Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  “There were things I wanted to tell you,” she told her friend. It was not entirely a lie. “And I couldn’t have done it in his presence.”

  “Oh!” Greta’s face brightened immediately. She leaned forward, lips parted, eager as always for a bit of gossip. “What did you find out?” She linked arms with Rosalie. “Tell me everything. It will ease the pain of having to walk all the way to Wallnerstrasse.”

  “The woman who came to meet our Frau Dichtler is no maid,” Rosalie began, as she slowed her pace to match Greta’s. “And she has no need of a position.” She paused, twisting her head to meet Greta’s gaze.

  Greta’s eyes widened, urging her to continue.

  “She works for a milliner—”

  “Do not tell me it is Madame Chapeau?”

  Rosalie stopped. “You have heard of her?” Greta had not been with the Esterházys very much longer than Rosalie. Could she really know so much more of Vienna?

  “This very afternoon when I met my cousin. But her establishment is near the Kärntnertor. I wasn’t looking forward to that walk, I can tell you. Although I would’ve done it, if it would help our Frau Schwann.

  “But then I saw you, and Gerhard looked as though he would have driven you to the ends of the earth if you’d asked him to…” Greta’s pupils sidled over to the corner of her eyes, and she looked up at Rosalie through a thicket of curling lashes.

  Rosalie ignored both the insinuation and the glance. It was not above six months ago that Gerhard had wanted to marry his barmaid, Marlene, despite her betrayal of him and the child that quickened in her womb as a result. She had refused him. But surely it took more than a mere six months to recover from a love as deep as that?

  “What else did your cousin say?” she asked as much for the information itself as to divert Greta.

  She smiled when she saw Greta’s eyes light up again. There were few things her plump, rosy-cheeked friend liked more than sharing gossip.

  With a quick, furtive glance around her, Greta leaned in toward Rosalie and began in a conspiratorial whisper: “You remember I said there would only be a handful of places that do any trade in stolen jewelry as valuable as Her Serene Highness’s necklace?” She paused, looking at Rosalie from under arched eyebrows.

  At Rosalie’s nod, she went on breathlessly, “Turns out there is only one shop in the entire city that will traffic in goods such as that.”

  “Madame Chapeau’s establishment?” Rosalie murmured, a heavy leaden sensation filling the depths of her stomach at the news. It was what she had suspected, but… She took a deep breath. Why had Gerhard insisted it was all talk, then? Could he…?

  She shook her head, not wanting to consider the thought. Gerhard was a man of integrity, wasn’t he?

  * * *

  The undertaker the Kapellmeister and his brother were going to meet had his establishment near the Carinthian Gate. Haydn peered through the brocade drapes that covered the carriage window and then glanced restively at his timepiece. The streets at this late hour were so crowded, he had little expectation of arriving at Herr Moserle’s establishment much before an hour.

  His fingers began to drum an impatient rhythm on the windowpane. In Eisenstadt a journey of this short distance would have taken no more than a quarter of an hour. But here in Vienna, more time was wasted journeying to and fro than in accomplishing anything useful.

  A man could walk faster than they were traveling, although with all the people swarming the streets, he doubted they would make any more progress than they were now.

  “Chafing at the time never made it go any faster, brother”—Haydn turned to see Johann regarding him with an amused smile—“But it may seem faster if we allow ourselves a glimpse of those scores.” Johann gestured toward the chest sitting next to Haydn. “They have caused so much trouble, I am quite curious to see them.”

  “As am I!” Haydn’s face broke into a delighted smile. Why had he not thought of it himself? He drew the chest closer toward him. The brass hasp lifted up quite easily. Haydn peered into the dark interior, almost afraid to draw breath.

  The yellowing scores within were organized into several loosely bound bundles. He put a hand out reverently, fingering the sheets with the gentlest touch. But the paper itself, rough-textured like a dense bit of pumice stone, seemed strong enough. And very familiar. As he touched it, images from his days as a choirboy swept over his senses.

  “Handmade linen paper,” he remarked to Johann as he handed him one of the bundles. “Like the old scores Reutter would have us study.”

  How they had loved to pore over those ancient sheets, the music serving in place of the lessons in theory that were rarely forthcoming from the perpetually busy choirmaster.

  But as he ran his thumb over the pages, he was aware of a faint stirring in his brain. The shadow it cast grew stronger, but the notion itself, whatever it was, persisted in hiding within the deepest recesses of his mind.

  He leafed through the music, his misgivings growing. He glanced up to see how Johann was faring and saw, reflected on his brother’s features, his own confusion.

  Johann must have felt the Kapellmeister’s eyes on him. “If this music was written for an opera,” he said, raising his own eyes, “it must be the strangest sort of opera ever seen.”

  Haydn nodded. “I can understand something of Kaspar’s skepticism now. Even the most untrained eye can see these are songs in five voices. A chorus or two might be written in that manner, but no opera features chorus after chorus.”

  He thumbed through the pages he held. “Where are the recitatives that carry the plot forward, the arias that burst forth at the most intense emotional moments? What character sings a lament in five parts?”

