3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “His other friend would be a footman in sky blue livery?”

  “That’s right. A stocky fellow, built like a prize fighter. He tries to give orders like he’s one of the doctors.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all,” she assured me gravely. “He asks for a damp cloth, a fresh chamber pot, a cup of tea—as if we would let him try to pour tea down the throat of a head injury.”

  “Surely Benito has had some sort of sustenance?” Gussie broke in.

  “Of course. We’ve managed to get some broth down him—but then, we’re trained to administer fluids without choking him.”

  I stroked Benito’s uninjured arm, willing him to open his eyes and inquire what all the fuss was about. It was several moments before I could force myself back to the business at hand. “How many times has the footman been here?”

  “Three. Twice yesterday and once the day before. As you requested, he’s not been allowed to be alone with the patient. Nor have any of the other visitors.”

  “There have been others?”

  She nodded her chin toward Gussie. “He came last night.”

  “Oh, yes. I know about him.”

  “And the abate who was with you the first day. He’s been back once.”

  Rossobelli—that was a surprise. “What did the abate do while he was here?”

  “Tried to roll him about, as if he were merely sleeping and a bit of shaking would wake him.” Angry dots of reds sprang to her cheeks. “Of course, I stopped him immediately and ordered him out in no uncertain terms.”

  “You’ve done very well, Sister. You’re as fierce as a Hyrcanian tiger, but a good deal more attractive.”

  “Oh—” Her flush deepened and she lowered her gaze. “It’s for the children. I don’t mind extra work if it will help the little ones.”

  I stayed a few more minutes, patting Benito’s hands and cheeks and murmuring reassurance. Despite my best efforts, he failed to rouse for me as he had for Guido. As a parting gesture, I leaned close and promised that he would be home before the first swallows of spring returned to nest on the Campo dei Polli. No matter what Fate had in store for me, I had resolved to send Benito back to Venice as soon as he was well enough to travel.

  As far as the men who ran my dear manservant down, if I managed to find them, they would have as much to fear from me as from Benito’s hotheaded Guido. It was unfortunate that the beggar had not noticed the name of a business on the cart. Countless such carts ply the streets of Rome, and since the driver of this one was not known in the Trastevere, I had no starting point for a search.

  ***

  It was barely midday, but I left the hospital in the mood for a bracing glass of wine. Gussie knew just the place.

  “If it still exists—” he said, covering the sloped pavement with rapid strides, swinging his black satchel. “—a café where the barman discourages prying eyes and ears, and each man keeps his business to himself. I spent quite a bit of time there when I was visiting Rome in the clutches of my tutor. The old fellow couldn’t make the climb.”

  I soon saw what he meant. The narrow street ascended through brick and stucco caverns filled with lines of laundry and squealing children, then funneled into a staircase that seemed to be an endless flight to nowhere. With an anonymous stone wall on one side and dense vegetation on the other, I was unable to discern which of Rome’s many hills we were climbing. By the time we reached a square that contained a small fountain and a few homes with ground floors let out to shops, I was huffing and puffing.

  “Ah, there it is.” Gussie smiled for the first time that day.

  We passed through a smoky, dim interior and stepped onto a sun-flooded terrace. Following a waiter’s gesture, we took an empty table by the stone railing. I blinked at the sky of enameled blue, and a springlike breeze ruffled my hair. Before us spread a panorama of brown-tiled roofs, treetops, and square church towers. Between the buildings, the Tiber glinted in short stretches, and in the distance, the white dome of St. Peter’s towered over its neighbors, blending into pale ivory clouds.

  Caught up in the view, I didn’t speak until a glass of Montepulciano was in my hand and Gussie had asked me if last night’s confrontation at the Palazzo Pompetti had brought me any closer to identifying Gemma’s murderer.

  “At least we know the sort of ritual Gemma witnessed on the night of her death,” I answered.

  “Do you think she realized that Cardinal Di Noce is part of Pompetti’s cult?”

  “It seems likely. According to Liya, the group doesn’t wear masks for their full moon devotions—that ritual is more informal, almost like a party. There’s a bit of business around the fire, then they share a meal of cakes and wine, all at the same table, in perfect equality.”

  “That put Gemma in possession of some damning information.”

  I nodded, taking a sip of the mellow, ruby wine.

  “Then we must take a look at the people who would want to ensure that Gemma would never be able to discredit Di Noce.”

  I held up a forefinger. “Number one is Abate Rossobelli. He is adamant that the Ancona port project proceed to completion and well understands that Stefano Montorio is as much against it as Cardinal Di Noce is in favor. If Rossobelli knew that Gemma could scuttle Di Noce’s chances of winning the election, he would have considered it his civic duty to murder her on the spot.”

  “Could he have known? Wasn’t he the one who discovered her body?”

  “So I was led to believe. He said he checked the pavilion while he was hunting the marchesa after a footman had spied her out of her room.” My gaze followed a small striped lizard as it crept out from a crack to sun itself on the railing. “I wish I knew more about what had happened in that pavilion before Rossobelli summoned me. I suspect that Gemma met the cardinal there to tell him about Pompetti’s gathering. Given the dark garden and open windows, nearly anyone could have overheard her report.”

