by Nupur Tustin
“A previous attempt was made on the necklace?” Poldi’s voice rose, outrage competing with disbelief. “This very necklace?”
Clara merely nodded, but Frau Dichtler leaned forward, tapping a slender finger urgently on the low table between herself and the maid. “The very same, Officer. The very same, I am afraid.” She paused to look at the maid before turning back to the police guard.
“By great good fortune, Her Serene Highness had the forethought not to entrust the genuine article to her maid. So the item stolen was a fake. It fell by the wayside”—the soprano glanced at the maid again—“or so we are led to believe.”
She briefly recounted the circumstances to the police guard. “But the maids I sent out to retrieve it found nothing.”
“Or so they said!”
Rosalie straightened up, barely able to restrain the gasp of indignation that threatened to explode from her lips at the police officer’s remark.
Greta, impatient as always, was not quite so cautious. “Of all the—” But Rosalie hurriedly stuffed a handkerchief into her friend’s mouth to stifle the furiously muttered words. She shook her head, holding a forefinger to her lips. It would never do for them to be discovered before they’d even had an opportunity to hear the entire conversation.
“All three acting together, I am sure,” Poldi continued, fortunately oblivious to the consternation his earlier remark had caused. “She”—he jerked his chin toward Clara—“could hardly have stolen the necklace if she was asleep the whole time.”
“So sound asleep, the devil himself could not have woken her!” The soprano gave a disapproving shake of her head.
“Why would I steal a fake necklace?” Clara asked in a heated tone, raising her head. Her eyes began to widen at the sight of the two maids at the door. But at a signal from Rosalie, she hastily withdrew her gaze before either Poldi or Frau Dichtler could detect anything amiss.
“Who else knew about the fake necklace?” Poldi’s voice was stern.
“There was no reason for anyone but Her Serene Highness and myself to know of it.” Clara kept her head held high, then threw the soprano a pointed glance before continuing: “So you see, I could not have stolen it.”
“No?” Poldi enquired softly, drawing out the syllable. “And did Her Serene Highness examine the necklace as carefully as you did every time she took it out to wear it?”
Clara looked puzzled. “No. Why should she? She knows I am as capable as she of examining the marks on it. She taught me herself.”
“Trusts you as much as that, does she, then?” Poldi murmured.
“B-b-but,” Frau Dichtler stammered, turning from the police guard to the maid, “it makes no sense. What possible reason could she have to purloin an item she knew to be fake?”
Poldi leaned back against the wide chintz-covered splat of his chair. “What her reasons might be, I cannot say, Madam. But to make a second attempt on the necklace, the thief, or thieves, would have had to know of the existence of the genuine article. How else could they have come by that knowledge?”
“Oh!” Frau Dichtler clapped a slender hand to her mouth.
“To plan the event, moreover, there would have had to know to whom the necklace belonged. How could some stranger, chancing upon a trinket along the wayside, have obtained this information? How could such a person have been privy to the exact day and time you would set out for the bank with the original?”
Clara had turned whiter than the finest flour at the police guard’s relentless recital.
“Indeed!” Frau Dichtler kept her hand pressed over her mouth. “And how,” she continued in a hurry, “could they have known to which bank we were going? It was on Singerstrasse that the street urchin waylaid us. Oh, yes”—she sounded almost relieved at the explanation—“I see now.” She turned toward Clara. “It all points to—”
“The involvement of someone on the inside.” Poldi stared at Clara, whose cheeks had crumpled by this time. “The facts speak for themselves, Madam.”
Rosalie retreated from the parlor door. “It doesn’t look too good for our Frau Schwann, does it?”
Greta snorted. “The involvement of someone on the inside, that numbskull says. Why, it could have been anyone. We all know where Her Serene Highness banks, and it is no secret that Frau Schwann was to accompany that wretched woman to the bank with that very necklace.”
“Yes, but only Frau Schwann knew the necklace stolen in Leopoldsdorf was a paste replica of the real thing.” She reached out to grasp Greta’s plump hands. “They could arrest her, Greta—the mere suspicion of having staged a robbery would be grounds enough!”
