The Figaro Murders

by Laura Lebow

  The man rose from the desk, crossed to the door, and turned the lock. He gestured toward a wooden chair a few feet in front of me. I fell into the chair. I leaned over to examine my trouser knee, but I could see nothing. The light was too dim. The man returned to his seat behind the desk.

  “You are Lorenzo Da Ponte?” he asked.

  I studied him through the candlelight. His features were sharp, his nose large and hawklike. Even in the dimness I could see that his eyes were dark and cold.

  “Answer the question!” he snapped.

  I had had enough. “You know who I am!” I shouted. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Why have I been roused from my bed and treated like a criminal? The emperor will hear about this!”

  He stared at me coolly and gave a small, bemused smile. He picked up a sheet of paper from the pile on the desk. “You were ordained as a priest in 1773?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  He studied the paper for a long moment, then put it aside and took up another one. “After your ordination, you taught at the seminary in Ceneda and moved to Venice six months later?”

  I nodded, confused. How did he know all this about me? A wave of exhaustion swept over me, as if my outburst had drained the rest of my energy and anger. “Why are you asking me these questions?” I said. “Your officers accused me of murder—”

  “While in Venice, you took a lover, a married woman named—” He scrutinized the document. “Angela Tiepolo?”

  A cold vise closed around my heart. I had hoped I had left all that behind me thirteen years ago.

  He banged his palm on the tabletop. I jumped. “Answer the question!”

  “Yes,” I said. “But what—”

  “She gave birth to your child? A child you abandoned to an orphanage?”

  I rubbed my temples as my head began to throb. After my ordination, I had been restless in my vocation, and on a trip to Venice, I had met Angela. She was the orphaned daughter of a minor aristocrat, and when she turned her dark, indolent eyes my way I had forgotten about God, my vows, my duty to my family, and the existence of her husband. She had quickly drawn me into the raucous party life of the city. We had spent our evenings at the opera or theater, and had drunk and gambled into the early morning. The days we spent in bed.

  I hadn’t been certain the child had been mine, but Angela’s husband had left her and had disavowed the newborn. We had no money, and so had had no choice but to give the baby to the orphanage. Soon after that, my younger brother had rescued me from my life of debauchery. He had taken me to Treviso, where he had found teaching positions for both of us at the seminary there. Girolamo—my beloved brother! Lost to me forever.

  I started at a soft rustling sound, the kind a rat would make, coming from somewhere behind me. I imagined myself thrown into a cell somewhere in this maze, with only rodents for company. My hands began to shake. I moved them onto my lap. I did not want this man to see my fear.

  My interlocutor coughed loudly. “You taught literature at Treviso?” he asked.

  I was so tired, I no longer cared who he was and why he was asking me these questions. I nodded. “Italian literature,” I said softly. The job at Treviso had been a deliverance for me. I had discovered that I was a natural teacher, and I had been able to buy books and to write poetry in my spare time.

  “Now—” He shuffled through a few papers and held one up to me. I squinted through the candlelight, but could not see what it said. “You were arrested for writing treasonous poetry? You were tried and convicted by the Senate in Venice?”

  A bolt of fear cut through me. “That was a cooked-up charge made by my enemies!” I was startled to hear myself shout. As a teacher, I had been popular among the students, and some of the older professors had grown jealous of me. They had been determined to find a way to get rid of me.

  My interrogator’s voice became warm and soothing. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “Part of my job was to write a long poem for my students to recite at the close of the academic year,” I said. He nodded. “The tradition was that the poem must be ennobling, and must treat an important issue of the day.” His cold eyes studied me intently.

  “I decided to write about the famous idea of the French philosopher Rousseau—that man is happier living in a state of nature rather than under the rule of law.”

  “Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “Tell me about the trial.”

