Snatching a deep breath, I returned to my senses. At least for a while.
“Tell me how this is possible.” Vincenzo slung questions right and left. “How did Madame Fouquet commit three murders that baffled us all? Why would she kill her own husband? And who was the stranger that nearly putrefied in my ice house?”
I responded carefully. Though the motives and methods underlying the villa’s murderous events were becoming clearer, I was still feeling my way like a man crossing a swollen stream on underwater rocks. “I can enlighten you about the identity of the stranger. My sister lived with a Russian gentleman in Constantinople. He died in violent circumstances, and one of his countrymen was sent to take revenge for Grisella’s part in the tragedy. The rest of the details will have to wait. I need you to help me with something that will complete my understanding.”
“What is it?”
“I want to see the note that was found by the stomping vat.”
“Certainly—anything to help.” Vincenzo stepped behind the desk, opened a drawer, and removed the purple-daubed rectangle of thick, creamy paper.
I took it from his outstretched hand. Yes, I thought, something in Ernesto’s description had seemed very familiar. I glanced at the writing, but its intentionally anonymous hand was of no import. It was the paper that mattered.
“There’s an item I must compare this to. While I search for it, I’d like you to keep Grisella in the salon.”
“I’ll do my best.” Vincenzo’s tone was shaky, but he underscored his agreement with a determined nod.
I was halfway across the study when I stopped and spun around. “Oh, yes. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering Ernesto to have the carriage ready. If I find what I expect, I will need to lay my evidence before Captain Forti.”
Vincenzo nodded. “You have my blessing. Earlier today, I was ready to chuck it all—simply find a buyer, return to Venice, and forget that I was ever master here. But as I made my rounds of the fields and cottages this afternoon, spoke with all the workers, I realized that I would never be happy without a piece of ground to call my own. My neighbors have been putting down roots for centuries, but their families all started as tender shoots at some point. Octavia and I have not been blessed with children, but perhaps it’s not too late. And then there are my nephews. If I persevere, I can start my own dynasty.”
I met his determination with a smile. “Imagine, in not too many years, people will forget that this house was ever called anything other than the Villa Dolfini.”
“Go on, then.” Vincenzo drew himself up proudly, gazing into the distance as if he could see through the walls to the fields beyond. For the first time, he reminded me more of a nobleman than an ironmonger. “Do what you must to bring this terrible business to an honest end, Signor Amato. Then Ernesto and I can get on with the completion of the harvest.”
I left the study and quietly headed upstairs, all the while wondering if the magnificent Pia had contributed to Vincenzo’s new resolve. I shook my head as I stood at the door of Carmela’s old room, the chamber now given over to Grisella. Whatever tangle Vincenzo’s desire for Pia had created, the three affected parties would have to unravel it themselves. I had more pressing matters to address.
***
I stepped inside the chamber, pulling the door shut behind me, and paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Ernesto had not yet closed the shutters; the weak moonlight streamed through the casement window and made two bluish pools on the carpet. I located a three-branched candlestick and tinderbox on the tripod table. Once I had the wicks burning brightly, I made a quick survey of the room.
Octavia had directed Nita to pack up Carmela’s things to await the settlement of her estate. Brass-bound trunks and boxes secured with twine made a tower in the corner by the wardrobe; nestling somewhere in that neat stack were the spectacular Russian pearls. Carmela had never married or had children, but I’d heard her mention an elderly mother and a host of brothers and sisters that still lived in a Friulian village northwest of Venice. I had to smile as I pictured a tiny woman with a face like wrinkled parchment proudly donning her daughter’s earrings and lace shawl to wear to Sunday Mass. Throughout the commodious chamber, Grisella’s possessions had taken the place of Carmela’s. In one day, my sister had strewn every horizontal surface with stays, petticoats, fans, scent bottles, and more. One of the items I sought had been carelessly tossed on the back of a chair. I placed the candlestick on the table and retrieved the spangled scarf that Grisella had worn for the concert.