* * *
The afternoon meal over, Papa Keller led Haydn and Johann into the parlor again. A luscious bowl of sun-ripened cherries and a steaming pot of coffee awaited them.
“From the tree you and our Therese were so fond of, Joseph,” Papa Keller said as the maid proffered the bowl to his guests. Drawing on his pipe, he turned toward Johann. “Oh, you should have seen them sitting together! How they would sing their lungs out!”
Haydn smiled, the memory drawing his gaze toward the open parlor window and the ancient cherry tree beyond. Rich burgundy clusters of fruit weighed down its boughs. A wooden bench stood against the scarred tree trunk. There Therese would sit, singing from the scores he procured for her from the bookseller at the Michaelerplatz while he played the simple obbligato accompaniment on his violin.
He reined his wandering mind in, forcing it to return to the present. The conversation had turned to Wilhelm Kaspar. The manner of his death had profoundly shocked the old gentleman.
“Killed for his bequest, you say.” Papa Keller drew deeply from his pipe, his heavy brows gathering together into a thick, stormy line of disquiet. “It was a parcel of music, was it not?” At Johann’s nod, he continued: “God help us all, it may be just as you say.”
Haydn was surprised. “Your opinion of its value has undergone a change, then?”
Papa Keller shook his head, still troubled. “No. But someone in this city seems to be intent on stealing music.” He tugged at the drooping ends of his walrus moustache before continuing. “Kaspar was set upon by thieves, you say. And of all the valuable manuscripts that scoundrel of a scribe could have taken from St. Nikolai, he chose to take an old work of music.”
Haydn looked up sharply. “It was a work of music that was stolen from Therese’s convent, but”—he glanced at Johann—“Therese made no mention of the fact.”
“Said nothing about it, you say!” The old gentleman looked astounded. “What in the name of heaven was she gabbing about then all this while? Was it for nothing that we had to content ourselves with cold fowl this afternoon?”
“In truth,” Johann intervened upon this tirade, “Sister Josepha had no opportunity to finish her tale. She was interrupted by the maid announcing the afternoon meal. And—”
“And here I am prattling away, while she waits.” Papa Keller rose to his feet. “I will bring her in directly.”
“I thought Therese said nothing was stolen,” Haydn mused as Papa Keller left the room.
Johann nodded. “Yet there was some suspicion of theft. Although”—his fingers fanned out, as though searching for any detail that could illuminate the matter—“on what grounds, if nothing was missing, I cannot fathom.”
“It was the very question I was about to put to her when the servant interrupted our conversation,” Haydn replied. Although, now quite another question occupied his mind.
What inexplicable traffic in music was causing the city’s thieves to direct their efforts toward procuring scores?
* * *
The sun was slightly past its zenith when Luigi eventually found himself at Wallnerstrasse. He had traveled to Baden and back, forced to break the unwelcome news of Kaspar’s demise to his widow. A task no man should have to deal with.
He could have dealt with a flood of tears, but Amelie’s pale, quiet reception of the news had unnerved him. He had despera
tely sought for words of comfort. But what words could ease the plight of a woman made destitute by her husband’s death? To offer money—the only thing that could help—seemed sordid.
Despite his discomfort, Luigi would have waited the entire day with her at the Kohlmarkt. But the fortuitous arrival of Kaspar’s young colleague, Albrecht, had relieved the Konzertmeister of his vigil. He had been most glad to return to his duties at the palace.
The musicians, to his relief, were still at their afternoon meal. He hurried up to the Music Room. Frau Dichtler had found Monteverdi’s Lament of Ariadne in a Book of Madrigals in the Prince’s library, and, much to Luigi’s dismay, insisted upon performing it for Her Serene Highness’s guests that evening.
What had stimulated this sudden interest in the great master’s madrigals, the Konzertmeister knew not. Ordinarily, he would have cursed the impulse that had led to it. The madrigal certainly could not be sung in its present form. And without Haydn or Johann to help, the task of modifying the work fell entirely upon him.
