Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  * * *

  What greater evidence could there be of Her Majesty’s goodwill toward her subjects in Mantua?

  Luigi’s eyes drifted down to read the article the Estates Director had circled in the Wienerisches Diarium. Still reading, he moved towards Herr Rahier’s chair, an imposing fawn-colored wingback.

  To soothe their ruffled feelings, she intends to dedicate the opening of the new concert hall, the finest in the modern world, to the city’s greatest son since Virgil: the musician, Claudio Monteverdi.

  Why was Herr Rahier so interested in the construction of a concert hall at the Royal Academy of Science and Fine Arts in Mantua? Luigi sank into the lush depths of the fine calfskin that covered the chair. Had he not been so preoccupied, he would have luxuriated in its softness.

  We are informed that the Empress has even committed herself to restoring to the city the works of its beloved composer. Most of these are reputed to have been lost when Mantua was attacked by her great-great-grandfather, the Emperor Ferdinand II.

  A brief comment followed on the impossibility of the task Her Majesty had set herself. The Konzertmeister quickly perused it before lingering on the final sentence.

  Anyone who finds the works will doubtless earn Her Majesty’s eternal gratitude.

  The words “eternal gratitude” were heavily underscored. Luigi put the newspaper down and considered the panels of polished walnut on the doors of the cabinet opposite him. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a faint memory stirred.

  When Joseph had jested about it a few days ago, the Estates Director’s interest in acquiring works of music had seemed implausible.

  But now that he thought about it—Luigi’s gaze dropped down to the article in the court newspaper—it seemed plausible enough. Rahier would do anything to curry favor with the imperial family. Why, it was not above six months ago that he himself had been loaned to the Emperor’s household for just such a reason!

  He perused the brief article for a second time, his eyes lingering on the great master’s name. Was it a collection of his works that Rahier had wanted Fritz Dichtler to examine? The Estates Director knew nothing of music. Of course, it was unlikely that Fritz Dichtler, a passable tenor at best, could do much more than read it. Luigi very much doubted Fritz would be able to even recognize, much less authenticate, Monteverdi’s music.

  Still, Rahier must believe he had found the great master’s operas. It would account for La Dichtler’s sudden desire to sing the Lament of Ariadne. She was angling for a role, no doubt. Luigi’s lips stretched into a wide grin at the thought of La Dichtler in a Monteverdi opera.

  Why, even recitatives like that of Ottavia’s in the Coronation of Poppea required a range of ornamentation and depth of character that were quite beyond La Dichtler. Or, perhaps the woman saw herself in the more promiscuous role of Poppea!

  A brief expression of distaste passed over his features. He found La Dichtler’s supreme confidence in her ability to seduce profoundly irritating.

  His mind returned to the present. Who was Rahier’s source, he wondered.

  Kaspar?

  Surely, Kaspar would have said something if that were the case.

  Besides, where would the Estates Director have learned of Kaspar’s bequest?

  From Herr Anwalt, Kaspar’s lawyer.

  The thought made Luigi uneasy. He drummed his fingers rapidly on the table. But Herr Rahier could not—would not, surely—have arranged for—

  He shook his head, too disturbed to allow his mind to complete the thought.

  * * *

  Luigi was still contemplating the court newspaper in the Estates Director’s office when a staccato burst of outrage interrupted his thoughts.

  “I will not have my maid accused of theft, Elsa. I simply will not have it!”

  Luigi frowned, recognizing Her Serene Highness’s voice. Wrath had sharpened her usually pleasant alto tones to an ear-piercing treble. What could La Dichtler have done to infuriate her patroness?

  He stepped out of Rahier’s office in time to see Her Serene Highness sweeping down the hallway with her right arm outstretched, forefinger pointing. “You! Out of my house. Out, now!”

  A police guard scurried before her advancing form. Frau Dichtler hurried along behind the Princess.

  “Who else but Clara could have taken your necklace? She was the only person to know it was a mere replica of the genuine article.”

