4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight

by Beverle Graves Myers

The steward disappeared and returned with a lantern.

  “Hold it close,” I ordered, falling to my knees. Patting the blankets yielded nothing, so I whisked them from the cot and shook each one.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “That,” I cried as a pinpoint of light arced toward the floor like a miniature shooting star. The steward stepped back as I retrieved my prize. For an instant, a silver spangle floated on my palm like an anonymous scrap of carnival debris. Then I was forced to acknowledge the truth. I recognized the tiny bauble; it had decorated Grisella’s Turkish costume.

  Since Ernesto had locked Santini up before the concert began, the peasant hadn’t seen Grisella sing in the diaphanous Turkish robe and head scarf wound with a golden band. Throughout her stay at the villa, Jean-Louis had kept her so confined that Santini had probabaly barely laid eyes on her. When an exotic vision glided into the tack room, he jumped to an understandable, but totally erroneous conclusion.

  Grisella as a heavenly messenger? What a farce! I made a tight fist around the spangle and squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a bitter surge of anger.

  “You know who Santini’s angel was,” Ernesto whispered.

  I let my fingers relax and stared down at the glittering circle of silver, so innocent in itself, so horrible to find in this particular setting. I harbored no trace of admiration for Jean-Louis; if I had been in Grisella’s shoes—goaded, beaten, selfishly exploited—I might also find myself slitting the vile Frenchman’s throat. But my sister went out of her way to dump the blame on an innocent. That was the true evil that sent anger coursing through my veins like a corrosive poison.

  “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, Ernesto took the spangle and examined it by the lantern’s glow. “It looks like it belongs on a stage costume.”

  I nodded stiffly. “You saw it earlier tonight.”

  “Then it must be Madame Fouquet who let Santini out,” he replied on a sharp intake of breath. “She must have killed her husband and intended my poor friend to take the blame.”

  “Not Madame Fouquet.” I forced the words through an aching throat. They sounded almost as guttural as Santini’s speech. “I mean, that is not her real name. The woman the villa knows as Gabrielle Fouquet is really my sister, Grisella Amato.”

  “Your sister?” His eyes blinked several times. “Why do you tell me this?”

  “I’m giving you the truth because I want the truth in return.”

  “The truth about what?”

  “The first midnight murder.”

  He raised a wary eyebrow. “But I know nothing more than anyone else.”

  “Not from what I’ve observed.” I spoke more easily now. The truth was coming out, and no matter where it led, I wanted more of it. “Today I went up on the ridge, Ernesto. The entire estate stretched out before me like a vast map. According to Captain Forti, one of the tenant farmers heard a loud shot and saw a flash of powder before the body of the stranger was discovered. You blamed poachers in the woods, but the woods are nowhere near the tenants’ cottages. That shot was fired much closer—at the intruder that Zuzu alerted the boys to.”

  Ernesto clenched huge fists. His tense jaws bulged.

  “Yes, I heard a dog bark that night, right after the clock had chimed eleven, and Manuel just confirmed that Zuzu is the only dog on the estate.” I paused for breath and then delivered my final blow. “Wherever Zuzu roams, the boys are never more than one step behind. One of your sons killed the stranger—Basilio, I’ll wager, because he is the hothead.”

  I stepped back, unsure how Ernesto would react. My heart was beating like a drum, and my hand hovered over the pocket that housed the Turkish dagger that Alessandro had given me some years ago. My brother had also taught me how to use it.

  But Ernesto didn’t erupt in violence. In fact, the man remained perfectly controlled. “You see very clearly, Signor Amato,” he said.

  “Some things.”

  “You want to know the rest, I take it.”

  I barely dared to breathe. “That’s right.”

  The steward ran his tongue over his teeth. “Come with me, then.”

  ***

  I followed Ernesto out of the stable. It was fully dark now. The moon hadn’t risen, but thousands of stars twinkled against a blue-black sky. Nearer to the earth, mist clung to the surrounding hills like white smoke.

