Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  Vivaldi cleared his throat; the audience became silent, followed in degrees by the crowd beyond the door. Then he spoke.

  “Fellow citizens,” he said. “This is a most unusual occasion. I am not used to directing the work of others, nor do my players spend much time on any pieces but my own. So I apologise, to you and to our anonymous composer, for whatever mistakes and omissions we may make when we perform. Our English friend . . .”

  Delapole nodded modestly.

  “. . . has been kind enough to offer his patronage for this event in order that we might pass judgement on a work the provenance of which is quite unknown to us. Perhaps its author is in this room now. I have no idea.”

  I watched Rebecca closely. She did not even blink.

  “It scarcely matters. These are notes upon a page, remarkable notes, too, I think; otherwise, I would not be associated with them. How remarkable, you must judge. Not, I hope, out of curiosity, applauding for no better reason than to see the author make himself public, but out of honest appreciation of this concerto’s faults and merits. We are, if you will, invited into a room to witness a painting which is unsigned or taste a vintage which has no label. Is this Veronese or a third-rate copyist? Does one taste a fine vintage of Trentino or a glass of Lombardy muck? I can offer you no guidance, save to say that I think it is worthy of your consideration. Furthermore—”

  “Oh, get on with it, man,” someone cried from the door. There was a murmur of agreement. Delapole whispered to Leo, more loudly than he realised, I think, “The fellow is scared of playing it, surely. Does he think it will sink his reputation or what?”

  Leo said nothing. He could not take his eyes off the orchestra and, I fear, Rebecca. Vivaldi understood he could dally no longer. He waved his hand once in the air. His players rose at his bidding. Thus did Concerto Anonimo, the first public work by Rebecca Levi of the ghetto, make its public debut, and none but two in that room knew who had written it.

  This was like no concert Venice—or any other city, I’ll warrant—has ever witnessed. Rebecca stood in front of her fellow players, straight-backed, with dark, determined eyes, half watching Vivaldi for guidance (though I doubt she much needed it and wished instead she could both play and conduct the entire proceedings herself, and lecture the audience on the finer points of the piece simultaneously).

  I listened, rapt, as the music I had so amateurishly tried out on our old harpsichord found its true home. At times Rebecca’s instrument flew with the speed and agility of African swallows, around themes and inventions that wove in and out of each other, soaring and diving, taking directions none could predict. Then she would settle into deep, slow passages, simple on the surface yet laden with dark sonorities that defied their apparent effortlessness. Finally, she embarked upon a cadenza, one I took to be improvised, since Vivaldi did nothing but raise a single eyebrow and merely let her play her heart out, searing the air with the resonant tones she wrung from Delapole’s most excellent gift.

  When the music ended and she sat down, there was for a moment utter silence. I looked at Delapole. He wore the fondest expression I have ever seen on a man. The tears rolled down his cheeks for all to see. Even Leo seemed quite awestruck by what he had heard, and stared at Rebecca—as did most of the room—in open admiration. I caught her eye briefly. She seemed frightened, all the more so when the peace was shattered by a growing roar of applause—cheers and clapping, wild whoops, and cries of “Encore! Encore!”—that threatened to bring the flimsy roof of La Pietà down upon our heads.

  Vivaldi let this racket run for a minute or more. I was dismayed to see that all the while he regarded Rebecca in the most intense way. Then he waved his arms for silence and announced, “I would give you more, sirs, but it is not mine to give. I think Venice has issued its opinion. It only remains for our hero to make himself known to us, that we may worship him the greater.”

  If I am not mistaken, there was a note of irony in that last comment. Vivaldi looked like a broken man. He had not simply lost his crown; he had, albeit unwittingly, abdicated. Still, he could not take his eyes off Rebecca, and I was not the only one to notice. Leo had a queer expression on his face. I closed my eyes and tried to savour Rebecca’s moment of glory. Yet all that came was the presentiment of some dread turning upon this dangerous road of ours.

  38

  A brief investigation

  MASSITER SCOWLED AT THE POLICE TEAM WHO WERE scouring the room in which Paul had died. Daniel felt giddy and ill. It was now eight in the morning. The unconscious Scacchi had been removed by ambulance boat to the Ospedale al Mare on the Lido, where he remained critically ill. Laura had left for the police station in the early hours—to make a statement, they said. Ca’ Scacchi seemed empty without their presence, even though twenty men and women were now examining its every corner in the search for information.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Massiter murmured. He seemed, Daniel thought, genuinely shocked by the attack. In the hard morning light he looked older, almost frail. “Such luck,” he murmured.

  “I don’t understand, Hugo.”

  “I know the police, Daniel. They phoned me when this dreadful event occurred. I am helping by being here, aren’t I?”

  “Of course,” Daniel replied without thinking.

  “Well, that’s something, then. I never knew the American, but Scacchi I thought of as a friend, you know.”

  The relationship between Scacchi and the Englishman seemed more complex than that, Daniel believed. “I am sure,” he said.

  “And they send this . . . crew! I don’t know a single one of them.”

