Sent to the Devil

by Laura Lebow

  She swallowed hard. “Then the nightmare began.”

  “I don’t understand,” I prompted her. “You said you killed your father.”

  “Yes, yes I did. You see, my father must have seen Valentin in the courtyard. He must have rushed downstairs to confront him.”

  “But von Gerl did not kill your father,” I said. “He is one of the murderer’s victims himself. No, mademoiselle. You have it wrong. Those pages you gave me yesterday—the killer sent them to your father. He accused him of excess pride—”

  “Don’t you see?” she cried. “That is how the killer found him. If my father had not gone out to follow Valentin, to protect my honor, he would have remained safely in his bed. He would be alive today.” She buried her face in her hands and wept.

  I moved over to the bench next to her and put my arm around her. “No, no. You are not to blame,” I said. “Your father was leaving the house at that hour to keep an appointment with his killer, not because he heard you and von Gerl. He left the house and went to the Am Hof. A witness saw him there just before one. If he had been chasing von Gerl, he would have gone the other way.”

  I offered her my handkerchief. She took it and dabbed at her eyes. “Are you certain about this?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said. “Two witnesses saw the general that night. Both said he was walking with purpose, toward some sort of meeting.”

  “But I understood that—”

  “Is that why you said you were the killer?” I asked. “That was all?”

  She sighed. “I was certain I was to blame. I knew my father’s body was found in the Am Hof, but I assumed the killer found him in the street outside the palais and dragged him there.”

  “You should have asked Benda for more information,” I said. “He would have been able to reassure you.”

  Her eyes widened. “No! No! Richard must not know anything of this!” She clutched my arm. “Promise me you will not repeat to him what I’ve told you! Please, you must promise me!”

  “You have my word,” I said.

  * * *

  I mulled over Christiane’s admission as I walked back to my office. Casanova had been right—all five of the killer’s victims were involved with her in some way. Alois and Dauer had been her confessors; Hennen her former fiancé and von Gerl a potential lover; and of course, the general was her father. A pang of worry shot through me. I could not think of a reason why someone would kill every male connected with Christiane Albrechts, but I was glad that Benda was off in Bohemia, safe from the killer’s dagger.

  Back in the office, I completed work on the libretto I had been editing earlier in the day, then took my cloak and satchel and headed for home. Thorwart’s fears that the murders would keep the people of Vienna indoors appeared to be justified this evening, for the streets were empty of the usual crowds of people going to suppers and soirees. Or perhaps it was just the weather. The chilly air of mid-April had returned, and showers threatened.

  I hurried down the deserted Wollzeile, past the university, my eyes alert for any sign of von Gerl’s plumed hat. But I reached the Stuben gate without incident. Fatigue must have caused my eyes to play tricks on me the other night. A guard waved me through the Stuben gate. As I reached the end of the wooden bridge that spanned the glacis, I heard steady footsteps behind me. I quickened my pace and walked across the broad pathway and over the river bridge. The footfalls continued behind me. I walked even faster. Within a few moments, I arrived at my street. I turned the corner, concealed myself in the dark archway of the first house, and stretched my neck so that I could see the street corner. Within a minute, my pursuer arrived. He stopped and peered down the street. I drew in a sharp breath as I recognized the young man in the forest-green cloak.

  I held my breath as he stood looking down the street. After a minute or two, he turned and went back in the direction of the city. I waited several moments more to make certain he was gone, and then ran down the street to the safety of my lodgings.

  Twenty-eight

  I stayed home and worked in my room on Tuesday morning. I knew that I had put off speaking to Marta for too long, and I was determined to see her before I left for the rehearsal that was scheduled for the afternoon.

  I was packing up my satchel and planning what to say to Marta when the door opened and Sophie entered. She carried a pitcher of fresh water; a clean towel was tucked under her arm. She started when she saw me standing at the desk.

  “Oh, Signor Da Ponte, I am sorry,” she said. “I thought you had already left for the theater.”

  “Come in, Sophie,” I said.

  “No, signore, I don’t want to disturb you. I’ll leave these and come back later.” She took the water and towel over to my basin.

  “Please, Sophie, do what you would do if I were not here,” I said.

  She nodded. “Thank you, signore. I’ll be quick about it.” She opened the window, then carried the basin over to it and threw the dirty water out. She wiped the basin dry with the soiled towel, replaced the basin on the washstand next to the fresh water. Crossing over to my bed, she took the coverlet off, shook it, plumped the mattress and the pillow, then replaced the coverlet.

  “There you are, signore,” she said. “I will sweep later this afternoon, while you are out.”

  “Thank you, Sophie.” I hesitated. Now that I had made up my mind to approach Marta, I was eager to go across and knock on her door. But since Sophie was here, I ought to ask her about what had occurred the evening von Gerl was killed.

  “Sophie, have you heard the news about Baron von Gerl?” I asked.

  “You mean about the murder, signore?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Stefan told me the baron had had his throat cut at the Belvedere,” she said. “He told me that it wasn’t the first time this had happened—that there’s a monster roaming the streets late at night, killing people.”

  She looked at me curiously. “Stefan also said he heard that you were working with the police to find the killer, signore.”