  Bearing the lantern, Ernesto marched in the direction of the house. Past the olive press, past the garden, until he veered left onto the path that led toward the vineyard. He stopped when he reached a point that overlooked the ornamental lake. Across dark, lapping water, the stone footbridge stood out as a graceful arch.

  “Here’s where it happened,” he announced matter-of-factly.

  “What led up to the shooting?”

  “It was as you said. We were all in bed, Pia and I, and in the cottage loft, Manuel and Basilio. When Zuzu began barking with the frenzy that signals unaccounted strangers, I thought it must be a poacher taking the easy route from the woods on the ridge to those farther north. I threw the covers back, but the boys were way ahead of me. Before I even had a candle lit, they had pulled on their breeches and boots and scrambled down the ladder. They were both keen to put the intruder to flight, so I sent them out—” Ernesto’s voice broke for the first time “—God save my soul, I allowed Basilio to take the long gun.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Of course,” he replied with irritation. “What use would a gun be if it wasn’t loaded? If they ran into trouble, there’d be no time to wrap the shot, tamp it down, prime the pan.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  He continued on a more subdued note. “Basilio is the better shot, but Manuel has always been the faster runner, so he arrived first. Zuzu had the stranger cornered. He was crouching in the bushes by the water, right here.” The steward raised the lantern to illuminate a thick clump of shrubbery. “It was either dive into the lake or face Zuzu’s bared teeth. Perhaps he couldn’t swim—who knows. When Manuel tried to drag him from the bushes, he fought like a tiger. Lagging behind, Basilio saw him flatten Manuel with a powerful punch, then leap on his body and grab his throat like he meant to squeeze the life out of him.” A note of pride crept into the steward’s voice. “Basilio didn’t hesitate. He shot the stranger to save Manuel.”

  We were both silent for a moment, gazing at the spot where the stranger had met his end.

  “Do you have a brother, Signor Amato?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then perhaps you understand.”

  I nodded slowly, then asked, “Did the boys come to you immediately?”

  “I heard the shot and met them halfway. They were shocked, terrified. So was I when they showed me the body.”

  “Why did you move the body to the villa instead of burying him in some desolate place?”

  “If the stranger had been some wayfaring beggar, I would have done just that. But the man was clearly a gentleman—people would be looking for him, a hue and cry would be raised. If he was discovered in a hasty grave with a bullet in his head, my sons would have been in serious trouble. We had to move quickly. I made my decision in a flash—dump the corpse among the singers who were descending on the estate like a plague of locusts.”

  I silently raised my eyebrows. Critics and rivals had called me many things, but no one had ever compared me to a biblical plague.

  “I could never make you understand,” he continued. “You’re a Venetian.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Almost every square inch of your island has been paved with stone. Scarcely a patch of fertile ground has been saved, and the straggly things you call trees are a pitiful sight to behold. How can you comprehend how much this land means to me?”

  “I may see more than you think. Since the day
you fixed our carriage wheel, I’ve understood that you are much more than a simple steward. Another man may own this land, but you’ve been groomed to be its caretaker from the time you were born. You’re a true guardian. The welfare of the farm and its people depends on you.”

  Ernesto’s shoulders began to shake. I couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but I suspected they were full of tears. He said, “The old master, Annibale Luvisi—he understood the traditions, the proper relationships. He kept to his place and allowed me to keep to mine.”

  “And then Vincenzo Dolfini bought the estate,” I prompted.

  He moaned. “I’ll never forget the day they arrived. It was worse than an artillery barrage. Signor Dolfini and I rode over the fields, him firing questions, quoting self-styled experts who probably never set foot on a working farm, ordering me to do this, undo that—all to the ruin of the vines and crops. Things were bad enough, but once the signora conceived her plan to host the opera company, it went from bad to worse. She was sucking the estate dry, and I was desperate to be rid of all of you. I thought a murder in your midst would send you locusts flying back to Venice at first light. Once I’d made my decision, I got the boys calmed down and we carried the stranger’s body to the house. I unlocked the front door with the big key. We rushed him upstairs, and I made it look like he’d been hit over the head. Then we opened a shutter as if someone from the inside had given him entrance, and I locked the front door.”

