4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Yes, that explained a great deal. A man like Ernesto would carry the responsibility of Santini’s condition for the rest of his life. That’s why the steward looked after the peasant like a mother hen.

  Luvisi slanted a speculative glance my way. “Signor Amato, I don’t presume to tell you your business, but I can’t help noticing that you have a pressing reason for wanting these murders solved. Perhaps even more pressing than you are willing to acknowledge.”

  I sat up straighter, my interest pricked.

  “For Santini’s sake, Ernesto is just as keen to find the true killer. I think it is high time you and he joined forces. You must have a talk with him—I’m sure you will find it fruitful.” He nodded judiciously, then glanced toward the door where the footman entered with a steaming tray. “Ah, your meal has arrived. Eat your fill, and I’ll send you back to the villa in my carriage.”

  Signor Luvisi’s cook had produced a delicious mound of risotto simmered with buttered mushrooms and chicken livers. I ate the warm food gratefully, as quickly as decency allowed, not for pleasure, but to keep my strength up. I anticipated a long night, for I doubted that my talk with Ernesto would proceed as smoothly as my generous host thought it might. I had held something back as I talked with Luvisi: while on the ridge, I’d noted one particular thing about the layout of the Dolfini estate that didn’t tally with information Ernesto had supplied about the night of the first gruesome murder.

  ***

  Signor Luvisi’s driver let me off at the steps of the Villa Dolfini. I saw a flutter of movement at a front window, perhaps a hand raised in greeting, but I didn’t go in. Instead, I dashed around the house and set off across the back lawn toward Ernesto’s cottage. Dusk was falling, the long, lazy dusk of a perfect autumn day. The sky was pink behind the dark hills and the smoke from burning leaves and field waste hung in the still air.

  The cottage windows were dark, but I knocked anyway. “It’s Tito Amato,” I called.

  The door opened so quietly, I knew it must be Pia before she came into view. She gave me a brittle smile at odds with the soft curves of her face. “Still here, Signor Amato? I saw the rest of your troupe going down the drive this afternoon. The wagon was weighed down with their trunks and fiddle cases.”

  “There are a few things I must do before I leave. One of them is to settle a certain matter with your husband.”

  “Ernesto and the boys are at the stables, checking on the horse that was returned from Padua.”

  My heart leapt beneath my ribs. Alfana was back! That meant that Gussie was well and away. Halfway to Venice on the river barge, I hoped. Halfway home to look after our loved ones.

  “This pleases you?” Pia asked.

  “Very much.” I felt like spinning her around in a joyful dance, but contented myself with a small bow of thanks.

  At the entrance to the stable yard, Zuzu met me with a few waves of her plumed tail. She must have decided that I had a right to be there because she gave only a soft woof to let her young masters know that a friend had arrived. Manuel appeared at the door to the horse stalls, then trotted across the yard.

  “Signor Amato,” he said in greeting, “everyone up at the house has been worried about you, asking where you ran off to.”

  “They’ll know soon enough.” I shrugged. “Tell me something, Manuel. Is Zuzu the only dog on the estate?”

  Sending me an odd look, the boy bent to scratch the dog’s shaggy head. “Yes. Why?”

  “Just something I’ve been wondering about,” I mumbled as I crossed the yard.

  Inside the stable, a groom was exchanging Alfana’s bridle for a halter. A sullen Basilio was fetching water, and Ernesto was running his palm down the back of one of the mare’s hind legs. She acknowledged his concern by craning her neck and blowing a fluttering breath through soft nostrils. She looked dusty, but none the worse for her unexpected journey.

  “When did she get back?” I asked.

  Ernesto cocked an eyebrow, scowling. “A few minutes ago. The stableman in Padua had a carriage coming this way, so he put her on a lead.”

  “Is she all right?”

  The steward picked up her foot and examined the hoof before answering. He seemed to be struggling to control his temper. “Looks like it. No thanks to that young buck who took off with her.”

