The Figaro Murders

by Laura Lebow

  “Yes, madame. Are you ready to hear it?”

  She nodded.

  My hands trembled as I lifted the sheet of paper. What was wrong with me? I had romanced many women in my thirty-seven years. With this one, I felt like a callow youth. I read the poem.

  Sometimes, lady, blushing with shame that I have

  still not spoken of your beauty in my rhymes,

  I turn to the time I first saw you;

  there will never be another who pleases me.

  My voice rose to a squeak at the end of the verse. I cleared my throat.

  But I find a weight not for my arms,

  a work not to be polished by my file,

  and my talent, judging its lack of strength,

  freezes in all its attempts.

  I stopped and looked at her. The brush had stopped its movement. Our eyes met in the glass.

  “Please, continue, signore,” she said.

  “Madame, perhaps, if I might be so bold as to ask—”

  “Yes, signore?”

  “I would be honored if you would call me by my Christian name, Lorenzo.”

  She smiled. “All right, if it pleases you, I will be glad to. Lorenzo.”

  My heart leapt to my throat to hear my name swirled in her delicate mouth.

  “Please, go on with the poem, Lorenzo,” she said.

  I cleared my throat again.

  Many times already have my lips opened to speak

  but my voice remains in my chest—

  for what sound could ever soar so high?

  Many times have I begun to write verses,

  but the pen and the hand and my intellect

  remain defeated in the first assault.

  We sat silently for a moment. I rubbed my fingers over the soft velvet of the settee. The baroness sighed. “The poor man,” she said softly. “He seems so unhappy, even though he is in love with this Laura.”

  “He is a poet, madame, who cannot find words beautiful enough to describe the object of his longing,” I said. I held her gaze in the mirror. “That is frustrating for any poet.”

  “I find his story tragic, Lorenzo. To pine for someone for so long, to never speak the words of love. That feels terrible, I am sure. Why did he never try to speak to her?”

  “She is a symbol, madame. Of the unattainable.”

  “But he should have tried,” she cried. She threw down the brush. “Perhaps she was in love with him also. Perhaps she was unhappy in her marriage.” She began to weep. I cast my papers aside and stood as she turned to face me. My heart wrenched at the sight of tears on her cheeks. I crossed to her and took her hand.

  “Oh, forgive me, Lorenzo. I am a silly woman. I don’t know why I am crying.” She shivered. “It is this murder. It has affected me more than I would like everyone to know.”

  I knelt down beside her chair. My heart pounded as I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. “Madame, may I say—”

  She did not pull her hand away.

  “May I tell you that you have my undying affection and loyalty. I am your servant, madame. I would do anything for you.”

  “Oh, Lorenzo, I don’t know—”

  “Please, madame. Caroline. I see your sorrow. Your husband—”

  She placed her finger on my lips. “Lorenzo—”

  “You are a beautiful woman. You deserve to be desired, loved, adored.”

  She looked down at our hands, which were clasped on her lap. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said in a small voice.

  “Caroline. My loyalties are only to you. I am not the sort of man who spreads gossip around the city. You must believe that anything you ask of me will remain between the two of us.” I gazed into her tear-streaked face. She frowned, then was thoughtful, making her decision. She looked into my eyes, smiled gently, and nodded. I clasped her hand again, and leaned over to kiss her lips.

  To my surprise, she dropped my hand and rose from her seat, gently pushing me away. She crossed the room to the fireplace and took a small silver box from the mantel. She opened the box and pulled out a letter, folded small, then returned to the dressing table. I stood, puzzled, as she opened up an ornate jewel case and pulled out a long, thin golden pin. She pushed the pin through the top right corner of the note, fastened it, and handed the packet to me.

  “Would you deliver this message for me, Lorenzo?” she asked. I looked down at her neat handwriting. My eyes widened as I read the name of the addressee. My heart sank to my feet.

  “Please give it directly to the man to whom it is addressed, no other,” she said. “And Lorenzo?” I nodded miserably.