  The Princess paused to turn upon the soprano. “And why, Elsa, would Clara have stolen a necklace she knew to be a fake?”

  “To…er…to—” La Dichtler to Luigi’s surprise was stuttering. “Why, to substitute it for the real thing when we went to the bank this morning. It was an ingenious plan. And if the bank manager had not thought to inspect the necklace, the paste replica would have reposed in your safe. And you would have been none the wiser.”

  Her Serene Highness’s beautiful dark gray eyes had narrowed. She regarded Frau Dichtler in silence. “An unnecessarily elaborate plan, if you ask me,” she remarked eventually. “Why not simply steal it and be done with it?”

  “To prevent the discovery of its theft until it was too late, Your Serene Highness.” The police guard wheeled around to face the Princess.

  “Poldi!” The guard’s features were instantly familiar to Luigi. Their encounter that morning had been so unpleasant, he doubted he would ever forget them: the flat, hard cheeks dropping precipitously down to a square chin; the eyes sharply appraising. “What business does that dolt have here?”

  “You know him?”

  Luigi nearly bit his tongue at the sound of Rosalie’s astonished voice at his elbow.

  He twisted his head around to glance down at the maid. “He was one of the guards who found Kaspar’s”—he swallowed—“Kaspar, the man found murdered near the Seizerkeller.” He angled his chin at the police guard. “But what is he doing here?”

  “Frau Dichtler sent for him. He helped to retrieve Her Serene Highness’s necklace this morning,” Rosalie explained. “But not before the ragamuffin who snatched it from Frau Schwann’s hands had substituted a paste replica for the original.”

  “How fortuitous that he had a fake to substitute,” Luigi remarked quietly, his eyes returning to the scene ahead of him.

  “I will not have her arrested. Clara is no thief,” Her Serene Highness’s tone had sharpened again. “I will stake my life upon it.”

  “And our Poldi was there, you say?” Luigi asked softly, without turning around.

  Rosalie nodded, although it was doubtful the Konzertmeister saw her.

  “There must be a shortage of police guards in the city,” he muttered to himself, “if Poldi is to be found at every sign of trouble.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was late evening. The Kellers had retired for the night, leaving Haydn and Johann to mull over the day’s events in the small room that served as Papa Keller’s study and library.

  A fire blazed in the porcelain stove directly in front of the comfortable green leather armchairs in which the brothers were ensconced. They were quietly contemplating the flames when Johann spoke.

  “Could Papa Keller be correct in his assumption?” he asked, still staring at the fire.

  “That the entire affair was engineered by the Emperor as a ploy to close down the convent?” Haydn took a sip of the excellent cherry wine that Papa Keller had left with them as he considered the question.

  It was no secret that the Archduke Joseph had no use for either convents or monasteries. But to instruct a scribe to make unauthorized copies of manuscripts? And to attempt to sell them in such a clumsy fashion that the attempt must be discovered, thus calling into question the convent’s renunciation of all things worldly?

  It was a scheme of such diabolical proportions as to be plausible only in Papa Keller’s fevered imagination.

  “It would not be unlike His Majesty,” Johann persisted. “If Papa Keller’s tales of his officious nature are anything to go by.”

&n
bsp; Haydn nodded, recalling his father-in-law’s account of the fire the Archduke Joseph had set in the middle of town to see if the city’s firefighters would respond in time. They had apparently not, leaving the Emperor to put out a fire he had set himself.

  It was a miracle any long-lasting damage had been averted, but the Emperor’s anger at the “incompetence” of the city officials had known no bounds. And now new employees to the fire department were to be interviewed by His Majesty himself before being confirmed to their appointment.

  Haydn set his wine glass on the walnut table that stood between his chair and Johann’s. “I have no doubt of his desire to close down the convent by any means at hand. But whether he would actually resort to so foolish a strategy to do so”—Haydn shook his head—“why, that is another matter altogether.”

