Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  “Surely, I am allowing my suspicions to run away with me,” Haydn completed the thought with a faint smile. His brother looked mortified. It would not be the first time, but there had been reason enough when he had suspected his violinist of a nefarious act. And there was reason enough now.

  “Then allow me to explain. My suspicions are not entirely groundless. Herr Anwalt appears to have been the only person old Wilhelm Dietrich knew who was convinced he possessed all of Monteverdi’s operatic music, even those long held to be lost. Quite likely he guessed at the nature of the bequest. And he knew, in all likelihood, where the scores were kept—in a chest of walnut wood inlaid with ivory.”

  “And his motive in all this?” Johann still sounded skeptical.

  Haydn lifted his palms up. “It was the attempted robbery that convinced Kaspar his bequest was valuable—dangerously so, in fact. So dangerous that he was, when we met him, still considering entrusting them to his lawyer.

  “At that point, what could be easier than for Herr Anwalt to take the original scores and replace them with an assortment of old music of relatively little value? My examination would merely have confirmed what everyone suspected: that the old merchant was mistaken in the worth of the scores he had been duped into buying.”

  Johann frowned. “The robbery was never meant to succeed, then?”

  “Precisely so. The robbers were most inadequately armed; and the lawyer quite suspiciously well-prepared.”

  “But Herr Anwalt does not appear to be the only person desirous of getting his hands on Kaspar’s bequest. That physician he mentioned—when the Empress informed us her source was a man of medicine too, I could not but wonder whether it was the same person who had approached Kaspar.”

  Haydn nodded gravely. “And there is the music scholar,” he mused. “The only question is whether they are working alone or in concert with the lawyer. For all my suspicions, it never occurred to me that one of them might be desperate enough to commit murder.” He shook his head, clenching and unclenching his fists. “If it had, Kaspar might still be alive now.”

  “Recriminations serve no purpose, brother.” Johann’s voice was gentle. “It is not your fault he is dead.” He leaned forward, clasping his brother’s hand for a brief moment before letting go. “Once the Police Inspector is informed of the facts, Kaspar’s killer will soon be brought to justice. And as for the music, at least Amelie will want for nothing.”

  * * *

  Rosalie laced her arms firmly through the stout handles of her heavy shopping baskets and began to carefully weave her way out of the Neuer Markt. The cobblestone square was lined with stalls, forcing her to move at snail’s pace.

  “What can the police guards be thinking of to allow such goings-on?” A woman under one of the brightly colored awnings was gesticulating fiercely, the loaf of bread in her hands swinging up and down in a wide arc that almost hit Rosalie on the head.

  The maid stepped adroitly aside, swinging her baskets out of the way. God forbid the eggs she had just bought should break or the cream spill over. But the mention of the police had caught her attention, and she slowed down even further to hear what she could.

  “And the Hofburg not over a mile away,” the fishmonger in the next stall agreed with the first woman, her voice carrying over the hubbub of people haggling over vegetables, meat, and cheese.

  Rosalie drew her baskets closer to her side. It was to avoid talk such as this that she had decided against going to the Hoher Markt or the Bauern Markt, but news of the killing must have spread all the way to this part of town. She wondered again who the murdered man was.

  The household had already been in uproar. The discovery that there were barely enough eggs for the chocolate torte ordered for the evening meal, not to mention the delicate concoctions of orange-scented cream Her Serene Highness favored had put the head steward in quite a state.

  But the news of a murder—of a member of the orchestra, no doubt, or why had Herr Haydn been sent for? And where was Herr Tomasini, for that matter?—so close to the fashionable district had alarmed both the musicians and the servants to no small degree.

  Rosalie edged past the carriages and carts crowding the streets leading into the market. Why, even the usually stolid Clara Schwann had balked at the idea of crossing the Kohlmarkt to get to Her Serene Highness’s bank. Only Frau Dichtler, appearing oddly run-down and irritable, was unaffected by the news.

  “Oh, for heavens’ sake! What is there to fear—in broad daylight and in my presence, no less? It is not as though any one of us is in the habit of consorting with persons of ill-repute and frequenting wine taverns at all hours of the night. Do get a move on, Clara!”