  “Yes, that is true. So I must ask you a few questions, Sophie.”

  “Me, signore? I know nothing about murder. And I haven’t seen the baron since the night of the ball.”

  She stared at me, her eyes defiant.

  “Come, Sophie,” I said. “You know I saw you sneak out of the house last Friday night.”

  Her cheeks reddened.

  “Where were you going?” I asked.

  She stared at the floor. “I don’t want to say, signore.”

  “I saw you get into von Gerl’s carriage, Sophie. I saw Teuber drive you away.” I did not tell her that I had also watched as Stefan followed her.

  “Then you already know what there is to be known, signore.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you. Where did Teuber take you? To von Gerl’s palace?”

  She blew air from her cheeks. “You must promise not to tell Mother,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “After I met Valentin—the baron—at the ball at the Redoutensaal, he began to send me gifts. The first day it was a posy of flowers. The next day, a pair of gloves; the next, a jeweled pin for my hair. Please, signore, do not tell my mother. She knows nothing about this. If she knew that I had accepted the baron’s gifts, she would be furious with me.”

  “I won’t tell her,” I said.

  “Each day I received a note from him, telling me how soft my hands were, how much he wanted to hold one of them again, how beautiful I was.” Her eyes grew dreamy.

  “You don’t have to give me the details,” I said. “I’ve written many such notes myself.”

  She smiled. “On Friday morning, he sent another note, inviting me to come to the palace for supper that evening. He mentioned that he wished to discuss our future. He told me to expect his carriage at eight o’clock.”

  “Did Teuber take you directly to the palace?” I asked.

  “Yes. Oh, signore, what a grand place it was! I’ve never been in any of the
fancy houses in the city.”

  “Tell me what happened next,” I said.

  “When I arrived, Valentin was not there. The manservant told me that he had been called out on some business, and would return as soon as possible. He said his master had told him to serve me dinner and give me anything I wanted.”

  “And then?”

  “He showed me to a beautiful chamber and told me I could freshen my rouge. Then he led me to the dining room.” Her eyes widened at the memory. “It was so elegant, signore. I’ve never been in such a large room. I sat at the table by myself, and the manservant brought me dinner. There must have been ten courses. And there was music! Three musicians were there, on a little stage, playing just for me. It was wonderful. I felt as though I were a countess.”

  “Was anyone else in the house?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t hear anyone. The musicians were playing the whole time.”

  “When did you finish eating?” I asked.

  She pressed her hand to her lips. “Oh, about ten, I would say. Yes, I remember I heard the clock in the dining room chime. The servant, Teuber, you said his name was, cleared all the dishes and dismissed the musicians. He then brought me the most beautiful dessert—a small silver tray with three tiny cakes on it. He told me Valentin had ordered it especially for me.” Her eyes gleamed. “One was a meringue, I think it is called. It had been baked in the shape of a swan and filled with cream. Then there was a chocolate ball. That one was especially delicious. It had a crust on it, and when I broke into it, melted chocolate oozed out of it. The third one—”

  “What happened when you finished these cakes?” I asked.

  “When Teuber came for the plate, he apologized, telling me he had just had a message from Valentin. He was still in his meeting and could not see me that evening after all. Teuber brought me my cloak and then took me home in the carriage. I slipped back into the house. My mother never knew I had been gone.”

  Her pretty face paled. “Oh! You don’t suppose Valentin was being murdered while I was eating my dessert, do you?”

  “I don’t believe so, Sophie. The killer attacks his victims much later in the night.”

  She let out a breath. “Good. I would hate to think that Valentin was lying dead while I was enjoying his delicious gift. I wouldn’t be able to think of it with such pleasure if that were so. Will what I just told you help you find the killer, signore?”

  “I don’t know, Sophie. But I am glad you told me.”

  She started toward the door, and then turned back to me. “I hope you don’t have a bad opinion of me, signore, because I am not mourning for Valentin. I was angry with him that night, because I had agreed to come to him and he went off. But I’ve given my situation a lot of thought over the last few days, and I now see that I love Stefan.” She smiled. “Now I just have to convince him of it.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem doing that,” I said.

  “You are really working for the police, signore?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “There is something I— No, it is probably nothing.”

  “You should tell me anything you know, Sophie. I can decide if it is important.”

  “Well, it is the other lodger, Professor Strasser.”

  “What about him?”

  “Lately, when I’ve cleaned his room, I’ve been finding something strange.”

  “What?”

  “Blood, signore. His towels are sometimes stained with blood. And once I found his bedclothes were stained with blood. I had to scrub and scrub to get it out.”

  My pulse quickened. “When did you find the blood?” I asked.

  “I think the first time was several weeks ago. I haven’t cleaned in there yet today, signore. The professor teaches a class on Tuesday mornings. His room is not locked. I could show you.”

  I hesitated. I did not believe for a moment that Erich Strasser was the killer. Could I in good conscience search his room? I would not like my own privacy invaded because of the imagination of a cleaning girl. But I had agreed to investigate the murders, so I was obligated to pursue every possible clue. Sighing, I followed Sophie into the hallway.