  “Tell him to send the pin back with you if he agrees to meet me.”

  Thirteen

  It took another few minutes for me to escape the room. I stood in the hallway, wondering what to do next. My head throbbed from the noxious scent of lavender. My arms hung heavily by my side, and I could not find the energy to propel my cumbrous legs up the stairs to my room. The small billet-doux weighed heavy in my hand, the golden pin attached neatly to the corner, a gleaming invitation that should have been mine. As I shoved the letter into my pocket, I felt a sharp sting. I pulled out my hand. A droplet of blood wept from my finger, where the infernal pin had stabbed me. I poked around my pockets with my other hand, found my handkerchief, and wrapped it around the wound.

  The chiming of two o’clock by the small clock at the end of the hall brought me out of my stupor. I decided to go to the kitchen for dinner, to see if I could find out anything new from the household staff. If all that was served was tough roast, all the better. The sour taste in my mouth had dulled any appetite I might have had an hour before.

  When I arrived, all was quiet in the large kitchen. The table was set for dinner, and I could smell meat cooking. The room was empty except for Gottfried Bohm, who sat in a chair by the fire, a long quill and a short, sharp knife in his hand.

  “A valet, cutting pens?” I asked. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “In my last job,” he said.

  “Where was that?”

  He did not answer.

  “Have you always worked as a valet?” I asked.

  He grunted.

  “Here in Vienna?”

  He looked up at me. “Do you always stick your nose into other people’s business, Signor Da Ponte?” he asked.

  I raised my hands. “Sorry, I’m just trying to make conversation.” I decided to try another tack. “Everyone seems so jumpy in the house since I arrived—since the murder.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The ladies especially seem very upset.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about how they feel.”

  “But your own daughter—I know she was fond of the boy.”

  He stiffened. “She has foolish ideas. She is here to do her job, not mix with her betters.”

  I plowed ahead. “It’s natural for a girl her age to have romantic fancies. And of course all the ladies are shaken. A young, handsome, innocent boy like that, thrown to his death—”

  He snorted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He got what he deserved.”

  “What do you mean? He deserved to die? What had he done?”

  He put down the quill and stuck the knife in his pocket, then took a brush from beside the hearth and swept the scrapings into the fire. He rose and smiled at me grimly. “Tell Miss Hahn I’ll be dining out this afternoon.”

  * * *

  I stared after him. What was the source of his enmity toward Florian Auerstein? Had his daughter been telling the truth all along, that the boy had promised to marry her? Had her sullen father seen through the boy’s promises, and threatened to kill Auerstein to protect his daughter’s honor? But what about Pergen’s belief that Florian had been killed by the spy? The baron had told me that Bohm was too uneducated to be a spy, and I hadn’t seen anything to convince me otherwise.

  My conjectures were interrupted by the entrance of the st
aff, and a few moments later, I sat at the table, again pushing small bits of tough meat around my plate. There were five of us: Ecker; the three ladies, Rosa Hahn, Antonia, and Marianne; and myself. Once again Piatti had chosen to dine out. The company was quiet, everyone lost in his or her own thoughts. I struggled to push my despondency over Caroline to the side so that I might think clearly about the murder.

  Troger had said I was the only visitor admitted to the palais that day, so the murderer/spy must be a member of the household. Everyone had been alone that afternoon, with no one else to vouch that he or she had not confronted Florian in the library. I looked over at Ecker. His pockmarked face was pale, his expression drawn. He had been defensive when I had asked whether he had ever traveled to the north, where the King of Prussia ruled. But why would he spy for Frederick? He had worked for the baron for years, and for the first baron before that. Had something happened to turn his loyalties?

  I thought about the pompous doctor, Rausch. He had studied medicine at a northern university. It was possible that as a student, he had developed an admiration for Frederick, as many youths had at the time, and thus had welcomed an invitation to spy on his ward’s husband for the Prussian king. I shook my head. Although I disliked the man, it was obvious that he cared deeply for Caroline. He had seemed worried that the scandal of Auerstein’s death might affect the baron’s standing in Vienna, and thus hurt his ward, whom he had raised from childhood. I also wasn’t naïve enough to believe that his concern was only for Caroline. His engagement to the wealthy widow might be threatened by the murder scandal.

