Read 4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight for Free Online Page B

corridors like a stoic, unflagging sentinel. This soldier of time had sustained a wound. Its regular ticking had ceased, and the narrow door of its case hung open. The brass hands on its enamel-white dial were nearly vertical. Two minutes to midnight: the exact time that the pendulum had been jerked from its case to do murder.
    “For God’s sake! What’s happened?” Octavia burst out of the west wing to interrupt our stricken tableau.
    I expected fits and hysterics, but our hostess was made of sterner stuff. She took the situation in at a glance, made a solemn sign of the cross, and sent one of the Gecco brothers to fetch her husband. I noticed that he sprinted down the corridor to the east wing; the Dolfinis must sleep as far apart from each other as the confines of the villa would allow.
    Octavia prowled the length of the hall while we waited for Vincenzo. The ruffles of her loose dressing gown swirled like foam on the crest of a wave. “Who is this man?” she asked. “Surely one of you must know him.”
    The assembled company murmured negatively, shook their heads.
    She set on her husband as soon as he rounded the corner. “This man is dead, Vincenzo, and no one seems to know him. Tell me who he is immediately.”
    Vincenzo knelt by the body. Removing his velvet nightcap and twisting it in his hands, the master of the villa studied the dead man’s face for a long moment. Slowly, calmly, he asked, “What makes you think I know him, Octavia?”
    “You ride out on the estate all the time. And visit the neighbors, too. You know all the laborers for miles around.”
    Vincenzo shoved his nightcap in the pocket of his dressing gown. He reached for the lifeless hand. After a moment’s examination, he said, “This poor unfortunate is plainly dressed, to be sure, but he is no working man. His palms are smooth as silk. And look at these nails. Clean, neatly trimmed, buffed to a shine. The man is a gentleman, but not one of my acquaintance.”
    I agreed with his assessment. The corpse was that of a youngish man with high cheekbones and slender features which would have been quite handsome in life. His dark breeches were finely woven cord, and his snug, waist-length jacket was the sort worn for dancing or fencing lessons. An adept fencer, I guessed, for rather than the lithe limbs of a dancer, he displayed the well-muscled form of a sportsman with a midsection just beginning to expand.
    “Search his pockets,” Octavia ordered.
    Vincenzo complied. “They are empty.”
    “Totally empty?” Octavia drew an exasperated breath. “No purse? No tobacco?”
    “Not so much as a coin or flake of snuff, my dear.”
    Octavia moved to stand over the body. She stared straight down into its wax-like face. Her nostrils flared, her hands balled into fists, and the toe of one satin slipper jogged up and down. I half-expected her to kick the corpse in frustration.
    “Who can he be?” she finally asked again.
    “I know,” said Karl Weber. The composer had slunk from the west wing a few moments before, barefoot and wrapped in a banyan of paislied silk. Above the riotous blues and oranges, his face was pale as a sheet of parchment. “He’s a thief who broke in to steal my music.”
    Vincenzo’s knees cracked as he stood, and his voice thickened with anger. “You know this man who invaded my home?”
    Karl shook his head. “He’s a complete stranger. But my score must surely be the most valuable thing in the villa. I’ve taken great pains with Il Gran Tamerlano and created an entirely new entertainment, a thoroughly human drama, with flesh and blood characters instead of pasteboard gods and heroes. Tamerlano will take Venice by storm, then the rest of Europe. This man must be a rival composer out to steal my thunder.”
    Doubtful glances passed between the singers. The Gecco brothers laughed outright.
    Vincenzo answered, “That would give you an excellent reason to hit him over the head.”
    “No, no.” The composer’s