  “What about Stefano Montorio? If Di Noce were out of the running, the Venetian would surely be elected. He would be torn away from his beloved experiments and forced into a position he describes as…what did you tell me?”

  “His worst nightmare—yes. But Lenci said that he and his uncle left Fabiani’s conversazioni together. They supped, and then conducted experiments at the Palazzo Venezia until the small hours of the night.”

  The waiter reappeared and raised his bottle questioningly. Gussie nodded toward our glasses. He held his tongue until the man was well away, then asked, “How far are you willing to trust this young abate? It strikes me that he has divided loyalties. Zio Antonio is determined to have a Montorio pope, while Zio Stefano is just as determined to avoid that fate. Which uncle does Lenci serve?”

  “Like any bred in the bone Montorio, he serves himself. He’s ready to jump any way that brings him benefit, but I’ve come to believe that neither he, nor anyone else from outside the villa, killed Gemma.”

  “Because of the attack on Benito?” Gussie’s friendly face darkened.

  I nodded. “The Montorio faction would have loved to get their hands on my letters, but there simply wasn’t time for Lenci to have arranged to steal them in such a fashion. Benito approached someone in the villa for directions. The sight of him waving those fat letters made someone very nervous—someone with the connections to order a hauler’s cart into a wild ride.”

  “Given the time constraints, the cart must have been making deliveries in the area, maybe even at the villa itself.”

  I nodded. Gussie brought up a good point. Why hadn’t I been keeping an eye out for casks being unloaded at the kitchen entrance?

  “That brings us back to Rossobelli,” he said. “In keeping Fabiani’s affairs in order, he must come in contact with many tradesmen.”

  I took a long draft of wine and allowed fragments of past c
onversations and fugitive sensations to form into one definitive thought. “Or Cardinal Fabiani himself,” I said, focusing my gaze on the basking lizard. “That’s who Lady Mary blames.”

  “Fabiani? Why?” Gussie ran a hand over his face and shook his head as he continued, “It all grows more and more twisted—worse than the plots of your operas where a god descending from the heavens is the only way to cut through the complications.”

  “It makes a certain sense. Just listen.” I planted my elbows on the table. “Fabiani sent Gemma to spy out the palazzo in the first place—I can just imagine the look of relish on his face when she told him that Di Noce presided over streghe cavorting in Pompetti’s ballroom as naked as the day they were born.”

  Gussie rolled his eyes and looked as if he had heard quite enough.

  “No, hear me out. You might expect Fabiani to use Di Noce’s secret to run him out of Rome in disgrace, but our clever cardinal is much more devious than that. Fabiani apparently intends to hold Gemma’s information over Di Noce’s head—he is willing to see the secret pagan voted in as pope as long as Di Noce allows him to continue in the role of Cardinal Padrone.”

  “You know I’m a come-lately Catholic—I left the religion of my birth for Annetta’s sake only. But even for me, this is almost unthinkable. A high-ranking cardinal condoning such a sacrilege? I can’t even find the words. What kind of holy man would behave in this fashion?”

  “There’s no holiness about Fabiani. I’ve watched him for some time now and concluded that the only code he lives by is his own exquisite taste. Music is his overriding passion, but he also enjoys being the center of fashionable society and never refuses fine food or drink. For him, the Church has been nothing more than a means to an end.”

  “More dilettante than priest, eh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why would he kill Gemma?” Gussie pushed his wineglass aside in frustration. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to keep her in reserve? As a spur to ensure that Di Noce made good on his promises? Gemma was an eyewitness to the pagan revels.”

  “I see what you mean. Still, he wouldn’t have wanted her to fall into others’ hands, and he wouldn’t need her if she had supplied other evidence.”

  “What? Like an affidavit or something of the sort?”

  “Perhaps. But I believe Fabiani had another reason for wanting Gemma dead—it’s that other secret Lady Mary alluded to. Gemma told her and Prince Pompetti something about Fabiani that he definitely wouldn’t want known.”

  “Did Lady Mary give you any hint as to what that secret might be?”

  “No, but I’ve come up with my own idea, and I mean to test it out as soon as I can wangle my way into the Quirinal.”

  The English have a reputation for reticence, but after knowing Gussie as a friend and living with him as my sister’s husband, I knew how those banked embers could blaze into a firestorm under the proper provocation. My statement provided the critical spark.

  Gussie popped to his feet and slammed both hands on the table. “Alessandro said play for time, not run all over Rome collecting a score of powerful men who want your head.”

  “Gussie, simmer down.” I glanced around. All over the terrace, heads had turned our way. “And sit down. I can assure you…this won’t be dangerous…”

  Gussie didn’t sit, but he did lower his voice. “Last night wasn’t supposed to be dangerous either, but the prince and his lady saw right through you.”

  “That was my fault.” I sighed. “I think I caught their attention by dancing a bit too sprightly for an old lady. I’ll be much more careful from now on—”

  “So you mean to pursue this wild goose chase?” Gussie broke in. “No matter what I advise?”

  “I must. Don’t you see?”