  “Why did you use the clock pendulum?”

  “It was handy.” He shrugged and elaborated, “I wound that clock everyday. More than once, I’d thought what a formidable weapon the pendulum could make in the wrong hands.”

  “And why midnight?”

  The lantern bobbed as he shrugged again. “I didn’t even notice the time. I was just trying to complete our unhappy task as quickly as possible. The last thing I wanted was someone coming out of their room to surprise us.”

  I shook my head; so much for hidden meanings in the midnight scenario that Gussie and I had pondered so deeply. “And what if someone from the opera company had been arrested for the murder?”

  Ernesto answered simply and sadly, “Better one of you than my sons.”

  “And now,” I said, gazing up at the luminous crescent moon rising over the hills, “you have a dilemma. It wasn’t one of your hated locusts that was arrested, but someone you feel deeply responsible for, someone you have pledged to safeguard and protect.”

  He nodded solemnly. “And it seems that you also have a dilemma. Your sister released Santini for her own ends. What shall we do?”

  I felt a cold weight on my chest. Before the night was out, I would have to face Grisella. The first midnight murder no longer remained a mystery, and the spangle that I’d tucked in my breeches pocket told me what I needed to know about the third. It was Carmela’s murder that I still didn’t understand. Had Grisella committed that unspeakable horror as well? Surely not. My sister didn’t possess the strength to tip Carmela into the stomping vat. At least, not alone, I thought fiercely, pushing and pummeling the facts I knew into some semblance of understanding that could eventually lead to true justice. To his credit, Ernesto remained silent, a lumpy silhouette just out of the lantern’s glare.

  “If you’ll trust me,” I finally said. “I may be able to convince Captain Forti that Santini is innocent.”

  “I won’t go along with anything that puts my sons at risk,” he responded quickly. “I’ve already made up my mind about that. If it comes to it, I’ll say that I shot the stranger and dumped his body in the villa entirely on my own.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I shook my head firmly, trying to instill us both with more confidence than I felt.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “First, a question. Where is the note that was found by Signora Costa’s body?”

  “In the top right hand drawer of Signor Dolfini’s desk,” he answered quickly. “If he hasn’t moved it.”

  I nodded grimly. “Then all I want you to do is have the carriage ready with lamps lit and harnessed with fresh horses.”

  “And where is the carriage going?” he asked in a voice heavy with suspicion.

  His tone surprised me at first, then I realized that he thought I would be trying to arrange Grisella’s escape. I answered, “If things turn out as I expect, it will be taking me to Molina Mori to lay evidence against my sister before Captain Forti.”

  “You would turn your sister in to the Capitano?”

  Grisella’s misdeeds marched through my head. All the people she had wreaked misery on made a long line that stretched back to the time when I’d returned to Venice to make my stage debut. Many of those faces I could clearly picture; Count Paninovich and Danika, I had to imagine. It was time for Grisella to accept the sad consequences of her actions. In halting words, I explained this to Ernesto as best I could.

  When I’d finished, the steward promised to have the carriage waiting in the stable yard.

  We sealed our pact as brothers would: an embrace, followed by a kiss on each cheek. Ernesto’s grasp was warm and strong.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I meant to enter the villa quietly and have a private search of Vincenzo’s desk, but the footman Giovanni spotted me the moment I set foot on the tiles of the foyer.

  “Signor Amato has returned,” he cried, and the three remaining occupants of the house hurried out of the salon.

  Octavia was in the lead, square-jawed and assertive. “Finally! We’d nearly concluded that you’d decided to walk back to Venice.”

