The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  “What? For…for us?” David stuttered back.

  “It’s called ‘Sinfonia ’a 11 Instrumenti Neo-Americana.’ The Symphony for the New America. Mozart composed a symphony for the United States of America. That’s what the sketch I gave you is. Can you imagine? All those years, Raymond Sullivan thought he was looking for a requiem, but instead, he was looking for something far more important.”

  “And it’d be worth that much?” Fowler interrupted.

  Douglas answered, “It’s on par with owning the Declaration of Independence in Jefferson’s own hand—in short, it’s priceless. We know that Petrovic was already accepting bids starting at two hundred million dollars.”

  “And of course you just learned this,” Fowler said with a clinched jaw.

  Douglas raised his shoulders in innocent denial. “Hours ago.”

  Fowler shook his head. “You said you had proof, Professor.”

  “A letter—actually two letters. One Marie-Antoinette sent to Jean Le Gros.”

  “The director of the Concert Spirituels in Paris,” Kathryn interjected.

  “Yes, the same,” Henry confirmed with a smile to Kathryn. “Sullivan found the letter years ago when he was on fellowship from the Louvre museum. It was the catalyst that led him to believe Mozart had composed a requiem for his dead mother.”

  “What did the letter say?” Dani asked.

  “Most of it is praising Le Gros for his service, but it closes with the Queen writing, ‘If you see the talented Monsieur Mozart, please tell him I saw his latest work and believe it is a stunning and fitting tribute.’ Now, since the letter was dated July ninth, 1778, and Mozart’s mother died on July third, naturally Sullivan believed the reference was to a mass.”

  “Of course he would. I probably would’ve too,” David said.

  “I’m not so sure, Davey. Did you notice the problem with Marie-Antoinette’s statement?”

  David thought for a second and nodded. “Yes, she said, I saw his latest work, not heard. How could she have seen an unpublished piece of music?”

  Henry smiled. “Yes, and it’s obvious from the statement, ‘if you see the talented Monsieur Mozart,’ that the Queen wasn’t personal friends with Wolfy. Raymond should have been tipped off from the beginning. He was just too willing to believe his own story once he created it.”

  “You said two letters, Professor?” Fowler asked.

  “Yes.” Henry reached over to the piano and retrieved an old piece of brown parchment from the lid. “This one.”

  Fowler leered at Douglas while everyone else focused on Henry as he unfolded the paper. “This was what finally changed Raymond’s mind. Like most of us old professors, it sometimes takes getting hit over the head. This was Raymond’s hammer. Until a few minutes ago, when Mr. Douglas gave it to me, I’d never seen it—only knew what Raymond had told me about it. That’s why I went to Los Angeles, to inspect this letter. But poor Raymond was murdered before he could show it to me.”

  “What’s it say, Henry?” David asked.

  “I shall read it to you all. It’s in German, so pardon my sloppy translation.”

  Henry placed bifocals on his nose and began to read. “It’s addressed to Mozart himself and dated February fourth, 1790. It begins, ‘Dear Wolfgang, I pray this greeting finds you well and in good spirits. I hope—no, I'm sorry—it's not I hope, it's—I wish I could say the same. The days are long and my nights are labored. But I do not fear. I have had a good life, certainly more than a mischievous old man such as myself deserves. You must be surprised to hear from me after such a long time. It has been many years since you and I congregated in that small salle in Paris. I remember fondly that glorious evening, trading naughty jokes and hearing your music. The memory warms this old man’s cold and brittle bones.’”

  "He must be talking about the night of the first performance of the Paris Symphony, the opening of the Concert Spirituals," Dani offered.

  Henry looked up from the page and smiled briefly at Dani.

  He read on, “‘I receive many letters from my friends in Europe. I have frequently asked of you, and they tell me you are very renowned, and you have become very much respected. This does not surprise me for you are the great Mozart. Which brings me to the heart of this correspondence.’”

