Some reason for all this, you shall say, and with justification. The dark depths of Scacchi’s deeds are well documented, yet we continue to lack an explanation for them. The answer must lie in a woman, of course. There was one. After we called on Delapole to discuss the matter of Marchese’s accusations and found his shattered corpse instead, I went to speak to those who had been in his household. A female, young and beautiful, had been there for several days and was known to Scacchi too. She is gone. Perhaps her corpse lies at the floor of the lagoon, despatched there by this jealous villain. There is no way of knowing, and I venture that it matters little. We understand the nature of the deeds and the identity of their perpetrator. He has met his much-deserved fate. All else is idle chatter, and as guardian of the Republic’s citizens, I have no time for that. The beast is dead, and for once I shall not pray for a departed soul. I saw his handiwork. It was hard to believe that the pile of flesh and tattered rags upon the floor in that fine mansion had once walked and talked — and written fine music. Even that it had ever been a man at all.
As to the manner of Scacchi’s apprehension, I shall offer a brief description. As I noted, I was sent, with no urgency, to talk to the Englishman on several matters and found, on my arrival, the dreadful tragedy I have described. Close by the house, in an alley near the rio, my guards discovered one who had, it seemed, apprehended the villain as he sought to flee. During the scrap that ensued, young Scacchi — whom the fellow recognised, having seen him in the neighbourhood before — was sorely wounded in the chest and face, the latter so badly that he could speak not a single comprehensible word. Not that it was needed. We could see, with our own eyes, the extent of his criminal deeds and would have held him anyway, without the warrant over his uncle’s brutal slaying.
There was, I scarcely need add, no need for the expense of a full trial. That excellent magistrate Cortelazzo hurried from a dinner party to listen to our case while Scacchi slumped, half-dead, on a chair in the dock, with his apprehender beside him. A sterling fellow this chap was too. Had he waited afterwards, I would have commended him for some gift from the city funds. He was, it seems, a physician on his rounds when he encountered Scacchi, panic-stricken and bloody, who demanded money and immediately set about him. For once the villain met his match. The fellow’s profession proved fortuitous, for I wonder if the scoundrel would have survived long enough to be dragged to the block without his tending. But like many a Venetian, when it comes to a crisis, he answers the call and asks no reward. After I saw Scacchi despatched by the axe, I turned and he was gone. I have his name, however — Guillaume — and an address in Cannaregio. One day when times are quieter, I will visit him and say a word of thanks. It is from such folk — good Christians all — that Venice is made.
I shall, accordingly, conclude. The world is rid of another villain, though not without the loss of two good and talented men at his bloody hands. That old serpent visited us and found us ready. There is no cause for rejoicing, but I do believe we may allow ourselves a little satisfaction. On a single point I will, however, offer criticism. We would have apprehended Scacchi much more rapidly had we been better informed. The descriptions of him on the city posters — and I know not where they come from — speak of an average lad of average build and comely appearance. Perhaps he wrote them himself, for in real life, bloodied and injured as he was, it was clear to see that Lorenzo Scacchi was the ugliest individual it has ever been my privilege to despatch to Hades. Even without a knife split down it, his face would have been hideous. Furthermore, on his back stood the distinct makings of a hump such as one might find on a cripple or a leper. Had young Guillaume not confirmed his identity for us, I fear he would have escaped, for all our e forts.
Perhaps sweet Jesus smiled on us that moment and, through that good doctor, shone a beam that penetrated this beast’s disguise. In future I should prefer a few hard facts to save our Lord the trouble.
64
The edge of the lagoon
Daniel Forster had not fought the charges with much enthusiasm. Two police officers were dead. Large sums of money had been elicited by fraud from several well-known musical institutions around the world. The true perpetrator was Hugo Massiter, as the public and the prosecutors knew. But Massiter was gone, vanished from the face of the earth the night Giulia Morelli and Biagio died. Daniel remained, willing to admit his supporting role in some of Massiter’s misdeeds, the only culprit a vengeful criminal system could find. Unable to charge him in relation to the murders, the prosecutors had raised the stakes on the embezzlement case and succeeded in winning a three-year jail term, which Daniel, much to their fury, accepted with a humble shrug of the shoulders.
He found no cause to argue. Some desire for atonement nagged him constantly. He wished for time to think too. In the small, modern cell in Mestre which he shared with an engaging Padua gangster named Toni, Daniel began to construct some explanations for the events which had engulfed him that long, dangerous summer. He was a popular prisoner, teaching his cell mate English, striking up a strong friendship which would, both men knew, survive their release. There were individuals in jail there who were of use to him too. They confirmed what Giulia Morelli had already told him. Scacchi owed money to no one. The house, which was now his, was free of debt. With the balance of Scacchi’s estate, he became a man of a little means, even after the fines the court had imposed. Within four months, when it was clear to the prison authorities that he had no intention of trying to run away, he was increasingly allowed out of the jail to spend days in the city to further his education. They were not to know that he would soon abandon his now tenuous links with Oxford for a different sphere of research.
The property had been his first focus of attention. He had sold the near-derelict adjoining warehouse to raise money to pay for the main building’s restoration. Within the space of a year, Ca’ Scacchi was neighbour to three smart apartments, two of them American-owned, served by a renovated bridge across the rio. As he supervised the building work, and the refurbishment of the cellar where he and Laura had found the manuscript, his interest was drawn increasingly to the question of the concerto’s authorship. The work was fast becoming a standard item in the orchestral repertoire, performed around the world. The infamous mystery which surrounded its appearance in Venice did the takings no harm at all. All the same, Daniel never once doubted the work deserved its acclaim. It had its lighter flourishes and occasionally stooped to some shameless fireworks in order to dazzle the listener. Yet there were such depths, too, and they continued to astound him even though he now felt he knew every note.
With the help of the supportive prison governor, he had gained an unlimited reader’s ticket to the Archivio di Stato, the archives which contained every last surviving document of the Venetian Republic. The building was behind the Frari, a stone’s throw from San Rocco. He spent months there, poring over the thousands of pages the city’s clerks had scribbled throughout 1733. For weeks it seemed a fruitless task. Then, half a year after he was sentenced, he stumbled over a fragment of a report from the Dorsoduro night watch. Most of the document had been destroyed by damp and mould. A single paragraph remained legible in its entirety, but it was sufficient. There was a clear reference to the “mysterious concerto” and a death connected with the work. There was also a name, that of an Englishman who was, the report confirmed, the undoubted author of the piece, and the revelation that all papers connected with the piece had been destroyed after its composer’s death, for unknown reasons. There was no clue why the original should have been hidden behind the brickwork in Ca’ Scacchi, though it seemed likely that one of Scacchi’s ancestors might have been hired to print the original scores.