‘Mozart’s death,’ Leigh said.
‘Not just Mozart’s death, but the events that led up to it, surrounded it and may have caused it…I believe did cause it. For this, we have to go back to the eighteenth century…’
‘With respect, Professor,’ Ben said. ‘We didn’t come here for a history lesson about someone who died over two hundred years ago. We want to know what happened to Oliver.’
‘If you hear me out,’ Arno replied, ‘I think what I tell you may help you understand.’
‘Oliver told me he was doing a lot of research into Mozart and the Freemasons,’ Leigh said.
Arno nodded. ‘It is no secret that Mozart was a Freemason himself. He joined his Lodge in 1784 and remained a Mason until his death seven years later, during which time it is said he rose to the level of Third Degree, Master Mason. Mozart was so dedicated to Freemasonry he even persuaded his father Leopold to join them. He supplied music for Masonic events, and had many friends who were Initiates.’
Ben shifted impatiently in his seat. ‘I don’t understand why this is so important.’
Leigh laid a hand on his arm. ‘Go on, Professor.’
‘Today we think of Freemasonry as something of a joke, or at best a social club like the Rotarians,’ Arno said. ‘But in eighteenth-century Europe it was an extremely important cultural and political force. In 1780s Austria, Freemasonry was a meeting point for the intellectual elite, an important centre for ideas of peace, freedom, and equality. The Masonic Lodges of Vienna comprised many of the most influential names of the time. Many aristocrats, senior politicians and diplomats, high-ranking military officers, bankers and merchants. There were also many intellectuals among them, writers, artists, musicians.’
‘I didn’t know they were so powerful,’ Leigh said.
Arno nodded. ‘They were, but their power was also their undoing. Other forces, even more powerful, were watching with a close eye. In fact, much of our modern knowledge of the Viennese Masons at this time comes from the intelligence material gathered by the Austrian secret police. Freemasonry was officially condemned in the Austrian Empire on the orders of the Pope, and only allowed to exist because of the tolerance of the Emperor, Josef II. But in 1785 Josef’s sympathy grew thin, and he decided that the Masons had become too powerful and influential. He ordered a drastic reduction of the Viennese Lodges, and demanded that the secret police provide him with lists of active Masons. These lists were kept in the files of the court archives.’
‘Why the sudden sea-change?’ Leigh asked.
‘You have to understand the climate of the times,’ Arno explained patiently. ‘Mozart lived in a turbulent age, a revolutionary age. The Americans had only recently overthrown their colonialist British rulers and established a new free nation. Revolution was in the air. By 1789, just two years before Mozart’s death, France stood on the verge of terrible bloodshed.’
‘And the Masons were involved?’
‘Masonry was increasingly associated with the growing revolutionary, anti-royalist current,’ said Arno. ‘With its ideals of liberty, equality and fraternity, it offered a perfect metaphor for the dawning of a new age of free ideas. As the French Revolution gathered steam, some of the revolutionary “clubs”, such as Robespierre’s Jacobins, based their structures on the Masonic Lodges, as well as importing Masonic symbolism into their political ideology. In America, when George Washington laid the foundation stone of the Capitol in Washington he wore with pride the Masonic apron that had been made for him by Adrienne, the wife of the French soldier-revolutionary La Fayette. Thomas Jefferson was another Freemason who drew heavily on those ideals of liberty and equality when he drafted the Declaration of Independence. It was a hugely powerful force with the potential to influence political change across the world.’
‘And so, naturally, it had to be stopped,’ Ben said.
‘Without question,’ replied Arno with a bitter smile. ‘By the late 1780s there were growing concerns in Mozart’s Austria that the Masons were going to plunge the country into the same revolutionary, pro-republic spirit as France and America. It was a dangerous time. Many aristocrats who had initially sympathized with Freemasonry’s ideals began to worry. Then, as the revolutionary mobs tore through France and the aristocracy went to the guillotine, the Austrian clampdown on Freemasonry began in earnest. By 1791 Masonry in Austria was virtually wiped out. It was a period of severe crisis for Mozart and his Lodge brothers.’ He paused. A new Emperor had taken over, Leopold II. The Masons could not tell what his attitude would be to them, but they were not optimistic. Then Mozart and his close colleague, the theatrical producer and fellow Mason Emanuel Schikaneder, had an idea.’
