Massiter’s slate eyes darkened. “Yes,” he agreed. “I believe you are. More than I had expected, to be honest.”
“I’m flattered.”
Daniel wondered about the nearness of that other house, the one which had fascinated, and terrified, Laura so much. She had said that Massiter could, perhaps, organise a visit to Ca’ Dario to satisfy his curiosity. There was, he was beginning to realise, so much that could be gleaned from the present situation. He had been a fool to sit back and wait for the prizes to arrive, as if they were his by right.
“Don’t let me down, Daniel,” Massiter said. “Or yourself.”
He smiled into Massiter’s cold face, wondering what it had been like when Amy was here, what means he had used to seduce her, and, most of all, what power his grip still possessed.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Hugo. I intend to milk today for everything I can. I’ll make you feel proud of me. Tonight you’ll walk out of that concert the hero of the hour. More so even than me, because I’ll tell them how none of this would have been possible without you. How you’re the benefactor that a true artist — which I am, naturally — requires. But there will be a price, Hugo. Beyond that which we have agreed. You must meet it. There’s no bargaining here. I shall exact it. You shall pay and smile at me all the time.”
“What?” Massiter murmured.
“After the funeral,” Daniel insisted pleasantly. “When my mind is finally settled. Then we’ll discuss it, once Scacchi’s in his grave.”
Massiter glowered, dissatisfied.
Daniel rose and said, “Now come, Hugo. The world awaits us. We mustn’t keep it waiting.”
53
A refusal and a surprise
It was almost ten by the time I found the rear entrance to Delapole’s rented mansion. The night people were about their business in the narrow alleys that led off the rio: pale faces cooing from doorways, shambling figures falling out of taverns to keep them company. I felt weak in this dark and unruly world. Delapole was a tall, powerful man. Gobbo had the twisted, muscular strength of one of those terriers they turn upon a badger’s sett, then wait and watch as he tears poor Brock to pieces. If I could only talk myself in and out again with Rebecca by my side, I should be happy. Marchese was on his way, past Padua by now, I hoped. With his help, Delapole would be locked tight away tomorrow, on the very day he hoped to be the hero of the Venetian crowds, and we would be gone from the city.
I rang the bell; a surly maid answered and ushered me into the empty kitchen. In a moment, Gobbo was there, surprised to see me. He sat down at the table and bade me join him, shrugging his shoulders as if to say: What can I do?
I refused his offer of a glass of wine. Then he said, “I thought you might have stayed in Rome a little longer, Lorenzo. On your master’s business.”
“I think I have no master anymore. You and the Englishman have seen to that.”
“Meaning what, precisely?”
“That you have seized her. I spoke with the brother. He tells me she has not returned for two days and that soon you will be leaving the city. Not much left for Leo there, and I’m the one to blame.”
“You get this all out of proportion. Seven months we’ve been here, Lorenzo. Delapole gets bored so easily.”
I had to be careful not to reveal how much I knew. “So I imagine.”
“No, you don’t. Not really. Look…” He pushed a glass towards me. I do believe Gobbo genuinely meant me well in some fashion. “Take some advice. You’ve been playing on the rich man’s field, and that’s not the place for you or me. Get out while you still can. This is not a game for amateurs, Lorenzo. You’ll only end up hurt.”
“I placed her in your care, Gobbo. I thought you would save her from my uncle. Now I learn I have simply removed her from a middling fate to one much worse. I learn—”
He banged the table with his fist. “Oh, come on, Scacchi! It’s not that bad. She lives. She’s fed. She sees the world. She writes her pretty tunes and gets some reward from them, even if the old man’s name sits on the cover. It could be worse. She’d get no more from Leo. Less, in all probability.”
The two bargains could scarcely be compared, but there was little merit in pursuing that particular argument. “It cannot work, Gobbo! There will be questions from those who can spot a fraud. He will be asked to play. To conduct.”
“You think he’s not capable? Delapole can make a pretty noise at the keys. As for all that arm-waving stuff… As that French fool Rousseau used to say, it’s amazing what you can accomplish — or pretend to— when you try.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” he interrupted. “You are very slow at understanding people sometimes. It is a dangerous flaw. Do you not comprehend what kind of man my master truly is?”
I did, but dared not let him know it. “An Englishman. An aristocrat. A gentleman, I thought.”
“Pah! Let me tell you the tale from his own lips. When he was a lad— ten, no more — his widowed father married again. A painted bitch — they all say that, I imagine. Still, one night, a month after the wedding, he is awoken by the sound of screaming in the house. He sleeps next door to his father, always has, and rushes in. To find this new ‘mother,’ if you please, astride the old man, riding him for all he’s worth, the pair of them bellowing like animals.”
Something Marchese had said, about the origins of Delapole’s behaviour, came back to me. “What has this to do with us?”
“Everything! He died, you see. The old man’s heart burst, in front of the lad. Two months later it’s apparent she’s with child, too — and not his father’s, if Delapole’s to be believed. Less than a year after, there’s a new son in the household. The firstborn one is out on his ear, despatched to some bog in Ireland with a pittance to keep him. You see?”
“I see he feels wronged by this woman.”
“No! He feels wronged by the world, and that is why he plays these games. You meddle in them at your peril, Lorenzo. He can scare the wits out of me when he cares to, and there’s not many men I can say that about.”
There was no shaking him. Delapole had made up his mind: so shall it be. “When do you leave?” I asked Gobbo.
“A day. Two. No more. After the little show we’re planning at La Pietà which we had hoped would provide some funds. Not that that is going so well. She has no music, would you believe, and says she can’t reproduce it all in time for the performance. Unless we can talk the original manuscript out of Leo and race it to the copyists soon, we’re in a pretty pickle. We’ll have to let Vivaldi play his tunes instead and make some lame excuse for why the sheets are missing. Then find the money somewhere else. They’ll all love us for that, won’t they? I’m sick of turning creditors away from the door. If we’re not gone quickly, we’ll be playing this game inside the debtors’ prison. I don’t imagine you know where he’s hidden it, do you?”
“Leo is his own man. Ask him yourself.”
“We have. He’s as stubborn as a mule. Makes some pathetic excuse about it not being where he put it. As if he expects us to believe that.” He finished his glass, then looked at me expectantly. “I have things to do, old chap. Can’t stay gossiping all night.”
“I need to see her,” I pleaded.
He glowered at me. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. Go now. Forget us all.”
“One time, Gobbo. Then it’s done. I promise.”
He sighed. “I don’t know why I go along with this. If I do this one thing, will you swear you’ll bother us no more?”
“You have my word.”
“You’ll have to see Delapole too. They’re thick with each other at the moment. I’ll talk to him first. So there are no misunderstandings.”