by Nupur Tustin
“Yes, but it was not the first time he had spoken of it,” Haydn pointed out. “And always in a tavern,” he continued, recalling his father-in-law’s words.
“Always in his cups, you mean?” The Konzertmeister spoke slowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in surprise.
Haydn nodded. Could the bequest be genuine, after all? Old Wilhelm Dietrich, it appeared, had only spoken of it when inebriated, keeping his own counsel at other times. Still…
He glanced up sharply, struck by a thought. “How strange that he should speak of it so openly with you, a man he had just met, but refer to it in such veiled terms in his will.”
* * *
“I might have known you would wheedle His Serene Highness into a trip to Vienna.”
Maria Anna stood at the parlor door, wiping her hands on her apron. It was a room rarely used, but Haydn and Johann had been banished to it that evening; the kitchen out of bounds until the evening meal had been prepared.
Haydn glanced up from the fortepiano but said nothing. It would be in vain, he knew, to protest that their impending visit to Vienna had nothing to do with him.
Maria Anna appeared not to have noticed his silence. “We have barely returned to Eisenstadt,” she grumbled, coming into the room, “and now I must gather together all our possessions once again that you may satisfy your desire to see Therese.”
His desire to see Therese? Haydn swiveled around on the leather bench, quite unaware of the note he was forcefully holding down. He released it, recalled to the fact by his younger brother’s pained expression directed at the keyboard.
“It is at Her Majesty’s request and His Serene Highness’s express command that I travel to Vienna, Maria Anna.” Did his wife’s contrariness know no bounds? It was but yesterday she had wished herself in Vienna.
“We do not travel until the day after tomorrow, sister-in-law,” Johann gently reminded her. “I would be quite happy to help with your preparations. And I am sure brother Joseph will do all he can to ease your task as well.”
Maria Anna sniffed. “Well, I am glad of it. It is not that I would not like to see Therese myself.” She stood near Johann, her slim form and dark curls reminding Haydn of her younger sister. “And any opportunity to go beyond the confines of this little town is not to be scoffed at.”
She sat down with another sniff. “Still, I can only hope you will remember that she is married to the Lord now.”
“And that I am married to her sister,” Haydn muttered, oblivious to his wife’s feelings. “It is not something any man could easily forget.” He would not have uttered the words had she not goaded him so.
Maria Anna frowned, but Johann interjected to soften the dissonance between them before she could respond: “Frau Dichtler was none too happy at the prospect of traveling to Vienna. She must have thought your absence would excuse her from rehearsals.”
“Ah, yes! The idea seems to have irked her more than one could imagine.” Haydn’s lips stretched into a broad smile at the recollection. “She had hoped, in truth, to send her husband out of the way to enjoy a dalliance with the Estates Director.”
Maria Anna, about to leave the room, turned back. “Why would she need her husband out of the way just for that purpose? His presence never seems to deter her from throwing herself at every man she sees. His own behavior is just as reprehensible.
“Why you hired the pair of them, I shall never know.” She left the room, head held high.
“A dalliance with the Estates Director?” Johann remarked once Maria Anna had left the room. “Surely Rahier—”
“He approached me himself this morning to beg a leave of absence for her husband. It is ostensibly to allow Fritz Dichtler to evaluate some music Rahier wishes to purchase.”
An amused twinkle appeared in Johann’s eyes. “He might have come up with a story more plausible than that. I would not have thought anyone quite so hard-headed as the Estates Director would allow himself to be played for a fool in that manner.”
* * *
Rosalie huddled within the warmth of her loden cape and peered out into the darkness. The carriage was turning off Wienerstrasse onto Himbergerstrasse, the coachman prodding the horses into a quick trot. They had been on the road for more hours than she could count, plodding down roads that were little more than potholed tracks of mud after the previous night’s downpour.
Beside her, Greta stirred. “When do we get to Vienna?” she mumbled, brushing away a strand of blond hair from her eyes.
