Secret of the Song

by Cathie Hartigan

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘the actual manuscript isn’t harmed, only the cover.’

  I wished I’d taken the damn thing back sooner. Maybe this would be the end of the curse and we could all get back to normal.

  After Jon had gone, leaving me holding Duncan’s postcard, I’d opened the bottle of red and put my glass on the coffee table. The Gesualdo was on the top of the heap of music beside it. Next thing, it tipped over. God knows how. The wine puddled in the centre of the cover. When I’d patted it with some kitchen paper there was no sign of any spots; rather, it looked as if the copy itself had haemorrhaged. Luckily, the waxed brown paper, although old, had stopped the wine from seeping through. Of course, it meant there was no chance of acquiring any photographic evidence about the number of spots.

  ‘I’ve found something out about the provenance of the manuscript,’ I said. Immediately, the curator’s expression brightened.

  ‘Oh? Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, breezily. ‘I’ve just come back from Italy.’ I added one of those little offhand waves that implied I went every other weekend, then felt embarrassed and began mumbling about my mother.

  ‘But what did you find out?’ the curator interrupted. She had the same intensity in her voice I’d heard when she first showed me the manuscript.

  I told her about meeting Signor Pace and his theory about the curse and instead of the derisive laugh I’d expected, she said, ‘I’m not at all surprised. But don’t worry. Cursed artefacts are the stuff of museums. With all those bad vibes festering away, it’s amazing the buildings stay standing.’

  ‘Do you happen to know,’ I asked, ‘if anything was with this manuscript when you found it?’

  ‘With it?’

  ‘Yes. Any other music or books, artefacts maybe?’ It was one thing knowing where the manuscript came from, but I still had no idea how it got to Exeter.

  ‘I’ll check,’ she said. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve been told to ask for the photo of you all as soon as possible. I hear it’s going to be rather daring.’

  We went into the pink foyer.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, looking up at Albert’s statue and his disapproving expression. ‘I think we’re all getting daring these days.’

  I walked up the hill to the theatre, holding my music bag with both hands against my body like a sort of breastplate. I’d got fed up with it slapping against my legs. The forecast had said gale force nine, gusting to storm force ten in Portland and Plymouth. A line of newly planted birch trees bent and strained against their ties, a weary chain gang. The mature evergreen oak by the entry to the car park was more stalwart, merely moaning. I imagined it had felt quite a few gales in its time.

  ‘Ted?’ I said to the guy huddled against the studio door. He had a heap of photography paraphernalia at his feet so it wasn’t a wild guess. The khaki flak jacket and ravaged look spoke of war, not butterflies and sea horses, but what do I know?

  He nodded. ‘Don’t suppose you have a key, do you?’

  ‘No, sorry. I’m surprised Sophie’s not here already.’ I looked back down the hill. It wasn’t very cold, but the wind was strong enough to grab hold of my words and chuck them away as soon as I’d opened my mouth.

  ‘I wanted to set up before you all got here,’ Ted shouted. ‘I texted Jon, but he said he had to go and pick someone up.’

  Guess who … said my sneery demon.

  I was glad to see Sophie appear from around the corner. With her good hand, she was holding on to her hat, a mob cap made out of emerald green velvet. It looked great on her and I could imagine it looking very well on someone in a Shakespeare production. There were times when I wished I was more theatrical and not quite so High Street.

  ‘Sorry, sorry …’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘One of tonight’s cast had ripped his blazer, see, and I’m not so quick with this bloody plaster on.’

  ‘It’s amazing you can manage at all,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’m thankful it wasn’t the other arm.’

  Two cars were coming up the hill. Robert first and there, yes, Daniela sat next to Jon. See? Told you so … My stomach lurched and not in a good way. This would be an ordeal. Everything was an ordeal.

