by David Hewson
“Three murders, Signor Massiter,” she said. “And Susanna Gianni.”
“Ah,” he said, remembering. “You still have a bee in your bonnet about that girl. It’s all so much history, surely?”
“You’re a powerful man. But you won’t bribe your way out of this. We may behave with dignity, I think? If we go to the station now, we can avoid much fuss. Much publicity.”
“Surely not?” Massiter asked. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
She shuffled on her feet nervously. Daniel looked at the stairs. They were on their own. She seemed to expect some support. “I have limited patience,” she said. “Please.”
“Ah,” Massiter said, seeing her companion. “Biagio! You are well?”
She stared at the figure opposite, uncomprehending. The young policeman held the gun loosely at his side.
“Sì, Signor Massiter.”
Massiter nodded. “I am glad to hear it. And I still owe you, naturally, for that news of our friend Rizzo. And the rest. I remain most grateful.”
Giulia Morelli’s face fell. “Biagio...?” she asked.
Massiter yawned. “Oh, for God’s sake, man. Kill the bitch, will you? She bores me so.”
Daniel saw the revolver rise from Biagio’s side, and leapt forward, fumbling with his own weapon, struggling as Massiter pounced, then punched him once, hard, on the back of the neck, forcing him to the ground, where two powerful hands wrestled with his.
The cavernous room was filled with an explosion that hurt the ears and echoed around the bare bricks. Daniel looked up from the floor and saw Giulia Morelli staggering slowly backwards, a neat black hole in the fabric of her dark jacket, something liquid pumping from it. Biagio watched greedily, gun ready for a second shot if he needed it. Then she fell against the wall and slumped to the ground. Her mouth opened, her throat formed some unidentifiable word, she breathed blood that ran over her lips and formed a long, dark stain down her chin.
“Damn woman,” Massiter cursed angrily, then reached down and dragged Daniel to his feet. The gun was back where it belonged, tight in Massiter’s strong fist. “What on earth were you doing, boy? Running with her when you could be running with me? Me! The only one who’s never lied to you!”
Daniel looked at the fury in his eyes. It was as if this were the greatest betrayal, more cruel than any other.
“I made a choice, Hugo,” he replied. “Not the right choice or the wrong one. Merely my choice.”
The cold gaze never left him. “And I tell you such things, Daniel? That I killed your friends. That I kill who I like. You’ve a gun in your hand, and still you do nothing.”
Massiter eyed the weapon. The gun rose in his fist. He held it to Daniel’s face. There was a sound from the opposite wall. Giulia Morelli groaned, still living, but by a thread.
“You’re an enigma to me, Daniel,” Massiter declared. “At times you show such promise. Then...”
A knowing grin broke Massiter’s puzzlement. “Of course! I understand! You think I play games with you.” The barrel of the gun touched Daniel’s temple. “You think I tempt you with empty promises and an empty chamber. Oh, Daniel.”
He withdrew a little. Biagio stood next to them, immobile.
“You misunderstand me so.”
His hand rose, finger tight on the trigger, then turned. The room rang to the deafening noise again. Daniel saw Biagio’s forehead open in front of him, saw the force of the blast, despatched by Massiter’s hand from only a few inches, send the policeman flying backwards through the air. He crumpled to the floor and lay still. Massiter stared at his body. “I am a good master,” he murmured. “But the police... It’s all about money. Nothing else.”
The air stank of blood and the sharp scent of powder. Massiter came close to him again. Daniel closed his eyes and felt the metal on his cheek.
“We could clean this mess up,” Massiter said. “One phone call. I have people. It would be wise, perhaps, to stay out of Venice for a little while. Keep out of the public eye. But everything blows over here, with a little time, a little money.”
Daniel said nothing.
“I’ll reward you,” Massiter said. “More than anything you can find in this room.”
“Go to hell,” Daniel whispered, aware that he was trembling now. “I’m not like you.”
Massiter gripped his hair and pressed the weapon harder to his cheek. “Everyone’s like me. It’s only a question of the proportions.”