A pier-glass hung between the windows. On impulse, I fluttered the length of white silk over my head. Holding it tight with one hand at the back of my neck, I postured in front of the mirror. As I turned this way and that, I saw a tall eunuch with hollow cheeks and worried eyes making a spectacle of himself in a ridiculous headdress. But I had to admit that its spangles did reflect the candle’s rays like tiny bursts of celestial starlight, and I could understand how the weak-minded Santini had allowed his imagination to run away with him.
Spurred by the thought of the mute afraid and alone in his jail cell, I dug in my pocket for the spangle I’d found in the tack room and compared it to those on the scarf. As I expected, it was a perfect match. Squinting at the delicate silk, I even managed to find a frayed thread that had allowed several of the ornaments to work loose. I carefully folded the silver disk into the scarf and placed the lot in my pocket. If I was going to convince Captain Forti that Santini was not his man, I would have to present solid evidence.
For the moment, I closed my mind to the implications of that course of action and turned my attention to Grisella’s bedside table. On it sat the book I’d seldom seen Grisella without, a volume about the size of the palm of my hand with a red leather spine and marble paper covered boards. It was hardly great literature. Amalia, or the Memoirs of an Errant Lady read the title page. I opened the back cover. For reasons unknown to me, printers generally left a few blank pages at the end of such books. Amalia was no exception. There were two blank leaves. And the stub of one more. The last page had been carefully torn away.
I carried the book over to the candle and laid the note that Vincenzo had supplied against the torn page, pressed my thumb along its folds. Another perfect match.
A hot flush sprang to my face. My sister was a murderer two times over, four if I wanted to count her complicity in the deaths of Danika and Count Paninovich. How could a sister of my own blood come to such a pass? Had she been flawed from birth, her palsies only the most visible sign of an evil humor that circulated in her marrow? Or had Grisella been scarred by coming to womanhood in our unhappy household?
With our mother dead and our father a bitter, critical taskmaster, each of us had sought the world’s approbation in a different way. Alessandro had thrown himself upon the sea, amassing goods and monetary success with the tenacity of a badger. Annetta had cultivated a sunny disposition and attempted to please everyone who came across her path. Grisella was probably more like me than the others. We both loved crawling in the skin of an operatic character and being rewarded with applause and adulation for our efforts. Back at the conservatorio, something flamed up inside me the day I first performed on the stage. It was like kindling touched by a glowing torch. Grisella burned with the same fire, but hers was a destructive blaze.
Sharp regret pricked at my heart when I thought of what might have been. What if the young Grisella had never caught Domenico Viviani’s eye? What if she had been allowed to complete her vocal studies at the Mendicanti and found her place on the stage as I did? What if Father had never—
Enough!
I had my evidence. I knew what I must do, but my feet seemed to be rooted to the carpet. In my mind’s eye, I saw Annetta’s mild face and heard her words as if she whispered in my ear: “Look, Tito, the fireplace. It’s well laid, ready for lighting. One touch from your candle and it wil
l blaze to life. You can burn the book and the scarf, burn them to ashes so we can have our Grisella home with us where she belongs.”
Just as quickly, out of nowhere, came Alessandro’s deep baritone. “What are you waiting for, little brother? I combed Constantinople to get to the bottom of Grisella’s misdeeds, exposed her black heart as clearly as the sun at midday. You can’t let her get away with murder. Go for the constable! Now!”
I stood in an agony of indecision, breathing in deep, heaving gasps. Family first? Forgive murder? Let an innocent man hang? Then the latch on the door clicked.
“Tito? What are you doing?”
I whirled. My sister stood in the doorway, framed by the brighter light of the corridor. She saw the book still open on the table, saw the note that lay upon it.
I expected endless excuses and lamentations. I never imagined that Grisella would charge at me like an enraged lioness, spitting oaths while her nails tore at my cheeks.