  “It was necessary,” I said. “And Gussie is an expert horseman.”

  Ernesto made a grudging nod. “He saw that Alfana was properly cooled and wiped down before they sent her back, I’ll give him that.” The steward patted the horse’s chestnut rump as she lowered her head to take a long drink of water from Basilio’s bucket. “Well, now that you’ve seen her, you had best go back to the house. They’ve been asking about you every ten minutes, especially the Frenchwoman.”

  I shuffled my feet on the packed dirt of the stable floor. “Actually, I came looking for you. I’ve just had a very illuminating talk with Signor Luvisi. He thinks we can help each other, you and I.”

  Manuel and Basilio traded baffled glances while their father pulled his chin back in outright disdain. I could almost read his thoughts: How could a less than robust, decidedly unmanly castrato singer help him in any way?

  “It’s about the murders,” I continued. “I spent some time up on the ridge today, thinking things through. Like you, I suspect that Santini has been unjustly accused.”

  “I don’t suspect, I know,” he answered gruffly.

  “And yet, he escaped on the same night that another midnight murder occurred. Terribly convenient. You have to ask—why would an innocent man run for the hills?”

  The steward frowned, but I detected a new gleam in the eyes under his knotted brow.

  If Ernesto could provide no other information, I at least expected him to solve the mystery of Santini’s flight. Ernesto had ridden cheek by jowl with Santini as the constable’s wagon had carried the escapee back to Molina Mori. Santini had protested his innocence along the way. If he had not also furnished a few details about his escape, I was the King of France.

  The steward continued to press his fingers into Alfana’s sleek muscles and tendons. “Get me a curry brush,” he ordered the groom. After the man did as instructed, Ernesto sent him away. Then he told his sons to go home. Basilio’s sullen look instantly turned to a devil-may-care smile. Whistling through his teeth, he left the stable at a loping run.

  Manuel tarried behind. “I’ll bed down Alfana’s stall, Papa. Get some hay in her rack.”

  “I told you to go, boy.” Ernesto’s tanned face was as inscrutable as a mask fashioned of wrinkled leather. “Tell your mother I’ll be along after I talk with Signor Amato.”

  “Si, Papa,” said Manuel under his breath. Aiming a long, curious glance toward me, he slunk through the door with his thumbs in his pockets.

  The steward and I faced each other over a mountain of horseflesh.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Starting at the top of Alfana’s neck, Ernesto moved the curry brush in a smooth, circular motion. I kept quiet, hoping he would start talking on his own and perhaps tell me more than I could glean with questions. Unfortunately, Ernesto was one of those rare men who are not discomfited by silence. He simply concentrated on loosening the dust and dirt imbedded in the horse’s coat, and when he reached her tail, exchanged the flat curry brush for one with longer, softer bristles.

  As his sure strokes sent loose hair and dust flying toward the floor, he asked, “What’s on your mind, Signor Amato?”

  “Tell me about Santini,” I replied, trying to appear at ease by slouching against a wooden post.

  “Not much to tell. It’s my fault he’s at Captain Forti’s mercy, and I mean to put it right somehow.”

  “Yes, Signor Luvisi told me you were riding the horse that caused Santini’s accident.”

  He lowered t
he brush and studied me for a moment. Alfana swung her head around in displeasure; she evidently enjoyed her brushing. Ernesto gave her a distracted pat, keeping his eyes on me. “That’s a very old story. I was speaking of something more recent. The singer’s nightshift that was stuffed in the hay rack put Forti on Santini’s scent, and the responsibility for that lies squarely on my shoulders.”

  I straightened. “You hid the nightshift in the barchessa?”

  “No.” He went back to brushing, but more slowly now. His voice was stiff. “That was Santini, but if I’d been on my toes, he wouldn’t have had Signora Costa’s night clothing in the first place. I like to keep him near me—since Signor Luvisi opened his mouth, I guess you understand why. Making Santini my shadow has never been a problem, but when the opera company moved in, I would have been smart to put the house off limits for my old friend.”