‘What idea?’ Ben asked.
‘They thought that if they could rescue the public image of the Masons, they might help to save the Craft from universal condemnation,’ said Arno. ‘What they did would nowadays be called a huge publicity stunt. They conceived of a grand opera that would reach out to an audience of unprecedented scale. A spectacle that everyone would love, written in popular style. A people’s opera preaching Masonic ideals of the education of men to a higher morality through wisdom, love and goodness, heralding the transition to a new social order. Full of mystical symbols glorifying the Freemasons and their philosophy.’
‘The Magic Flute’, Leigh said.
Arno nodded. ‘The new opera had its premiere performance in Vienna at the end of September 1791. It was received with rapturous enthusiasm by the public and the critics, and played to packed theatres night after night.’
‘It was the most successful thing Mozart had ever done,’ Leigh added.
‘Yes, it should have been the start of a new era for him,’ Arno replied. ‘And it was welcomed by his fellow Masons as a new hope for their Craft. But it was the last opera he would ever compose. Within less than three months, he was dead.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Ben said. ‘Leigh, didn’t you tell me that Mozart had been murdered by the Masons because he’d given away their secrets in The Magic Flute?’
‘That’s what I thought—’
‘Well, that doesn’t make sense, does it?’ Ben continued. ‘If Mozart was becoming this great new hope for the Masons, their public relations man at a time when they needed him most, then why kill him?’
Arno smiled. ‘You are right. This theory is completely illogical. Likewise, the fact that after Mozart’s death his fellow Masons gave his widow Constanze a great deal of moral and financial support makes nonsense of the idea that he was murdered by his own.’ Arno turned to Leigh. ‘Your brother had noticed these inconsistencies early on in the course of his research. Oliver knew that there was no satisfactory explanation for the strange and sudden death of Mozart.’
‘Unless he wasn’t murdered at all,’ Ben said. ‘How do we know there’s any truth in this murder conspiracy theory?’
‘The official cause of death was acute rheumatic fever,’ Arno replied. ‘However, many of those around him at the time found the circumstances of his passing highly suspicious. Towards the end of his life, Mozart often expressed his conviction that he would be poisoned one day-yet the scholars have never bothered to examine this properly. His elder son, Carl Thomas Mozart, also had strong suspicions that his father had died by foul means. The body displayed unusual characteristics consistent with death by poisoning.’ Arno shrugged. ‘Based on the medical records of the time, nobody can disprove that Mozart was poisoned. But the single most important piece of evidence is the letter itself.’
‘What does it say?’ Leigh asked.
Arno looked surprised. ‘You have not seen it?’
‘I had Oliver’s copy but it got burnt,’ Leigh said. ‘All I’ve seen of it are a few fragments.’
‘But surely your father showed it to you?’
‘Professor, I was only nineteen years old. I had other things on my mind.’ She glanced at Ben. ‘I don’t remember much about it.’
‘I see…’ Arno paused and scratched his chin. ‘S
o you are not familiar with the Order of Ra, to which the letter refers?’
Ben remembered it from Oliver’s notes. He thought for a moment. ‘Ra as in the Egyptian sun god Ra?’ he asked.
Leigh turned to stare at him.
He caught her look. ‘Theology,’ he said. ‘Student days.’
‘You studied Theology?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
Arno smiled. ‘You are correct, and many of the ceremonies and traditions of Freemasonry can be traced back to ancient Egypt. But Ra also means King. It is sometimes written as Re, and is the origin of the word Rex in Latin and your English words regal and royal’.
‘So what was this Order of Ra?’ Ben asked.