Daniel tried to think of Laura. And of Amy, magnificent in the nave of La Pietà, making such sounds from her instrument. A world lived inside his head, composed, ordered, complete. It could contain him forever and never allow Hugo Massiter entrance.
Shivering, prepared, not frightened, Daniel Forster stood upright in the crypt, waiting to die. Then, abruptly, Massiter’s grip relaxed. There was no noise, no sudden pain or blackness. Finally, Daniel opened his eyes.
Hugo Massiter had left the cellar without making a sound. Two handguns now lay on the floor next to the body of Biagio. On the far side of the room, Giulia Morelli was motionless, barely breathing. Daniel could hear her snatched gasps.
He ran to her, picked the phone out of her bag, knowing he would have to go outside to use it. Then he touched her forehead, felt a little warmth on the skin. She opened her eyes.
“Daniel?” Her voice sounded ghostly.
“Don’t say anything. Massiter’s gone. You’re safe. I’m going outside to call an ambulance. You’ll be fine.”
She moved a hand to her chest, felt the sticky wetness there, looked at him, and tried to laugh. “Don’t talk nonsense. Let me tell you something.”
“No. Just wait.”
“Daniel?” Her hand clutched his arm. He waited. Something was happening to her eyes. They were fading; the life was falling out of them.
“Daniel...”
Giulia Morelli whispered a single, cryptic sentence, then said no more.
63
Report from the watch
From the journal of Captain Giuseppe Cornaro of the Dorsoduro night troop, September 17th, 1733.
THE VILLAIN LORENZO SCACCHI IS DEAD. I LUGGED HIS cursed carcass to the block myself and watched in satisfaction as the Doge’s executioner despatched him to the region where he belongs. In all my years of guarding the Republic from foul devils, I have never, I believe, come across a young rogue such as this. His cunning was matched only by his capacity for cruel violence and, oh!, such damage has he done. Thanks to this vicious criminal, the city has lost much: a publisher, his uncle, no less, and owner of a much-reputed name. Then, in his last hours upon this earth, the life of one who sought nothing more than to enrich the Republic with his talents and generosity. The good and meek are snatched into God’s bosom by the vile and low. I am no priest, so I do not pretend to know why such filthy deeds occur. We must, on the Dorsoduro watch, merely observe their enactment and then attempt to remedy the consequences as best we might.
The facts of the uncle’s murder are well-known. Those surrounding the death of the English gentleman Oliver Delapole appear to be the subject of much rumour in the city, a good deal apparently started by Scacchi himself, since documents in his abode show his handwriting closely resembles that on several of the anonymous notes which have come into our possession. I set down now what we, as the legal authorities, know and in so doing assure those who read this report that there is no more of material value to be gleaned from further investigation. A base criminal is dead. The sad aftermath of his actions lives on. We must waste no more of the state’s time and money adding to an executed felon’s list of charges.
So that justice be done to the dead Delapole (and the vociferous English consul assuaged) let me state here and now that we find no evidence, save our villain’s mischievous lies, of any wrongdoing on his part. There were debts, it is true, but then what gentleman does not from time to time rely a little upon the bank? There was the contested matter of his authorship of this mysterious concerto. I am
no artist myself, sirs, merely a hunter of the facts. In this case I would ask a single question: if Delapole did not write this work, as he claimed, then who did? For none other has come forward to place his name by the frontispiece, not even an obvious fraudster. This nonsense about there being a curse upon the piece, I dismiss instantly. If the composer lived—and surely could re-create the work from his own head—why would he remain silent? Even if he never wrote another note in his life, he would be assured fame and fortune for this single e fort alone. No, Delapole was the composer, surely, and the gossip spread about by his murderer was merely some ruse by which to ruin him. Thus it seems an even greater tragedy that every last piece of paper relating to this concerto appears to have been destroyed by the scoundrel himself after he bludgeoned its author to death.
