by Laura Lebow
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. My mouth was sour with exhaustion. My right temple throbbed, and my shoulder was filled with a dull pain. I felt as though I could sleep for a week. But I had better unpack and begin my task. The sooner I could bring Pergen and Troger some useful information, the sooner I could return to my own life.
I hung my clothes in the cupboard and turned to my satchel. I carefully removed my books and set them on the table next to the reading chair, then emptied the rest of the contents onto the desk. I decided to begin my investigation with a visit to the library. Perhaps I would get some sense of the crime there. As I left the room, I looked in the keyhole for the key. There was none. A twinge of worry crossed my mind. How could I protect myself against a murderer with no lock on the door?
The house was quiet, and I encountered no one as I went down the two flights of stairs and let myself into the library. The room was empty, still, and dark, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the late-morning sun. No fire had been lit in the grate, and I shivered as I approached the wall of windows, whether from a real chill or from uneasiness, I could not say. I had never been at the scene of a murder before, and I struggled to keep my imagination in check as I pulled the drapes open and examined the windowsill where the boy had hidden from me just yesterday. It was about a foot and a half deep, and made a comfortable alcove from which a small-bodied boy like Florian Auerstein could eavesdrop on members of the household. I leaned over and studied the cream-colored wood of the sill, but could see no evidence of a struggle: no scuffs from the boy’s shoes; no chips in the paint; and to my relief, no blood.
I climbed up onto the sill and knelt in front of the large windows. I turned the knob that held them closed. The hinges creaked loudly as the windows slowly swung outward from the center. Cool, fresh air rushed into the room. I took a deep breath and stuck my head out of the right window, forcing myself to look down at the courtyard. My empty stomach flipped as I stared down at the dark patch on the stones directly below. Piatti had said there had been a lot of blood. My head began to swim. My eyes filled with bright stars. I could hear the boy screaming as he fell through the air.
I quickly pulled my head back into the room. Blinded by the stars, I groped for the bottom of the window frame in an attempt to steady myself. I knelt on the sill until my head and vision cleared, then closed the windows and turned the knob.
I hoisted my body around and tried to sit in the position in which I had found the boy yesterday. The afternoon had been warm, and the windows had been open during my visit. Florian must have sat right where I was now, cross-legged on the sill. The murderer must have been someone he had known and trusted—he would not have sat next to a wide-open window while arguing with someone he feared. Even though the boy had been small for his age, it would have taken some strength to push him out the window. The murderer would have had to lift him a bit to clear the window frame before pushing him to his death.
I carefully pulled myself to a standing position and reached up to examine the drapery rod and the thick velvet that hung from it. I pulled on the soft drapes, first the left one, then the right, but could see no spots where the fabric had come loose from the rod, and no evidence that the boy had grabbed onto the drapes in an attempt to save himself.
As I started to lower myself to a kneeling position, my foot twisted in the left drape. I kicked at the heavy fabric and grabbed onto the window knob to steady myself. The large windows began to groan open. I kicked again at the drape, but only tangled my foot further. I clung to the latch as the right window swung out to the courtyard, taking me with it. My heart pounded as I looked down at the stones. If the knob broke I would share the boy’s fate. I kicked again at the drape, then again. Pain shot through my shoulder as I struggled to keep the heavy window from dragging me farther. The pit of my stomach was empty and cold. I took a deep breath and kicked my foot again, as hard as I could. Mercifully, the fabric released me from its grasp. I jerked myself back from the window, pulled it shut, and secured the knob.
I turned around and slumped on the sill, my heart pounding. I closed my eyes and tried to regulate my breathing. After a few moments I climbed off the sill and looked around the room. Everything seemed exactly as it had been when I left here yesterday. The little Harlequin figurine stared at me from the table near the sofa. The rows of books sat silently on their shelves. I shook my head. It was clear that I would find no help with my inquiry here.
I turned to check that the windows were tightly latched and straightened the drape that had twisted around my foot. A bright patch at the bottom near the floor caught my eye. I leaned over to examine the spot. It was not a part of the drape, but a piece of ribbon caught in the velvet. I pulled it out. It was about a foot long, white, with a delicate floral pattern embroidered in gold thread—the kind of ribbon used to decorate a lady’s bonnet. How long had it been lodged in the folds of the drape? To whom did it belong? Had Florian Auerstein brought it here, or had his murderer inadvertently dropped it?
“But madame—” I started as a voice came from the hallway. A moment later, the door opened.
“I must see it for myself,” a warm, melodious voice said. I stuffed the ribbon into the pocket of my breeches and quickly closed the drapes.
* * *
“But madame, you shouldn’t.” I recognized Marianne Haiml’s voice as she entered the room, followed by another woman of the same petite, slender build. “It will only upset you. Oh! It is so dark in here. Let me open the drapes.” Marianne headed toward where I stood in the shadows. I cleared my throat and stepped forward.
Marianne screamed. “Who is there?” She ran to the drapes and yanked them open. Sunlight filled the room. “Signor Da Ponte? What are you doing here?”