  Henry took a deep breath and moistened his lips. “Okay, here it comes. ‘The beautiful and inspired gift that you so generously and graciously bestowed upon me has as yet to be enjoyed by all, save for a few close companions. My reason for this has not been stinginess, though I do confess to a certain amount of stinginess in this regard, but moreover disgust. In candor, my brother, I do not feel my homeland deserves your masterpiece at this time. Indeed, injustice reigns. It heartens me. When we spoke those many years ago, I told you of a place where all men were free and all ideas were held level, an idea that you yourself hold so dear. I fear I proclaimed too much. For now, as I write this, all men are not free in my land, and all ideas are not level. Some men still feel the need to hold dominion over others. This saddens me and is my great regret in these, my final days. Therefore, I have made an arrangement. Your masterpiece will stay silent until that time when this new Nation can hear with the ears for which the ‘Sinfonia ’a 11 Instrumenti Neo-Americana’ was intended to be heard. When this is a Nation whereupon all men from every corner of the Earth, regardless of race or creed, can come and say, I am home, and be honored with the same dignity and import as those who were born on the soil. This is my prayer, and I pray you will not think ill of me for this decision. For our brothers understand. And it will be they alone who will keep your gift, my treasure, and this Nation's soul in a safe place until they deem appropriate. I have held this beautiful work close to my heart from the day I received it. And I will surely miss its absence in the life hereafter. Be well. God be with you, brother. Ben.’”

  Henry looked up and removed his glasses.

  Everyone was silent, letting the words of Benjamin Franklin sink in.

  "Professor," Dani asked almost reverently, "the brothers—Franklin's talking about the Freemasons, right?"

  Henry nodded. "Yes, dear, Raymond was given the letter by an old Mason in Vienna—he’d stumbled upon it when he was looking for proof of the mass. The guess is that two hundred or so years ago a brother Mason found the letter after Mozart died and returned it to the lodge for safekeeping."

  "Returned it?" Kathryn asked.

  "Yes, that's where Franklin had sent it to begin with. Somehow, probably through a friend who was a Mason in Europe, Franklin learned Mozart had joined the brotherhood, so he must have surmised that would be the most efficient way to contact him. He was obviously right."

  A light went on for Dani. "Because you knew of the Masonic connection, you had already excavated the cavern beneath the fireplace?"

  “Yes, dear. Unfortunately, no Mozart."

  "But, Professor Shoewalter, how—”

  "Please, call me Henry. I have a feeling we're going to become quite close."

  Dani glanced at David and smiled. "Okay, Henry. How did you know about the fireplace? I only figured it out after I had met Mrs. Sugarberry and had seen the picture over the mantle."

  “And Henry," David added, "how did you get involved in all of this to start with?”

  Henry looked at David and patted him on the cheek. "Quite by accident, Davey. Though I must admit it has been most exciting for Trudy and me.”

  David looked at Dani, Mrs. Sugarberry, and then back at Henry. “Trudy?”

  Henry smiled. “Yes, Davey.” Henry released David’s hand and walked over to Gertrude Sugarberry and took her hand from Dani’s. “Trudy, this is Davey. Davey, I’d like to introduce you to my wife.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Gertrude Sugarberry-Shoewalter got up with an enthusiastic smile and extended her hand. “Oh my, it's little Davey Webber. Well, it is such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I can’t tell you how much Hanky has told me about you.”

  “Han
ky?” David replied.

  “But,” Dani said, completely taken aback herself by the announcement. “Your husband, Edgar…he—”

  “Edgar and I had forty-five wonderful years together. I never thought I’d ever find anyone again. Then I met Hanky.”

  Henry kissed Gertrude’s hand. “Almost three years now. I was giving a lecture at the university. I looked out in the audience, and there she was.”

  David finally found words. “But your house, your office, it’s still—” At that moment David looked around the room and everything was clear. The books on the shelf: Portrait of a Genius, Emily Anderson’s The Letters of Mozart, the Oxford Dictionary of Music, all the books that weren’t in his office. David looked back at Henry. “You live here now.”

  Henry shrugged. “Most of the time, but I still keep the house in White Plains. I’m on the board at the conservatory, and Trudy prefers it to a hotel. Though, since I’ve met these gentlemen,” he said, looking at Douglas, “I haven’t been either place much. They’ve had me in a nasty little apartment downtown.”

  “And I have missed him so much,” Gertrude added, looking up at Henry. “When this nice young Asian man named Mr. Woo came by and got me a few nights ago, it was the first time I’d seen Hanky in nearly a month.”