But now, seated at Haydn’s desk, dipping his pen into the silver inkwell to make the changes needed, Luigi welcomed the respite it afforded from the day’s events. It was not just that the five-part texture had to be reduced to a solo with basso continuo—He would have Niklas, the cellist, play the bass line while he himself improvised on the harpsichord. It would be much the easiest way of proceeding.
The lament had originally been written for Caterina Martinelli, a singer whose capabilities far exceeded Frau Dichtler’s. The piece would have to be greatly simplified to suit La Dichtler’s limited talents. He hoped to complete his work before Frau Dichtler burst through the door in her usual impetuous, hurricane-like manner.
But an hour later, Frau Dichtler, to his great astonishment, had still not shown her face. He waited a few more minutes, beginning to get annoyed. Where in the name of heaven was the blighted woman? He had succeeded in paring down the music to its barest essence, but the lament would not sing itself.
None of the musicians in the Rehearsal Room had seen her either.
“She went out this morning with Her Serene Highness’s maid,” Niklas, the cellist, offered.
“But she was back within the hour,” Lorenzo, the second violinist, said. “She has been known to spend time with the Estates Director”—Lorenzo’s eyes slid slyly over to where the Estates Director’s nephew sat—“Herr Rahier may perchance know of her whereabouts.”
Rahier’s nephew scowled at the other musician’s sly insinuation, but otherwise remained silent.
Luigi searched the room, brows drawn together, as though expecting La Dichtler to walk out of one of the closets. Finally, he closed the door and went down the stairs. The commotion in the circular entryway drew his eyes, but he curbed his curiosity and made his way down the hall toward the Estates Director’s rooms.
Frau Dichtler would have to be found if the evening’s entertainment had any hope of success. And from what Haydn had told him a few days back, the woman was most likely to be found in Herr Rahier’s arms.
The door to the Estates Director’s office was ajar, but there was no answer when Luigi rapped his knuckles on it. He waited a few minutes and knocked again. He put his ear to the door, but hearing no sound from within, gently pushed it open.
The room was empty. The Estates Director’s private rooms were just beyond the office. Luigi considered knocking on the door in the back wall, but the thought of seeing La Dichtler and Herr Rahier together was so distasteful, he turned back.
He edged past the Estates Director’s desk, holding a hand out to prevent the stack of papers precariously balanced on its edge from falling when his eye fell on the rolled newssheet at the top.
It was a copy of the Wienerisches Diarium. He reached out for it, turning it over in his hands as he inspected it. A name was scrawled in a sprawling hand across a small piece of paper rudely affixed to one corner.
Joseph Haydn!
What was the Estates Director doing with Haydn’s copy of the court newspaper?
Luigi unrolled the newspaper. The remnants of the seal on the wrapper indicated it had been sent from Haydn’s bookseller at Wiener Neustadt to the palace in Eisenstadt.
Was this the copy of the newspaper that had ostensibly never been delivered? Luigi stared blankly at the Diarium, his mission quite forgotten. Had Herr Rahier stolen Haydn’s newspaper? Why, in the name of heaven, had he done a thing like that?
CHAPTER TWELVE
They had been waiting for no more than a few minutes when Papa Keller ushered Therese into the room with a gruff: “Your sister has no need of your help, child. She has managed well enough without it these ten years.”
Therese allowed herself to be steered toward a parlor chair. She lowered herself onto the silk-embroidered seat, gently protesting all the while. “That it was a work of music is of no consequence, Papa. It would have been no better had it been a treatise of some sort.”
Smoothening the folds of her black habit, she turned toward Haydn. “The scores were entrusted to us by the nuns of St. Jakob auf der Hülben. Were the matter to become common knowledge, St. Nikolai would be accused of abject carelessness, at best; of engaging in commerce, at worst.”
She wrinkled her nose ruefully. “And I am afraid the Emperor, if he ever hears of the affair, will put the worst interpretation on it.”