I could not answer her, because my eyes were fixed on her companion, who remained standing at the door. My heart twisted as I stared at her. She was dressed in white, as she had been last night. Today, her auburn hair was gathered into a thick braid. Her skin was still pale, and she looked as though she had been crying.
She crossed the room to me. “Are you the Abbé Da Ponte?” she asked, taking my hand. I could not force my lips to form words, but I was able to make my head nod. “I am so happy to meet you. I am Caroline Gabler.”
Her hand felt smooth and small in mine. I stared into her eyes, which were a soft jade green. “I am looking forward to our lessons,” she said.
I bowed over our clasped hands as my tongue finally untangled itself. “I am honored, Your Excellency,” I managed to say. She smelled like lavender.
She continued to hold my hand as she smiled at me. “Please, you must not be so formal with me. I will be your student.”
To my dismay, I found myself bowing once more. Idiot! Stop bobbing like that children’s toy, that silly clown in the windup box. My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she gently pulled her hand away.
“Lessons?” Marianne asked, looking at me. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” the baroness answered. “I haven’t had time to tell you, Marianne. It all happened so quickly. My husband has wished to hire a poetry master for me for a while now. He had heard that the abbé was the best poet in the city.”
My heart swelled with pride at her words.
“They were able to finalize the agreement just last night, I believe.”
I turned toward Marianne. “Yes, I signed the contract while I was at the theater last night,” I lied.
Her intelligent eyes gazed at me coolly. “Well, I hope this appointment will not interfere with any of your other projects, signore,” she said.
“I do not expect that it will, Miss Haiml,” I said.
The baroness approached the middle window and ran her fingers over the wide sill. “I cannot believe he is dead,” she murmured. “He was so young—” Her voice caught. Marianne hurried to her and took her hand. I longed to do the same.
“I have heard the news,” I said gently. “I am sorry to have come at such an unfo
rtunate time.” She gave me a sad smile and nodded.
“Come, madame, let me take you back to your chamber,” Marianne said. “I’ll make you a dish of chocolate. That will help you feel better.”
The baroness gave one last sad look at the window. “Yes, I am coming,” she said. She offered her hand to me again. My right arm tingled at her touch.
“I would like my first lesson tomorrow morning, Signor Abbé,” she said. “Marianne will come for you.”
I let go of her hand and bowed again. When I looked up, she was gone.
* * *
I stood looking after her, my mind newly invigorated despite my lack of sleep. I knew exactly which poems I would use in the lesson tomorrow. Perhaps two or three of those to start, and then—
Heavy footsteps came from the hallway. They sounded like the ones I had heard from this same room yesterday. Footsteps that belonged to the person who had lied to Troger, who had told him I had threatened Florian Auerstein, who had claimed to have seen me running from the house. Footsteps that belonged to the person who had landed me in this mess.
I strode to the door, ready to confront my enemy. I grabbed the knob and pulled open the door.
“Who the hell are you?” A short, broad-chested man in his fifties stood before me. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
I looked down at him and offered my hand. “I am Lorenzo Da Ponte,” I said. “I have been hired by the baron to teach poetry to his wife.”
“Poetry!” He snorted, ignoring my outstretched hand as he pushed by me. My eyes watered from the strong smell of French cologne. “What does she need with that nonsense? Her head is already full of fanciful sentiments.”
“The baron believes his wife might enjoy the lessons,” I said.
He glared at me. “I wasn’t told anything about this! Caroline said nothing to me!”
“I believe the decision was made just yesterday.”
He looked me up and down. “Yes, I see. Well, as a stranger to this house, you may not be aware that this is a difficult time for the baroness. There has been a murder. Someone broke into the house yesterday and killed the baron’s page.”
“I was saddened to hear about it,” I said. “But I have just met the baroness, and she is eager to begin our lessons tomorrow.”
He looked at me for a moment, speculatively. He turned on his heel, went over to one of the bookcases, and studied the titles.
“I beg your pardon, but you haven’t told me your name,” I said.
“I am Dr. Urban Rausch,” he said without turning.
Ah, the baroness’s guardian.
He pulled a book from the shelf and turned to me. “I live here as a special guest of the baroness,” he said. “What did you say your name was? De Monte?”
“Da Ponte. Lorenzo Da Ponte.”
“What are you, some sort of teacher at the university?” he asked.
“No, sir, I am not. I am honored to hold the position of poet to His Majesty the Emperor’s Court Theater.”
He waved his hand as if dismissing my title to the breeze. “I see. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you. I don’t frequent the theater. Where did you attend university—up north? What degree does one earn to qualify one to teach poetry?” I didn’t think I imagined the sneer in his voice.
“I studied literature and poetry in my native Venice,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I see.” He turned back to the bookcase, replaced the book, and drew out another. I winced as he opened it widely, cracking the spine. He studied a page for a moment, then carried the volume over to the sofa, sat down, and began to read.