  He studied the curlicues of leaves and vines that ran around the edge of the table, forming an ornate border. “Such a thing would be discovered immediately. A simple investigation would bring the matter to light. And the Empress—” He shook his head again. “His Majesty can do nothing without his mother’s consent. She may have loosened her hold on the reins of power, but she has not resigned it completely.”

  The thought of the Empress recalled him to the task she had charged him with. He retrieved one of the hand-bound scores Her Majesty had given him from his leather music case.

  “I had best get to these,” he said, unfurling the protective wrapping that encased the fine vellum manuscript. “There is nothing more we can do tonight for the Convent of St. Nikolai.”

  * * *

  Luigi surveyed the Rehearsal Room one last time. The instruments had been put away and the scores returned to the Music Library. The rest of the orchestra had departed. He was the last to leave. Satisfied that all was in order, he took the cone-shaped extinguisher from the shelf behind the door and began putting out the candles in the elegant silver sconces around the room.

  It was a job for one of the maids, and one of them would be up to do it, no doubt. But Luigi had been a servant long before his elevation to a position in the Esterházy orchestra. And old habits from his days of servitude prevailed. He allowed the candles in the sconces by the door to remain lit. The maids would need the light to inspect the room before they extinguished the candles.

  The evening’s entertainment, to his relief, had gone remarkably well. Despite her distracted air at their brief rehearsal, La Dichtler had acquitted herself well enough to attract more than a few compliments for her rendition of Ariadne’s Lament. Her Serene Highness, indeed, had gone so far as to present her with a sapphire ring of dazzling proportions and a small bag of gold.

  He hurried toward the staircase, tucking the court newspaper he had retrieved from the Estates Director’s office securely within his overcoat. Haydn, he hoped, would return on the morrow from whatever business it was that had taken him to the suburb of Landstrasse.

  Luigi could fathom no reason for Rahier to have filched Haydn’s newspaper. No good reason, that is, he corrected himself. And as for the Estates Director’s interest in the great master’s operas, Luigi could not bring himself to believe it was mere coincidence.

  Deep in thought, he sped down the stairs, his eyes on the gold floral pattern on the blue carpet covering the treads. He had barely reached the last step when a voice startled him out of his reverie.

  “Am I to believe they simply took themselves off?”

  The Estates Director’s icy tones carried past the hallway, penetrating his ears so sharply, Luigi’s eardrums were still vibrating long after Rahier had spoken.

  Curiosity drew the Konzertmeister beyond the circular area at the foot of the stairs and down the hall toward the Estates Director’s office.

  Rahier, his hands behind his back, towered over a group of palace maids huddled before his door. He was without his wig, and strands of his blond hair glistened under the bright candlelight that illuminated the area.

  “Well, which one of you was it then?” Rahier surveyed the group before him.

  A wall of silence greeted him. Luigi looked on, fascinated. It took very little to arouse the Estates Director’s ire, and he wondered what had occurred to arouse it tonight. He stepped forward, but Rahier, intent upon interrogating the maids, was oblivious to his presence.

  “Who was assigned the task of cleaning my rooms today?”

  One of the maids stepped forward, chin jutting out at a defiant angle. Luigi recognized Greta’s buxom form.

  “It was I,” she said, tossing her head to shake a strand of blond hair out of her eyes.

  Rahier snorted.

  “But I took not so much as a shred of paper outside the room.” Greta’s voice had risen to an indignant forte. “Why should I?”

  Rahier snorted a second time. “If you had indeed troubled to do your job, my dear girl, my desk would not be in the utter disarray I found it in. Papers strewn about.” The Estates Director’s arm circled through the air to illustrate his point. “Documents missing. And I must ask again: Am I to believe they simply took themselves off?”

  Luigi grinned. Rahier must have noticed the disappearance of the copy of the Diarium he had stolen from Haydn.

  * * *

  “What is the matter?” he asked, his tone innocent. “Lost something, have you?”

  Rahier’s pale cheeks seemed to turn even paler as he regarded Luigi. “An important document, as it happens, Herr Konzertmeister. Although it is no business of yours.”