  “CLARA!”

  Rosalie was almost near the Graben when an ear-piercing screech assailed her ears. Recognizing Frau Dichtler’s voice, she pushed her way through the throng. The singer stood at the head of the road, a petrified Clara by her side.

  “What is it?” Rosalie gasped, pushing her way toward Her Serene Highness’s maid. “What has happened?”

  A police guard with bristly brown hair had come up to the women and was asking the same question.

  “Th-the Princess’s jewels—” Clara gestured helplessly toward a boy in a threadbare shirt fleeing past the crowd in the direction of the markets to the north.

  “Snatched right out of our hands.” Frau Dichtler stood with her hands on her hips. “Run after the rogue, Clara. You cannot expect me to do it in my gown.”

  “Here, let me.” Rosalie began to set her baskets on the ground, but the police guard, having spotted the boy, was already giving chase. He soon returned with both the boy and the jewelry case.

  “Hand it back! Now!” He issued a hard cuff to the young thief’s ear. “It is all in order, I hope, Madam?” The guard turned toward Frau Dichtler, inclining his head solicitously.

  The singer opened the case and briefly inspected its contents before thrusting it into Clara’s hands. “It is indeed, Officer—?” She arched a playful eyebrow in his direction.

  “Poldi at your service, Madam!” the police guard responded with a slight bow.

  “Well, we had best be off to the bank, then, Clara”—the singer began to march forward, not deigning to glance back at the maid—“now that we have dilly-dallied to your heart’s content.”

  “But Her Serene Highness’s necklace, it was stolen in Leopoldsdorf, wasn’t it, Frau Schwann?” Rosalie tugged at the other maid’s arm.

  “No it was not.” Clara whispered back to Rosalie’s surprise and pulled her arm free.

  * * *

  It was late morning by the time Haydn and his brother were ushered into the Police Inspector’s office: a large, sunny room, far more cheerfully decorated than one would expect of a guard house with a prison. The Inspector, a man of medium height, rose from behind a capacious walnut wood desk and surveyed his visitors through piercing blue-gray eyes.

  “I take it you knew the man found in the Tuchlauben this morning, Herr Haydn.” The Inspector indicated the comfortable chairs upholstered in the same shade of Prussian blue as the intricate pattern on the soft tufted carpet.

  “Wilhelm Kaspar, a violinist,” he pronounced, glancing down at a slim dossier on his desk. “We cannot release the body, you understand. The cause of death is plainly evident, but”—he shrugged apologetically—“under the rules, the circumstances in which the dead man was found necessitate a full postmortem.”

  Haydn glanced at Johann, unsure how to broach the subject now that he was in the Inspector’s presence. “The police guards, we are told, suspect nothing more sinister than a casual robbery.”

  The Police Inspector drummed his fingers on his desk. “Your Konzertmeister did make his suspicions known to us.”

  He sighed.

  “I hardly know where to begin, Herr Haydn. Your friend was bludgeoned to death, a manner of attack usual among the thieves that beset this city at night. The pistols they carry only serve to frighten. They would scarcely risk the
noise of a shot. The blast of the discharge would reverberate through the streets. Besides, what common thief would know enough about music to want to steal a bundle of old scores?”

  “The very same thieves who attacked his carriage the night Kaspar inherited his bequest,” Haydn replied, his tone grim. “They were not after money, but—”

  “The chest. Yes, your Konzertmeister did mention it.” The Police Inspector ran a harried hand through his brown hair. “But only consider, gentlemen, chests such as those commonly hold precious jewels and bank notes. What thief would want a few paltry gulden when faced with a treasure such as one would expect to find in a chest?”

  Johann leaned forward. “There is sufficient evidence to suggest the thieves knew both the nature of the bequest and of its considerable value.”

  “No matter how valuable your friend’s bequest, whom could they sell it to? What pawnshop does traffic in old manuscripts?” The Inspector clapped his hand on the dossier. “The facts speak for themselves, gentlemen.”

