by Alan Gordon
“I’m sorry to have spoiled the season for you.”
“Oh, to the contrary. You’ve made it interesting. As I’ve said, I could take you into the other room and retrieve the information I want to know, but there’s this problem.” He paused for effect.
“Which is?” I said finally, picking up my cue. He nodded with approval.
“Which is that I don’t know who you work for,” he replied. “There are too many possibilities in these troubled times. Were I to inadvertently cause your demise in the course of narrowing them down, I might be doing the town more harm than good in the long run. Will Venice invade? Will we resist if they do? Will our distant Hungarian landlord take umbrage? What about the Saracens? And so forth. You wouldn’t want to enlighten me, would you?”
“I fear I would only cloud the picture even more, Captain. I am a merchant, no more, no less.”
“Well spoken,” he said, slapping his hand on the table. “And I shall set you free in due course. Forgive the imposition, but I intend to use you to find out at least one bit of information in spite of yourself.”
“Which is?”
“I am waiting to see which of the nobility values you enough to demand your release,” he said. “Always good to know the higher relationships.”
“Shouldn’t you be looking for Fabian’s assassin?”
“My men are searching the town at this very moment. And I am conducting my own investigation.”
“How?”
“By talking to you.”
I tried to look suitably surprised, but I was tired. “You suspect me of being a murderer as well as a spy?”
“No,” he said.
“Then I am confused.”
He took out a dagger and delicately cleaned his fingernails. “Three men walked out of the Elephant in a line. One was killed by a crossbow bolt from an impressively difficult angle and distance. Either the arcubalister was particularly good, or he missed his target and hit Fabian. Now, this steward was an irritating fellow, I grant you, but not the sort to make mortal enemies. He was too careful for that.”
“So you think the bolt was meant for Sebastian?”
“Or you. Tell me, have you enemies in Orsino?”
“Only you, as far as I know, and not for four days.”
He chuckled, and then looked past me. There were voices emanating from the hallway. He stood quickly and bowed, and I turned to see Countess Olivia posed decorously in the doorway. I stood and bowed, too.
“My husband tells me that you have arrested this man, Captain,” she said, smiling.
“Not arrested, Countess,” protested Perun. “Herr Octavius kindly agreed to accompany my men to my offices to present an account of what happened to your poor servant. I did not wish to trouble the Count on this matter.”
“Very kind of you, Captain. But I need him free. He has promised me three casks of cinnamon.”
I remembered promising one, but saw no purpose in protesting the matter.
“Very good, Milady,” said the Captain. “He is yours.”
I bowed to each in turn. She nodded, satisfied, and waved me outside. Perun tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned.
“Interesting,” he commented. “You have the favors of two great houses and not a speck of spice to exchange for it. Well done. You need not worry about my being your assailant, by the way.”
“Really?” I replied. “Why not?”
“Because I wouldn’t have missed,” he said, and smiled warmly under cold eyes.
It convinced me. I got out as quickly as I could.
“Thank you, Milady,” I said when I had caught up to Olivia.
“The time will come when I instruct you how to thank me properly,” she said. “And if your ships do not come in, perhaps you will come work for me. I need a new steward, you know.”
I bowed yet again, and she wafted off.
* * *
It was dark when I reached the villa. Malachi had saved me a bit of mutton, for which I blessed him profusely. I gnawed on it and walked to Bobo’s room, nodding at the servant who guarded it. He was still awake when I came in, reading by the light of a single candle.
“Fabian’s dead,” I informed him. “Crossbow.”
“I heard,” he replied. “He’s the first we let die. Who will be next?”
THIRTEEN
He that trusteth in his own heart is a fool.
PROVERBS 28.26 (KING JAMES VERSION)
Another bad night, as Fabian joined Orsino in my dream. Fabian looked up at me reproachfully. “We were friends, once,” he said. “We laughed and drank ourselves into stupors on many an occasion. Why wouldn’t you help me now?” But I was too occupied in keeping the rest of the clubs from falling to answer him.
* * *
Maybe Bobo was right, I thought in the morning. His criticism had stung, but sometimes it takes a fool to set another fool right. My machinations were proving both dangerous and ineffective. Better to go for saving their lives in the short run. In the long run, nothing mattered much anyway.
It was clear in retrospect that I had been outmaneuvered on this one from the start. I had walked into a carefully arranged scenario, and even the knowledge that I was doing so was not enough for me to disrupt it. My partner was isolated and I myself was hampered by my unfoolish guise and the scrutiny of Perun. And I still couldn’t rule him out as Malvolio. Indeed, the pleasure he took in toying with me put him even higher in my suspicions.
The funeral for Fabian took place that morning. I stood respectfully at the rear of the church, then followed the congregation up the hill to the cemetery. The Countess wore a mourning gown that was so cut to her figure that I am surprised it did not arouse the dead from their sarcophagi. She smiled and chatted with the townspeople as if it were a ball. Sebastian looked hungover. No, more than that. Guilty.
I spied Alexander and walked over to him.
“What’s wrong with the Count?” I asked.