‘The Order of Ra was originally a small and obscure Masonic Lodge,’ Arno answered. ‘Their members were largely aristocratic and pro-royalist, and they gave their group a name that would reflect their political leanings: for them it signified the Order of the King. They were far divorced from the growing republican spirit within Freemasonry, and became increasingly allied to the establishment powers as the perceived threat from the Masons grew. While Freemasonry stood for freedom, democracy and the people, the Order of Ra stood for the complete opposite. They were warmongers, fervent capitalists, an agency founded to aid elitist governments in suppressing the people.’
‘A kind of rogue splinter group, then,’ Ben said.
‘Exactly,’ Arno replied. ‘And an extremely powerful one, with lofty connections. The Order of Ra meddled in many political intrigues, not least of which was to put pressure on the Emperor of Austria to ban the rest of Freemasonry outright, even on pain of execution.’
‘Let me get this right,’ Leigh said. ‘You’re suggesting that the Order of Ra killed Mozart because he was popularizing Freemasonry through his opera The Magic Flute?’
The professor’s eyes glittered. ‘That is what I believe. And I believe the letter proves it. Mozart was a potential threat to them. If he could restore public support for Freemasonry, he could be dangerous. He was a rising star, a meteoric talent just beginning to shine. The massive success of The Magic Flute had given him great prestige. He had only just been appointed to a prominent post at the Court, and had the Emperor’s ear.
‘But his enemies were rising up too. By 1791 the members of the Order of Ra were fast becoming a major executive branch of the secret services. Their agents were brutal, violent and ruthless, and their Grand Master was none other than the Head of the Austrian secret police. He was a callous murderer, sworn to destroy the Masons.’
Ben was about to ask the man’s name, but Arno carried on.
‘By 1794, just three years after Mozart’s death, Masonry in Austria had effectively been obliterated. Many murders were committed-some openly, some less openly. Poisoning was one of their most common means, and would have been the most suited to disposing of someone of Mozart’s increasing celebrity status. They had to be careful. Other, more obscure, Masons met with a far more violent end. Gustav Lutze, for instance.’
‘Who was he?’ Leigh asked.
‘He was the man Mozart wrote the letter to,’ Arno said. ‘A member of the same Viennese Masonic Lodge, Beneficence. Mozart was writing to warn him of the growing danger. The letter is dated the sixteenth of November 1791, and is perhaps the last one he ever wrote. Of course, the so-called experts believe that his last surviving letter was the one he wrote to his wife on the fourteenth of October, while she was away taking the waters in Baden. Idiots. In any case, the letter never reached its destination; it was too late.’
‘What happened to Lutze?’ Ben asked.
‘He was found dead on the twentieth of November 1791. Just two weeks before Mozart’s death. Lutze had been tied to a post and tortured to death. Disembowelled, his tongue hacked out. The secret police blamed a Freemason for the crime.’
Ben stood up, reaching in his pocket. ‘Professor, I want you to take a look at something.’ He took out the CD-ROM in its plastic case. ‘May I?’ He walked around the desk and loaded the disc into the computer.
‘What is this?’ Arno asked as the machine whirred into life.
‘Something Oliver saw the night he died,’ Ben said. ‘Just watch.’
Arno blinked bemusedly at the screen. Leigh stayed in her chair, not wanting to see the video-clip again.
The images began to play. Ben watched the professor’s face as the clip went on. The victim was brought out. The macabre spectacle unfolded.
The old man’s eyes widened and his cheeks drained of colour. He pointed a trembling finger at the screen.
Ben reached across and paused the clip just before the victim’s tongue was cut out. In the frozen image the man’s face was contorted in terror. The blade was held high in the air, where it caught the candlelight.
Arno slumped in his chair. ‘Dio mio,’ he breathed, and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. ‘So it is true.’
‘What’s true, Professor?’ Leigh asked.
Arno was about to reply when the window behind him exploded into the room and blood spattered across the computer screen.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wedged in the crook of a tree eighty yards away, the sniper watched through his high-magnification scope as Arno’s body dropped out of view. With his gloved thumb he quickly flipped the select fire toggle from single shot to fully automatic and fired a long burst through the study windows. Glass shards and chunks of stonework flew as the bullets struck. He smiled.