“We are in Leopoldsdorf,” Rosalie whispered, casting a guarded glance at Her Serene Highness’s maid sitting opposite her, head lolling back; the low, steady rumble of her snore punctuating the silence that reigned within the carriage.
“In a little over an hour, then.” Greta stretched out her pudgy arms. “Thank heaven for that! My limbs are sore from sitting for so long.” She glanced out the window. “Rustenfeldgasse? We are not lost, are we?”
Rosalie shook her head. “The horses can go no farther. And His Serene Highness thinks it unsafe to continue on in the dark. We are to stop at the Gasthof Obermayr, and resume our journey tomorrow.”
The carriage turned onto Gärtnergasse and slowed to a halt before the large wooden gates of an inn. The Princess’s coach had driven through and was standing in the courtyard.
“Frau Schwann. Clara!” Rosalie reached over to nudge the Princess’s maid. When the woman failed to stir, Rosalie shook her more vigorously. “Wake up, Frau Schwann!”
“She sleeps like the dead, our Clara.” Frau Dichtler’s ringing tones at the carriage window startled both maids. “It doesn’t surprise me. She would insist on adding an entire packet of sleeping powder to her decoction of valerian root at our last stop.”
She turned toward the maids with a dazzling smile. “Well, I shall simply have to take Clara’s place tonight. Her Serene Highness is in need of her headache powders. You will help me, won’t you?”
Rosalie exchanged a glance with Greta. “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, Madam,” she began, fumbling at the carriage door. But Frau Dichtler had already stepped around to the back of the carriage where the Princess’s belongings and her own were secured.
“A-A-Ah!” Frau Dichtler’s piercing screech reached the maids’ ears, startling them both.
“What is it?” Rosalie cried, hurrying toward the back of the carriage with Greta following on her heels.
Frau Dichtler stood before an untidy heap of boxes and cases loosely secured with rope. One hand pressed a handkerchief to her lips, while the other held up the frayed edges of the rope.
“My enamel trinket box! It is gone. And small wonder. Just look at this!” She held the rope out toward Rosalie. “What was Clara thinking to have allowed the boy to use such an old, worn length of rope?”
Rosalie quietly took the rope and inspected it.
“And where is Her Serene Highness’s walnut medicine case?” the singer continued. “Fallen by the wayside, too, by the looks of it.”
Greta frowned. “Well, that is odd! Frau Schwann examined the rope herself at our last stop. It was stout enough, then. And it was under her careful eye that the stable boy secured the cases.”
Rosalie pulled out what remained of the rope and stuffed it in her apron pocket. “It still seems stout enough for the most part.” She pointed to the brown fibers of hemp still clinging to some of the travel cases on the outside of the pile. “It cannot have frayed too long ago.”
The soprano’s face lit up. “Then, there is still hope for my little trinket box! Oh, do take a lantern”—she gestured to the innkeeper, who stood waiting hesitantly, to come forward— “and see if you can find it. With any luck, the wretched thing frayed just as we were making our way to the inn.
“Your lamp, if you please, my good man,” she continued, taking the lantern from the innkeeper’s hands and giving it to Greta.
Greta’s fingers closed reluctantly around the brass lantern handle.
“I suppose
we can look around for a bit.” She sounded disgruntled. “I don’t see as there’s much hope of us finding anything. Still, no harm in looking. Not as though we had anything better to do,” she muttered under her breath.
* * *
Haydn sat at the small walnut wood secretary in the larger of the two rooms assigned to him at the Gasthof Obermayr. Maria Anna, complaining of a headache, had already retired to bed. He read over the note he had hastily scribbled to Wilhelm Kaspar, sealed it, and hurried down the stairs in search of the mail coach.
The yellow-and-black carriage with its team of four horses harnessed for departure was visible through the stable doors. Haydn stepped inside and looked curiously around. But the postilion who had promised to ride over to the Esterházy city palace on Wallnerstrasse and to Kaspar’s residence in the Kohlmarkt was nowhere to be found.
Hearing muted voices, he squeezed past the coach only to find the postilion leaning against one of the stalls with Frau Dichtler’s form pressed close to his muscular frame. Haydn rolled his eyes. God in heaven! Was no man safe from the woman’s attentions?
