Captain Forti and I followed, catching up to the group as they left the warmth of the house to traverse the breezy colonnade that led to the barchessa.
Night had fallen. A wash of yellow light from a hanging lamp outlined the columns and railings but barely extended into the low shrubbery on either side. In the darkness, wet leaves dripped and a night bird sounded a low call. Captain Forti took great interest in the door that led to this passage. He opened and shut it several times and gave the handle a good rattle.
Once inside the stable-turned-studio, the constable ordered the footmen to light Gussie’s candles and everyone else to gather in one corner and hold their tongues. The household sorted themselves out as before: servants in back, then Ernesto and the opera company, the Dolfinis in front, with Karl plastered to Octavia’s right shoulder. In the dim, smoky light, their flesh-and-blood faces took on an unsettling resemblance to wax dummies.
Following Captain Forti’s instructions, Gussie pulled the soiled shift from his satchel and demonstrated how he had found it in the hay rack.
The constable took possession of the garment. With the shift folded over one arm, he dug a steel spectacle case out of his waistcoat, flipped the top, and balanced the lenses on his nose. After examining the muslin for some minutes, front and back, he whipped off the spectacles and pronounced only one word: “Rape.”
On a chorus of gasps, the still faces suddenly came alive. One of the maids threw her apron over her head, and the other started to cry. Everyone, singer and servant alike, began whispering to his neighbor.
“Silence,” Captain Forti barked. His obsidian gaze swept our group and lit on Vincenzo. “I’m told you do not share a bed with your wife, Signor Dolfini. Were you sleeping alone on the night Signora Costa was murdered?”
“What an impertinent question.”
“It is still a question that must be answered.”
“Yes,” said Vincenzo, staring at Gussie’s easel as if he longed to jump straight into the peaceful vineyard captured on canvas. “I was alone in my suite from eleven o’clock until Alphonso woke me with the news that the clock had been tampered with. I admit that Octavia and I sleep in separate rooms, but I’m hardly the only man in the villa.”
The constable’s head ratcheted to the left a fraction of an inch. “You Maestro Weber, you were the only other man lodged in a room of his own that night, were you not?”
Octavia had folded her arms tightly across the front of her bright blue gown. She opened her mouth to speak, but Karl stopped her with a subtle nudge. “I was at my scores all night,” the composer said. “I’d decided that a passage we would rehearse on the morrow was… unacceptable. After making the necessary changes, I had to copy new scores for the singers and accompanists.” Karl spoke with conviction, but his very words told me how nervous he was. I’d noticed that his “s” turned to a very German “z” whenever he was tense or excited.
“Your room shares a wall with Signora Costa’s,” the constable observed. “Did you hear any noise from that quarter?”
“Nothing.” Karl shook his head firmly.
“You must have heard the clock strike,” I broke in, determined to ask at least one question before I was silenced. “I mean, since you were awake most of the night, and it’s only a few steps from your door. What was the last hour it chimed?”
“I hardly think—” began Captain Forti.
“Don’t you see?” I rushed on. “The pendulum could have been removed at any time and the hands reset.”
The constable raised his eyebrows and thought a moment. “Well?” he asked Karl.
The composer seemed genuinely puzzled. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” He cupped his hand and stroked his hollow cheeks. “I may remember drowsing off and being awakened by the two o’clock chimes, but then, it could have easily been another night. When I first came to the villa, the clock tended to keep me awake, but after a week or so, my ears became accustomed.” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t be certain about the clock, but I’m telling you that I didn’t leave my room. Besides, why would I want to do away with Carmela? Her rendition of the role of Irene was crucial for the success of my opera. With Carmela gone, I’m still not sure what I’m going to do.”
Octavia had been taking agitated breaths and twisting the large topaz on her forefinger. She could keep silent no longer. “Why do you single out my husband and Maestro Weber? Just because the other men share a room doesn’t mean that one of them couldn’t have slipped out unnoticed. In truth, I find it ridiculous that you suspect anyone from the house at all. It doesn’t make sense that someone from inside would come to this outbuilding to hide a nightshift.”
“It doesn’t make sense that this garment even exists.” The constable shook the muslin clasped in his fist. In the flickering light, the shredded fabric danced like a capering specter. “Why keep an incriminating piece of evidence that could so easily be burnt to ashes or torn to bits? Without this gown I would believe that the woman had only been bashed on the head. Now it appears she was raped, as well. Though—” he shrugged his shoulders “—it may be of little matter in the end. A criminal can only be hanged once.”
I thought Octavia turned a little pale at that. Perhaps we all did.
Captain Forti spent a few moments pacing the perimeter of the barchessa. We had all been intimidated back into silence, so the only sound was the uneven stumping of his boot heels on the packed dirt. “Is this entrance locked at night?” he finally asked, creaking open a set of double doors wide enough for animals to be driven through.
The constable was obviously expecting an answer from Vincenzo, but our host looked perplexed. With a gesture, he transferred the question to his steward.
Ernesto took a deep breath. “The stable doors are secured with a bar from the inside.”
“And that one?” Captain Forti pointed toward the door to the colonnade.
“It has a lock, but in my lifetime it’s never been used.”
