by Laura Lebow
I closed my eyes as his voice flowed on.
“Documents have gone missing from the baron’s office. We believe Frederick has planted a spy in the baron’s household,” Pergen said.
I sat up straight. “I’m sorry—Frederick?”
“The King of Prussia!” he snapped. He quickly regained his composure. “Please forgive me, signore. The hour is late and we are all tired. I will only take a few more minutes of your time. We suspect that the Auerstein boy unwittingly discovered the identity of the spy, and that this person murdered him.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What does all this have to do with me?”
“We need to place someone in the household to help us find the spy.”
I suddenly felt wide awake. My head was perfectly clear. “You want me—”
“Yes, Da Ponte, we want you—or should I say, we need you—to investigate this murder for us.”
“But I am not an investigator! I know nothing of police work!”
“Exactly,” Troger said from behind me. “This is not a good idea, sir. This man is a poet. What good could he possibly do?”
Pergen waved a hand in dismissal. “We don’t want a police officer there. The spy would discover him too quickly. The investigator must be someone whose presence in the household no one would question. The baron would be the only one who would know why you are really there. I want you to listen, to observe what is going on around you, talk to the people you meet there, and report what you learn to us.”
“But what would be my excuse for being there?” I asked.
“You have been hired to teach poetry to the baroness. You will live in the palais until the case is solved.”
“But I can’t! I have so much work to do. The emperor is expecting my next opera to premiere next month! I’ll lose my position at the theater!” I thought I saw Pergen give a meaningful look behind me, where Troger stood.
“You’ll be able to continue working. You may come and go as you please, as long as when you are at the palais, you act as my eyes and ears,” Pergen said.
“Please, sir. I know nothing about investigating a murder. I don’t believe I can carry this off. I don’t dissemble well. What if this spy discovers me before I discover him, and kills me too?”
Troger laughed. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take. You’ll have to have your wits about you.”
The friendly expression returned to Pergen’s face. “I know you can do this, Da Ponte. You come highly recommended.”
“And if I refuse?”
Pergen raised both his palms upward. “If you refuse to cooperate with us, I will have no choice but to report to Prince Auerstein that we have arrested the murderer of his son.”
I sank into my chair. I was trapped.
“Then you agree to help us?”
I nodded.
“Troger, tell Signor Da Ponte what you’ve learned thus far,” Pergen said. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Troger came to the desk, riffled through the pile of papers, and pulled out a sheet. He gave me a sarcastic smile.
“The boy’s body was found late this afternoon—yesterday afternoon, I mean—by Tomaso Piatti.”
Piatti, the music teacher I had met.
“Piatti had spent the afternoon in his room writing music. At four o’clock, he left the palais to attend a recital at the Stephansdom. He saw the boy lying in the courtyard.
“The baron refuses to keep a guard posted at the palais, but both of the doors—the main entrance and the servants’ door—are kept locked. We are confident that this was no random attack. No stranger could have entered the house. I spoke to everyone in the household, except the baron and baroness, of course. They are not involved. The baron’s secretary, a man called—” He consulted his notes. “Jakob Ecker, told me the baron was at his office here in the Hofburg all afternoon. Ecker himself spent the day writing letters in the baron’s study at the palais. He heard nothing.
“The baroness was ill,” he continued. “Her maid, Miss Haiml, made a cosset for her and left her to sleep. Miss Haiml then went to her own room, where she spent the rest of the day mending some of the baroness’s dresses.”
I recalled my encounter with the charming Marianne. The poor girl must be frightened about the murder. Perhaps my presence in the house could reassure her. The thought cheered me slightly.
Troger cleared his throat. “There is an older man living in the house, a Dr. Urban Rausch. He was the baroness’s guardian before she married the baron.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Her guardian?” I asked.
“Yes. The baroness is the daughter of a petty merchant here in Vienna. Her parents died when she was young, leaving her as ward to their friend Dr. Rausch. He raised her well, so that she was able to marry above her station.”
I made no response to the slight sneer I heard in his voice.