  The idea of Piatti being the spy seemed far-fetched, also. As far as I knew, Vienna was the farthest he had traveled from his native Bologna, and he seemed to take deep pride in his position as music master in the household. The position must pay well, so he would not have needed the money the Prussian king paid. I hadn’t heard him speak of politics, so what could possibly be his motive for stealing secrets from the baron?

  Antonia hiccupped. I turned to regard her. Once again, her eyes were swollen from crying. Her plate remained untouched. I recalled her fancies, her claims that Florian was going to marry her. He had promised to take care of her, she had told me. It was obvious that she had been in love with the boy, which made her the least likely candidate to be the murderer. I had not considered that a woman could have the strength to commit this crime until the scene in my room with Antonia, her anger as she raised the fireplace poker over her head. Was it possible that they had quarreled that day in the library, and she had grabbed the poker there, and threatened Florian with it? Perhaps he had dashed her dreams, made clear to her that he would not marry her. I closed my eyes and pictured him sitting on the windowsill, trying to defend himself as she raised the poker to strike him. Could he have fallen out the window trying to protect himself? If that was the case, then what about the spy? Who was it? Certainly not this flighty girl, who seemed most of the time to reside in a dreamworld.

  I could not say the same for Rosa Hahn. The housekeeper sat at the head of the table, helping herself to another serving of potatoes. She sensed me regarding her, and lifted her eyebrows to ask if I wanted the bowl passed. I smiled and shook my head. I remembered the conversation she, Ecker, and I had had after Antonia had collapsed at dinner. She had made clear her dislike of the emperor’s religious reforms, and so might have been receptive to an offer by Frederick’s agents to spy on the baron. What better person to have access to all parts of a house than the housekeeper? And where had she gotten the large amount of money to loan to Vogel? But could she have murdered Florian Auerstein? Although she was slender, she must be strong, lifting heavy pots and piles of laundry all day. She certainly possessed the coolness of mind to commit murder, I was certain. But who had reported to Troger that I had argued with Auerstein and run from the house? The footsteps I had heard in the hallway had been heavy, a man’s.

  Finally, my eyes fell on Marianne. Caroline’s maid had been cool toward me since she had seen the ribbon hanging out of my pocket. She had recognized it, I was sure. But whose was it? Her own? The boy’s? I had no idea if it even was a clue. It could have been sitting in the drape for months, its loss long forgotten by its owner.

  I sighed. I was getting nowhere. I had so many questions, but had no idea how to seek their answers. My hand brushed over my pocket, and I felt Caroline’s missive within. I recalled her face as she had given it to me, her cheeks flushed with excitement and anticipation. Misery flooded my heart. I was suddenly wearier than I had ever felt: tired of this investigation, tired of Vogel and his box, tired of this house and all of its inhabitants. I was certain that I would not solve the murder, and for the moment, I no longer cared.

  Fourteen

  Caroline’s cursed message was burning a hole in my pocket, so after dinner I put on my best coat and glumly set out to deliver it to its recipient. My destination was not far, just a few blocks, near the old Minorite church. The emperor had closed the Minorite order two years before, and had given the building to the Italian community of Vienna. The church was a stubby yet charming Gothic heap with an unadorned, fortresslike roof and a tower that had been truncated by a Turkish cannonball a century ago and never repaired. The church plaza was surrounded by the mansions of some of the wealthiest nobles in the city. I stopped in front of the largest, the Palais Starhemberg. Its owner had been the late empress’s minister in Brussels, and it was now owned by a senior advisor to the emperor. The palace occupied an entire block, competing with the medieval church for God’s attention. I shook my head. How I hated these bulky rectangular boxes that the aristocracy had built all over the city. I missed the delicate, multicolored palazzi of Venice, which hugged the curves of the canals and seemed to float on the water.