“Why not?”
“My grandfather Ilario lost the key when he was a young man. Since someone always sleeps here to guard the cattle, no one’s ever bothered to have another made.”
“What about the door to the house at the other end of the open passageway?”
“I lock that when I close the shutters.”
Captain Forti took a few deliberate steps toward a loose pallet of straw in the opposite corner. Kicking at the bedding, he uncovered a ragged blanket I’d not noticed before. “Someone sleeps here?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Ernesto.
“Every night? Even since the painter has set up shop?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it that is content with such a mean resting place?” Captain Forti’s tones were silky, but dangerous.
“One of my workers—Santini, by name. He’s simple in the head, but I believe him to be absolutely trustworthy. He—”
“Don’t tell me what you believe,” Captain Forti interrupted brusquely. “I will determine who is trustworthy and who is not. I want to question this Santini. Tell me where he can be found and I’ll send a deputy to fetch him here.”
“I’ll go,” Ernesto said quickly. “He could be one of several places.”
Receiving a curt nod, the steward lit a lantern and left by the double doors. He returned in a few minutes, urging Santini along with a hand at the small of his back. The rustic’s lank mane dripped from a beat-up tricorne, and his slack jaw was covered with several days’ worth of stubble. When he realized the entire household was watching him, his eyes started rolling.
Captain Forti had been waiting in the soldier’s at-ease posture of spread legs and crossed arms, fingering his watch chain impatiently. Pursing his lips as if he’d just sucked on a lemon, he looked Santini up and down. “Do you know who I am?” he thundered.
Santini replied with a barely perceptible quiver of his chin.
“Can you not remove your hat in the presence of the law?”
Ernesto palmed the tricorne’s crown and shoved the dusty hat into Santini’s midriff. The man responded with a proper nod and opened his mouth. The cords of his neck stood out as he struggled to form the first words I had ever heard him speak: “Pl… please… excuse… Captain.”
Captain Forti unfurled the soiled nightshift. He spit out the words: “Do you recognize this?”
Santini shook his head violently.
“You do.” The ivory teeth came together with a sharp crack. “You hit Signora Costa over the head with the brass pendulum, but not until you’d forced yourself on her. To cover your shameful deed, you stripped off this nightshift and put her in clean clothing. Then you hid this in the hay rack right beside your pitiful bed.”
Santini had been shaking his head throughout. Now a painful rasp emerged from his throat: “No, no.” His eyes squeezed shut, and tears spilled down his weather-beaten cheeks.
“Please, Captain,” Ernesto said. “I know this man. I’m the closest thing to family that he has. Santini isn’t capable of such an act. As you can see, his mind is but a child’s. He could never have planned the deceptions involved in the two murders.
“So far, I’m only accusing him of one.”
“Even so, with all due respect, there was a note found beside the vat in the cantina.”
Captain Forti nodded briskly. “I’ve seen it.”
“Santini is no longer able to read or write.” Ernesto allowed a triumphant smirk to conform his lips.
The constable met it with an even uglier grin. He asked, “Was the note addressed to Signora Costa? Did it mention her name at all?”
“Well… no,” Ernesto faltered. “But, it was obviously meant for her.”
“Was it? How can you be sure? Perhaps the lady wrote it herself, and its recipient turned out to be more than she bargained for,” Captain Forti shot back.
I bit my lip, annoyed that I hadn’t considered that possibility. The constable must have a more subtle mind than I’d judged.
Ernesto wasn’t finished yet. He dug a claw-like hand into Santini’s filthy shoulder and asked, “But would a worldly, beautiful singer have ever sent such a note to this man?”
Captain Forti opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. In the tense silence, the snap of his dentures resounded like shots. Eventually he said, “All right, I’ll give you that, but my nose tells me this man knows more about the nightshift than he’s telling. Perhaps some time in a jail cell will loosen his tongue.”
“But it’s harvest time and Santini is one of my most willing workers.” Ernesto addressed the constable, but his eyes sent Vincenzo a silent plea.
The master of the villa dipped his chin and took a sudden interest in his boots. The rest of the party traded nervous looks.
“I implore you, Captain,” Ernesto continued, “Santini is no danger to anyone, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you any more if he rotted in jail for a year. Let the man stay on the estate where he’s needed.”
“And what if he should make a break for the mountains?”
“He won’t. I’ll supervise him at his work during the day and lock him in the stable tack room at night.”
Captain Forti stared at the trembling Santini, dark eyes glinting like they must when he had a magnificent boar at the end of his rifle. The constable had just opened his mouth—to order Santini’s arrest I was certain—when he was interrupted.
“Yes, Captain.” Vincenzo had found his voice and, perhaps, a small segment of backbone. “We still have crops to get in and every hand is needed. If you agree, I’ll stand as Santini’s bondsman. I’ll produce him whenever you want or forfeit one hundred zecchini.”
Looking as surprised as I felt, Captain Forti replied, “Will you put your signature to that pledge?”
“Of course, right now if you like.”
“All right.” The constable nodded slowly, grinding his jaws from side to side. “The rest of you may return to the house, but don’t even think of leaving the estate. There will be more questions later, I assure you.”