  My poem had been published to critical acclaim among the intellectuals of Venice. In Treviso, however, my enemies at the seminary had seen their chance, and had denounced me for “ungodly” writings before the state education board. “I was banned from teaching,” I said. “But I was never charged with treason, and I spent no time in prison!”

  My heart pounded as he stared at me. I heard the rustling noise behind me again. My shoulder throbbed with pain. I watched as he returned the document to his pile and slowly tapped the papers into a neat stack, then set them to the side. He looked up at me.

  “What were you doing at the Palais Gabler this morning?” he asked quietly.

  “What?”

  “The house of Baron Christof Gabler. You went there this morning. Why?”

  I was so tired I could barely sit up in the chair. I pinched the top of my nose. “I went there on an errand for a friend,” I said.

  “To visit Florian Auerstein?” His icy eyes bored into me.

  Florian Auerstein? Who was that? My thoughts were in a tangle. I was dizzy with fatigue. Auerstein. Oh yes, that boy in the library.

  “No. I went to talk to Marianne Haiml. She is lady’s maid to the baroness,” I said.

  “Why did you argue with the Auerstein boy?” he pressed.

  I shook my head. Why was he asking me about this? “I didn’t argue with him. I met him only briefly. We spoke for just a few minutes. He was acting like a fool. I may have raised my voice to him once, that’s all.”

  “You were heard arguing loudly with him for several minutes. You threatened him.”

  I struggled to remember the events of the morning. Had I threatened the boy? I couldn’t remember. Who had heard me? I recalled the footsteps I had heard outside the door before I left the library. Had someone been eavesdropping on me?

  “No! It wasn’t like that at all! He was telling me silly riddles. I was asking him about a serious matter. He wouldn’t answer me. I lost my temper. I may have shouted at him. He ran out of the room. I left the house a few minutes later. That is all.”

  The man continued to stare at me.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “Why am I here? Why are you asking me about him?”

  “You’re perfectly aware of why you are here,” he said.

  “No! I don’t understand—”

  “You are a good liar, Signor Poet.” He sneered. “You are here because you killed the boy.”

  I gasped. “Killed—” My voice failed me.

  “You pushed him out the window of the library. He broke his neck on the stones in the courtyard below.”

  “No! You are lying to me!”

  His voice grew louder, insistent. “Why did you kill him?”

  “But—I didn’t—surely you cannot think—I spoke to him for only a few minutes. I told you, he ran out of the room. I didn’t see him after that. I left the library, went downstairs, and let myself out of the house. I saw no one.” My heart began to race with panic.

  “Were you sleeping with him? Was he blackmailing you?”

  “Blackmailing me? Sleeping— What do you mean?” My voice was a squeak. “I met him for the first time this morning. I swear to you. Ask Miss Haiml—” I cringed as I heard myself plead.

  He gave a tight smile and leaned over the table toward me. “Come, you can confide in me,” he said. His voice was gentle, quiet. “In my work, I’ve seen everything. I understand how you must have felt. You must have grown tired of paying him to keep quiet about your affair.”

  I pulled back. “What are
you saying? I don’t sleep with boys!” I leaped up from the chair. My bloody knee hit the edge of the desk. I cried out. “I’m telling you, you have the wrong person!”

  “Did the boy know about your past? Is that why you were paying him?” He stood and moved around the desk. He pushed me back down onto the chair.

  “No! My past? What about it? You are making a big mistake! The emperor—”

  He leaned down and brought his face within an inch of mine. His cold eyes bored into me. I began to shake. “Tell me, Signor Abbé. Why did you have to leave Venice?”

  The room started to spin. I gulped for breath, trying to control my shaking, to no avail. The rustling behind me grew louder.

  “Well?” He raised his hand as if to slap me. I cringed. I closed my eyes, waiting for the blow.

  “That’s enough, Troger,” a voice said. I opened my eyes. A man in his sixties, dressed in a formal court suit, stood next to my interrogator. Troger stepped back as the older man took the seat behind the desk.