“The doctor was working in his room all afternoon. He is writing a treatise on … let me check. It is something called a pharmacopoeia, concentrating on the use of black powder to treat spasms.” He looked up at me to see if I understood what he was talking about. I shrugged.
Troger reached down for another sheet of notes. “The baron’s valet, Gottfried Bohm, was in the baron’s chamber polishing boots. He has a daughter who lives with him in the house and works as chambermaid. Antonia.”
The pale, strange girl who had shown me in. She and her father must be new to the household, arriving six months ago when Vogel left to open his shop.
“The father heard nothing. The girl was difficult to question. She was upset.” He looked up from his notes, a leer on his face. “I got the impression she knew the boy very well. I could hardly get any information out of her, she was crying so hard. She did tell me she was in the cellar doing the wash all afternoon. Finally, there is a housekeeper, Rosa Hahn, who also cooks the meals.”
Vogel’s creditor, the stern, cold woman who had argued with Marianne while I had been there. “She was away from the house all afternoon, shopping for fabric and buttons to make a new dress. She went out alone. When she returned, Piatti had just discovered the boy’s body.”
“So everyone was alone all afternoon,” I said.
He nodded. “No one can vouch for any other member of the household. No one heard or saw anything strange.”
Pergen opened his eyes and sat up straight. He pulled out his watch. “It is now four o’clock. Troger will take you to have your injuries tended to. Someone will deliver you back to your lodgings,” he said. “You should pack everything you will need and go to the palais as early as possible this morning. The baron is expecting you. Report everything you learn to Troger.”
I looked at Troger. He sniggered. “How should I contact you?” I asked him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. His smirk widened into an obnoxious grin. “I’ll find you.”
Five
By eight o’clock my knee had been bandaged, ointment had been rubbed on my injured shoulder, and a carriage had returned me to my lodgings. I went directly to my cupboard and took out my valise, trying to avoid looking at my rumpled bed. I longed to fall upon it and sleep the rest of the day, but that was impossible.
I pulled out my underclothes and my two clean shirts and shoved them into the valise. I do not have time for this, I thought, seething. It was already Thursday. I was on a tight deadline with Mozart, and had to get started on the libretto for Martín. I needed the cash those commissions would pay, but I wouldn’t see a florin until the work was done. Although I lived comfortably, I had little savings, and my expenses were high. Because I was required to attend the theater almost every day, I had to own more clothing than the average man of my station. Suits, shoes, wigs, stockings, and pomade cost a small fortune.
I groaned as I pulled out my dress suit from the cupboard. It was last year’s fashion, not really suitable for dinner in the house of a baron. As I folded the waistcoat, I noticed that the hem was beginning to fray. Well, it would have to do. When I
was paid for Figaro, I would treat myself to one of those new English-style suits everyone was sporting this spring.
I walked over to the shelf where I kept my small collection of books and took down the three I never travel without: my old Dante, its pages covered with years of jottings; a petite volume of Horace; and my Petrarch, its cover worn by my almost daily consultation. I placed them in my satchel, then collected all of the papers strewn over my desk and added them to the bag.
A shiver ran down my back as I recalled Pergen’s threats. I could not understand why the minister had chosen me. In my years in Vienna, I had taken care not to show any political inclinations. Did Pergen really believe that I could solve this crime? True, I am intelligent and observant, as every poet must be. I have a charming personality—I am skilled at drawing others out in conversation, particularly women. And it is true that, posing as a poetry master, an investigator could find out more from the members of the household than could a cloddish policeman like Troger. But hunting down a spy and a murderer! How had I gotten myself into this mess?
I remembered Pergen mentioning that I had been highly recommended to him. Who could have given me such an unwelcome reference? Probably that serpent Rosenberg. He and Pergen probably ran into one another every day at the Hofburg, and if Pergen had confided his need for an investigator, Rosenberg would have jumped at an opportunity to discredit me. Distracting me from my work would sabotage Figaro, ruin my reputation with Mozart and the other composers in the city, and clear the way for Casti to take my job at the theater.