My hands flew up to protect my face. I stumbled backward. Her raking fingers clutched my hair, and she knocked my head into the bedpost. Rolling and tumbling with stars flashing before my eyes, I somehow managed to pin the struggling woman to the bed.
“Get out of my room,” she cried on a snarl from some deep animal place. “Leave me be.”
“It’s too late for that, Grisella. I know you killed Carmela and Jean-Louis. I can’t just walk away.”
“I didn’t kill Carmela. Far from it. I tried to save her.”
“What are you talking about?” Gingerly, I released her arms but kept my position astride her narrow hips.
“Jean-Louis was determined to get rid of Carmela,” she cried.
“Why?”
“When she boasted of performing for the court in St. Petersburg, Jean-Louis convinced himself that Carmela had heard about Vladimir’s death and later realized that I was his mistress who was supposed to have died with him.”
Yes, that might be, I thought silently. Carmela had been singing in Paris just before she came to the Villa Dolfini. Who knows what scraps of backstage gossip she could have picked up concerning Grisella and Jean-Louis, then knit in with other news she’d heard in St. Petersburg? Blood trickled from a gash on my cheekbone and reached the corner of my lips. I stanched it with my ruffled cuff, never taking my eyes off Grisella’s face.
Her words continued to pour out. “Jean-Louis recognized the body Carmela discovered in the corridor right away. He was a Russian agent who had been following us off and on for months. We’d changed our names and thought we’d lost him before I appeared in Paris. Then, one night, there he was in the audience—with the audacity to hand me a bouquet over the footlights. It went on like that for weeks. He was stalking us, taunting us, biding his time until he struck.”
“Why didn’t you run away? Go into hiding far from Paris?”
“We were desperate to leave, but Jean-Louis’ high living had left our purse as thin as a pauper’s. Maestro Weber’s offer seemed heaven sent. Without telling a soul where we were going, we came to the Villa Dolfini only to find Carmela in the cast. I knew her for a first-rate gossip, and Jean-Louis was wary of her from the outset. When she boasted of hobnobbing with Empress Anna Ivanova’s inner circle in St. Petersburg, he decided that she was the one who had alerted our pursuer to our whereabouts.”
“The Russian’s murder must have been quite a surprise—your enemy dead at your door without either of you lifting a finger.”
“We thought Carmela had killed him, perhaps because he refused to pay as much as they’d agreed on.” She gazed up at me with a scowl, calmer now. “But when Captain Forti announced that the stranger had been shot, none of that made sense anymore.”
I held my tongue about Manuel and Basilio, instead asking, “You say you tried to save Carmela. How?”
She twisted under me, her mouth and shoulder tensing rhythmically. “Let me up. If I’m going to explain, I’ll need a few drops of my medicine.”
I studied her for a long moment. Slowly I eased back. One foot found the floor, and then the other. Grisella moved more quickly, springing up and fetching her bottle of elixir from a dresser drawer. The brown liquid nearly reached the stopper. She returned to sit on the edge of the bed, tipped her head back, and consumed several gulps.
I also sank down on the mattress, turning to face her.
“Jean-Louis was determined to get rid of Carmela,” she went on, her voice low and dreamlike, the muscles of her face and shoulders going slack. “We fought nonstop for two days. What a shame to consign Carmela’s wonderful voice to an early grave, I argued. The Russian who had pursued us so intently was dead, and I was sure that Carmela could be persuaded to forget who we really were. The very thought of murdering a fellow singer sent shivers up my spine. But Jean-Louis said he could never feel safe as long as Carmela was alive. He decided to duplicate the first murder—use the pendulum, strike at midnight, all of it.”
“Why?”
“Last year a killer terrified Paris for weeks—people were still talking about him when we arrived. He was a lunatic who murdered prostitutes in a particularly gruesome way—always the same weapon, the same park by the Seine, the same hour of the night. Jean-Louis thought making Carmela’s murder appear to be the work of such a demented soul would cast suspicion away from him. Besides, at midnight I could quite believably insist that he was in bed with me.”