  “Signor Da Ponte,” he said in a soft, cultured voice. “I apologize for my subordinate’s behavior. Sometimes he gets carried away in performing his duties.” The other man grunted.

  “I am Anton Pergen,” the older man continued. “Perhaps you have heard of me?”

  I tried to answer, but still could not find my voice, so I merely gulped and nodded. Count Anton Pergen, the emperor’s minister in charge of police functions. I sighed with relief as I rubbed my shoulder. He would clear up this misunderstanding, I was certain.

  “You are hurt?” he asked.

  “I jammed my shoulder when your men threw me into the carriage,” I said, my voice returning as a whine that I cringed to hear. “I also cut my knee.”

  He looked over at my tormenter, who stood behind me. “This is my assistant, Georg Troger.” I refused to turn and acknowledge him. “Troger, get some lamps in here. And some water for Signor Da Ponte.” I heard the door open and shut behind me. I let out a long breath.

  “I will only take a few moments of your time, signore, then Captain Troger will see that your injuries are attended to,” Pergen said. He leaned back in the chair. “Tell me, do you enjoy living here in Vienna?”

  I nodded.

  “Please forgive me for eavesdropping on your conversation with Captain Troger. That poem you wrote, in Treviso, was it? The one that caused you so much trouble with the authorities? You realize, of course, that that never would have happened here in Vienna. The emperor shares the same sentiments as you and Rousseau.” His voice was warm and mellifluous. I began to relax.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I have heard the emperor speak about the French philosophes many times.”

  “You know the emperor believes that his subjects should enjoy all of the freedoms of a modern state,” Pergen continued. “People here may say or write whatever they want, even if they oppose the emperor’s policies.”

  I nodded, thinking back to the pamphlets I had read this morning in the coffeehouse.

  Troger returned. He placed a large lamp on the desk, and handed me a mug of water. My hands shook as I raised it to my lips and drank.

  “We have no secret police here in Vienna,” Pergen continued. “The emperor sees no need to gather information about his subjects.”

  Troger snorted from somewhere behind me.

  “My assistant thinks the emperor is naïve,” Pergen said. “He’s entitled to his opinion, as is every citizen of the empire. I don’t agree with him.”

  I yawned. When would he let me go home to my bed?

  “Sometimes, though, especially when a crime occurs, we have to question people who might have some knowledge about the incident. As Captain Troger told you, Florian Auerstein has been murdered. Would you be willing to tell me about your encounter with him, so we can clear up this matter?”

  “I will tell you everything I know,” I said.

  “Now, you said you went to the palais to see Miss Marianne Haiml, the lady’s maid. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I was doing an errand for a man I know, who is her fiancé.”

  “What do you know about Baron Gabler?” the soft voice asked.

  “Nothing. I’d never even heard of him before today.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Really? You had no idea when you went to the palais that the baron is Chancellor Kaunitz’s protégé?”

  I drew in a sharp breath. Kaunitz, the emperor’s most powerful minister, who had managed foreign policy for the last thirty years. What had I gotten myself into? “No,” I said. “I knew nothing about the baron. I don’t pay attention to politics. My job at the theater keeps me busy enough.”

  Pergen picked up a paper from the pile Troger had left, studied it for a moment, then laid it aside. He stared at me. His eyes were friendly, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze.

  “So you went to see Miss Haiml. Were you able to meet her?”

  “Yes, we spoke for a few minutes.”

  “Where did you meet with her?”

  “In the baron’s library. I stayed there less than thirty minutes, I think,” I added.

  “I see.” He looked over at the page he had set aside. “You weren’t aware that the baron is being groomed to be the next ambassador to St. Petersburg?”

  “I told you, sir, I knew nothing about the baron. I went to the house to see Miss Haiml. You can ask her about it.”

  “But surely you must have known. The young man, Florian Auerstein, must have told you all about it. After all, he was living in the house, training as an assistant to the baron. He was to accompany the baron to St. Petersburg. He must have mentioned it to you during one of your times together, no?”