“Remorse over yesterday’s behavior, I think,” he replied. “He said if he had only shown up at the rehearsal on time, maybe Fabian would still be alive. And he feels terrible that he laughed at the man as he lay dying.”
“That wasn’t his fault,” I said. “He had no idea.”
“Nevertheless, he has sworn to stay sober until the end of Twelfth Night, and in penance will run the rehearsals himself.”
“Short penance for brief guilt.”
“Any length of sobriety for him will be ample punishment, believe me.”
I could not argue with that.
Fabian was placed in a crypt reserved for loyal retainers of the Countess, and the crowd started back for town. The Duchess was escorted by Claudius, who detached himself from her and fell in step beside me.
“A sad thing,” Viola commented in Claudius’s voice. “One might almost venture to say a foolish one.”
“I agree,” I said forlornly. “You were wrong to indulge me.”
“Not true,” she said. “We can’t all hide indoors for this season. A man brazen and skillful enough would have found a way. You can’t blame yourself.”
“I can.”
“Well, if you want to feel sorry for yourself, then we might as well surrender now. Hear me, Herr Octavius. Remain yourself a little longer. If he’s the man I remember and the one I think he’s become, then his success will only encourage him to take greater risks. And therefore more likely to be caught.”
“How many die in the meantime?”
“None, I hope. You forget that his targets live primarily in two houses. Ours is well guarded, and I’ve suggested to Olivia that, in the light of recent events, she take extra precautions as well. I hinted that the murder might have had something to do with her financial affairs. She turned quite pale at the thought of a threat to her money.”
“What about Sir Andrew? And Toby and Maria?”
“I’ve rounded up some servants I trust to keep a lookout for them. It’s the best I can do. But you have to find him soon. I hav
e family to protect, and I am unwilling to go too long without getting the guards involved.”
“Understood. I will try not to fail you.”
“Please see that you don’t. I’m trusting you, you see.” And she rejoined her counterfeit.
And there it was. Me gallivanting off on a fool’s errand, and here was Viola putting her life in my hands for another day. No reason to deserve her faith. No results to justify it. No recourse but to earn it.
I sought out Bobo in his room and found him rapt in a game of chess with a boy. The child had dark hair, olive skin, a strong jaw and intelligent eyes. I had seen those eyes before, and that jaw, for that matter. Bobo, seeing me enter, held his finger up to his lips. The Duke concentrated fiercely on the board in front of him, then moved his knight.
Bobo gasped in the best histrionic fashion, then flung one arm to his brow and sank back on his bed. Mark laughed in triumph.
“Well done, Milord,” moaned Bobo. “You have played quite skillfully and defeated a fool.”
“A good game, Senor Bobo,” said the Duke. “You play better than most around here. May I come again?”
“It would be an honor,” said Bobo. “But since honor means nothing to me, let me say more to the point that it would be a pleasure. And speaking of pleasures, allow me to introduce you to Herr Whatsis from somewhere, the spice merchant you’ve heard me talk about.”
I bowed. “Milord, I trust your health is improving.”
“It is, thank you, Herr Octavius,” he replied in perfect German. “You are welcome to our villa and our city. Do you play chess? I’ve never played a German before.”
“I do, and would happily accept the challenge. This evening, perhaps?”
“That would be delightful. After dinner, then.” I bowed, and he skipped out.
“What an intelligent child,” said Bobo. “Asked me many interesting questions about our profession. Plays a good game, too.”
“You let him win, of course.”
“I may be a fool, but I’m not an idiot. Naturally, I let him win. But he won’t need that indulgence for long. He asked me about you.”
“Which me?”
“Feste. He assumed that all professional fools knew each other, although he didn’t know of the Guild. I told him I only knew Feste by reputation. He was disappointed, but I told him a few dirty stories he could pass among his mates and he cheered up nicely.”
I sat down on the stool recently vacated by the Duke. “I need to pick what’s left of your brain,” I said.
“Good. I’ve come up with a few ideas since we last talked. Care for a game?”
“Why not?” He set the pieces up, taking black. I moved a pawn.
He advanced one of his own. “It might be productive if you go back to the beginning,” he said. “State your facts and your conclusions, tell me why you think Malvolio is here and who he might be. Play the wise man, and I will be Marcolf to your Solomon.”
We moved pieces rapidly while I collected my thoughts. “Malvolio is here,” I said. “He is here because no one else would care enough to tell me about the Duke’s death. He is here because the Duke was murdered, and he had reason to do it. He is here because Fabian was killed, and Fabian was part of the group that betrayed him to Olivia. And he is here because we saw him, and because he tried to kill me. As to who he might be, I don’t have any more to go on than I had when I came here. He might be any of three people close to the two families, or he might be someone else entirely.” I castled, sheltering my king behind pawns. “And that, pitiful though it is, is that.”
He advanced a rook. “I’ve been a failure on this assignment,” he said. “But since I can’t move around, I’ve been using my reason. As to your proofs that Malvolio is here, let me make the following comments. They consist of an assumption, a fact, a leap of faith, and a deception.”
“Go on,” I said, intrigued.