  The police wore dark clothes and seemed singularly obsessed with the house, not its occupants. A quiet, sallow-faced man had interviewed Daniel for half an hour, appearing bored with his own questions. It was as if they knew the answers already and simply sought confirmation. Daniel had lied on several fronts, telling them that he had been in his own bedroom when he was woken by the sound of screaming and that there was nothing of great value that appeared to be missing. Yet they were examining every cupboard, every drawer, even in the adjoining warehouse, and had yet to find an ancient fiddle, a fading manuscript, or the stash of dollars Scacchi must have secreted somewhere. These items were, Daniel knew instinctively, gone from the house.

  Finally, to his dismay, Giulia Morelli had arrived and announced she was to take charge of the investigation. The policewoman had nodded gravely to him in the living room and said nothing before disappearing about her business.

  “They were robbers,” he said firmly, as much to himself as Massiter. “Whoever it was stole the manuscript, Hugo.”

  The older man scowled. “Damned good job you’d copied it. Or we really would be in trouble. Is there anything else missing?”

  Daniel stared at him. “A friend of mine has been murdered. Another is at death’s door. I don’t, to be frank, much care about the manuscript. I want the person responsible for this found.”

  Massiter seemed offended. “That won’t help Scacchi. Or get the music back. There was something else, wasn’t there?”

  “I don’t know,” Daniel replied testily. “Scacchi liked his secrets.”

  “And the money?”

  “I already told you. I don’t know!”

  It was possible, Daniel believed, that Scacchi had somehow tried to swindle the very criminals he had sought to satisfy by acquiring the Guarneri in the first place. He had assumed the fiddle was gone from the house, though Scacchi had never discussed the matter as soon as the instrument was in his hands. Perhaps whatever money he had raised had already been spent elsewhere. But on what?

  “They must know the manuscript is gone,” Daniel said firmly. “I shall tell them.”

  Massiter seized his shoulder and hissed in his ear, so loudly that Giulia Morelli, who was on the far side of the room going through the contents of a desk, turned to look at them. “You must do no such thing, you little fool! Tell them about the music and we’re both exposed as frauds.”
<
br />   “I don’t care, Hugo.”

  Massiter’s face grew hard and threatening. “Then learn, Daniel. The pair of us are signatories to contracts which name you as the author of this piece. If you tell them the truth now, we could both face criminal charges. Being foreigners, we would, I imagine, find ourselves in the dock in an instant. You’re a minnow, but imagine the pleasure they’d get out of bringing me down.”

  Daniel shook himself free of his grip. “I thought you had friends.”

  “Venetian friends,” Massiter replied, calming down a little. “Fit for fair weather only.”

  Giulia Morelli had gone back to examining the papers in Scacchi’s desk but kept half an eye on them. Massiter was right. He was trapped by the deception. They both were, which was, he suspected, why Massiter had rushed round to Ca’ Scacchi after hearing of the incident.

  “Well?” Massiter asked.

  “All right, I won’t tell them,” Daniel said. “Not that, anyway.”

  Then, abruptly, he left Massiter’s side and crossed the room. The woman detective put down a sheaf of letters written in Scacchi’s ornate, flowing hand.

  “When can we see Scacchi?” Daniel asked, aware of Massiter scurrying to his side.

  “I’m afraid he is in a coma.”

  “You know each other?” Massiter asked immediately.

  “I am Captain Morelli.” She seemed fascinated by his presence. “I’ve been to your concerts, sir. Every one of them. This year Daniel here is the marvel, or so the papers say.”

  Daniel grimaced. “The papers . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is a shocking event. I should not have mentioned lighter matters at this time. But you will still go ahead with the concert?”

  “Of course,” Hugo replied, butting in. “Scacchi would have wanted as much.” They had already begun to talk about the old man in the past tense.

  “Good,” she said with a brief smile. “I think we’re almost finished here. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. And also for your grief. I didn’t know the American, but I’ve always enjoyed Scacchi’s company. I will pray for his recovery.”

  “And you found something?” Massiter asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. This is an old house, but there is little of real value in it. I think many things must have been sold over the years. You can see nothing missing, Daniel?”

  “Nothing I’m aware of. But robbery must have been the motive.”

  Giulia Morelli’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What was there to steal?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered quickly.

  “And where’s the evidence? There are no broken windows. No forced doors. If this was a robber, then Scacchi or the American must have let him in.”

  Daniel tried to think quickly. “There is something I must tell you. I don’t know if it’s important or not.”

  The policewoman nodded at him. “Something that was not in your statement? I read what you said. It seemed quite straightforward. You were in bed. You heard a noise. You found what you found.”

  “It’s not about me.” He was aware of Massiter’s presence close by his side. “Scacchi owed money. He borrowed from some men and was worried what they would do to him and Paul if he failed to repay them.”

  “Some men?”

  “Criminals, I believe,” Daniel admitted.

  She seemed amused. “Scacchi knew criminals? I believed he was some kind of art dealer, like yourself, Signor Massiter.”

  “Not quite in my league,” Massiter sniffed.

  “Nevertheless...” the woman continued. “He dealt in objects of a certain history and gave them value through his actions. Like most art dealers, I imagine. Let me be honest with you. As you surely know, Daniel, we’re not entirely unfamiliar with Scacchi. We’re not fools.”

