Count Valieri's Prisoner

‘Naturalmente. On whose behalf, I am to welcome you to Trimontano.’ He smiled, making a slight bow. ‘You are in Number 205, signorina. The lift is behind you, and your luggage is already in your room. If you need further assistance you have only to ask.’

Rule one in a strange town—know the right people, Maddie thought as the lift took her smoothly to her floor.

Her bedroom was more modern than she had imagined, with an impressive range of fitted furniture in an elegant pale wood, together with the widest bed she had ever seen.

The bathroom was breathtaking too, tiled in white marble, streaked with gold. It had a large sunken tub with two cushioned head-rests, and a walk-in shower also big enough for dual occupation, and then some.

The ultimate in togetherness, Maddie thought, suppressing a pang of regret that she was there alone. But even if Jeremy was far away, at least she could talk to him.

She went back in the bedroom and retrieved her mobile phone from her bag, only to discover to her dismay that there was no discernible signal.

‘Let’s hope that’s because of the prevailing weather conditions and not a general rule,’ she muttered, as she dialled reception from the bedside phone and asked for an outside line.

But she had another disappointment when, after a struggle to get through, Jeremy’s voicemail informed her he was out of the office.

Sighing, she replaced the receiver without leaving a message. After all, she’d nothing to tell him about her trip that he’d want to hear. The important thing had been to hear his voice, even if it was only a recording. Crumbs from the rich man’s table, she thought ironically. Speaking of which …

She reached for the Count’s envelope and tore it open.

‘And if this is to say that Floria Bartrando won’t see me, then I’ll know bad luck really does run in threes,’ she said as she unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. As she did so, another smaller, flimsier strip of paper fluttered to the carpet.

Maddie picked it up and found she was looking at a ticket for the opera that night at the Teatro Grande. ‘Verdi’s ‘Rigoletto,’ she whispered to herself in excitement. ‘Floria’s last appearance. This has to be significant.’

The accompanying note, written in the familiar black ink said only ‘Until later’, and was signed ‘Valieri’.

A man of few words, the Count, thought Maddie joyfully. But what does that matter, bless every grey hair on his probably balding head?

And she kissed the ticket and laughed out loud, because it had proved to be third time lucky instead and she was in business.

CHAPTER THREE

AS THE CURTAIN fell on Act Two, Maddie sank back in her seat with a breathless sigh. She had forgotten how dark the plot of ‘Rigoletto’ was with its curses, vendettas, seductions and betrayal, and the hunchback jester seeking vengeance on his lecherous master. But she’d certainly never forgotten Verdi’s glorious music.

And the beautiful aria ‘Caro nome’ where the doomed Gilda rhapsodises about her lover’s name was still singing in her head as the lights came up. It had featured on one of Floria Bartrando’s few albums, and Maddie had acquired a second-hand CD, playing it constantly while she was preparing for her trip, and bringing it with her.

The Teatro Grande wasn’t quite as large as its name suggested, but its Baroque styling was magnificent, she thought, glancing up at the semi-circle of ornately decorated boxes above her.

During the first act interval, she had been convinced that someone up there was watching her, and had looked up, scanning the boxes eagerly in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Count, or even Floria Bartrando herself.

If she had been the subject of scrutiny, she hoped she’d passed muster. Wisely, she’d brought her favourite and most expensive dress, a simple black knee-length shift, square-necked and sleeveless, relying totally on cut and its heavy silk fabric for its stunning effect.

She’d left her hair loose but swept back from her face with silver combs, and apart from the silver studs in her ears, her only jewellery was Jeremy’s diamond solitaire on her engagement finger.

She followed the rest of the audience to the small crowded bar and took her double espresso to a small table with a single chair in a quiet corner. As she sat, she noticed the picture on the wall above her. It was a large oil painting in a heavy gilded frame, its subject a seated man, white-haired but still handsome with a calm, proud face. A small plaque read ‘Cesare Valieri’.

So this is my host, she thought. And where is he?

She leaned across to the attendant, clearing a nearby table. ‘Count Valieri—is he here tonight?’

He hesitated, his glance sliding away. ‘He came, signorina, for a brief time, but has gone. I am sorry.’

Well, it didn’t really matter, she told herself, suppressing a pang of disappointment. They would meet eventually. And at least now she knew what to expect.

And her instinct about being watched might well have been correct, so it seemed odd that he had not used the opportunity to make himself known to her.

She settled back in her seat for Act III, waiting for the tragedy to reach its culmination, with Gilda sacrificing herself to save the villainous Duke who had seduced and betrayed her.

Shivering as Rigoletto tells his hired assassin ‘He is crime and I am punishment.’

And feeling tears prick at her eyelids as the jester realising he has brought about the murder of his own child, flings himself, heartbroken, across her dead body.

The applause at the end was long and generous with cries of ‘Bravo’ from all over the auditorium. It took a while for the stalls to clear and Maddie hung back, unsure what she should do.

Her best bet, she supposed, was to go back to the hotel and wait for instructions. Because she was sure there would be some.

In a way, she hoped they’d arrive tomorrow. It was late, and she felt suddenly very tired, as she walked out into the rain-washed street, hugging her cream pashmina around her. The stress of the past weeks coupled with the flight and the long car journey were clearly taking their toll.

I need sleep, she thought longingly, not an interview.

But the Count clearly had other ideas, she realised, recognising the unmistakable shape of his limousine, parked just across the street from the theatre, with its chauffeur in his dark uniform standing beside it holding the rear passenger door open for her.

And not Camillo this time. This new man was altogether taller and leaner. Younger too, she thought, although his peaked cap was pulled down shadowing his face, denying her a good look.

‘Signorina Lang—you will come with me, please.’ His voice was quiet, but it seemed to convey an order rather than a request, and Maddie hesitated.

‘You’re taking me to the Count?’

‘Who does not like to be kept waiting.’

Slightly brusque for a paid employee, she thought as she climbed into the car, but at least he spoke English, so that was a step forward.

Not that any conversation was likely, however, while the glass panels between the front and rear seating remained firmly closed.

On the other hand, she didn’t really feel like talking. The effect of the coffee had worn off and waves of drowsiness were sweeping over her.

But I can’t go to sleep, she told herself firmly, suppressing a yawn. I have to stay awake and totally alert. This is an important evening. And made herself check once again that her little voice operated tape machine and spare batteries were safely in her bag.

What she really needed was the caffeine rush from another espresso, she thought, helping herself to some of the chilled mineral water, in the hope that it would clear her head.

She began to rehearse some of the questions she needed to ask, but instead found the words and music of the opera still teeming through her brain.

I am Crime. He is Punishment. Except that was wrong, surely. It was the other way round. He is Crime …

Wasn’t that the way it went? She wasn’t even sure any more. But she could remember Rigoletto’s despairing cry, ‘Ah, the curse’ and shivered again.

She wanted to knock on the glass and ask the chauffeur not to drive quite so fast, but it was too much effort. Somehow it was much easier just to lean back against the cushions, and let them support her until the jolting over the cobbled streets ceased.

I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes, she told herself, yawning again. A little catnap. I’ll feel better then. Wide awake. Ready for anything.