  Douglas didn’t look at Fowler nor Greenfield, but he was aware of their leers.

  Dani broke out with a laugh. Then she noticed the piano. “Mrs. Sugarberry, I mean Mrs. Shoewalter—”

  “Either’s fine, dear. I’ve been Sugarberry so long, I don’t make a fuss.”

  “But I do,” Henry said with mock seriousness.

  Dani smiled and continued, “The piano. I thought it strange you owned such an instrument and didn’t play. Now I understand, it’s…” Dani looked at Henry, “…your husband’s.”

  “Oh, no, it’s mine, isn’t it, dear?” Gertrude said, looking up at Henry. “Hanky got it for me as a wedding present. He tried to teach me to play, but you know, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” The woman put her hand to her mouth and laughed with Henry.

  Dani smiled. She was looking at the picture of young love.

  Fowler had to interrupt, “Professor, you were going to explain how you got involved with these…” he looked at Douglas and sighed, “gentlemen.”

  “Oh, yes, I was, wasn’t I? Well, let’s see, I guess it started last summer, just after Trudy and I were married. I started doing research on a new book. It was to be called The Lost, Incomplete, Arranged, Doubtful, and Spurious Compositions of Mozart. I know the title is too long, but the subject’s a good one. My contention was to be that many of the compositions omitted from the Kochel, because they were considered not to be actual Mozart compositions, actually were. And even if they weren’t, I would contend they were still important for the sake of the false composers feeling compelled to write like the master. It was going to be a vast undertaking. But before I got too far into the project, Trudy and I had a honeymoon to go on. And so we did, to Paris. It was beautiful, wasn’t it, dear?”

  “Yes, dear, it was,” Gertrude replied.

  “One day when we were visiting the Louvre, whom do we run into but Raymond Sullivan. Raymond and I had known each other for over fifty years, but ever since he'd gotten on his missing Mozart requiem obsession, we'd locked horns. I wanted to avoid him, but Trudy, the peacemaker, wouldn't hear of it."

  Gertrude smiled again at her husband.

  "So in spite of our differences, I decided it was time to bury the hatchet.” Henry looked directly at David. “Davey, it was wonderful. We talked and laughed for hours about the old days when we were both at the conservatory in Vienna and the exploits of youth. Well, it was over a delightful dinner I told Raymond about my new book, and to my surprise Raymond was very enthusiastic. Raymond was never enthusiastic about anything other than his obsession, but alas, in this case, he was. He told me he had to play me something, so we retired to his small flat a few blocks away. Naturally, I thought to myself, oh lord, the missing mass again, and indeed what he played me he claimed was part of the missing mass Mozart had started for his mother, Anna-Maria. Well, of course I immediately recognized the piece as the same I had purchased years ago in Vienna and given to you."

  "There's another copy of the adagio?" David blurted.

  "Yes. Raymond said he'd discovered it in Paris. He had a test made of the watermark and learned it was written on the same paper stock as the Paris Symphony. Well, this only added fuel to the flame for his missing mass theory."

  "Unbelievable," David said.

  "Yes, but I was determined not to ruin an otherwise wonderful evening with the old feud, so I stayed mum and just went along with him. Besides, I was genuinely intrigued by the fact that Raymond had come by another copy of the adagio, but composed on a paper stock Mozart used thirteen years earlier than the one I had given to you. Then to beat all, my dear bride chimed in.”

  “What did she say?” Dani asked.

  “She said not only had she heard the piece before, but she possessed it as well. Well, needless to say, both Raymond and I laughed. I believe you were a little perturbed by our response, weren't you, dear?"

  Gertrude patted Henry on the hand again.

  "Anyway, the evening concluded with Raymond promising to send me a copy of his sketch for me to make my own examination—he said I could use it for my book if I wanted. So I agreed.”

  “Did he?” David asked.

  “No, I never got it,” Henry answered. “But when we returned home, Gertrude wasted no time in showing me the piece she was referring to.” Henry looked at Douglas. “The dear woman had it buried in the bottom of a cedar chest. Can you imagine?"

  Gertrude chuckled.

  Kathryn broke in, “Was that the piece you sent to me, Henry?”