  “It would not”—Luigi unbuttoned his overcoat and withdrew the copy of the Diarium concealed within it—“be this, would it?” He held the court newspaper out in front of him.

  A flash of anger glinted in Rahier’s pale blue eyes. “What—” He swallowed, suddenly aware of the palace maids regarding him with open curiosity. “That will be all,” he snapped as he motioned Luigi toward his office.

  “What, Herr Konzertmeister,” he began when they were inside the room, “were you doing inside my office? Trespassing, I might add.”

  “What were you doing with the Kapellmeister’s copy of the Diarium?” Luigi countered.

  “I merely borrowed it for a time.” Rahier looked annoyed. “And I would have returned it to the Kapellmeister had he but chosen to grace us with his presence. Where is he, by the way?”

  “Occupied on a matter of some urgency. For Her Majesty, as you well know.”

  Rahier seemed surprised. Luigi shrugged. If the Prince had chosen not to take the Estates Director into his confidence that was no concern of his.

  “Chasing imaginary assassins again, no doubt,” Rahier muttered under his breath.

  Luigi ignored the comment. Rahier was as well aware as the next person that the assassins in question were no imaginary foes. Had it not been for Haydn’s intervention, the Empress may well have lost her life.

  He opened the newspaper to the article Rahier had circled and pretended to look closely at it.

  The Estates Director’s eyes narrowed as his gaze fell on the newspaper, and Luigi heard his sharp intake of breath. He raised his head, turning the newspaper so Rahier could see his thumb pointing to the article about the great master.

  “Since when have you been interested in opera, Herr Rahier? And in such old works at that?” The Estates Director never attended an opera if he could help it. Luigi allowed his thumb to gently tap the article. “Those works of music you were so interested in acquiring, they would not happen to be opera scores, would they?”

  Rahier turned so pale, his features took on a bluish tinge. “You forget yourself, Herr Konzertmeister. I am not answerable to you nor do I owe you any explanations.” He stretched out his arm toward the newspaper. “Now, if I may—”

  Luigi quickly moved it out of reach. “Now, now, Herr Rahier. This is not yours to have, as you well know.” He tucked the newspaper into his overcoat and turned on his heels.

  At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Rahier was glaring at him.

  “There are no assassins this time
that I am aware of, Herr Rahier.” Luigi grinned, unable to resist needling the Estates Director a little more. “But I imagine Joseph does have something of great value to offer Her Majesty.”

  * * *

  Haydn pursed his lips and looked up, his eyes swiveling toward Johann. He was in need of his brother’s counsel. But Johann, sitting with his chin resting on his chest, seemed unaware of the glance Haydn cast in his direction. He was either sound asleep or deeply engrossed in the book that lay open on his knees.

  Repressing a heavy sigh of resignation, Haydn returned to his perusal of the score the Empress had entrusted to him. If this was a forgery, he thought, it was an extraordinarily good one. Try as he might, he could find nothing amiss.

  He turned toward the title page. L’Orfeo, it read in an ornate script, A Musical Fable. The words below the composer’s name, “Rappresentato in Mantova,” indicated that the score had been prepared after it had premiered at the Gonzaga court in Mantua. A work prepared before the actual performance would contain the words, “da rappresentare.”

  There was nothing unusual in this. Musical plays were a Florentine invention, never before seen in Mantua. Francesco Gonzaga must have been inordinately proud of staging an opera that easily surpassed the best Florence had to offer. There was every reason in the world to record the event.

  The next page listed the cast of characters and instruments, rich and varied as befitted a lavish production sponsored by a noble family of means.

  And if that were not all, the setting of the libretto showed signs of the great master’s hand. Frequent rests punctuated lines, forcing the singer to pause where no pause might have been anticipated.

  Why here, where a lesser composer might have set Orfeo’s “you are dead” to a single, flowing musical phrase, Monteverdi had inserted a rest after the very first word. And then repeated the phrase.

  You have departed from me, you have departed from me, never, never to return.