As I packed a few final things in my valise and closed it, I wondered who at the Palais Gabler had told Troger about my argument with Florian Auerstein. I had met only four people in the household besides the boy: the music teacher, Piatti; the chambermaid, Antonia; the housekeeper, Rosa Hahn; and Marianne Haiml. I remembered the footsteps I had heard receding in the hallway as I left the library. They had been heavy, so must have belonged to a man. But anyone in the household could have reported me. It would have been easy enough for the baroness’s guardian, the valet, or the baron’s secretary to casually ask one of the others my name. Had the same person who had told Troger about my argument with Auerstein also lied to him about seeing me run from the house? I shivered. It seemed I already had at least one enemy waiting for me at the palais.
I put on my old cloak and gathered my bags and stick. My eyes fell on Vogel’s box. I would have to come back for it tomorrow. As I took one last look around my simple room, a stab of fear shot through me. Would I return to it in a few days, successful in my investigation, to take up my pen and resume my normal life? Or would I fail to find the killer, and spend the rest of my years rotting in an imperial prison or, worse, in an unmarked grave after a sham trial and death by hideous torture? Perhaps I would be spared that slow fate by the killer himself, who might find me before I found him. Shuddering, I locked the door behind me and dragged my bags down the stairs.
PART II
A Little Song on the Breeze
Six
The palais courtyard was empty when I arrived, its large windows shuttered and dark. The little fountain in the corner sat silent. I hurried by the area of soiled stones where Florian Auerstein had met his death. A ragged posy of flowers lay forlornly on the spot.
The door was opened by the same girl who had greeted me the day before—Antonia Bohm, Troger had said she was named. Today her curls were tucked neatly under her cap, but her face was pale, her dark eyes red from crying. She looked like a sad child, not the self-satisfied young woman I had seen admiring herself in the mirror the day before. Troger had said that she was taking the boy’s death very hard. She stared at me uncomprehendingly as I gently explained why I was there.
“You will have to speak with Miss Hahn, sir,” she said. “She’s gone to the market. Come back later.” She started to push the heavy door closed. Come back later? My cheeks grew hot. I certainly did not intend to stand in the street until the housekeeper returned to receive me. The least the baron could have done was to alert his staff to my arrival. I took a deep breath to calm my rising anger. I was exhausted and I did not want to lose my temper in front of this poor girl. I thrust my stick in the door’s path and pushed my way in.
“Could you please fetch Miss Haiml?” I asked. She stared at me blankly for a moment, then turned and ran off toward the back of the house. I pulled my bags inside. The foyer was quiet, the only sound the clock ticking on the wall to my right. I stepped over to the large mirror on my left and studied myself, pleased to see that I did not look as exhausted as I felt.
“Signore! Signor Da Ponte!” I turned to see the music master, Piatti, descending the stairs. He grasped my hand and shook it. His face was ashen, and his left eye had developed a slight tic. “I was so pleased to hear that you have taken a position here,” he said. “But how strange. One day you are here to visit Marianne, the next you are the poetry master!” His laugh was bright and forced.
“It is good to see you again,” I said.
His eyes narrowed as he peered at me, his face solemn. “Have you heard the news?”
I was about to nod when I remembered that I was supposed to know nothing of the murder. I shook my head.
“A young man who lived here—the baron’s protégé—” His voice shook. “The boy was murdered yesterday.”
“Murdered! Here in the house?”
“Yes, yesterday afternoon. He—someone pushed him out the window of the library.”
I murmured words of sympathy.
“A madman must have broken into the house,” Piatti continued, his voice rising. “I found him. I’ll never forget the sight, never. Every time I close my eyes I see him lying there on the stones, his head in a ghastly tilt, his legs askew, like a cloth doll a child had dropped on the floor. And the blood! I—” His hands trembled violently. His eyelid jerked up and down.
I took his arm and led him to the bench under the mirror. “Come, my friend, sit. I am shocked to hear about this. How terrible for you.”