  I went into the drama studio and welcomed the flat atmosphere, black curtains and dead acoustic. They seemed appropriate. Sophie had all the costumes on a rail and I took mine and went behind a curtain to change. The dress was lovely, not elaboratly embroidered like Jon’s outfit, but, Silvia Albana was no peasant or kitchen maid. She was a maidservant to a princess. Sophie had given me a lecture on corsets, and eventually I’d given in, because I didn’t want to look like a ‘comely wench’. On top of the corset I had a straight up and down garment made of fine cotton which, she said, would have been linen in 1590. I made the mistake of calling it a petticoat. Sophie had tutted and said it was a chemise. Petticoats were worn on the top, except for the bodice and skirt and the over-dress, which probably had detachable linen bits for washing; cuffs, sleeves, collars …

  She could talk for England about clothes and who wore what, how and when, but I was just glad the outer dress was a nice colour. Blue-grey like my eyes and made in some sort of faux silk. The corset did wonders too. There’d be no bungee jumping for my bosom – and Wonderbra, thou art a feeble thing in comparison. Once I’d got everything on, I sat down on a chair behind the curtain with the wig on my lap and tried to feel more enthusiastic.

  Not everything had gone wrong, I told myself. Sophie and Robert seemed happy. My mother was in regular contact with Charles, who so far hadn’t shown any signs of being like Thomas the Snake. The school choir was fantastic – that did cheer me. I remembered the last practice and all the lovely expressions on their faces as they focused a hundred per cent on what they were singing. That’s the way, I thought. Focus on the music, not yourself. The concert would be over soon and Noteworthy could go back to being a happy quartet. Oh yeah? Oh, no … the realisation that this wasn’t likely hit me in the stomach. I bent forward, groaning.

  ‘Here she is!’ The curtain swished back. I was blinded by a spotlight, but I knew it was Daniela by her voice. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘is it all right?’

  I was it now, was I?

  ‘Oh!’ she said, laughing in that treacly way of hers that made me want to nail her teeth together. ‘It’s your wig. Look everyone, doesn’t it look like a pussy cat?’

  My eyesight recovered enough to see Jon look embarrassed. Sophie, lovely Sophie, was clearly cross. ‘Have you been to the optician lately, Daniela?’

  She’d spent some considerable time braiding that wig.

  I stood up and picked up the chair I’d been sitting on. ‘Let’s get on with it then.’ God, it was all rather grim. Why had we ever thought it was a good idea? Had we? Back in the old days, when we were young, carefree and laughed a lot. Yes, all of a few weeks ago.

  ‘It’s a good job we’re not singing this evening, with this gale blowing.’ I said. The studio was fairly well soundproofed but I wasn’t the only thing moaning. The wind rumbled like a train with an infinite number of carriages.

  I liked the wig and thought it looked good on me. There’s no way I would have worn it if it hadn’t. Sophie had done a fantastic job on all the costumes, and the placing of the music stand with a very large piece of music on it, plus a swathe of black drape from Daniela’s Grim Reaper costume, obscured her plaster very well. Jon bore no resemblance to the fish-faced Don Carlo Gesualdo of the portrait in the book, but in his costume I could see him catching the eye of Elizabeth the First as the Earl of Leicester. Or catching anyone’s eye, come to that. As for Robert … he might never live it down. I could see the mortification in his eyes, but when he looked at Sophie, it fell away. He was in love. They’d known each other for years and all of a sudden … Quite the opposite of Jon and me. I glanced at Daniela who, even though she’d complained about how black wasn’t her colour, somehow was managing to look cool dressed in a shapeless cape. The tableau placed her in the centre
behind the two lovers. She held the scythe at a diagonal with the blade at the top. On the right of the picture, Jon held his dagger raised, ready to strike. I was on the opposite side, facing the action and looking upset.

  Ted unpacked his paraphernalia – umbrellas, tripods and lights – while we tried to pose like Sophie’s tableaux. I tried to imagine the Victorians in the early days of photography, standing like statues for ages during the long exposures. When we saw the first attempts on Ted’s laptop, each of us reacted in the same way. With silence. Except Ted, who laughed.

  ‘Not good?’ I ventured.

  ‘I should cocoa,’ he said. ‘This is why I don’t do people. The idea’s good but …’

  ‘Yes?’ We all wriggled and coughed like children.

  ‘You look as if you’ve just walked out of a fancy dress shop. None of you mean what you’re doing. Isn’t this supposed to be a murder scene?’