  Fortunately, she didn’t pause for an explanation. “Madame Fouquet has been telling us the most amazing stories.” Octavia raised painted eyebrows. “She says she is your sister Grisella who was carried off to Constantinople against her will years ago. I can’t think why you two were keeping your relationship a secret. Did you know she once sang for the Grand Turk himself?”

  “There are many things I don’t know about my sister,” I replied in an ice-water voice.

  Grisella, still garbed in her somber widow’s gown, ran toward me on light feet. She clutched my arm and sent me a fervent, eager smile. “Tito and I are just beginning to get reacquainted. Once he’s taken me home, we’ll have plenty of time to share stories.”

  Octavia continued in intrigued speculation. “My dear, I can’t help but wonder whether your late husband was in on the secret?”

  Grisella shook her head gravely. “Jean-Louis was rather… jealous.”

  “Jealous?” The eyebrows drew up one more notch. “Of a brother?”

  “I suppose you think it strange, but Jean-Louis was so used to having my full attention, you see. We planned to tell him… when the time was right.” Grisella allowed a grimace of grief to contort her features, then buried her face in my jacket.

  Her touch filled me with sorrow and loathing. Though I had lost all patience with her deceits, I resisted the impulse to shirk away. I would soon confront my sister. But the moment was not yet. Not yet.

  Vincenzo had been following this exchange in silence. Studying his unassuming tradesman’s face, I came to a spontaneous decision. More than anyone, I wished Gussie were at my side to see the rest of this night through. That was not to be, but here before me stood a man of an upright and dependable nature. “Signor Dolfini,” I asked with a pointed look. “Could I speak with you a moment in your study?”

  He opened his mouth, but Octavia broke in. “If you’re worried about your pay. I’ll have a purse prepared for both of you before you leave in the morning.”

  Ignoring Octavia, I kept my gaze locked on Vincenzo’s.

  “Certainly.” The master of the villa motioned toward the right-hand corridor. “Come along.”

  Grisella was clearly nervous about being separated from me again. She clung to my arm wi
th the strength of a blacksmith until I gave my word that I would not disappear and that I would most certainly talk with her before she retired. Thus assured, she reluctantly followed Octavia back into the salon with only one or two wistful glances.

  Vincenzo and I were soon in his study with the door shut. He took up a position behind his desk; I faced him from the opposite side and didn’t mince words. “Are you satisfied with Captain Forti’s arrest of Santini?”

  “Hardly! I spent the afternoon questioning the servants and the tenant workers again. I was hoping to pick up some new fact or just-remembered observation—anything that would shed light on the murders.”

  I inclined my head. “I salute you, Signore. I hoped you wouldn’t be taken in by Captain Forti’s hasty conclusion.”

  “Um, yes. Cooler heads and all that.” He nodded, pushing some papers around his desk. “But where have you been? I’ve never seen you in quite such a mess.”

  “I’ve been investigating in my own way. Unless I miss my guess, a solution is near at hand.”

  “In truth?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I must say, you don’t seem very pleased about it.”

  “There’s not a particle of joy in what I’ve learned. The killer is not who you might expect.”

  I must have gazed in the direction of the salon without meaning to, for Vincenzo replied in shocked tones, “Not that pretty child?”

  “Grisella is hardly a child. In her twenty-two years, she’s witnessed more low, sneaking deeds than most men see in a lifetime.”

  “But she’s your sister, man.”

  As if I hadn’t been repeating that to myself ever since I found Grisella’s telltale spangle in the tack room. As if the murderous prima donna hadn’t once been the copper-haired toddler who learned to walk while grasping my fingers. I found myself swaying on my feet, gripping my head with both hands. The enormity of my sister’s guilt pressed on me like a physical weight, squeezing my brain, constricting my chest.

  Vincenzo hurried around the desk. He placed both hands on my shoulders and shook me for all I was worth.