  “True enough.” Haydn had not considered the difficulty the thieves would face fencing the scores. But then he had never thought the thieves were acting on their own behalf. “They must have been hired by someone.”

  “Someone who could just as easily have ordered them to break into your friend’s house,” the Inspector retorted. He began to drum his fingers on his desk again. “If the attack on him was intentional, it can only have been by someone known to him.”

  He pulled a cord hanging from the wall behind him. “The dead man’s effects, if you please,” he barked at the guard who entered the office.

  “We found a note in your friend’s pocket—crumpled and mostly torn, but the words we could decipher along with his servant’s testimony indicate they were sent by someone he knew well.”

  Haydn stared at the Inspector. They were at least in agreement that the thieves had been hired to attack Kaspar. Whether by a friend or a more casual acquaintance only time would tell. “Then, you will investigate the possibility—”

  “No, Herr Haydn.” The Inspector shook his head emphatically. “I have not the resources to investigate that aspect of the matter. The Emperor wishes the robbers brought to heel. Our efforts must be concentrated on that task, although I greatly doubt we will succeed. I can promise nothing more than this: If the robbers are apprehended, you may question them yourself regarding this affair.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What is the matter, Frau Schwann?” Rosalie’s violet eyes, shrouded in concern, rested on the sturdily built lady’s maid. Every member of the palace staff had risen to go about their work, but Clara Schwann still sat slouched over her meal at the servants’ dining table.

  If she had heard Rosalie, she gave no sign of it, staring morosely into her bowl of beef noodle soup instead. She had barely touched it. What could be so amiss?

  Something to do with Frau Dichtler, Rosalie was willing to wager. The singer had stomped into the palace shortly before the afternoon meal. And Frau Schwann, looking oddly deflated, had trailed despondently behind her.

  “The necklace…” Rosalie hazarded. How it could be that, she did not know. But what else could it be?

  “Colored glass and paste, according to the bank manager.” Clara raised a pair of dull gray eyes toward her. “So cleverly fashioned, it fooled us all. Why, the clerk even held the necklace up to the light, and the stones blazed as though they were genuine sapphires and diamonds. But Herr Strasser had only to touch them to know they were paste.”

  “He could have been mistaken?” Rosalie hoped for Clara’s sake that was the case, but it was unlikely the bank manager would have been mistaken about such a thing.

  Clara shook her head. “Herr Strasser says paste feels warmer to the touch than real gemstones. He even tried rubbing an edge of one of the stones against a glass case. It made not a single scratch.”

  Rosalie brushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. “It was never lost in Leopoldsdorf, then, was it?” Frau Dichtler might have mentioned that. After all the fuss she’d made over the matter, too. Sending them out into the cold like that!

  “Yes, it was.” Clara nodded miserably. “That is why I was so surprised to see it back. But when I examined the stones, there was no doubt about it. Each stone had the tiny black mark Her Serene Highness had the jeweler place on it.”

  “B-but you said…” Rosalie’s eyes crinkled in confusion. She took a deep breath. “But you said just this morning the necklace wasn’t stolen.” She tried to prevent an accusatory tone creeping into her voice, but it swelled in indignation, nevertheless.

  “It was the fake necklace that was lost. Her Serene Highness insisted on carrying the real thing herself—concealed in her foot warmer. A trick she learned from an English lady at court this past winter.”

  “Ach so!” Rosalie’s eyes widened in appreciation at this strategy. “I did think it odd that Her Serene Highness should be so unconcerned about the necklace. She was more put out at losing her trinket box. But”—she frowned—“when was it exchanged for the original, then?”

  “When that little ragamuffin stole it from me this morning,” Clara declared, thrusting her lips out defiantly. “It was genuine enough when I set out this morning with Frau Dichtler. I examined it myself. Her Serene Highness has taught me how to recognize the marks the jeweler inscribed on the paste stones.”

  “But the little rascal had no opportunity to open the case,” Rosalie objected. “Why, the police guard took off after him almost as soon as he snatched the case out of your hand.”

