“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?