  “Why is that?”

  Ernesto stopped brushing. His shoulders drooped wearily. “Because Santini thought Signora Costa was the loveliest sight he’d ever laid eyes on. A theatrical beauty of her like rarely strays far from her adoring public, certainly not as far as our remote hills. Santini was enchanted. For him, she was Venus, Cleopatra, and the Queen of Sheba rolled into one. Each time we came inside to secure the shutters, I would catch him lingering around whichever room she happened to occupy, staring at her as if his heart was ready to burst. One night, after we’d made the rounds of the second floor, I saw him stuffing something down the front of his shirt.”

  “What was it?”

  “A lace shawl that she’d worn over her shoulders the day before. He’d lifted it from one of her baskets while I’d been leaning out a window. I returned it to her room—after I’d given Santini the devil and made him promise not to touch another of Signora Costa’s things.”

  “He broke his promise, I take it.”

  Ernesto nodded as he ran his fingers through Alfana’s glossy mane. Silently, he gathered hay onto a wicked-looking fork and filled her feed rack. Only after he had settled the horse in her stall did he elaborate.

  Still grasping the three-pronged fork, he said, “When your painter friend showed Captain Forti where he’d discovered the nightshift, I immediately guessed what had happened. I thought my heart would stop beating then and there. I volunteered to bring Santini before Captain Forti so that I’d have a chance to question him first, and it didn’t take long to worm the story out of the poor fellow. Several days before Signora Costa’s death, Santini stole one of her shifts from the laundry hamper. He hid it in the barchessa thinking it would never be missed.”

  “I see. He had no hope of ever possessing his beloved, so he assuaged his passion with her clothing instead.”

  Ernesto nodded grimly.

  “Then how do you explain the grape stains on the fabric? Isn’t it possible that the soprano’s night clothing so inflamed Santini’s lust that he was driven to abduct her from her bed and assault her in the cantina?”

  “No, that’s not possible.”

  “Why? That thick-walled chamber is built right into the ground, far from the villa’s sleeping quarters. Signora Costa could have screamed all night without being heard.”

  “No.” The steward’s tone was adamant. “Santini would never have dared to touch the lady herself. He was never a particularly brash or violent man. Since the accident, he’s been even more peaceable. The grape stains on the nightshift didn’t come from the cantina, but from the juice that covered his hands and arms after tipping the harvest baskets all day. You were out in the vineyard. You saw what a mess he was.”

  I nodded, remembering.

  “Unfortunately, Santini’s accident also left him with an aversion to soap and water that is almost as strong as his difficulty speaking.” Ernesto sighed and picked at the dirt floor with the hay fork. “I had to insist that he deny any knowledge of the nightshift—I saw no other way to keep him safe. If he admitted he’d stolen it, Captain Forti would have jumped to the same conclusion that you just did and arrested him on the spot. I needed to delay the constable so that I could shift suspicion away from Santini for good and all. Mainly I wanted to take another look at the note that was left beside the stomping vat.”

  Ernesto made good sense. The brain-addled peasant could not have been responsible for Carmela’s death. The note, as well as the use of the clock pendulum, pointed to the work of a more cunning brain.

  “Have you made any headway there?”

  He shook his head. “Signor Dolfini stashed the note in his desk. I’ve managed to study it several times—on the sly—but it tells me nothing. The handwriting is obviously disguised.”

  “What about the paper itself?”

  He pondered a moment, chin pressed into the hands clasping the wooden shaft of the hay fork. I couldn’t help noticing how big those hands were, how hardy and reddened, like baby hams with sausages for digits. “It wasn’t regular writing paper,” he said. “I hoped I might be able to match it to stationery belonging to a guest or someone from the house, but it was too thick for stationery. And one of the long edges had been torn—very carefully—like the writer had taken pains to press it into a sharp fold before ripping it from a larger piece.”

  I thought of the reams of paper that Karl used to copy scores. “Could it have been music paper?” I asked quickly.