He was about to turn around, but his foot rustled against the straw strewn on the stone floor, causing the singer to turn sharply around.
“Herr Haydn!” Frau Dichtler appeared none too pleased to see the Kapellmeister. “I was just delivering His Serene Highness’s letter to this good man, here.” She glided up to him. “But what brings you here?” Her lips curved into a smile. “Away from your wife?”
“An errand very similar to yours,” Haydn replied, reaching beyond her to hand the letter and two guldens to the young postilion. “It is the gray building beyond the fountain. Third floor,” he continued, relieved to see Frau Dichtler pick up her skirts to leave.
She was waiting beside Her Serene Highness’s carriage, her back to the stable, when he returned to the courtyard. He quietly hurried into the inn, head bent low, hoping she would not turn around.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shortly afterward, Haydn stepped out into the inn garden where his brother and Konzertmeister awaited him. He stood near the door, a mug of fine ale in his hand, allowing his eyes to adjust to the evening gloom as he inhaled deeply. The air, damp and agreeably cool against his cheeks, savored so strongly of Vienna, he smiled.
The aroma of coffee mingled pleasantly with the fumes of wines and beers. The faint, appetizing smell of sausages, cooked hours earlier, still hung in the air. He could even detect the stench of steaming horses, always slow to dissipate in the close city atmosphere.
He spotted Luigi and Johann at last, seated on gnarled tree stumps around a wooden table, and made his way over to them.
Luigi grinned up at him as he approached. “You have the persecuted look of one who has just met our lovely soprano!”
“She was in the stables,” Haydn replied with a shudder. “Favoring the mail-coach postilion with her attentions.”
“We are to meet Kaspar tomorrow, then?” Johann enquired as Haydn lowered himself onto the tree stump next to him.
Haydn nodded. “At the Seizerkeller. If Frau Dichtler allows the mail coach to leave on time, Kaspar will receive my letter within the hour.”
“The Seizerkeller!” Luigi’s face had brightened at the mention of the wine tavern situated on the Tuchlauben. “You could not have chosen a better place, Joseph. The wine there is the finest in all of Vienna. Besides, that is where I met Kaspar’s uncle.”
“When he recounted that improbable story to you?” Johann took a sip of his ale and wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It may not be so very improbable after all. The few hours I spent at the Prince’s library before we set out convinced me of that.” Haydn contemplated the clear amber fluid in his mug.
“Cremona was the great master’s birthplace. There was indeed a monk—a canon of the Congregation of San Salvatore—Giovanni Artusi, who took great exception to the new musical style Monteverdi favored.”
“To the extent that he had the great master’s manuscripts stolen?” Johann’s voice rose to such a degree of skepticism, Haydn found himself doubting the veracity of what he had read.
He raised his head. “Monteverdi was waylaid on one of his journeys to Venice. Attacked by brigands.” The journals His Serene Highness’s grandfather had kept of his travels in Italy, and the memoirs he had acquired, had been most instructive.
“Like Kaspar?” Luigi asked.
Haydn nodded. “What I cannot understand,” he continued, his mind returning to a detail that continued to perplex him, “is why the old merchant should have chosen to speak so freely on the subject to you, Luigi.”
“You knew of Kaspar’s bequest, then?” Johann turned toward Luigi, curiosity lending his voice a sharper edge.
“He said nothing of his intention to bequeath the music to Kaspar.” Luigi’s gaze drifted toward the hydrangea tree in the middle of the garden and rested contemplatively on its white blooms. “The topic of the music itself came up quite casually as I recall. I had mentioned my travels in Italy—Cremona, in particular. Naturally, the conversation turned to Monteverdi.”
The Konzertmeister looked at Haydn, his hands spread wide. “I cannot recall very much more than what I have already told you, Joseph. It had been a long evening. The wine was particularly excellent. And by the time we spoke, I had indulged myself a little too freely in it.”
“But you believed his story?” Haydn persisted.