“The assumption: That the message came from Malvolio, and that no one else cared enough to let you know. But some might have fond memories of you, who knew of your love for Orsino and thought that the slight effort of informing you would be worthwhile. Or there might be a motive to lure you here that had nothing to do with Malvolio.”
“What motive?”
“I’m getting to that. But if your basic premise, that Malvolio sent the message to draw you into a trap, if that is wrong, then the rest all falls with it. Consider the fact: Orsino was murdered. In a town like this, many could have motive and means to do it. This may be nothing more than a shabby little crime of passion, or even worse, money. You’ve been looking only for Malvolio, when you could have been looking for a murderer.”
“But…”
“Hear me out. I think you’ve become so obsessed with Malvolio that it’s clouded your mind to all other possibilities. You leapt to the conclusion that this whole tawdry affair was set up to lure you here. You’ve conjured this eternal struggle between you and this Malvolio creature that you’ve created in your mind. He’s become your opposite self, the dark assassin hiding in the woods. But the world is larger than your little ongoing drama. You may only be a minor player instead of the lead. Fabian was killed. Why Fabian? That’s the leap of faith. He’s also a minor character. Why not Sir Toby? Or Olivia?”
“They’re still on his list. He has time.”
“But by killing Fabian, he’s puts himself out in the open. No mystery over the death like with Orsino, just a Jovian bolt from above. But it brings out the watch, and that just makes things more difficult for him.”
“Unless Malvolio’s Perun.”
“True enough,” he said, chewing on his lip, staring at the board. He moved his queen. “But there’s the deception.”
“Which is?”
“That scene on the cliffs. You said we saw Malvolio. But you didn’t see him, you only heard him. And I saw a man who looked like the Malvolio of legend, down to the beard, but then I never knew him. Here’s what I think about that. I don’t think that was Malvolio.”
If an actual Jovian thunderbolt had shot through the window and hit me, I wouldn’t have been more stunned.
“Sounds more like your leap of faith,” I said.
“It was Fabian’s murder that struck me,” he replied. “Consider the shot. From the scaffolding by the new cathedral, a hundred paces away, fifty feet up. Apollo would have found it difficult. Yet that same crossbow could not pierce you from less than half the distance on a level cliff. And he warned you with that villainous laugh first. He wanted you to know he was there and to make you think he was trying to kill you.”
“He just missed me,” I protested.
“He knew exactly what he was doing. He was there to make you think Malvolio was here in Orsino and seeking his revenge upon you. Remember what I said yesterday? That it didn’t make sense that he would wait so long to attack Feste? Especially knowing about the Guild, and knowing that you would come looking for him the moment you arrived? But the timing of the attack was significant, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t,” I said, rising to my feet and throwing open the shutters. I needed air badly.
“I think you do, but you’re refusing to admit it,” he said softly. “You were attacked after revealing yourself to the Duchess Viola. You were attacked after stumbling upon one of her greatest secrets, perhaps more than one.”
“But that couldn’t have been Viola you saw there,” I protested. “He was tall!” I sat down again, gulping the cold air. I no longer knew whose turn it was, nor cared.
“Yes, he was. And he had that distinctive black beard. But would Malvolio still have that same beard after all this time? Would it still be black? Would he risk discovery by flaunting it? And why would he bother putting it on just to kill you? You would know him with or without. I suspect that was someone in Viola’s employ, with a little disguise to help. And we know how good she is with a false beard.”
“Stop,” I said hoarsely. “This is nonsense.”
“Is it?” he replie
d, moving a piece. “Then let me ask you this. She was supposed to meet you at the cliffs. Did she?”
“She was late. Claudius had some business to take care of.”
“And what business is taking place during this season? This town is dead in the winter. Without the Twelve Days, everyone would be sitting at home with the shutters closed, keeping near the fire and telling stories. It’s just too convenient that she would be late.”
“But Malvolio’s voice…”
“Easily imitated. ‘Like a dog returneth to its vomit,’” he finished in a passable re-creation of the voice. “I can do it, so can you. I’ll wager many can do it. He’s a legendary butt of stories here, half the town can imitate him.”
I wanted wine, I wanted to drown myself in a barrel of it.
“Let me pose it this way. Viola kills her husband. Why, I’m not sure. From what I’ve seen of marriage, I’m surprised more wives don’t do it. She had opportunity. He’s shirking his parental duties and taking his little walk, and she’s supposedly out looking for that doctor. It took her an hour, they say. Enough time to get to the cliffs, knock him over the side, find the doctor, and get back. No one’s the wiser. Then, out of the blue, Feste returns. And to her absolute shock, not only tumbles to the murder but to her secret identity. But you reveal your chief suspect to her, and that gives her a way of diverting your attention. So she sets up the scene with the fake Malvolio to hammer it into your head even further. And you needed no convincing. You’ve been sent galloping down the wrong road.”
“How does Fabian fit into this?”
“Don’t forget he was Olivia’s steward. This whole affair may be mercenary at the heart. Viola may have been doing some shady dealing with Orsino’s money, possibly through the missing Aleph. Did you ask her about Aleph yet?”