  ‘I know some drama exercises,’ Sophie offered. ‘Perhaps they might get us into character.’

  Daniela burst into fits of laughter. ‘Oh, this is funny. You English are so … what is the word … stiff? Yes. I will enjoy telling this to my friends in Milan.’

  Nobody said anything but we reeled with collective offence. Sophie opened her mouth, a knee-jerk reaction to being called English, but she shut it again and frowned instead.

  ‘Let’s have another go,’ Jon said. He looked grim-faced enough for all of us.

  Then I realised that upset wasn’t the right emotion for me. God knows, I felt upset enough in reality but that was because of my situation, which was a long way from Silvia Albana’s. What I needed to feel was shocked, horrified and frightened. Frightened for my life too. Poor Silvia Albana was barely twenty and had expected the tip of a halberd to be plunged into her chest. That would require an entirely different expression on my face.

  We took up our positions again and I tried to imagine what it must have been like. A dark night, there’d be shouting, screams probably, footsteps, flickering torches. I closed my eyes and straight away I saw Mollie’s face and remembered her nightmare. Heard her cries … the sound of them in my head grew louder and more penetrating, more desperate. It was as if I was there too. And so real … so real! I could almost smell the smoke and the sweat of the men. Hear them shouting, Italian words I knew, so lyrical in music, so violent in anger. My heart began to beat faster and the back of my neck prickled with sweat. There was something else too … I didn’t know what. Some dreadful thing coming closer. The wind thrashed about louder than ever.

  The world had become nothing but noise and a high and persistent screaming. I wanted to open my eyes but dared not. No, could not. I heard a voice cry out but couldn’t understand it. I’d lost any sense of where I was, when or even who I was. I took a breath but found the air hard to take in.

  My whole body began to shake, and then beneath my feet, the floor began to move, slip away. Was I falling? I forced my eyes to open but as I did so, a great firework display of flashing white lights ripped the world apart. I think I saw the others, their arms up, shielding something. I held my hands to my ears but was deafened by something louder than thunder. And then it seemed the sky was falling, falling down on top of us and a monstrous hand came out of nowhere, grabbed hold and took me into the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Napoli 1590

  They did not come at first light. They said they would but they did not. I was woken from my swoon by a noisy argument amongst the sparrows. I found myself at the foot of the door in the grey of dawn. For a moment, as I listened, my thoughts flew freely too, up and away over the rooftops, but then the memory of the night’s events rushed in faster than a great wave, re-awakening all my fears.

  I began to pick myself up from the floor but found my head pounding and sat back down. A little investigation found blood on my forehead. Had I hit myself falling? Perhaps on the corner of the chest? Then I remembered the monstrous ‘thing’ I had seen, and shuddered. I raised my eyes to the place where I last saw it advancing towards me, but there was only the familiar door curtain and the tapestry-backed chair with the wooden arms.

  I struggled to standing and crossed to the window. The storm had brought heavy rain in the night and the air smelled fresh when I pushed back the shutter. I breathed deeply and stayed there a while as the light brightened. Still nobody came to unlock the door. It was a strange thing to be in my clothes from the day before, but it meant I could seek out the little carvings that Salvo made. I felt the warmth of the wood in my hand when I found the kitten, the first he gave me. I knew them all by touch now but the sight of it made tears well in my eyes.

  It seemed to me that we sewed our lives together as best we could, but if the cloth was weak or a seam had too much to bear, then eventually even the best of mendings might fail.

  Into my heart then came a dark curiosity. I wished to see her. Donna Maria Carafa – Princess of Venosa, wife of the Don Carlo Gesualdo. My lady. I had to see her. Swiftly and with purpose, I walked through the antechamber, past my own bed, past Orlando Furioso which lay face down on the floor. Only when I reached the door to the bedchamber and put my hand forward to push it open, did I pause.

  This was my last chance to see, to really know her fate. The hard truth of it. Soon the apartment would be full of people. They’d come to take my lady and Fabrizio away. Poor Rosa would be sent up to clean. Questions would be asked of me, and at some point Don Carlo would return. At the thought of him, I shuddered, remembering the blade at my throat. I put my hand up to where it had grazed and felt the warm pulse of life beneath my skin.