Ben had hurled himself over Arno’s desk, grabbed Leigh’s wrist and dragged her to the floor. He ripped the disk out of the computer. The screen was smoking from a bullet-hole.
Another burst of gunfire shattered the rest of the window. It chewed a line of ragged holes in the top of the desk, blew the computer apart, and strafed the book cabinet at the far end of the study. The silver candle-holder toppled over as the decanter of grappa shattered. The strong drink burst into flame, liquid fire pouring onto the carpet where it quickly caught a hold.
Ben and Leigh pressed their bodies tightly against the thick wall beneath the window, a storm of splinters and glass around them. Ben drew the .45 from his belt and fired blindly through the broken panes.
He could smell burning. He twisted round to see where it was coming from. Black smoke was filling the far end of the room. Fire was crackling up the length of the door-frame.
Arno lay slumped under the desk, blood spreading across the rug. Leigh crawled over to him. His eyes were glazing over. She wanted to do something, stop the bleeding, move him away from the window. There were so many more things she wanted to know from him. ‘Professor, the letter,’ she said frantically. ‘Where’s the letter?’
The old man’s eyes focused on her for a second. His lips moved almost inaudibly, trickling bloody froth.
The shooting outside had stopped. Ben peered out of the shattered window. He couldn’t see anyone, but there were voices and running footsteps down below in the courtyard. The crackle of a radio.
Half the room was on fire now. The bullet-torn books in the bookcases burst alight. The smoke was thickening fast.
Arno coughed, and bright blood appeared on his lips. He tried to speak. Then a long sigh whistled from his lips and his head slumped to the side.
Ben glanced at him. ‘He’s dead, Leigh.’
Leigh was shaking the old man. ‘He was trying to say something.’
‘There’s nothing you can do for him. Let’s move.’ Through the ringing in his ears and the crackle of the fire he could hear the sound of movement downstairs. They were coming. He checked the gun. Three rounds left.
Fire blocked the doorway. They were going to have to run through the flames. He grabbed the dead man’s jacket from the stand. He pulled Leigh to her feet and draped the heavy tweed over her head and shoulders. Keeping hold of her arm he took two fast steps into the choking smoke and kicked hard. Flame licked his ankle. The study door juddered open. He shielded his eyes and ran through the f
ire, pulling her through behind him.
The corridor outside was empty. Footsteps thumped on the stairs. Ben ran to the right, gripping Leigh’s arm. Through a doorway at the end of the corridor there was a short flight of steps and then another door. Ben had a rough idea where he was. On his way in he’d noticed the square clock tower rising up from the centre of the house, with shuttered windows on each side overlooking the sloping roofs. He wrenched open the door. He was right.
The winding stair took them upwards. The door to the tower was thick old oak. They ran inside and Ben barred the heavy door with a wooden beam. He looked around him, getting his bearings. Voices. Someone was thumping at the door. Leigh jumped as shots went off.
‘This way.’ Ben nodded towards the shuttered windows on the next level. The wooden stairway was old and rickety. He guided her up ahead of him.
Down below, the blast of a shotgun boomed through the tower and splinters flew from the inside of the old door. They’d be through it soon.
Ben kicked open the shutters and they were looking out across the broad expanse of red-tiled roof. Dusk was falling.
Leigh could feel her legs shaking as she clambered out of the window and onto the roof. The height made her dizzy. Ben guided her along the red-tiled ridge. She kept her eyes pinned to the wooded horizon and the falling sun.
The roof sloped down to the side. He steered her that way, taking them lower. She slipped on the weathered clay tiles and almost fell, but his grip on her arm was firm. He peered over the edge. They were still a long way from the ground.
The tower window shutter burst open and a man appeared. He was wearing a black jacket and holding a stubby machine pistol. Its muzzle flashed and bullets whined off the tiles near their feet. Ben returned fire. The man fell back against the tower.
Ben shoved the pistol in his belt and took Leigh’s hand. ‘Trust me,’ he said, reading the look in her eyes.
Then he took two steps to the edge of the roof and leapt into space, taking her with him.
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 46