscuits. Serving me with an intimate kindness that I scarcely deserved, he said, “These will do until they bring something more substantial.”
My host watched as I refreshed myself, then continued, “If you suspect Ernesto Verdi of having anything to do with these murders, let me assure you that you are quite wrong. I’ve seldom had the pleasure of knowing a finer man, and I can only wish that my own steward were as capable.”
“Yes,” I admitted, downing a mouthful of biscuit. “Ernesto has many good qualities, but I fear that his sense of responsibility has been his undoing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Before I explain, I must request some information. I observed you and Ernesto in a heated conversation before the concert last night. Will you tell me what was said?”
Luvisi pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. An aristocrat was not in the habit of having his private conversations questioned.
“Please,” I added. “It may prove important.”
“Very well.” His deep-set eyes glowed with strong emotion. “Secrecy would serve no purpose in this case. Ernesto begged me to make another attempt to persuade Vincenzo Dolfini to sell me the estate.”
“Just last week, you told me that no one besides Vincenzo knew you had made an offer in the first place.”
“So I thought. I tend to forget that a man who is surrounded by servants is surrounded by spies.” His mouth pulled to one side in a rueful grin. “Well-meaning spies in my case, but still… not something a man likes to dwell on.”
“What did you tell Ernesto?”
“The same as I told you. For reasons that elude my humble understanding, the Lord has seen fit to put the farm in Vincenzo Dolfini’s hands. That finishes the matter as far as I’m concerned.”
“Ernesto must have been disappointed.”
“I suppose he was.” Luvisi shrugged. “Ernesto is very observant. He’s noticed how all the troubles have worn Dolfini down and thought he might be more receptive to an offer. I was flattered that Ernesto judges me to be an exemplary landowner, but my mind is made up and I told him so.”
I took a swallow of wine. “Ernesto is not the only observant man.”
The nobleman cocked his head in question.
“When you called at the Villa Dolfini with Mayor Bartoli and Padre Romano, I saw you gaze around the foyer as if you were mourning a long-lost treasure. Do you expect me to believe that you would allow Providence to snatch your ancestral villa away without so much as a whimper?”
He gazed at me for a moment, round-eyed, then burst out laughing. “Now really, Signor Amato, is this your theory? You think Ernesto killed those people to induce Dolfini to sell me the estate? That I encouraged him?”
“Perhaps,” I replied cautiously. Up on the ridge, it had all made perfect sense. In the face of Luvisi’s laughter, I began to have doubts.
Luvisi sighed. “You’re partly right. If truth be told, I would like nothing better than to see the two estates reunited, but I have resigned myself to that impossibility.”
It was my turn to silently question.
He rose and moved to prop an elbow on the mantle above the crackling fire. “I’ll tell you something I’m not proud of, Signor Amato. And as none of my servants accompanied me into Venice last month, I think it will be actual news, not picked-over gossip.”
He stared into the flames for a moment, then continued. “I have a touch of Annibale’s mania. In short, I like to gamble. But I am not one for the Ridotto. There, who knows who one is playing against? Any man with a mask and silk coat is admitted, and many a varlet learns to rig a faro game at his mother’s knee. No. I prefer to cast my lot onto the sea. The sea is merciless, but the sea doesn’t cheat.”
“You staked a great sum?”
He nodded. “I took an enormous share in a ship-load of rare goods—the finest silks, mosaics, and glassware—traveling west to recoup some of our lost trade from the Spanish and Portuguese. It was a daring enterprise. If the ship wasn’t captured by Barbary corsairs, it could go down in the stormy Gibraltar Strait or founder on the rocks. But if it reached its destination… ah, if only… then I would realize a tenfold return.”
“What happened?”
Luvisi strode to his desk. Using a small brass key from a waistcoat pocket, he opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper. Frowning, he brought it to me. “The ship went down, but of course, I am still liable for my share. This is the statement of account I picked up at the shipping office on my last trip into Venice.”
I scanned the document and whistled under my breath, quite sure I would never see such a sum no matter how famous I might become. “Are you ruined?” I asked quietly.
He waved his hand airily. “Not ruined, no. I never wager more than I c
an afford. Though the debt pinches, I will settle the account over time. But I’ll not be taking on another such risk anytime soon. And I cannot make offers for property that is now beyond my means. Vincenzo Dolfini is safe from my persuasions for… oh, five years, at least.”
“Does Ernesto know about this?”
“Besides my creditors and my good wife, you are the only person who knows of my misfortune. I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”
“You have my word. But…” I paused to think.
“But what?”
“If Ernesto didn’t know about your financial reversal, he may have assumed that all he had to do was create enough horror and turmoil at the Villa Dolfini to send Vincenzo begging you to take it off his hands.”
“I’ll never believe that Ernesto committed cold-blooded murder.”
“If he is not the guilty party, why is he so tremendously affected by Santini’s arrest?”
Luvisi scratched his chin. “Santini wasn’t always… like he is. Five years ago, he was trusted to take excess produce to market and keep the accounts himself. My cousin Annibale thought quite highly of him, and Ernesto depended on him as his right-hand man.”
“Manuel told me there was an accident. Santini was trampled by a horse.”
“That’s right. Did Manuel also tell you Ernesto was riding that horse?”
I shook my head slowly.
“It happened in an instant. Ernesto had ridden out to one of the back fields to inspect some work that Santini was supervising. After they finished their talk, Ernesto wheeled his mount around, thinking that Santini was clear. But the man had turned back with something else on his mind. Exactly what, he’s never been able to recall. The horse reared and came down on his head.”
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 26