  Shaking his head, Gussie muttered something about pigheaded singers and threw down some coins. He wound his way through the tables and ducked into the dim tavern interior.

  “Just listen, Gussie,” I continued as I scurried after him. “This part will be easy…and no disguise will be needed…all I have to do is discover the color of Pope Clement’s eyes.”

  But Gussie didn’t hear; his angry strides had already taken him outside to the little piazza.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Cardinal Fabiani fell in with my plan as easily as one might wish. That evening, after I had entertained a small supper party with a few songs delivered at half strength, I asked if it would be possible for me to serenade Pope Clement at the Quirinal.

  “He’s very ill, Tito,” Fabiani replied at first.

  I persisted. “Just as music eases Your Eminence to sleep, its charms can lighten almost any burden or suffering. I would consider it the crowning jewel in my career to know that I brought some measure of solace to the Vicar of Christ in his final days.”

  Fabiani fingered the cleft in his chin. “It’s difficult to know what brings His Holiness solace these days—but yes, your singing does move swiftly from ear to heart. I see no reason why you shouldn’t serenade him. When will your voice be back to full strength?”

  I thought quickly. Time was of the essence, but it wouldn’t do to appear overeager. I suggested two days hence, and after a hurried consultation with Abate Rossobelli, the cardinal agreed.

  The time passed slowly. The marchesa descended more deeply into her elderly childhood and didn’t even dress to leave her room. Both days I presented myself to ask if I could be of service, but Matilda sent me away with a tense shake of her head and an invitation to try again tomorrow.

  With more free time at my command, I strolled the garden as often as I dared. From behind the hedges, I kept watch on the back of the villa, but no carts driven by men with blue caps or prominent chins dropped off goods. The deliveries seemed to take place during the morning hours, so I visited the hospital in the afternoons, once in Liya’s company. Unfortunately, we saw no change in Benito’s condition. I fretted anxiously, wondering how long my manservant could survive in this state.

  I also attempted to make amends with Gussie. My brother-in-law proved to be a hard man to catch up with. His landlady told me he’d gone off to paint the Ponte Rotto, a forlorn ruined arch in the middle of the Tiber that was the only standing remnant of the river’s first stone span. I followed her directions, but when I reached the broken bridge, Gussie was nowhere to be found.

  Wandering the tangle of streets near the river, I finally stumbled onto the latest scene that had caught his fancy. On some granite stairs, Gussie had set up an outdoor studio, box of colors and water jar at his side and block of grainy paper on his lap. Oblivious of the racket in the street, he was sizing up a black cat with a red leather collar who perched atop a disused crate like a specimen of feline royalty.

  I squatted beside him, but Gussie didn’t acknowledge me. I watched as he swabbed a water-filled brush over the paper and built up the color in rapid, sweeping strokes.

  I finally asked, “Since it’s a black cat, why don’t you use black paint?”

  He grunted. “Black makes the painting look flat. For dark colors, it’s better to layer the washes—start with raw umber, then go to green, and its complement red. Let the white paper furnish the highlights. See?” His hand never stopped moving, and in the space of a few moments, his two-dimensional cat had taken lifelike shape. A slash of scarlet for the collar was the finishing touch.

  “Is this how you’ve been spending your time?”

  “It suits me most admirably—considerably less trying than watching you march straight into trouble.”

  “I’m doing what I must to get Alessandro out from under that ridiculous smuggling charge.”

  “Alessandro said—”

  “I know what Alessandro said, but how can he judge what I should do? He’s locked away. He has no idea what we’re up against here.”

 
“We?” Gussie used a charcoal pencil to make a notation in the sketch’s upper left-hand corner. He tore the damp page from the block and waved it through the air to dry.

  “Are you removing yourself from this enterprise, then?”

  “No, merely inquiring who you are including in the we.”

  I resisted a sudden impulse to send his paints flying. “I see what this argument is really about. Why don’t you just come out with it—you don’t want me involved with Liya.”

  At my angry tone, the cat made a leap and stalked away with its tale held in a rigid shepherd’s crook. Gussie watched it disappear between the legs of passers-by, then began to gather his supplies.

  He said, “Your love for her was difficult enough when she lived in the ghetto. A Christian and a Jew—you told me yourself that such unions always end in tragedy. Now she’s fled the support of her father and has a bastard child—and taken up pagan ways. How can you countenance that?”

  “I hardly know what I believe anymore, Gussie. I’m certainly in no position to criticize Liya’s philosophy.”

  “That’s too dignified a word for it. This so-called Academy of Italia or Liya’s band of wise women, can’t you see that they are nothing more than revolutionaries in disguise? All they want is to upset the existing order of things for their own ends, whatever those might be.” He raised his chin and regarded me with unconcealed anguish. “Tito, what can you be thinking?”

  I stared at my feet for a moment, then handed him a brush that had rolled down the stairsteps. “I once knew a young Englishman who enraged his very proper family by interrupting his Grand Tour to marry a Venetian girl they were certain would lead him to ruin.”

  “My situation was quite different.”

  “How? Your mother and your brother and sisters have no more regard for Annetta than you do for Liya. They have never been to Italy to visit and rarely write.”