  “No!” My voice was tight. I was exhausted, tired of these innuendos. “I told your assistant, I had never met the boy until today!”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “He was hiding behind the drape while I was speaking with Miss Haiml. The baroness rang for her, and I told her I could see myself out. I was looking at the baron’s book collection when the boy jumped out at me.”

  “Why did you argue with him?”

  I sighed. “He was obnoxious.” I didn’t want to tell him how the boy had taunted me, imitating my lisp. “He hinted that he had information regarding my errand, but he refused to tell me what it was. He was dancing around the room, shouting riddles at me.” My voice grew shrill. “I’ll admit I lost my head for a moment and raised my voice, but I didn’t threaten him, and I didn’t push him out a window! He ran out of the room, I swear to you. He was very alive then! I left the house just a few minutes later.” I started to rise from my chair. “You must believe me!”

  I felt Troger’s hands on my shoulders, pressing me back into the chair. Pergen studied my face for several long moments. My heart began to pound. He couldn’t really believe that I killed that boy, could he?

  “All right, signore,” he said. “I believe you.”

  I exhaled loudly as my entire body sagged with relief.

  “But sir! We have the witness!”

  Pergen held up his hand. “I know, I know. But the witness only heard Signor Da Ponte argue with the boy. We just don’t know what happened after that.”

  “But he was seen running from the house!”

  “I did no such thing—”

  “Enough, Troger,” Pergen said. He looked at me. “Perhaps you could help me with my problem, signore.”

  I nodded.

  “You see, the boy’s father, Prince Auerstein, is a close friend of the emperor. The boy was his only son. The prince is heartbroken at the death of his heir. He demands justice. It has fallen to me to find the boy’s killer.”

  “Sir, I don’t know what I can do to help you. I have told you everything I know, I swear to you.”

  “It is a tricky situation politically. This murder involves people concerned with the highest level of foreign policy. Matters are complicated for the emperor right now. You know that Frederick, the King of Prussia, opposes the emperor’s plans t
o expand into Bavaria?”

  I shook my head.

  “Frederick has been angry at the emperor ever since Austria and Russia became allies,” Pergen continued. “He will do whatever he can to thwart the emperor’s ambitions.”

  I tried to stifle a yawn.

  “The emperor is worried that the empress of Russia is cooling toward her alliance with him. Now is not the time for a long-drawn-out investigation of a murder committed in the home of the future ambassador to St. Petersburg. But Prince Auerstein demands that the killer of his son be caught and punished.” He sighed. “The easiest solution for me would be to give you to him.”

  My head shot up. I jumped from my seat, my heart racing. “But I have done nothing! You just said you had no evidence against me—”

  He motioned for me to sit. Troger snickered. “I know we don’t have the evidence to charge you,” Pergen said, “but the prince doesn’t care about evidence. He wants someone to pay for the crime.”

  Troger’s voice came from behind me. “A quick trial in secret, with only the testimony of the witness who heard you, then—” He made a choking sound.

  I slumped in the chair. Pergen was examining his manicure. “You see, Da Ponte, it seems that we both have a problem.” He stared down at his hands, deep in thought. “There is something we could do, though,” he said, looking at me. “To clear you of suspicion, I mean.”

  “I’ll do anything!” I cried.

  “Then let me tell you a bit more about Baron Gabler. His father was a commoner who made the family fortune supplying arms in the Great War against Prussia and England. The old empress awarded him the title after the war. He became good friends with Chancellor Kaunitz, who became godfather to his son, the current baron. Kaunitz saw to the boy’s education, then took him on as an assistant. When the emperor took the throne, Christof, who had by that time succeeded his father to the title, was involved in many important policy assignments—pension reform, church reform, the overhaul of the criminal code. Although he is still a young man, he is to be the next ambassador to St. Petersburg.”