“His eyes!” Piatti’s voice broke. “His eyes were wide open, staring right at me!”
I grasped one of his hands, hoping to stop his trembling. “Were you close to the boy?” I asked.
“Yes. He often joined us when I gave lessons to the baroness.” He looked up at me. “He was a pleasure to teach. Very bright, talented. He could write a song so quickly.” He shook his head. “If his father hadn’t decided long ago that the boy was destined for the diplomatic corps, I would have suggested that he go to Bologna to study music.” His voice cracked as he bent over, burying his face in his hands.
“Try to calm yourself,” I said gently.
He sat still for a few moments, then took a deep breath and sat up. “Yes, you are right. I must get hold of myself. The baroness will need my support. She was fond of the boy.” He stood up and straightened his waistcoat, then looked around the foyer. “Where has that silly girl gotten to now? Come, I know which room you’ve been given. It’s right next to mine.” He took my valise in one hand and my satchel in the other and headed up the stairs. I snatched up my stick and followed.
“Of course, you remember the library,” Piatti said as we reached the first landing. His voice grew quiet. “That is where the boy was killed.” I nodded. He pointed down the hallway. “The baron’s office is down there.”
We climbed another flight of stairs and stopped at a large landing with walls covered in fine pale green silk. Piatti pointed to the right. “The baroness’s chamber is just here. The baron’s rooms are farther down that hall.” He turned to the left. “The guest rooms are on this side.”
I started down the hallway. “No, no, signore,” Piatti said. “We are upstairs, with the rest of the staff.” He started up the next set of stairs. I frowned. The servants’ quarters! Surely the baron did not intend that I— I checked my anger as I remembered Pergen’s instructions. I was here as a poetry teacher, not in my capacity as theater poet. If the baron chose to house his teach
ing masters with the servants, I must go along. I stood on the landing for a minute to clear the embarrassment and annoyance from my face, and followed Piatti up to the garret.
The landing at the top of the stairs was smaller and darker than those on the floors below, its walls painted a pale gray. Piatti led me to the left, past a small alcove fitted with a wooden bench, and opened the first door. To my surprise, the room itself was bright and airy, larger than my own lodgings in the Graben. A beautifully carved wooden bed, topped by a thick linen-clad mattress, shared the right-hand wall with a small fireplace. To my left was a small cupboard, adequate for the clothing I had brought; a washbasin; and a small desk with a wooden chair. Opposite the door was a large dormer window, under which sat a chair upholstered in fabric of the same watery shade of green I had noticed on the walls a floor below.
“The baroness enjoys decorating,” Piatti said as he hoisted my valise onto the mattress and opened the latch. “Our rooms receive the castoffs.” He removed a pile of clothing from the valise and carried it to the cupboard.
I hurried to intercept him. “Please, signore, there is no need. I can do that myself later,” I said.
“It’s no trouble,” he said.
“Please, Signor Piatti.” His shoulders sagged as I took the clothes from him.
“Call me Tomaso,” he said.
I nodded. “And I am Lorenzo. I hope we’ll have time to discuss music while I am here,” I added. His eyes brightened. “But if you’ll excuse me now, I’d like to settle in and organize my thoughts before I meet the baron and baroness.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “I have work to do myself. I’m right next door if you need me.”
* * *
I crossed the room and looked out the window. I was relieved to see that it overlooked a small formal garden, not the stony courtyard. The chair was comfortable, nicely stuffed. Between it and the bed stood a small round table with a candlestick. I had already noticed a small box of candles on the desk. For the first time since I had been awakened from my sleep by Pergen’s men, I felt a glimmer of happiness. I could not afford to have such a chair in my lodgings, so I was forced to read sitting straight in my hard desk chair. Candles were expensive, so I never felt I could afford to read or work into the night. Perhaps my stay here at the palais would not be as onerous as I had expected. I could spend what spare time I had in this snug chair, reading the beloved books I had brought with me. Perhaps the baron would even allow me to borrow some of the volumes in his collection.