Whispers of Vivaldi

by Beverle Graves Myers

  A bitter taste rose from my throat. “He thought it wise to make me the target of humiliation and censure if the opera failed.”

  “That’s what you’ve been thinking?”

  “What else am I to think?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Oh, you foolish thing! Rinaldo knew The False Duke couldn’t fail. Its time has come. Venice—all of Europe—is ripe for it. He had faith that you would develop it into a wonderful production, even with the difficulties that Beatrice’s demand for Angeletto presented. Rinaldo wanted you to take over the opera house. He longed to see you reap the benefits of this great success, while we put the cares of Venice—and all of her gaming houses— behind us.” She swallowed a sob, put a hand to her mouth. “All was finally turning out well…until someone killed him.”

  “Just a minute, Tedi. You’re telling me that The False Duke had nothing to do with Torani’s murder?”

  “That’s right. The secret that killed my love is…something entirely different.”

  “For God’s sake, what is it?”

  She stared at me, eyes glittering, chest heaving in little sobs. Just as her lips parted, a shot exploded in a burst of flame from the doorway.

  “Tedi!” I cried as the soprano collapsed into my arms. Blood trickled from a ragged hole at the front of her neck. Frantic, I tried to staunch it with my fingers, but it quickly became a gory stream. She gurgled out one last gasp before her body went limp and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  There was nothing more I could do. Tedi Dall’Agata was dead.

  I lowered her gently to the floor and ran to the door. Heedless of the danger, I pulled it open so hard it crashed against the wall and lost a few more slats. The landing was deserted. All that remained was a puff of smoke and the acrid odor of gunpowder.

  ***

  “You must have been born under an unfortunate star, Tito. It seems your destiny is linked to murder. Do you know that most men go through their lives without once encountering an atrocity of this sort?” Andrea’s solemn words filled the cabin of his luxurious gondola.

  When I didn’t answer, his gaze left my face. He parted the curtains with one gloved finger and stared outward. Even at this late hour, the watery avenue of uninterrupted grandeur that is the Grand Canal was alive with boat traffic and the songs of their boatmen. The yellow glow from palazzo windows and the orange blaze of landing torches made shimmering zigzags on the murky water.

  Eventually, I voiced the remorse that had been plaguing me for hours—ever since I’d burst into the San Marco’s corridors shouting of murder and putting an end to any hope of resuming that night’s performance. “If I’d only made it through that door to the stairwell more quickly, you might have Tedi’s killer under arrest. And Maestro Torani’s, too.”

  Andrea dropped his hand; the curtain whispered shut. In the darkness, his face stood out as a pale oval. “Tito, I have nothing to convince me that the murders were committed by the same hand.”

  “Tedi was about to tell me what she believed caused Torani’s death,” I protested.

  “Yes, my friend, the deaths are related, but secrets and motives abound. Just consider the complications. Torani and his mistress were entangled in a desperate struggle to accomplish several things—save the reckless old punter from his gambling habit, ensure that the Teatro San Marco would continue as Venice’s flagship opera house, and retire to the mainland with some shreds of their reputation and dignity remaining.”

  I sat back and surveyed him with lifted brows. He was correct, as usual.

  “Besides, Tito. The murderer took one precise shot and ran. He was well away in that maze of stairs and corridors before you even crashed through the door.”

  “You did search that area top to bottom.”

  “As I told you—yes. My men found only empty corridors and damp cellars filled with refuse and skittering with rats.”

  “They didn’t find any forgotten gate or postern? Any means of escape that the killer could have used without going back through the gaming salon?”

  “No, Tito. That crumbling pile attached to the opera house contains no doors, and the few windows are merely slits. Whoever shot Tedi came through the main portion of the theater building and left the same way.” He added in a conversational tone, “Did you realize that your Teatro San Marco was built on the ruins of a monastery?”

  Though he probably couldn’t see it, I shot him a scornful glance. “It is no longer my Teatro San Marco.”