“But why would the Emperor think your convent was engaging in commerce?” Johann enquired at the same time as Haydn asked: “Has the Abbess of St. Jakob threatened to make the matter known to the Emperor?”
“Ach, child! The devil could not have foxed two men more than you have Joseph and his brother with the telling of your tale,” Papa Keller admonished his offspring. “Start at the beginning, and be not so scatterbrained!”
Therese sighed, fingering her habit. When she spoke again, however, it was to respond to Haydn’s question. “The Abbess has made no threats, Joseph. She knows nothing of the matter. We ourselves had no knowledge of it until the bookseller we have regular dealings with brought us some music. Among the works were the songs from St. Jakob.”
“A work of some value, I take it?” Haydn interrupted the narrative. The nuns frequently composed their own music. But why, despite the rich polyphony of their compositions, should they hold any attraction for a thief?
“Not to the rest of the world, perhaps.” Therese’s slender shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug. “But to the nuns of St. Jakob, they hold some importance. They were written some seventy years ago by their Chormeisterin, Sister Mariana von Raschenau.”
She turned to smile at Johann. “It was a song from one of her works that I was singing when you arrived.”
“A most beautiful piece.” Johann returned her smile. “But why was her music sent to St. Nikolai?”
Haydn leaned forward, eager to hear Therese’s reply. What profit could there be, after all, in stealing the music of an obscure Chormeisterin? The scores were unlikely to even contain her name, the nuns being unwilling to claim authorship of music they considered to have been called forth from the Lord.
“We asked for them,” Therese said simply. “Reverend Mother Catherine thought it would please Her Majesty to hear the works again when she came to St. Nikolai to offer prayers in memory of her beloved husband.”
Her eyes blazed briefly, illuminated by a quick sparkle of amusement. “The Emperor Francis, God rest his soul, was so enchanted by Sister Mariana’s music, the nuns at St. Jakob were compelled to perform it at every service he attended.”
A decade ago, Haydn would have been bewitched by the beauty of those sapphire eyes. Now his mind spun with innumerable questions.
“If the works were so important, how could they not have been missed? When does Reverend Mother Catherine intend to inform the Abbess of St. Jakob of this unfortunate incident?”
Therese hesitated. “The works are not missing, Joseph.” She raised a hand to prevent Papa Keller, who was impatiently harrumphing, interrupting her. “They
were never missing. The songs were rewritten to accommodate our abilities—”
“And it was this arrangement that was stolen and eventually found its way back to the convent via your bookseller?” The rising tones of Johann’s voice reflected Haydn’s own incredulity. Who would trouble with an obscure work, much less steal an arrangement of it?
“Not our arrangement,” Therese clarified. “Merely a copy of it. Had it not made its way back to the convent, we would have suspected nothing.” She hesitated again, then a troubled stream of words bubbled out of her: “There is no knowing what else might have been copied, Joseph. What other manuscripts have been taken out of the convent to be hawked like common wares in the market?”
“If it was the scribe, the manuscripts he was set to copy might give us some clue,” Haydn murmured absentmindedly, head bowed deep in thought. An arrangement. Not the work itself, but an arrangement! What possible reason could the thief have had? … Unless …
He raised his head. “How greatly modified were the works?”
Therese wrinkled her nose ever so slightly as she considered the question. That it puzzled her was clear. But she sought no further explanation. “Well, our arrangement of it differed very little from the original. We have no bass voices or female tenors, accordingly Sister Agnes eliminated those voices. And the prolonged melismas are quite beyond the capabilities of any of our altos. So those parts were altered as well …” She paused.
“Although,” she began again slowly, “now that I think about it, there was one curious detail.” She contemplated the clavichord, head tilted to one side. “The hand resembles Sister Mariana’s so closely, you would have thought she had penned the arrangement herself.”
“Ach so!” Haydn murmured. He frowned, attempting to grasp a barely-formed thought as it stirred in his brain. But it sank into the depths of his mind before he could seize it.