  “Then you know the kind of men he would have dealt with?” Daniel asked.

  “Of course! And I would be aware, I think, if any of them had reason to be angry with him. There’s no advantage in keeping quiet about debtors in default. A little gossip enhances the pressure upon them to pay and serves to deter their counterparts should some punishment be necessary.”

  “Then,” he added, “you have it. You can speak to these people. You can find out who his creditors were.”

  She cast him a condescending glance. “I did that shortly after I came here. This house has the smell of penury about it, but I can find no evidence Scacchi owed anyone a cent.”

  “That’s not true! He told me so himself!”

  “And this man never lied?” Giulia Morelli waited for his answer. Daniel was lost for words. She turned to Massiter. “You don’t remember me, sir?”

  He peered at her. “Sorry. No.”

  “No reason to. I was barely out of college. Ten years ago, when there was that tragic case of the girl violinist. What was her name?”

  “Susanna Gianni,” Massiter replied softly.

  “Correct. You have a good memory for some things. I worked on that case. I was there when you were interviewed. I was much moved by your grief.”

  “It was a great loss,” Massiter noted. “I had been thinking that perhaps I should dedicate this year’s concert to her memory.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “But why now? After so many years? She is forgotten, surely?”

  “Not by those of us who knew her,” Massiter said archly.

  “Then perhaps you should have a private meeting and remember her for yourselves. Not force her name upon a new audience who have never heard it. The poor girl is dead and should stay that way. Sometimes these cases have a degree of finality about them which we should respect. You do remember that aspect of the matter, don’t you?”

  Massiter shuffled on his feet, then looked at his watch. “I miss your point.”

  “My point is this. The Gianni girl is murdered, and for a week every police officer in Venice searched everywhere to discover her killer. Then, in an instant, it becomes apparent. We find this dead conductor of yours . . . and he has confessed! Can you imagine how much gratitude my superiors felt towards this man? One minute, chaos. The next, order—and not a penny to be spent on a trial, either.”

  “It was,” Massiter said bleakly, “a dreadful summer.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “And yet I learnt so much then, sir. I learnt that wisdom is synonymous with simplicity. That to seek secrets and conspiracies simply muddies water that is clean to begin with. The first solution is usually the most . . . apposite. Yes, I believe that is the word.”

  They were both silent. There was something in this woman’s manner, half-joking, half-threatening, which made them wary.

  “Gentlemen.” Giulia Morelli leaned forward and touched Daniel on the shoulder. He could smell perfume on her skin. Her white, perfect smile shone at him. “You do agree with me, don’t you? Why turn stones unnecessarily and let all manner of black creatures scuttle around our feet as a consequence?”

  Daniel felt incensed by her tone. “I want the person who did this found. I want him brought to book.”

  “Of course!” The woman was clearly laughing at him.

  “I want—!”

  “Please,” she said firmly. “You already have what you want. We have the culprit. We will lay charges in a few days, I imagine. Shortly after that we will be in court. Domestics... always the problem.”

  “What?”

  “You saw it yourself? She was holding the knife. It’s covered with her fingerprints.”

  “This,” Daniel said, voice rising, “is ridiculous. Laura was one of the family. They loved each other.”

  “Families,” Giulia Morelli said. “So many reasons for arguments. Money. Passion. Hatred. She’s in the women’s prison in Giudecca. You may see her. I have no objection.”

  He felt like taking this woman by the shoulders and shaking her until she saw sense. He felt like screaming at her, knowing all the time that this was what she wanted.

  “You are,” he said, fighting to keep calm, �
��so mistaken about this. Scacchi will recover and tell you so himself.”

  “Perhaps. But in the meantime, go talk to her yourself,” she insisted.

  “Daniel,” Massiter said, taking his arm. “Best leave this now. . . .”

  “NO!”

  She stood in front of him, almost smirking, possessed, he knew, of some precious piece of information she was waiting to disclose.

  “Well?” he said. “There’s something else?”

  “It is simple, Daniel. Like all great mysteries. The housekeeper has confessed. Here, when we took her statement. And again at the station. She gives no motive. She is a little insane, perhaps. Who cares? She has confessed. Now, what could be more convenient than that?”

  39

  Unmasked

  AFTER THE CONCERT WE FELL INTO SUNLIGHT, BLINKING like captives who had spent a day beneath ground, locked in some fairy cavern. Delapole was the hero of the hour. The crowd was determined to make Rebecca the heroine, too, but she had fled unseen. I searched for her in vain and all the while felt my nerves fray at the possibilities. What if she had been recognised in spite of her attempt to alter her appearance? What was going through Leo’s mind? And, most of all, how had we given her the gift she most earnestly desired, and deserved, without bringing the world falling down around our heads?

  Two hours later, back in the house, with Leo gulping down wine and looking like a hyena that has stumbled upon a fresh corpse, my worst fears were confirmed. He beckoned me to sit at the table, fixed me with a cheery glance, and asked, “So where will it be for Vivaldi now, do you think? Not a chap who likes to stand in someone else’s shadow.”