  My knock on the monumental front door was answered by a lackey, and after replying to a long list of questions about who I was and what I wanted, I was ushered into a grand foyer and left to wait while he fetched the addressee of Caroline’s letter. I looked around me. Unlike Mozart, Martín, and even Casti, I rarely see the insides of these grand houses, for the theater poet is not invited to an aristocrat’s soirées, even when he has written the poetry for the arias that are performed at recitals held there. The room was dominated by a sweeping staircase of white stone, each baluster a miniature Corinthian column, its capital overlaid with gold. The newel posts were massive, squat pillars of deeply veined red granite, upon which sat lofty, overwrought candelabras. A large but ordinary statue of Minerva sat in a niche at the top of the first flight.

  A man in his mid-twenties came down the stairway, followed by the lackey. “I am Matthias Starhemberg. You wished to see me?”

  I bowed and took the letter out of my pocket. “I have a message for you, Your Excellency,” I said. I lowered my voice, for the lackey hovered in the background, his ears straining with curiosity. “From the Baroness Gabler.”

  “From Caroline! Give it to me!” He snatched the message from my hand, removed the pin, and hurriedly unfolded the paper. While he read, I studied my rival. This was not the heir of the family, but a younger son. He was taller than me, dark-haired, slim yet muscular. His face, while not classically handsome, was striking: doelike brown eyes set over a slender nose; thin lips, which spread into a smile as he read the note. A stab of jealousy shot through me.

  When he looked up from his reading, he seemed puzzled to see me still standing there. “Ah, the pin! You are waiting for the return message.” He passed the devilish object to me. I slipped it into my pocket, bowed, and turned to leave.

  “Wait!” he cried. I turned back. He pressed a coin into my palm.

  My cheeks burned. I handed it back to him. “I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but I am not the baroness’s servant. I am a friend of hers,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose. “Oh, I see. Well—take this anyway. For your trouble.” He pressed the coin back into my hand, turned, and bounded up the stairway, whistling.

  I hurried into the street, my cheeks
still hot. I looked down at my coat. How shabby it looked. I desperately needed a new one. Perhaps after I received the fee for Figaro, after the premiere, I would go over to Adam’s tailor shop and order a whole new suit. Satin, maybe, or velvet.

  By the time I reached the Herrengasse my dismay had turned to anger. How could Caroline have humiliated me like this? She must have sensed how I felt about her. How could I have misjudged her so badly? She was just like the rest, attracted to men with money and looks, the superficial sort. What kind of lover could that inexperienced young man be? As I fingered the pin in my pocket, I longed to just drop it on the ground, to let the horses’ hooves bury it in the mud, and to tell her that, sadly, there had been no return message.

  The street was crowded and noisy this time of day. I moved close to the building on my right as a gilded carriage drawn by four horses rushed by. As I continued down the street I saw Ecker, the baron’s secretary, walking a few yards ahead of me. I did not relish returning to the palais just yet, so I decided to follow him.

  The Michaelerplatz was more crowded than the street. Pedestrians milled about. Cabs stopped to discharge passengers outside the court office buildings. Guards on horseback patrolled the grand arch that led to the Hofburg courtyard. I stepped around a group of chatting courtiers. Ahead of me, Ecker consulted his pocket watch, then quickened his stride.

  I bumped into something. A child began to wail. “Sir! Mind where you are going, please!” A stout woman pulled the small boy to her skirts. I quickly dug a coin out of my pocket and handed it to the child.

  I looked across the plaza. Where was Ecker? Ah, there, heading toward St. Michael’s Church.

  “Make way!” A large cart laden with wine barrels trundled by, blocking my view of the church’s entrance. I darted to the right and craned my neck to find Ecker in the throng. Damn! He was nowhere to be seen. I sighed. I just was not cut out to be an investigator.

  As I was about to turn back in the direction of the palais, the little secretary appeared at the very edge of the crowd, pushing his way through a group of laughing merchants. I hurried to follow him.