As we filed out onto the colonnade, I cast a brief look back. Vincenzo scribbled out a chit for the constable while Santini stared at the ground with sweat rolling down his cheeks. Ernesto hovered near, clenching and unclenching his fists.
***
Our parade down the hall to the central foyer was slow and somber. With the arrival of Captain Forti, the enormity of the villa’s murders had finally pierced the tough skin of all our individual problems and concerns. Emilio, who usually carried himself with such dignity, was slumping along as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. His young friend Romeo seemed to have aged ten years. The two went in the salon, threw themselves on the sofa, and sat silently shaking their heads.
Instead of following the singers, the Gecco brothers veered off toward the stairs, whispering between themselves. If not for the constable’s ban on travel, I would have bet my last soldo that they were planning to pack their bags and seek conveyance to the Brenta. Even Nita, generally so calm and efficient, seemed at a loss for what to do next. She stared at the big front door, nervously fingering something shiny that she held in her clenched fist. Moving closer, I saw she held a rosary.
“Signora?” Nita’s gaze sought Octavia. “What should I do about supper? It’s already past the time.”
The lady of the villa plucked at the lace fichu that decorated her shallow bosom. Gingery strands had escaped her chignon and brushed about her flushed cheeks. Her flat, emotionless gaze swept the group as if we were all complete strangers, even Karl. “They will want something, I suppose. Are there eggs in the larder?”
“Si, Signora. Plenty.”
“Then we’ll have frittate with onions and mushrooms. And perhaps some cold chicken if there’s any left… and cheese…” Octavia took Nita’s elbow and propelled her toward the kitchen. The still blubbering maids brought up the rear.
Octavia might be preoccupied, but Karl had hardly forgotten his patroness; his hooded eyes followed her until she disappeared down a side corridor. Then he made a beeline for the harpsichord. After a few exploratory chords, he launched into a plodding D minor melody that I’d never heard before. He paused, repeated, and tinkered with the bass as if he were having a wordless conversation with the keyboard. Was he was composing on the spot? If so, I thought our maestro must be feeling very melancholy indeed.
Vincenzo had returned. I’d seen him give the footmen orders that sent the boys in three different directions. Now he was asking Alphonso about the condition of the clock. “Can you put it right again?”
The old valet shrugged his bony shoulders. “I could if I had the pendulum, but Captain Forti’s men took it away. Who knows when they’ll see fit to return it?”
“Don’t worry about it then.” Vincenzo’s tone sagged as wearily as his seamed cheeks and the pouches beneath his reddened eyes. “I’ll be in my study. Bring some brandy.”
Alphonso trotted off, and Vincenzo started down the hall. Gussie was tugging at my sleeve, urging me to retire to our room, but I put a finger to my lips. I’d noticed Jean-Louis watching Vincenzo with his hawk-like gaze. Now he bolted after the man and raised his voice. “A word, Signor Dolfini, if you please.”
Vincenzo paused. I expected Jean-Louis to harangue our host on the need for the opera to proceed despite the arrival of the law, but the Frenchman surprised me. He was concerned over Santini running loose. I heard Jean-Louis strenuously advise Vincenzo to withdraw his bond, but a series of crashing arpeggios from Karl drowned out any further conversation. The two men entered Vincenzo’s study and closed the door.
I felt another tug on my sleeve.
“Tito, I’m dying to
read the latest letter.” Gussie had regained some of his good humor. His blue eyes were alight with curiosity, and while the expression on his face couldn’t precisely be called a smile, he looked more cheerful than anyone else in the villa.
My hand sprang to the jacket pocket where I kept my calfskin wallet containing the letters, then I remembered I’d left the latest spread out on the table. “It’s upstairs, let’s go. You won’t believe what Alessandro got himself in the middle of…”
We took the stairs quickly, conversing as we went. Once in the upper corridor, I looked toward the stricken clock. Someone had closed the door where the pendulum should have hung, but the arrow-shaped hands were still frozen at midnight. How fitting, I thought. It seemed like the entire villa had been caught in the snare of that mournful hour.
I was turning our doorknob when Gussie stayed my hand. “There’s someone in there,” he whispered. “Crying—don’t you hear it?”
I put my ear to the polished wood. Yes. Someone sobbing, a woman most like.
Our eyes met in an instant of foreboding. Then I flung the door open, and Grisella sprang up from the table, clutching Alessandro’s letter.
“Tito!” she cried, her voice high and shrill, her eyes swollen and red.
I stretched out a trembling hand, barely containing my vexation. “That letter belongs to me.”
She tightened her hold on the pages, crumpling and pressing them to her bosom. Her lips twisted like writhing earthworms as she stared wildly from me to Gussie. Spittle escaped one corner of her mouth, and her shoulder jerked violently. The pages rattled and tore.
“Grisella…” I faltered, unsure how to proceed, my anger dribbling away. This was just how my sister had looked before her girlhood fits exploded in flailing arms and growling epithets. Back then Annetta or Berta had administered her elixir and she calmed at once, but I had no medicine. Should I go next door to search for a bottle in her room? Or run downstairs for Jean-Louis?
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 20