  “Perhaps not now.” His grave tone turned to a chuckle. “You must wait, Tito, and cultivate patience. I predict that one day you will rule the opera house just as Maestro Torani did.”

  “How can you possibly believe that?” My voice grated harshly. “And how dare you laugh in the face of Tedi’s death? Whatever Devil’s bargain she made with Lorenzo Caprioli, she did it to find justice for the man she loved. Both their lives were ripped away just when they should have been resting on their well-earned laurels.”

  A pale hand rose to wipe his forehead. His sigh hovered between us. “The violence that men visit on each other has become a constant in my life—such is the burden of a Messer Grande. If I didn’t allow myself a laugh, I would soon sink into melancholia.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.” I bowed my head. Fate had brought my family so much grief that I should have understood that without being told.

  “Forget it. Tell me more about what Tedi was afraid of.”

  I leaned back against the cushioned leather seat. “Not what, but who. She’d come to another conclusion about Torani’s killer. He—or she—must have been in the theater. Tedi was obviously afraid of being followed.”

  “Of course, she might have also feared Caprioli and his bravos. It appears she’d slipped his chain, and I imagine he would be determined to have her back. Tedi as prima donna would have been quite a prize for the Teatro Grimani.”

  “I did see two of Caprioli’s men, before the riot.”

  “I saw them, too. When my sergeant was marching them away in irons. Tomorrow they’ll come up before the avogardo under charges of creating a public disturbance.”

  I sat up very straight. “When were they taken into custody?”

  “About the time Tedi was persuading you to follow her.”

  “That doesn’t mean that Lorenzo Caprioli himself hadn’t gained admittance to the Teatro San Marco—a majority of men in the audience were masked.”

  “I’ve already ruled out Caprioli. The opera premiering at the Teatro Grimani began at the same hour as The False Duke. Caprioli was swaggering all over the theater greeting subscribers and crowing about his singers. Hundreds of witnesses would swear to it.”

  “Another of his men, then. Who knows how many bravos he has in his pay?” I had a sudden thought. “Perhaps Girolamo Grillo has slipped back into Venice.”

  “I’ll look into it. You may be sure that I’ll hold Caprioli’s feet to the fire concerning all you’ve related…but there are also other possibilities that I find interesting.” Andrea again parted the curtain. We were passing the soaring arcades of the Turkish traders’ residence and warehouse. Unlike the Venetian palaces, the Fondaco was slumbering in total darkness. For the Turks, Carnival must be as forbidden as wine or pork.

  “What other possibilities?” I asked. “Can you tell me?”

  “Certainly. I would welcome your opinions.” He left the curtain open. A cool breeze came off the rippling, lucent surface of the canal. “After the theater’s curtain rolled down, Angeletto exited the stage through the left downstage wing. He appeared to be very upset. His mother and sisters say that he came straight to his dressing room and stayed there, licking his wounds, but a scene shifter who was up on the catwalk is certain that Angeletto disappeared in the direction of the pass door, not the stairs to the dressing rooms.”

  “Oh, no. Not Angeletto. I can’t imagine that he could ma
ke his way through the theater without causing a great stir—in that gaudy costume, no less.”

  “It would take but a moment to don an eye mask and a spare cloak. That’s why I so dread the months of Carnival—you can’t trust appearances. Is that mischievous little nun truly a good sister, or perhaps she’s a whore playing a part? Or a patrician boy with certain tastes?” He waved an impatient hand. “You have no idea how difficult my life becomes during Carnival.”

  I sighed. “How would Angeletto even know Tedi was in the house?”

  His shoulders moved in a shrug. “Do you know where she was before she came to my box to find you?”

  “No,” I reluctantly admitted, “but I can’t see Tedi being afraid of a mild, gentle soul like Angeletto.”

  “Tedi told you that Torani—and now Tedi herself—was harboring a secret that someone was intent on keeping under wraps. Isn’t the singer’s true gender still a mystery? Wouldn’t his career be utterly ruined if he were exposed as a masquerading female?”

