The Soprano's Last Song Page 12

  Mr. Nelson and I got ready quickly, hopped into the carriage, and headed toward Whitechapel — the location of Ophelia Merridew. When we arrived, there was already a large crowd of curious people. Merridew’s refuge was a three-story building with white windows and a blue door, which indicated that it was owned by the queen.

  Every time a shadow passed behind the lace curtains, a timid applause emerged from the crowd, and someone shouted, “Ophelia!” hoping to see, sooner or later, the singer finally free from danger.

  I looked around the crowd. They were all ordinary people — people who had probably never seen Ophelia perform. But these people knew that Ophelia was one of them, and they knew that she never had forgotten her roots.

  This was, pretty much, what Mr. Nelson said to me, while we were waiting for something to happen. He insisted that a person’s true roots are links that, though they may be invisible, never cease to operate between a person and his or her origins.

  It was mid-morning when Ophelia Merridew appeared at the door, escorted by a nurse who helped steady her. She looked pale and in pain, but smiled a little and made a small gesture of greeting. The crowd responded with applause, full of emotion.

  I looked at Mr. Nelson, as if to ask permission to get closer, and he said kindly, “Go, go! You came all this way for her, after all!”

  And so I got off the carriage, squeezing through the crowd. I do not know what came over me then. All I know is that I felt an impulse to get as close to Ophelia as I could. It took determination and some good elbow strikes, but I finally managed to get to the front, where a police barricade barely held back the crowd. I felt very excited to see Miss Merridew safe and sound again after our last tragic encounter.

  “Ophelia!” I called, imitating those around me. While the singer was slowly heading to her carriage, something happened that I still remember with great emotion.

  She turned toward me. Toward me, I tell you. And when she saw me, her eyes looked full of surprise, and her gaze remained on my face.

  Ophelia Merridew recognized me among all those people. And so, if only for a moment, I was a little bit famous.

  She approached me, accompanied by the nurse, and gave me her hand. “Are you . . . I still see your face . . . like that of an angel,” Ophelia said. “An angel who came to save me in Bethnal Green.”

  “My name is Irene,” I said. I smiled at her.

  Ophelia showed me to the blue door from which she had come out. “Would you like to come in? We need to talk. My carriage can wait!” she insisted.

  I ducked under the outstretched arms of a police officer and joined Ophelia, who took me by the arm, welcoming me. We went through the blue door and sat in a small living room.

  Ophelia said goodbye to the nurse and, once we were left alone, she looked at me tenderly. “Tell me everything, my young angel.”

  I described all that had happened until that fateful afternoon, when we had arrived just in time at her Aunt Betty’s home. Then I told her about all that had happened since, including the plot of the Maestro.

  “My friends and I heard Barzini say that poor Alfred Santi was a magnificent man and he was punished for it, but . . . what that might mean, we do not know,” I said.

  Ophelia Merridew looked down before speaking. “There are many things you do not know, and you would never have known them, my young angel,” she said. “There was a secret . . . a secret that Barzini did not want revealed to anyone . . .”

  I expected that she would confess to meeting secretly with Santi, and that what was born between them had sparked the jealousy of Maestro Barzini. But I was surprised when Ophelia, with a simple sentence, revealed that this secret hid a different story, and with it, the real motive behind the evil that took place.

  “Barzini’s latest works were not, in fact, written by him. And that is why they are probably among the most beautiful he has ever had his name on,” Ophelia explained.

  I suddenly remembered what Baron Trudoljubov had said about the “second youth” of Barzini, and my eyes widened in surprise.

  “The most recent two works that everybody thought were composed by Barzini were, in fact, composed by my poor Alfred,” she told me, her voice cracking.

  I took her hand and looked into her eyes. “If you find it too painful, you do not have to . . .” I said as I shook my head.

  “On the contrary,” Ophelia said, wiping away her tears. “On the contrary . . . I feel it will do me good to talk to you, Irene.”

  I squeezed her hand more tightly, and she began to speak.

  “At the beginning, Alfred had been honored to work side by side with the famous Barzini — the great Maestro! Who would not have been? But as time passed, it became clear that Barzini was using him. Barzini’s inspiration had dried up, and he began to take credit for Alfred’s works. Alfred realized that his talent would never be recognized like that — like Barzini’s had been. Month after month, Barzini promised to print Santi’s name next to his, indicating the two of them as composers. But he never kept his promise. Santi became more and more determined to get recognition as time went on. And then that snake Barzini hired the petty Henri Duvel. He did so only to make Alfred believe that his position was in danger. And so Alfred worked. But finally he realized Barzini still needed him, and he mustered the strength to rebel against him. Alfred refused to give him his last composition, a work called Semiramide.”

  That’s why Santi was always so dark and angry, I thought while listening to the story. He was at odds with Barzini!

  “The Maestro then lied to Alfred one last time,” Ophelia continued. “Barzini had assured Alfred that this time, his name would be featured on posters at the largest theaters in Europe. Alfred was convinced that Barzini was serious.” Ophelia smiled bitterly before continuing, “But Barzini had no intention of keeping his promise even at that time. He confessed it to me one night at dinner after having one drink too many. He said Alfred had learned everything he knew about music from him, and that he was ungrateful for it. He regarded Alfred in the usual dismissive way he treated all those who worked for him. He treated them all as his subjects — as if he were the sole, undisputed King of the Opera!”