The dead Roman I dismiss entirely as a lunatic. I have interviewed those who spoke to him when he first arrived, babbling about Delapole’s past and making wild and wholly unsubstantiated accusations. The man was unbalanced. That he knew Scacchi cannot be in doubt. I have evidence that the young rogue stayed with him in Rome and perhaps there unhinged his mind so e fectively that the old fellow followed him to Venice and attempted to make mischief. Marchese’s arrival threatened to foul Scacchi’s game and the result we know well. I have an army of witnesses who saw him standing over the old man’s body with the bloody knife that killed him still dripping in his hand. What more must one require?
Some reason for all this, you shall say, and with justification. The dark depths of Scacchi’s deeds are well documented, yet we continue to lack an explanation for them. The answer must lie in a woman, of course. There was one. After we called on Delapole to discuss the matter of Marchese’s accusations and found his shattered corpse instead, I went to speak to those who had been in his household. A female, young and beautiful, had been there for several days and was known to Scacchi too. She is gone. Perhaps her corpse lies at the floor of the lagoon, despatched there by this jealous villain. There is no way of knowing, and I venture that it matters little. We understand the nature of the deeds and the identity of their perpetrator. He has met his much-deserved fate. All else is idle chatter, and as guardian of the Republic’s citizens, I have no time for that. The beast is dead, and for once I shall not pray for a departed soul. I saw his handiwork. It was hard to believe that the pile of flesh and tattered rags upon the floor in that fine mansion had once walked and talked—and written fine music. Even that it had ever been a man at all.
As to the manner of Scacchi’s apprehension, I shall offer a brief description. As I noted, I was sent, with no urgency, to talk to the Englishman on several matters and found, on my arrival, the dreadful tragedy I have described. Close by the house, in an alley near the rio, my guards discovered one who had, it seemed, apprehended the villain as he sought to flee. During the scrap that ensued, young Scacchi—whom the fellow recognised, having seen him in the neighbourhood before—was sorely wounded in the chest and face, the latter so badly that he could speak not a single comprehensible word. Not that it was needed. We could see, with our own eyes, the extent of his criminal deeds and would have held him anyway, without the warrant over his uncle’s brutal slaying.
There was, I scarcely need add, no need for the expense of a full trial. That excellent magistrate Cortelazzo hurried from a dinner party to listen to our case while Scacchi slumped, half-dead, on a chair in the dock, with his apprehender beside him. A sterling fellow this chap was too. Had he waited afterwards, I would have commended him for some gift from the city funds. He was, it seems, a physician on his rounds when he encountered Scacchi, panic-stricken and bloody, who demanded money and immediately set about him. For once the villain met his match. The fellow’s profession proved fortuitous, for I wonder if the scoundrel would have survived long enough to be dragged to the block without his tending. But like many a Venetian, when it comes to a crisis, he answers the call and asks no reward. After I saw Scacchi despatched by the axe, I turned and he was gone. I have his name, however—Guillaume—and an address in Cannaregio. One day when times are quieter, I will visit him and say a word of thanks. It is from such folk—good Christians all—that Venice is made.
I shall, accordingly, conclude. The world is rid of another villain, though not without the loss of two good and talented men at his bloody hands. That old serpent visited us and found us ready. There is no cause for rejoicing, but I do believe we may allow ourselves a little satisfaction. On a single point I will, however, offer criticism. We would have apprehended Scacchi much more rapidly had we been better informed. The descriptions of him on the city posters—and I know not where they come from—speak of an average lad of average build and comely appearance. Perhaps he wrote them himself, for in real life, bloodied and injured as he was, it was clear to see that Lorenzo Scacchi was the ugliest individual it has ever been my privilege to despatch to Hades. Even without a knife split down it, his face would have been hideous. Furthermore, on his back stood the distinct makings of a hump such as one might find on a cripple or a leper. Had young Guillaume not confirmed his identity for us, I fear he would have escaped, for all our e forts.
Perhaps sweet Jesus smiled on us that moment and, through that good doctor, shone a beam that penetrated this beast’s disguise. In future I should prefer a few hard facts to save our Lord the trouble.