  “I expect so.”

  “A secret worth killing for, eh? Perhaps Signora Dall’Agata was in possession of evidence that would raise a bit of extra cash.”

  “What evidence?”

  “If I had that information, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He shrugged impatiently. “Just follow me here. Perhaps Tedi approached Angeletto to ask for money to keep her lips sealed.”

  “But how much damage could she do? Venice has been arguing over Angeletto’s sex for weeks. That’s what started the riot tonight—scornful shouts accusing him of wearing skirts.”

  “Our café and coffee house populace is idle, shiftless, prying, and ruthless. But at the end of the day, gossip is merely gossip. Some might argue that Angeletto has even benefited from all the talk.”

  “He didn’t benefit tonight,” I countered.

  “That is true. Tonight, rumor inflated to ridicule. But one month ago, who even knew Angeletto’s name? In that light, would you agree that all the speculation is a benefit?”

  “Yes,” I admitted grudgingly.

  “Now,” Andrea raised a finger. “What if Lorenzo Caprioli, under his standing as manager of the Teatro Grimani, made a formal complaint to the Savio with evidence to back his claim. What if our lovely angel was forced to prove his sex beyond doubt?”

  “I suppose it would depend on the outcome of that examination,” I answered wearily. “But really, I just can’t imagine Angeletto standing on the other side of that door, aiming a pistol through the slats, and taking such an accurate shot. I think you should consider further.”

  “I have.” My companion took a deep breath. “At the first sign of disturbance in the auditorium, the Savio closed up his box and ordered his family to stay inside. He was spotted in several different locations—the box office, the second and third floor corridors, backstage. He was hectoring anyone and everyone who might have some power to halt the interruption.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  Andrea nodded and added in a low, deliberate tone, “We had a brief…conversation.”

  I could just picture that conversation. “Was the Savio spotted in the gaming salon?”

  “I received no useful information from any of the gamers. If I believe them, not one man or woman lifted their eyes from the tables until you came through yelling at the top of your lungs. No, what I consider interesting is that the occupants of the Passoni box did not stay put as ordered. I was fortunate enough to ask a few questions before the Savio bustled his party away. I discovered that both Franco and Beatrice left the box.”

  “Together?”

  “They left at different times, and both were gone for twenty minutes at least. A footman stated that the signorina insisted on going to find her father—he accompanied her, but she quickly slipped away from him. Beatrice says that she sought the Savio backstage, but no one recalls seeing her there, not even the observant fellow on the catwalk.

  “Now, Franco is a different matter.” Andrea continued stonily, “You’re not forgetting that Signora Passoni’s cavaliere is almost certainly the one who delivered both angel cards.”

  “I wouldn’t be likely to forget that.”

  “Just so.” He gave a tilting nod. “Signora Passoni reports that she became over warm sitting in the shut-up, curtained box. She sent Franco for an ice.”

  “In the middle of a riot?” I asked incredulously.

  “Exactly. Franco returned after twenty minutes, desolate that he was unable to obtain her treat.”

  “So, where was he?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps outside the attic storeroom, ensuring that Tedi Dall’Agata would never breathe her secret.” He added quietly, “Ah, we’ve arrived at your landing, Tito.”

  Franco? I slapped both hands to my brow. Secrets, told and untold, reeled in my brain. The faces of people who kept secrets, people who had the opportunity to kill both Torani and Tedi, joined them in a nonsensical whirl. None of it made sense, and I was loath to leave Andrea’s company until it did.

  Yet, the door to the cabin swung open, and the moist night air cooled my cheeks. Andrea’s gondolier extended his hand to help me disembark. Dimly, I heard Andrea bid me goodnight and advise that a brandy might be in order.

  I pulled myself together with a jerk. “When will you question Franco and Signora Passoni? Tomorrow? I mean, later today?” It must have been nearly two o’clock.