  Ophelia drew a long breath in and then exhaled. “It was Barzini’s own fault. Because he was so blinded by his own ego, his own fame, he hadn’t even realized that Alfred and I had become much more than friends over time. Alfred loved me and I . . . well, I loved him with a strength that I thought my aging heart was no longer capable of. I loved him, Irene. And that’s why I warned him about Barzini’s true intentions. I told him not to give Barzini his last work, to hold on to it, and, if necessary, to hide the score in a safe place.”

  “And did he do it?” I asked, captivated. “Did Santi really hide his last work before . . . before . . .”

  Ophelia nodded slowly.

  “Yes. He hid it by giving it to me. And I . . . when Alfred was found dead in his hotel room and the Frenchman was arrested, I thought I might go crazy. Everything seemed so absurd and terrible. I just wanted to hide, disappear, and not imagine that Barzini would . . .” She paused, then continued. “Luckily, I handed Alfred’s work off to a trusted person who has kept it safe so far,” Ophelia explained.

  “That’s why Santi’s hotel room and your aunt’s house in Bethnal Green had been turned upside down!” I exclaimed. “Barzini was looking for Alfred Santi’s latest work!”

  “That’s right, Irene.”

  I looked at her, waiting.

  And then, because it seemed that Ophelia Merridew did not have anything more to say, I asked her, without hesitation, “And where did you hide the score in the end?”

  Chapter 22

  ONE LAST CUP OF COCOA

  Lupin barged into the Shackleton Coffee House so quickly he almost spilled Sherlock’s beloved cup of hot cocoa upon arriving at our table.

  “My father is all
right!” he yelled. He hurriedly pulled a chair up to the table Sherlock and I were sitting at. “My father is all right!”

  We all hugged one another, and then sat down, listening carefully to the details of Lupin’s story. With the capture of Barzini, the murder charges against Théophraste were soon dropped.

  “The ‘attempted theft’ charge remains,” admitted Lupin. “But for that, he would spend just a few days in jail and —”

  Lupin seemed to want to say more, but when he realized that other customers were listening to him as well, he went silent, visibly embarrassed.

  “How about we go for a walk?” Sherlock suggested, throwing a few coins on the table.

  As we walked through the shady avenues of Hyde Park, we cleared up the final obscure details of that story.

  “If Barzini did not know about the relationship between Santi and Ophelia, as she told me,” I reasoned, “he would not have to fear her. And he wouldn’t have suspected that she might have the scores of Semiramide.”

  Sherlock, of course, had thought of that detail, and shared his reasoning with us.

  “When he orchestrated the plot at Hotel Albion,” he explained, “Barzini searched Santi’s room, but he did not find the new work. Instead what he found were notes and letters to Santi in Miss Merridew’s handwriting.”

  “Of course!” I nodded. “Letters between the two lovers.”

  “Exactly,” Sherlock agreed. “And so he discovered that he had a new enemy . . . one who he needed to get rid of quickly.”

  He paused, thinking. “Poor Ophelia must have been terribly confused in those hours,” Sherlock continued. “She had warned Santi about Barzini, as Irene said, which indicates she was suspicious of him. On the other hand, Scotland Yard already had its guilty man, a French acrobat who had nothing to do with Barzini. And that’s what pulled the wool over Merridew’s eyes.”

  We went farther into the park, leaving behind us, little by little, the noise of the city. We came to a meadow by the shelter of an old oak tree and sat there on the ground, continuing to mull over what had happened.

  “Yes, I’m convinced,” I finally said. “Ophelia’s instinct must have led her to believe it was a good idea to hide Semiramide, so that Barzini would not take possession of the last opera composed by her beloved Alfred. Unfortunately, she did not realize how dangerous this man was . . .”

  “And when Ophelia felt in danger,” Sherlock added, “her aunt’s empty house must’ve seemed like the perfect hiding place for her and for Santi’s work. After all, who would guess that Ophelia Merridew would be holed up in a hovel in Bethnal Green?”

  “Yes. But unfortunately for her, she already had a thorn in her side — the devil!” said Lupin. “But,” he continued, scratching his head, “there’s another thing I just don’t understand . . . why did my father think that Barzini was a Spaniard?”

  Sherlock gave us one of his enigmatic smiles. I could not imagine how my friend might have an answer to that question also. But just a moment later, the answer came from a pocket in his jacket, like a rabbit out of a hat. It was a copy of the British Musical Gazette, a magazine that had published a biography of Barzini.

  “Giuseppe Barzini lived with his parents in Seville from when he was nine to sixteen years old,” Sherlock said, “and he was therefore able to speak excellent Spanish. I think he used this skill to confuse your father, Lupin. And I would say that he did it perfectly.”

  The most important question, however, was the one I had asked Merridew just a few hours earlier.