  She knocked at the door opposite mine and, when there was no answer, opened it. Strasser’s room was the same size as mine and furnished in a similar manner. I went to the washstand and examined the towel, but saw no bloodstains. Sophie unfurled the bedclothes. There were no stains.

  “He puts his laundry in here, signore,” she said, going over to the cupboard and pulling out a linen bag. “Here!” She handed me a handkerchief. A large splotch of dried blood covered the center of the cloth. “And here is another.”

  My heart sank. “Thank you, Sophie,” I said. “I’ll close the door when I go.” She hesitated, perhaps hoping I would change my mind and invite her to stay and join my search, but then went to the door.

  “Oh, Sophie,” I called. “Don’t mention this to anyone else, please. Not to your mother, nor to Stefan.” She nodded and left.

  I pulled a clean handkerchief from the cupboard and wrapped it around the soiled ones. I looked through the rest of the cupboard. Strasser’s clothes were what one would expect from a professor at the university—two woolen suits of lower quality than the ones I purchased to wear to the theater, a pair of plain brown trousers, and two linen shirts. A candlestick sat on the small table by the bed. I glanced out the window. Marta stood in the garden below. I crossed to the desk. On top were a bottle of ink, a few pens, and a miniature portrait of a woman with dark hair and brows the same ebon color as Strasser’s. I pulled open the single desk drawer. I took a sheet from the stack of light-colored paper inside and held it up to the light streaming in the window. The familiar serpent gazed at me from underneath his crown. I folded the paper and put it with the bound handkerchiefs, then went to a small bookcase by the door. Most of the titles were in Turkish, possibly histories related to Strasser’s research. The rest of the volumes were by various French philosophes, including Voltaire and Rousseau. And at the very bottom of the shelf was a single volume of Dante—Purgatory.

  Twenty-nine

  Marta sat on the garden bench, a small volume in her hands. She looked up from her reading as I approached.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Oh, Lorenzo. I don’t know. I’m still in shock, I think.” She gestured for me to sit next to her. I longed to take her in my arms, but I was unsure of her reaction, so I took her hand. To my relief, she did not pull it away.

  “Has there been any news about Valentin’s killer?” she asked.

  “No, nothing yet. And the killer has struck again. Early yesterday morning, he murdered another priest from the cathedral.”

  She shuddered. “Who is doing these horrible things?” she asked. “Why would anyone wish to kill Valentin? It makes no sense. I just don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “But I am certain that in the killer’s mind, what he is doing makes perfect sense.”

  She said nothing. I glanced at the book she was holding.

  “Ah, you are reading Shakespeare,” I said. “I’ve read that one.”

  She put the book by her side. “I hoped a comedy might cheer me,” she said. “But even the tinkers and the fairies cannot take my mind off Valentin.”

  We sat quietly for a few long moments.

  “Have you given any thought to what you will do next?” I asked.

  She sighed. “I spent all of my money to travel here to be with Valentin,” she said. “I know now that was foolish of me. I just don’t know what I will do.”

  “Stay here,” I said. “Stay with me.”

  “Are you proposing to marry me, Lorenzo?” she asked softly.

  Was I? I didn’t know if I would ever be able to free myself from the bonds of the church and marry. I simply knew that I wanted her by my side, forever. “I’ve been ordained as a priest,” I said. “Marriage in the church might be impossible for us. But I want
to take care of you, for as long as you’ll have me. We could find a small apartment, perhaps out here, or even in the city if you would like. I send a lot of money to my father to help him educate my stepbrothers, but I could cut that back. Lately I’ve been turning down commissions, so I’d have time to write poetry, but I can take on more work.”

  She put a finger on my lip. “Please, Lorenzo. I don’t know. Perhaps I should go home to Venice.”

  “I want to be with you, Marta,” I said.

  “I don’t know, Lorenzo. I need to think. Have you considered returning to Venice?”

  I shook my head. “I cannot return. I was banished eight years ago for my political writings. If I go back before my fifteen-year sentence elapses, I will be thrown in prison.”

  She made no reply.

  “But I could be happy here in Vienna with you,” I said. “And I would do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  “I must think,” she said. “I need time, Lorenzo. Time to grieve for Valentin, and for my dreams of living out my life here in Vienna as his wife.”

  “I understand,” I said stiffly. I made a show of pulling out my watch and checking the time. “I did not realize it was so late,” I said. “I must go. I have a rehearsal at the theater.” I stood and started toward the door of the house.

  “Lorenzo, please,” Marta cried after me. “Do not let us part like this.”

  I turned back to her. “When you are ready, you know where to find me, Marta,” I said. I hurried in the door and upstairs to retrieve my satchel.

  * * *

  “‘There’s no pity for the likes of you!’” Luisa Laschi, dressed in the costume of a peasant girl, screamed as she pulled Francesco Benucci onto the stage by his hair. She waved a foot-long razor in her other hand.

  The baritone, playing the role of Don Giovanni’s manservant, who had just been caught trying to seduce a young woman while disguised as his master, held up quivering hands. “‘Then you mean to cut off—’”

  “‘Yes!’” Laschi cried. “‘I’ll cut off your hair, then your head, and then I’ll carve out your heart and your eyes!’”