  In daylight, the dead held less sway over me. Those alive were far more dangerous. I reached to push the door panel as I had done so often before, where the wood was slightly worn and where the merest pressure from a fingertip would swing the door wide. But I was not so brave that I didn’t shut my eyes as it did so.

  ‘Silvia?’ A woman’s voice, quiet. ‘Silvia,’ it insisted, ‘you had best wake up now.’

  I opened my eyes and sensed by the bright sunlight that the day was far on. Sister Caterina stood in the doorway.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. But my limbs refused to move.

  ‘How are you today? Here, let me look.’ Her cool hand stroked my forehead. ‘I think the swelling is going down now. You must get up, Silvia,’ she said. ‘Besides, I need your help.’

  ‘My help?’

  She smiled but my face wasn’t ready for such a bold expression. Half a smile was all I could muster.

  ‘When the Master of the Grand Court came yesterday, I told him you couldn’t be woken.’ She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Of course, that meant a great many prayers to redeem my untruth. When he returns today, I cannot say the same again, for then I will have no time to water the garden.’

  ‘Oh … of course, I will see him. You have been so kind …’ I felt a tear fall and my voice failed me. Sister Caterina came and sat on the bed, putting her hand on mine. Her touch was cool and soothing.

  ‘I will stay and be with you, Silvia.’

  She left me then and I rose and splashed my face in the bowl of water she’d put on the table. I found in my bundle of clothes the same grey skirt worn by Donna Maria for that short while on her last evening and pulled it on. My precious scissors and needle case hung from my belt and as I fastened it about my waist my hands began to tremble. What was going to happen to me? Would Don Carlo have me tried as a witch after all?

  I sat on the bed again as my thoughts, swirling with new horrors, made my knees so weak I couldn’t stand. What if the Inquisition were to come?

  A high bell rang out from somewhere in the convent, and the sisters began singing their prayers. It soothed me and before long I could bear my fears enough to stand again. I couldn’t help wondering why anyone should want to compose ugly music when it could be so beautiful.

  The grey shawl topped the heap of clothes in my bundle and once I’d recovered enough to continue dressing, I picked it up and hel
d it to my face, breathing deeply in the hope of finding a vestige of her still there, if only in the faintest trace of the rose essence she loved. There was a comfort in the soft wool against my cheek, and I stood for a while with my eyes closed while pictures of her welled up in my memory. The repertoire of her laughter rang through the scenes, from deep and sultry when she was with Fabrizio, to the gurgles of pleasure brought on by a mouth full of lumbolls.

  You will help me, Silvia – I jumped, startled by the sudden change and nearness of her voice. The back of my neck prickled but when I looked over my shoulder there was only the small statue of the other Lady in the room. I pulled the shawl around me and bent my head. Donna Maria had asked for my help and I had failed her. Now I could only pray to the Virgin that she might look after my dear lady. I whispered the words, hoping that the holiness of the place I was in might make up for my feeble faith.

  Although I had received no other injury apart from the bump on my head, my whole body ached, and when I stood up, it was as if I was an old lady. Sister Caterina said that a whole week had gone by since my arrival, when I banged on the door like a madwoman and pleaded to be let in. My memory of that is vague. I have not been keen to turn my thoughts back to that time. But now I must.

  Two gentlemen sat on one side of the table and there was a chair opposite for me. Sister Caterina went and stood by the window. My heart beat quickly and I smoothed my skirt repeatedly when I sat down. Don Carlo would have me dead, I was sure of it. Were these men here to do his bidding?

  ‘Now then … Silvia Albana, isn’t it?’ said the elder and better dressed of the two. The fur trim of his cloak was impressive, in spite of the stitching being obvious and the wrong colour where mended. ‘My name is Master Giovanni Sanchez. By order of the Grand Court and with the assistance of the fiscal advocate, Master Mutio Surgenti,’ he gestured towards the other man, ‘I have come to hear your account of the events concerning the death of Don Fabrizio Carafa, the Duke of Andria and the Princess of Venosa, Donna Maria d’Avalos.