  Henry smiled. “Yes, Kathryn, it was.”

  “The Cook," Dani said to Gertrude with mock annoyance. "That's what he's talking about, isn't it? I didn’t find that piece by accident, did I, Mrs. Sugarberry?”

  Gertrude lowered her head and put her hand on Dani’s arm. “I’m so sorry, dear—yes, you caught me. I just missed Hanky so much, I thought if I helped a little, he’d get home quicker. Henry, you must admit after I told you about Dr. Parsons from the Smithsonian, you thought it was a good idea too.”

  Henry shook his head disapprovingly. “Yes, Trudy, I did, but you were still very naughty for doing it.”

  Dani was figuring it out. “So the whole sheet music thing was just a—”

  “Yes, I called your Dr. Beckman and used my sheet music collection as an excuse to get one of you experts up here. Though, I really was going to donate it at some point.”

  Dani just shook her head in disbelief.

  “As I was saying,” Henry continued, “Trudy’s piece was from a different pen and transcribed for solo violin, but yes, indeed it was the same melody Raymond had played for us, and the same one from the sketch I had given to David. It was the adagio. I was baffled."

  "I thought it was romantic," Gertrude interjected.

  "Romantic?" David asked.

  "Well, yes, dear." Gertrude smiled like a little girl. "Here we were, two people in our golden years, from vastly different backgrounds, who fell in love and married. Then we learned we each owned the same rare piece of music. It was like we were meant to be. Don't you think that's romantic?"

  "Oh, yes," Dani responded, matching Sugarberry’s dreamy expression.

  "Anyway," Henry continued, "Trudy told me the stories about Dr. Cook.” Henry focused his attention back on David. “It was unheard of. How did an early nineteenth century African-American come to learn anything composed by Mozart, especially something no one else knew existed? I called Raymond in Los Angeles and told him Trudy was right, she did indeed own the same piece of music. That was also the first time I told him about you and your sketch.”

  “What was his reaction?” Fowler asked.

  “Surprisingly, not that surprised. But I didn't know Raymond had already made t
he Franklin/Mozart connection, as well as their involvement with the Freemasons. All he said was I should focus my attention on the year 1778. I realize now he was being the perfect scholar, wanting me to take the same steps he had for the sake of seeing if I came up with the same conclusions. That’s when I asked Kathryn to research Mozart's life in 1778." Henry looked at David seriously. "I'm sorry, David, but she was the best research assistant I ever had, and I needed help."

  David looked at Henry and smiled. "It's okay, Professor.”

  Kathryn’s face gave nothing away to the contrary.

  Henry nodded and continued, "Most of what she learned was common knowledge, but it still led me to Jean Le Gros and the Concert Spirituel. I learned all dignitaries traditionally attended its opening, and if Franklin was in Paris, and he was, he surely would have been one of them. I immediately contacted Raymond and told him I had narrowed my research to June, 1778, Corpus Christi day, opening night of the Concert Spirituel."

  "The debut of the Paris Symphony,” David added.

  "Exactly. Don't forget, Raymond's sketch was on the very same paper stock as the Paris Symphony. It was all coming together."

  "What did Dr. Sullivan say to that?" Fowler asked.

  “He was elated, of course. I had corroborated his findings, though we still couldn’t explain how Trudy’s piece came to be, or why Mozart felt compelled to rewrite the sketch thirteen years later. So we agreed further research was warranted. Raymond suggested he continue researching his piece and that I should shift my attention to Trudy’s piece and Dr. Cook. I agreed."

  “Then you learned about Dr. Cook’s father, just as we did, and that led you to Franklin. Full circle,” Dani said.

  Henry smiled. “You’re very good, young lady. Yes, that’s exactly what happened. I discovered Cook’s father was a leading abolitionist and a Freemason even before Sullivan told me about the letter he’d found from Franklin. Afterward, it was just a matter of figuring out where a devoted brother might enshrine a precious relic. As soon as I realized this house, Cook’s house, was once a lodge, all I had to do was figure out where a shrine might have been two hundred and fifty years ago. David, you know my fascination with unique art. That painting over the mantle always intrigued me. When Trudy informed me it had been hanging in the same place since this house was built—well, it wasn't a difficult assumption."