  “What do you think happened to the score of the latest work by Alfred Santi?” I asked them, fiddling with some blades of grass.

  “What did Merridew say?” Lupin asked.

  “I’ve already told you — she handed it over to a person she trusts blindly, and she will never reveal its location.” I looked at my friends hopelessly. “Not even to right the wrongs done or to make sure Santi would at least have the fame to which he’s entitled.”

  “But why?” Lupin asked.

  “Ophelia considers it a cursed manuscript and says that no one, after what has happened, would ever have the courage to take it to the stage,” I replied.

  “The usual superstitions die hard,” Sherlock muttered, annoyed, “especially in the world of entertainment.”

  “Then we give up?” Lupin asked.

  Sherlock opened his arms in response, shrugging.

  They both looked at me. “What do you say?”

  “I say that we may have more to think about right now. Your father is finally safe, and mine comes to town in just a few hours,” I said. I had almost forgotten that London would become, at least for a while, my new city.

  We said goodbye, planning to meet at the usual place the following day. Sherlock walked with me for a stretch, but then visited a library where he wanted to consult some book. I was beginning to get my bearings on those streets, and I had almost arrived at my hotel when I came across Lupin.

  It was not an accidental encounter. Lupin was waiting for me, and he was visibly uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable, too, but more because of the great anxiety that I could read on his face.

  We walked toward each other and then stopped. He looked up at the sky and then at his shoes. He put his hands on his head and then hugged his shoulders. He did practically everything he could so he wouldn’t have to look at me while he spoke.

  “I understand if you do not want to have anything to do with me, the son of a thief,” he finally said.

  I looked at him with my mouth wide open, shocked, searching for the words to tell him how terribly wrong he was.

  I decided to settle on the first words that came to my lips — the most sincere words. “Tell me now, Arsène Lupin, are you, perhaps, senile?” I asked, putting my fists on my hips. “You could very well be the son of the fierce Saladin, and I would not give a hoot, nor would I let it change our friendship.”

  Lupin gave me one of his charming smiles and said simply, “Thank you, Irene. Tomorrow I go on the road. I hope we meet again soon.”

  As I finished my walk back to the hotel, I began to think that if only I had been a bit more careful during my first adventure in London, I could have understood many more things about my family, my friends, and myself.

  * * *

  My parents joined Mr. Nelson and me at the Claridge’s that night. The next day, at first light, we visited what would become our new apartment. It was completely empty, but it had a spectacular view over the rooftops of the city and of the distant clock, Big Ben. When I saw it I shouted, “Yes! I love it!”

  Mr. Nelson had done an excellent job. The room that would become my room was just above the courtyard, which made me hopeful that my secret exits might be a bit easier than usual to carry out.

  It is not about this new home I want to write, however. What I choose to write about to conclude this story still makes my heart beat fast, even years and years later.

  It was the day the postman delivered a mysterious package addressed to me at that new apartment in London. In one corner of the package was the sender’s name: “The Prince of Riddles.”

  When I opened it, I thought it might be one of Sherlock Holmes’s usual tricks, but instead, I found that the package held a manuscript entitled Semiramide, by Alfred Santi, and a handwritten note by my fellow investigator, who, apparently, had not abandoned the search for the last missing piece of the mystery.

  If you want to know where and how I found it, meet tomorrow at noon at the Shackleton Coffee House.

  This just made me more curious, and the wait even more difficult. In fact, I spent a sleepless night wondering how he had managed to find the manuscript and to whom Ophelia Merridew had entrusted it. At last, as we sat at a table in the Shackleton Coffee House the next day, Sherlock Holmes finally revealed the secret.

  “You remember the famous Aunt Betty?” he s
aid, smiling. He reached out and almost brushed my fingers, he was so excited. “The one we thought was at the hospital? Well, she was not. While she had always been a bit strange and eccentric, a few years ago, after an earthquake, she developed claustrophobia — a fear of staying indoors. So she began to live on the streets as a beggar. But even though she preferred to stay outside, she was never far away from her home. You could say that she simply moved back and forth on the sidewalk in front of her house.”

  My eyes widened. “You mean . . . the beggar in Bethnal Green? She had Santi’s work?”

  Sherlock laced his fingers behind his head, satisfied. “The beggar on the street corner,” he said.

  I smiled, breathing in the rich vapor released by my steaming cup of cocoa. I began to think of Lupin, back on the road with his father and the Aronofsky Circus. Were the three of us going to see each other again? Or would this be the end of our crazy adventures together?

  All these questions would be answered soon enough, as the thread of my destiny unfolded bit by bit.

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  All names, characters and related indicia contained in this book, copyright of Atlantyca Dreamfarm s.r.l., are exclusively licensed to Atlantyca S.p.A. in their original version. Their translated and/or adapted versions are property of Atlantyca S.p.A. All rights reserved.

  © 2011 Atlantyca Dreamfarm s.r.l., Italy

  © 2015 for this book in English language - (Capstone Young Readers)

  Text by Pierdomenico Baccalario and Alessandro Gatti

  Editorial project by Atlantyca Dreamfarm S.r.l., Italy

  Translated by Chiara Pernigotti