  “That remains to be seen.” Andrea shook his head. “To further interrogate any member of the Passoni household, I must wait upon the Savio’s pleasure. And I warn you, my friend, if Signora Passoni is involved in either murder, on her own or through her loyal cavaliere, she’ll never be punished.”

  “You couldn’t arrest her?”

  “Think on what you’re saying, man. This is a woman of patrician blood, no matter that she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. The Savio’s family is no less illustrious, and he holds an office of power. No one will want to believe that his wife was involved in a murder.”

  “What about Franco?”

  He reflected a moment. “Her cavaliere is a tool and nothing more. If Giovanna Passoni prevailed upon Franco to kill Tedi, and I’m unable to bring her to justice, then I would as soon arrest Franco as the pistol that fired the shot.”

  I heard the door to my house open. I didn’t want Liya out in the cold damp, but…“What if Signora Passoni took a pistol from her muff and shot someone in the middle of the piazza in the full view of hundreds? Could you arrest her then?”

  “The presence of witnesses would certainly make a difference, but her position would still hold sway.” He stretched his legs as best he could within the confines of the cabin. “In that case, the lady would probably end up in the madhouse rather than on the gibbet. Actually, I’m not certain which would be the more unbearable fate.”

  “Venetian justice,” I intoned ironically.

  “Our justice moves slowly, Tito, but it does move. Sometimes it even moves in the right direction.” His lips stretched in a bitter twist of a smile. “I advise you to remain patient on this score, as well, and leave the solution of these murders to me.”

  “But…” I began in protest.

  He tapped my knee. “That’s more than advice—it’s an order. Stay out of it. Meanwhile, trust that I’m not giving up. Who knows, I may even catch a stroke of luck.” He dipped his chin. “Now, I really must bid you goodnight.”

  I climbed out of the gondola and lingered on the pavement watching the boatman navigate a sharp turn and oar back the way he had come. I didn’t relish telling Liya about Tedi’s murder. The women had not been particularly friendly, but Liya had formed a deep appreciation of Tedi’s talents on the stage and of her loyalty to Maestro Torani. My wife would be disappointed; she would worry.

  Padding footsteps sounded behind me. I sighed. “Liya…” I began, turning.
<
br />   My next words stuck in my throat. It was not my wife, but my grinning manservant who stood in the wedge of light spilling from the door.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Naples smells to high Heaven,” Benito reported, sitting forward and warming his hands above the glowing scaldino. “It’s not just the rotting garbage—it’s the stink of sulphur that hits you in the face every time you open a window or venture into the street.”

  I nodded. “The mountain must have been belching while you were there.”

  “Just a wisp of black smoke against the blue sky, but somehow it was enough to foul the air.”

  I lounged on the sitting room sofa, every bone crying out for rest. Benito sat in the opposite chair, seemingly as fresh as a spring morning. By the wavering candlelight, I noted subtle changes in my manservant as he drew a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through its pages. Benito’s cheeks were tanned and wind roughened. And thinner. The little castrato had lost several pounds of his barely sufficient flesh. Oddly, his acute leanness did not suggest an increased fragility. Benito appeared as strong and pliable as a whip’s braided lash.

  We had chewed over my sad news, and I was anxious to hear what had sent my manservant haring off to southern Italy. Since Benito had landed in Naples, his news must concern Angeletto, but that was all I had managed to deduce. “Are you going to keep me in suspense forever?” I asked, none too kindly.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I have one simple word for you—

  twins.”

  “What?”

  “Twins,” he articulated even more precisely. “Angeletto and Maria Luisa are twins. I found the record of their baptism at the cathedral. Listen, I copied it down word for word.” He held his notebook close to a candle and read, “I, Giorgio Francesco Bersoglia, archpriest of the Cathedral Church of San Gennaro, have baptized a male and a female, born 22nd of July last at the 3rd hour, to the married couple, Bertraido Vanini of this diocese and Antonia Nardo. The children are given the names of Carlo Gian and Maria Luisa.”