“Had Jean-Louis already identified Santini as a convenient scapegoat?”
“No, I’ll wager he hadn’t even noticed that filthy mute until Carmela’s nightshift was found in the barchessa. Why should he, after all?” She tossed her brassy curls. “But if my plan had worked, the man would not have been accused because Carmela would have packed her bags and left. I meant to warn her. That’s why I sent that message.” Grisella pointed toward the table where the candles burned brightly over the book and the note. “I first tried to pass it to her during that silly game of blind man’s bluff, but Jean-Louis watched me like a hawk. It wasn’t until the next evening at supper that I managed to tuck it into her shawl that had slid off the back of her chair. Once Jean-Louis and I had gone up to bed, I doctored his brandy with a few drops of my elixir. He fell asleep at once, and I was able to sneak downstairs to keep our appointment in the cantina.”
“Why did you choose the cantina? Why not just have a talk in her room?”
“I wanted a private place where we wouldn’t be interrupted. With Romeo around, Carmela’s room might as well have had a swinging door on it.”
I nodded. “What happened in the cantina?”
She dropped her chin, no longer able to look me in the eye. “I’d barely started to explain what danger she was in when Jean-Louis rushed in like a raging bull. I’d misjudged his plow-horse constitution. To lay him low, I should have used half a bottle.”
“So he hit her with the pendulum?”
“Yes, when he woke in an empty bed and found Carmela’s room empty, too, he grabbed the pendulum from the clock and started searching for us. He began with the cantina because he’d made a point of telling me about watching the grape stomping that afternoon. It all happened so fast. When Jean-Louis swung the pendulum, Carmela didn’t even have a chance to scream. I heard her skull crack and watched her crumple to the stone floor.”
Looking up, Grisella wrapped her arms around her midsection and swayed from side to side. “It was terrible, Tito.”
I nodded, sick. “You must have helped Jean-Louis arrange her body in the stomping vat.”
“Yes, I suppose I did. I don’t know why he insisted on it, but he did. Oh, don’t give me that accusing look. What was I to do? Carmela was already dead, and Jean-Louis was furious with me. If I hadn’t cooperated, I would have been floating in the grapes, too.”
“Why did you leave the note where it would be found?”
She shook her hea
d. “I didn’t. I thought I’d cast it into the vat to dissolve in the slurry.”
“I see,” I answered dully, wondering how much of my sister’s tale was the truth.
“Tito?” Grisella reached out to curl her fingers around mine. “Do you understand now?”
“Understand?”
“Why I had to kill Jean-Louis…”
Chapter Twenty
The stark memory of Jean-Louis’ corpse in his bloody bathwater flashed through my mind. Then I pictured the man I had grown to know during our stay at the villa: a greedy ruffian with a craving for luxury who wasn’t ashamed to live off the earnings of his pretend wife. “I understand why you wanted to get rid of him, Grisella. But plunging the clock hand into his jugular? Do you really expect me to condone that?”
Her eyes glimmered brightly. “But I had to kill him. You made me do it.”
“Grisella!”
“You did! When you promised to take me home, you became my protector. I was saved! Saved from the cruel Frenchman who’d taken me in with honeyed words, then used me in the most shameful ways imaginable. Finally everything was going to be all right. But then Alessandro had to stick his long nose into our business. He convinced you that I was at fault for what happened in Constantinople. What does he know? He wasn’t there the night of the fire. He didn’t see Jean-Louis cut Vladimir’s throat and carry in that lifeless girl’s body. He didn’t see how I threw myself at Jean-Louis, trying to stop him catching the curtains on fire from the lamp’s flame. No, Alessandro turned you against me so that you refused to take me home even though you knew what a monster Jean-Louis was. What else was I to do? I had to kill him.”
“You could have told me that Jean-Louis killed Carmela. I would have seen that he faced the law for his crime.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “If I told anyone, he assured me that I would also be implicated. He would swear that I wrote the note to lure Carmela to the slaughter, not to warn her.”
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 29