64
The edge of the lagoon
DANIEL FORSTER HAD NOT FOUGHT THE CHARGES with much enthusiasm. Two police officers were dead. Large sums of money had been elicited by fraud from several well-known musical institutions around the world. The true perpetrator was Hugo Massiter, as the public and the prosecutors knew. But Massiter was gone, vanished from the face of the earth the night Giulia Morelli and Biagio died. Daniel remained, willing to admit his supporting role in some of Massiter’s misdeeds, the only culprit a vengeful criminal system could find. Unable to charge him in relation to the murders, the prosecutors had raised the stakes on the embezzlement case and succeeded in winning a three-year jail term, which Daniel, much to their fury, accepted with a humble shrug of the shoulders.
He found no cause to argue. Some desire for atonement nagged him constantly. He wished for time to think too. In the small, modern cell in Mestre which he shared with an engaging Padua gangster named Toni, Daniel began to construct some explanations for the events which had engulfed him that long, dangerous summer. He was a popular prisoner, teaching his cell mate English, striking up a strong friendship which would, both men knew, survive their release. There were individuals in jail there who were of use to him too. They confirmed what Giulia Morelli had already told him. Scacchi owed money to no one. The house, which was now his, was free of debt. With the balance of Scacchi’s estate, he became a man of a little means, even after the fines the court had imposed. Within four months, when it was clear to the prison authorities that he had no intention of trying to run away, he was increasingly allowed out of the jail to spend days in the city to further his education. They were not to know that he would soon abandon his now tenuous links with Oxford for a different sphere of research.
The property had been his first focus of attention. He had sold the near-derelict adjoining warehouse to raise money to pay for the main building’s restoration. Within the space of a year, Ca’ Scacchi was neighbour to three smart apartments, two of them American-owned, served by a renovated bridge across the rio. As he supervised the building work, and the refurbishment of the cellar where he and Laura had found the manuscript, his interest was drawn increasingly to the question of the concerto’s authorship. The work was fast becoming a standard item in the orchestral repertoire, performed around the world. The infamous mystery which surrounded its appearance in Venice did the takings no harm at all. All the same, Daniel never once doubted the work deserved its acclaim. It had its lighter flourishes and occasionally stooped to some shameless fireworks in order to dazzle the listener. Yet there were such depths, too, and they continued to astound him even though he now felt he
knew every note.
With the help of the supportive prison governor, he had gained an unlimited reader’s ticket to the Archivio di Stato, the archives which contained every last surviving document of the Venetian Republic. The building was behind the Frari, a stone’s throw from San Rocco. He spent months there, poring over the thousands of pages the city’s clerks had scribbled throughout 1733. For weeks it seemed a fruitless task. Then, half a year after he was sentenced, he stumbled over a fragment of a report from the Dorsoduro night watch. Most of the document had been destroyed by damp and mould. A single paragraph remained legible in its entirety, but it was sufficient. There was a clear reference to the “mysterious concerto” and a death connected with the work. There was also a name, that of an Englishman who was, the report confirmed, the undoubted author of the piece, and the revelation that all papers connected with the piece had been destroyed after its composer’s death, for unknown reasons. There was no clue why the original should have been hidden behind the brickwork in Ca’ Scacchi, though it seemed likely that one of Scacchi’s ancestors might have been hired to print the original scores.
Much enjoyable research remained before this single scrap of information could be turned into something resembling fact. Every weekday, he was released from the prison and took the bus to Piazzale Roma, then walked to the archive, trawling its miles of shelves for more evidence. The name Delapole was mentioned elsewhere, though never in connection with music. There were, as the night watch reported, debts. A few fragments of private papers also made comments on the man’s character, which was, by all accounts, cultured and charming. Over the weeks, Daniel assembled every last scrap of information he could find about Delapole. When he wanted to think, he would walk round the corner and sit in the upper hall of San Rocco, beneath Lucifer’s shadow, and let these facts roam around his imagination, trying to see where they might fit alongside one another.