3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers Page B

headlong flight to Benelli’s hut, was Alessandro as I’d last seen him—my brave brother bruised and beaten to further the Montorio cause. Would cooperating with Fabiani help me gain Alessandro’s freedom? I wasn’t sure, but I did judge it certain that failing Fabiani would mean the end of my usefulness to Antonio Montorio. In that eventuality, Alessandro would be tried and executed as a smuggler before the month was out.
    The old woodsman’s hut was easy to find, waking its owner more difficult. I pounded as hard as I dared, hoping the good people of the Lungara were all fast asleep. When Benelli finally opened the door, the odor of cheap wine and old sweat clung to his nightshirt. His rheumy eyes opened wider at each repetition of my request, and he muttered excuses about a pain in his shoulder and a leaky boat. It required the invocation of Cardinal Fabiani’s name to turn the tide and secure his promise that a serviceable boat would be waiting.
    I returned to the pavilion as quickly as I could. The cardinal had vanished. Rossobelli was pacing nervously. The abate must have returned to the villa while I’d been off waking Benelli, for he now wore a short, hooded cloak. He ran to me and clapped my cheeks between cold, damp palms. “Thank God,” he squeaked. “Is it all arranged?”
    I nodded.
    He opened his watch, then closed it with a decisive click. Gemma’s body stretched full-length on the floor, cocooned in her cloak like the larva of a giant moth. “Grab her head,” ordered Rossobelli. “I’ll take the feet.”
    “Must we?” I swallowed hard. “I mean, isn’t this going to make things even worse? Surely a magistrate could see that the marchesa is not in her right mind. She wouldn’t be hauled before the criminal court. She could be secured somewhere…a comfortable place where she can’t hurt anyone else.”
    The abate simply rolled his eyes and tapped his watch with a meaningful frown.
    The girl made a light burden. Even so, it was a job getting her down the hidden stairway and through the portion of the aqueduct that descended to the Tiber. As we picked our way along, I asked, “How did you happen to discover her?”
    Rossobelli shifted his hold on the lantern, throwing a harlequin pattern of light and shadow over the damp walls. “I was making my midnight rounds, checking to see that all the doors were locked and all the servants where they should be.”
    “I would expect the housekeeper to perform that chore.”
    “Signora Battista is a lazy cow, in bed by ten almost every night. While she snores the evening away, footmen gamble at cards, maids sneak out to meet lovers, and the bootboy makes himself sick trying to learn to smoke a pipe.”
    “You check the pavilion every night?”
    “No. I look out for Cardinal Fabiani’s interests as best I can, but even I cannot do everything. I secure the house and leave the gardener to see to the grounds.”
    “And the stables?”
    “They are beyond the stand of trees on the other side of the villa from the garden. Well away from the house, thank heaven.”
    “Then—oof.” I stumbled over a rough juncture. Falling to my knees, I struggled to keep the maid’s head from hitting the hard floor.
    Rossobelli seemed glad of the short respite. He was breathing hard and continued his story in ragged gasps. “I went out to the pavilion…because the footman on duty at the front door said that Marchesa Fabiani had been tearing through the hall, mumbling about going to the garden for an ice…when I found a back door standing open…I knew it would be easier for me to retrieve the marchesa myself rather than track down Matilda.”
    Having secured my hold on our burden, I rose shakily. “Did you meet anyone on the way out to the garden?”
    “No.”
    “Hear anything, see anything?”
    “Such as?”
    “Footsteps, someone running away.”
    “Of course not. I’m sure Marchesa Fabiani was in the larder by then. By the time I found her, she’d