  “No, I compared it to the maestro’s scribblings, along with every other length of paper in the villa.” He exhaled with a snort. “I even checked the drawings your painter friend has hanging up in the barchessa. Nothing even came close to matching.”

  I nodded slowly, turning my thoughts to the murder of Jean-Louis that had occurred when Santini had been so conveniently at large. “Where is the tack room?”

  “Along here. Right down the aisle.”

  Relieved to see Ernesto return the hay fork to its place, I followed him past several more stalls to a roughly paneled room filled with trunks, wooden saddle horses, and racks for bridles and carriage reins. In the dim light, I saw several hooks suspended from the ceiling; their sharp, curving prongs were designed to hold tack while it was being cleaned. In one corner, a cot had been neatly made up with several striped horse blankets. A heady mix of oil and leather and horse liniment filled my nose. There were no windows. The only way in or out was through a solid planked door that now stood open. “How is this door secured?” I asked. “And who took charge of imprisoning Santini on the night of the concert?”

  “I did. With that.” Ernesto indicated a large key on an iron ring that hung from a hook outside the door. “I got him settled and locked the door at about five o’clock.”

  “This arrangement isn’t much of a barrier to thievery—the key hangs within arm’s reach of its lock.”

  “If I had any reason to expect that saddles might walk away, I would take the key back to the cottage. But that hasn’t been necessary. Until recently, the estate was blessedly free from crime of any sort.”

  I closed the door and pounded on the oak planks. The door fit flush in the frame. I squatted low. Barely a finger’s breadth separated the hard-packed floor and the bottom of the planks. “How did Santini manage to get out?”

  Shrugging, Ernesto grasped one of the tack hooks and idly set it swinging back and forth. I gulped and took a few steps to my right. If the steward sent that implement swinging in my direction, it could cause considerable damage.

  “Come now,” I prompted warily, “you and Santini had plenty of time to talk while he was being taken into Molina Mori. You are his trusted confidant. Surely he told you how he escaped.”

  Ernesto caught the swinging hook in his large fist. “Oh, he told me, but you wouldn’t believe it. I don’t believe it—it’s impossible—only a fancy produced by his poor diseased brain. But still…”

  I supplied the unspoken words. “…he broke out some way.”

  When the stewa
rd merely nodded, I added, “Can it hurt to tell me what he said?”

  Ernesto frowned in the manner of a man who wants help but isn’t accustomed to asking for it.

  “Back home, I’m known for solving several impossible puzzles,” I said.

  “Well… here it is then. Santini claims that an angel opened the door of the tack room and told him to run away as far and as fast as he could.”

  “An angel?” I repeated in a baffled tone. I don’t know what I expected, certainly not a tale of supernatural intervention.

  “I know it sounds fantastic, but that’s his story and I couldn’t shake him from it. He was sleeping on that cot when the noise of a key rattling in the lock woke him. As he turned to look, the door swung open and a shining presence floated into the room. He threw the covers over his head, horrified, sure the end of the world was at hand. But the angel came right up to the cot. Raising her lamp, she spoke in a sweet voice. ‘You’re free,’ she said, ‘run like the wind or they’ll hang you for sure.’ Santini was still too frightened to move, so she jerked the covers from his shaking hands, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him toward the door.”

  “Hardly the work of a disembodied spirit. Why did he describe her as an angel?”

  “Her garb was pure white, like the heavenly host in the big stained glass window at church. He also said that as she moved, she sparkled like sunlight on the lake. And around her head, a halo glowed with the brightness of the noontime sun.”

  “What, no wings?” I spoke flippantly, but a very bad feeling was uncurling in the pit of my stomach.

  Ernesto shook his head. “Not that he mentioned.”

  A shining woman in white. Who was eager to free Santini from his prison. Could it be? The sickening sensation climbed to my throat. I stepped toward the cot, my gaze quickly sweeping the area around it. “Ernesto, could we get some more light in here?”