The Devil in Music by Kate Ross Page B

house, and the Santa
Margherita, Milan's principal police office and prison. Not that he
intended to approach the police directly about the Malvezzi murder.
They were not likely to welcome the assistance of a young English
dandy, however experienced he might be in solving crimes. The only
Englishman they would be eager to see was Orfeo, who had every reason
to put a continent between himself and them.

    No:
he would rather offer his services to the Malvezzi family. But there
were several things he wanted to find out first. What efforts were
being made to find Lucia Landi? And Tonio Farese, Maestro Donati's
servant what had become of him? Finally, what role were Lodovico's
relatives playing in the investigation? The newspapers said little
about them, which suggested they had retired from public view during
this crisis. But if they were showing themselves anywhere, it was
bound to be at the opera.

    La
Scala was the nightly rendezvous of much of the city of Milan. The
aristocracy in particular rarely entertained at home, partly because
their pa lazzi were seldom as sumptuous inside as out, and partly
because the police assumed that any group of educated Italians who
gathered in private, especially at night, must be hatching a
conspiracy. Instead, each of the two hundred private boxes at La
Scala served as a tiny drawing room, where for four or five hours a
night, six nights a week, the box holder and his guests played cards,
exchanged gossip, sometimes even took meals. In the dark depths of
the boxes, lovers made assignations, and Carbonari were said to plot.
No one paid much attention to the music after all, the audience sat
through the same opera twenty or thirty nights in a row. The loud
talk and clinking of knives and forks subsided only during favourite
arias and ensembles, which were listened to with rapt attention and a
highly critical ear.

    Julian
arrived in Milan with just time enough to change into evening
clothes, dine, and reach La Scala before the curtain rose. He sat in
the pit, which was mainly a haunt of the cinadini, Milan's merchant
class. In Florence or Naples he would have had introductions to
aristocratic boxes, but here he was practically a stranger. He knew
he must set about improving his acquaintance with the Milanese
nobility, whose boxes would be the best places to pick up gossip
about the Malvezzis. But tonight he could not resist sitting far
enough from the noise in the boxes to hear the opera.

    It
was L'ltaliana in Algeri, Rossini's whimsical romance about an
intrepid Italian girl captured by Turks. If Julian had not already
known the plot, he would have found it impossible to follow, since
the audience around him went on taking seats and chattering
throughout the opening scene. He gazed his fill at the magnificent
scenery and costumes, then scanned the boxes above. But his eyes
were dazzled by the light from the stage, and at first he could make
out only hollow shapes, like empty eye sockets, with here and there a
twinkling candle to illumine a game of cards.

    A
hush fell on the audience as the tenor stepped out to sing To sigh
for a beautiful woman. The theatre had been fortunate enough to
secure the great Rubini for this role. He stood with his bullish
head thrown back and his hand clapped over his heart in what, for
him, passed for acting. But his voice was sweet and flexible, his
range extraordinary. He excelled at fioriture, the trills and other
vocal embellishments improvised by singers. Indeed, he indulged in
them to excess, or so Julian thought. He found himself mentally
excising some and rearranging others.

    When
the aria was over, there was mad applause, screaming, stamping of
feet, and beating of canes on the floor. Julian's thoughts went to
Orfeo, whom Lodovico Malvezzi had thought to launch in this same
theatre, perhaps even in this same role. He would never know now
what it was to be the object of a Milanese audience's adoration or
the butt of their derision, if his efforts