  “Well, I had no opportunity to take it either, if that is what you’re implying.” Clara glared at Rosalie. “And, why would I? I have been with Her Serene Highness from the time she was married.”

  “It isn’t what I was suggesting at all, Frau Schwann,” Rosalie cried, mortified at having unwittingly offended the lady’s maid.

  “Well, it is what that dratted Frau Dichtler has been suggesting! I have never seen Her Serene Highness look so displeased. First, the paste necklace in Leopoldsdorf. Now this. If anything else goes missing, I can say goodbye to my post!”

  * * *

  The gray building just past the enormous fountain of yellow marble that stood in the middle of the Kohlmarkt was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Haydn gave the brass numbers above the door a fleeting glance before he pushed it open to let himself and Johann in.

  A steep, narrow staircase led them up to Kaspar’s apartment on the third floor, high enough to escape the dust that constantly rose from the city’s streets, but too close to the attic to be entirely desirable.

  The black paneled door stood slightly ajar. Through it Haydn could see beyond the hallway into the parlor where the distraught widow was seated by the fireplace. His fingers closed on the heavy brass door handle and lifted it, but before he could let it fall, a slim male figure standing with his back to the door turned around.

  “It is Herr Haydn!” Albrecht rushed to greet them. “Is…?” Albrecht’s voice rising in question, faltered. He looked beyond Johann’s shoulder toward the staircase.

  “Unfortunately not.” Johann had divined the substance of the young man’s question. “We were able to retrieve his effects”—he followed the young man into the parlor—“but until a thorough postmortem is conducted—”

  “It is a mere formality, nothing more,” Haydn interjected hastily, seeing Amelie’s tear-filled, wide eyes staring at them in consternation.

  Kaspar’s widow nodded silently, her lips tightly compressed. A much-wrinkled handkerchief of gray cambric, clutched between nervous, white fingers, lay across her knees.

  “We have his purse,” Johann began, holding out a small pouch of scuffed black leather. “And the—”

  “It is unfortunately empty.” Haydn stared at his brother, imperceptibly shaking his head. Far kinder to allow Amelie to think her husband’s death was an accident rather than a deliberate attempt on his life. Besides, he wished to examine the note more closel
y.

  Amelie reached out for the purse, her fingers mechanically smoothening out the faded leather.

  “His keys.” She cleared her throat and twisted her neck to look up at Haydn. “He would not have left without them.”

  “His keys?” Haydn repeated, his eyes fixed on the widow. Her beauty had never been striking, but traces of it still remained in her smooth, unlined features. Their excessive pallor was the only mark her illness had left on her. “Do you mean the keys to the apartment?” There was surely no reason for the thieves to take those, unless—

  “And the ones to his bureau.” Amelie’s eyes gravitated toward where Albrecht stood by the mahogany bureau, tugging at the ornate handles of its drawers. “Kaspar insisted on keeping them close at hand.”

  Albrecht had by now succeeded in pulling the writing flap down. “It is unlocked!” His forehead creased into a puzzled furrow. “Could Kaspar have been in such a hurry that he forgot to lock the flap? The drawers are open, too.”

  “No.” Amelie shook her head vehemently. “No, Kaspar would never forget to lock his bureau. It is quite unlike him.” She pushed herself forward in her agitation, turning to look at each of the three men in turn. “Quite unlike him!” she repeated. “What can it mean?”

  Haydn gripped the marble mantelpiece, unwilling to let his mind dwell on precisely what the unlocked bureau meant. From where he stood he could see the tiny marks around the lock on the writing flap. The thieves had wasted no time. No time at all!

  “There is a locksmith down the road.” Albrecht came forward. “It might be best—”

  “Yes, indeed,” Haydn agreed, feeling in his coat pocket for a few gulden to cover the young man’s expenses. He followed Albrecht to the door.

  “But surely it is quite unnecessary.” Amelie dabbed the corners of her mouth with her wrinkled handkerchief, her bewildered gaze following Haydn. She gestured vaguely around the room. “There is nothing here to tempt a thief.”