I stood fuming. What a pompous ass! Was I to stand here all day? I cleared my throat. He looked up with an expression of feigned surprise that I was still there. He pulled a large gold watch from his pocket and made a show of studying it, replaced it in his pocket, and waved his hand at me.
“You may go. Close the door behind you, if you will.”
I stalked out, suppressing the temptation to slam the door. I stood at the stair landing for a moment to calm myself. The bombastic jackass! What degree did I have to qualify me to teach poetry! As if understanding and appreciating the true meaning of a poem could be learned through dry, technical lecturing instead of by years of reading, contemplation, and reading again.
I started up the stairs to my room, my mind brimming with questions. Could the doctor be the spy and murderer? What would be his motive? He had known the baroness since she was a child. Why would he spy for Frederick, knowing that his activities could jeopardize her husband’s career?
Then again, perhaps he had grown tired of being a “special guest” of his ward, and had been offered an opportunity to make a large sum of money by spying on the baron.
As I reached the third floor and opened the door to my room, another question sprang to mind. I was sure I had recognized Rausch’s footsteps as those I had heard before I had left the house yesterday. Had he been the person who had lied to Troger, claiming he saw me running from the house? Had he been acting just now, pretending he didn’t know me? If he had lied to Troger, what were his motives? Why had he blamed me for the murder?
* * *
I had just begun to unbutton my waistcoat when there was a tentative knock at the door. I opened it to a thin, small, middle-aged man with a narrow face pitted with smallpox scars.
“Signor Da Ponte?” he asked in a soft voice. “I am Jakob Ecker, the baron’s secretary. He would like to see you in his office.”
I crossed over to the cupboard, pulled on my better waistcoat, and followed him down the stairs. As we passed the library, I noted that the door stood open and the room was empty. Dr. Rausch must not have found his reading as interesting after I had left as it had been when I had been there to ignore.
The secretary stopped at the end of the hallway and knocked on one of the wide double doors. He opened it and gestured for me to enter.
“Ecker, where is that clock Kaunitz brought me from Paris?” The deep voice came from a man seated behind a large desk across the room. His attention was fixed on a pile of documents, and he did not look up at our entrance. The secretary scurried past me.
“Let me look, sir. It is not on the table?”
“No. I saw it there yesterday, but now I can’t find it. Look around, would you? Perhaps the girl mislaid it.” The baron looked up from his work and stood. “You must be Da Ponte. I am Christof Gabler.” He was the type of man women found handsome: strong, chiseled bones set in a wide face; long, dark hair tied back; tall, with an athletic build. He seemed to be a few years younger than me. He and his wife must make an elegant pair, I thought with a pang of envy.
I bowed.
“Is it there?” he asked impatiently, looking over to the corner of the large office, where Ecker was searching frantically through a tall cupboard. His face red with agitation, the secretary shook his head.
“We have someone with sticky fingers in this house,” the baron explained as he waved me toward a chair in front of the desk. “Several things have disappeared in the last few months. Ecker, never mind, you can do that later. Bring me the letters and I’ll sign them now.”
The secretary scooped up a pile of papers from a smaller desk and laid them before the baron. While he signed the documents, I surveyed the room. The furnishings were lavish yet masculine. A sofa and a set of chairs in a muted blue striped fabric were grouped before the fireplace, which dominated the left wall of the room. A long sword clad in a plain scabbard, its hilt unembellished, unlike most of the swords worn by the aristocracy, hung over the mantel.
The baron handed the documents to Ecker and looked over at me. “That is the first weapon my father ever made,” he said. He crossed the room in long strides and plucked the sword from the wall. Pulling off the scabbard, he presented the sword to me. “Look, it is over fifty years old, but see how sharp it is,” he said. I stared at the blade, imagining it slicing into a man’s neck, the blood spurting from the wound. I g
ulped and managed a nod, which I hoped he took as a sign of admiration.
The baron turned to Ecker. “You may go,” he said as he sheathed the sword and hung it back on the wall. “Come back in an hour and I will dictate the memorandum to Kaunitz.” The secretary bowed, nodded to me, and headed toward the door. “Wait,” the baron called. “Has there been a message from Esterházy?”
Ecker pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nothing yet today, sir. Shall I send over to the prince’s office to see if your invitation has been waylaid?” he asked. “The dinner is tomorrow night.”
The baron scowled. I heard him swear softly. “No, never mind.” The secretary bowed again and left the room, shutting the doors behind him.
Gabler sprawled in his desk chair and regarded me. “Well, Da Ponte, I suppose I should be grateful to Pergen for sending you here, but in truth, I have no idea what help you will be. A poet as an investigator! What could you possibly learn? And this idea about a spy! It is ridiculous. A few documents were misplaced, that is all. No one in this house could be working for Frederick.”
“I think, Your Excellency, that the count is concerned about the boy’s death,” I ventured.
He picked up a letter opener and began to tap it against his left palm. I noticed it was a miniature of the sword, done in silver. “That was an accident,” he said. “It must have been. The boy was always jumping around. He must have been looking out the window in the library and tripped. I think Pergen has lost his mind, calling it murder.”