“To tell you the truth, no! What man could believe it? That a monk, no less, would arrange to have all of his rival’s music stolen?” Luigi threw his hands up in the air, turning from Haydn to Johann.
“But when I said as much, Wilhelm Dietrich informed me he had met the great-grandson of the very brigand who had stolen the music at gunpoint. That he had seen the scores with his very own eyes.”
“But not that he had bought them?” Haydn leaned forward.
The question appeared to startle Luigi. “Well, not in so many words…” He frowned. “I suppose not. I must have assumed he had when we learned of Kaspar’s bequest.” He stared at Haydn. “But surely, it is just a detail, Joseph.”
Haydn flushed, conscious of the inquisitive stares his companions were directing at him. “It occurred to me…”
He paused. It was such an unlikely supposition, it would be ridiculous to share it. Besides it was pointless to speculate until he had examined the music for himself. If anything, what he had learnt simply confirmed it was genuine.
“It is nothing. I was merely curious, that is all.”
* * *
“Just as I thought,” Greta grumbled, holding the lamp high. “There is nothing to be found here.”
The maids had retraced their path as far back as Himbergerstrasse, scrutinizing every bump and pothole on the road leading to the inn but had found no trace of either a trinket box or a medicine case.
“Let us turn back,” Greta said again, but Rosalie took no notice. She continued on a few paces down Himbergerstrasse instead, head turning right and left as she slowly made her way down the road.
“Whatever possessed you to tell that woman the rope had been recently torn?” Greta reluctantly followed her friend down the road.
She held the lamp grudgingly before her, illuminating the dark puddles of water, the ruts worn deep into the surface of the road, and the muddied impressions of horses’ hooves and coach wheels that Rosalie was intent on inspecting.
“We would not be on this fool’s errand, if you had not mentioned it.”
Rosalie turned around. “The rope did not fray on its own, Greta.” She took the cord out of her pocket and held it out. “See how neatly torn the edge is.”
Greta frowned, turning the rope over in her hand. “Deliberately cut, then. But when and by whom? We may not have been going above six miles, but no one could have climbed on to the back of the carriage to cut the rope. And for a medicine case, no less.”
Rosalie shrugged. “Or, someone may have cut through some of
the fibers, knowing the rope would eventually give way. And the smaller cases would fall to the roadside for anyone to find. We know not what else might be missing.”
“Well in that case, let us go on a little farther and see what we can find.” Greta led the way down the street. But when they had gone a mile down the road and still found nothing, she was forced to admit defeat. “I suppose we had best turn back then. It is too far to walk all the way to Wienerstrasse.”
The yellow-and-black mail coach was just setting out from the inn when Rosalie and Greta returned. They stood by to let it trundle past. The coachman, a heavily bearded, ruffianly-looking chap winked broadly at them as he drove past.
Frau Dichtler was still standing by their carriage when they entered the courtyard, arms crossed, left foot impatiently tapping the cobblestones.
“Ah, there you are!” The soprano came forward. “Where could you have been this entire time?”
Rosalie and Greta exchanged a glance. “Your trinket box and the medicine case…” Rosalie began.
The singer waved an airy hand in the general direction of the carriage. “All here. Nothing is missing. You were not looking for those trifles all this time were you?”
She led the way to the back of the carriage. “Well, come along then. We must carry Her Serene Highness’s things up to her room. I can’t do it all by myself, you know.”
The next hour was spent carrying boxes and cases of varying sizes up a wide red-carpeted staircase under Frau Dichtler’s direction. Two stable boys had already dragged the Princess’s heavily built, still-slumbering maid, Clara, up the back stairs to her room. Rosalie and Greta were carrying the last of the travel cases down the hallway toward Her Serene Highness’s room when Frau Dichtler burst out of it.
“Her Serene Highness’s trinket box!” she gasped. “You haven’t seen it, have you?” She glanced at each maid in turn. “An enamel-coated box painted with delicate blue flowers?”
“It is the exact replica of the one Elsa—Frau Dichtler— has,” Her Serene Highness called from within the room. “Not lost, is it?”