  Johann turned to the title page of the work he was holding and peered down at it. “Madrigals masquerading as operas,” he said. “The title page suggests an opera, but the works indicate otherwise. Mine purports to be Proserpina Rapita.”

  Haydn thumbed back to the title page of the music in his hands. “L’Arianna,” he read. “It does include Ariadne’s famous lament, but written for five voices.”

  Johann’s eyes drifted toward the stack of madrigals by his side. The great master had published no less than nine volumes of his madrigals, and his brother had borrowed them all from His Serene Highness’s collection.

  “If I mistake not, that particular lament is included in the sixth volume.” He glanced down at the music. “I see some of the same features—the odd repetitions that break the poetic line, for instance—that you noted in the L’Orfeo Her Majesty purchased.” He paused. “Could it be…?”

  His younger brother did not have to finish the question. The selfsame notion had entered Haydn’s mind. “It was at the request of a gentleman in Venice that Monteverdi re-wrote Ariadne’s Lament in five parts,” he said softly, still perusing the music. “Who is to say the same gentleman may not have requested a similar transformation of all seven of the great master’s operas, in their entirety?”

  The thought was breathtaking. If it were true…

  “These works may be far more valuable than we imagined. And they would be valuable enough if they were merely handwritten copies of his published madrigals—painstakingly written in his own hand, perhaps.” Haydn looked up. “Whoever is trying to steal Kaspar’s bequest must suspect the scores are polyphonic re-workings of the operas.”

  “It should be a simple enough matter to establish,” Johann said, patting the volumes stacked beside him on the narrow carriage seat. “The madrigals written for the singers of Venice must differ quite substantially from those written for Duke Gonzaga’s singers.”

  “They do.” Johann’s comment had reminded the Kapellmeister of the hours he had spent studying the differences between the Mantuan and Venetian madrigals for his perpetually irascible old teacher, Nicola Porpora.

  The wise composer always keeps his singers’ abilities in mind. The words had fallen like a constant refrain from his old master’s impatient lips.
And his patron’s tastes. Only a blockhead ignores the one. And it is at peril of his job that any musician disregards the other. Resist the temptation to be a blockhead, Sepperl.

  “The Duke favored sopranos,” Haydn said, remembering the differences he had so meticulously enumerated. “The range of the canto part in the Mantuan madrigals speaks for itself. And the tenor part is quite extraordinary, making frequent use as it does of Francesco Rasi’s astounding capabilities.”

  Johann nodded. “As I recall it, the alto part itself goes as high as the canto in some works.”

  “And as low as the tenor in others,” Haydn affirmed. He leaned forward, warming to his subject. “In the Venetian madrigals, however, the range of the alto part is nothing out of the ordinary. Monteverdi himself lamented the lack of good contraltos in the city. But the Venetian basses. Why, the great master was quite in awe of the depths they could achieve!”

  He placed the bundle of scores back in the chest, thankful for the lessons his crotchety old teacher had enforced on him. Who could have foretold that Porpora’s instruction would lend itself to such divers uses? “If these madrigals are truly re-workings of his operatic works, the evidence will speak for itself.”

  * * *

  “Is your cousin sure of this?” Rosalie asked. They had walked on in silence for a few minutes after Greta’s revelation about Madame Chapeau’s millinery.

  But Greta knew what she was referring to. She drew her head back and regarded Rosalie for a moment.

  “Otto has never tried taking any stolen items to Madame Chapeau, if that is what you are asking? But there’s no smoke without fire, mark my words. If there’s talk all over town, there is good reason for it. Besides, isn’t that where Frau Dichtler went?”

  “Yes, I merely meant…” Rosalie hoped her cheeks weren’t turning red. Greta had a sharp eye, and she didn’t want her friend to know… Oh, she mustn’t be so stupid! There was nothing really for Greta to know.

  But Greta had apparently not noticed anything. “I know what you meant. We shall have to look into it before we start hurling accusations. Did you see the necklace?”

  Rosalie shook her head. “But I think Madame Chapeau gave Frau Dichtler some money.” She recounted what she had seen and heard.

  Greta pursed her lips. “She may have owed Frau Dichtler money, but it is hardly likely. And what else would she be paying her for?”

  Rosalie nodded, thinking hard. The necklace must somehow have been conveyed to the milliner. But how? It had been stolen, and… “The ragamuffin!” She turned toward Greta. “If Frau Dichtler arranged for him to steal the necklace—”

  “She may also have instructed him to deliver it to Madame Chapeau,” Greta finished for her. She looked squarely at Rosalie. “You will have to find a way to get into that cellar. It is our only hope.”

  Rosalie felt her cheeks flaming. “I should’ve brazened it out this afternoon.”

  “It is a good thing you didn’t. Sabina may not have said anything in Gerhard’s presence, but she would know your being there was no coincidence. And if Frau Dichtler gets wind of this…”

  Rosalie shuddered. “I know. It will be our jobs not Frau Schwann’s that Sabina will be coming to take. I’m certain that was the arrangement Madame Chapeau was referring to.”

  “Of course it was,” Greta agreed. “No matter what Frau Dichtler tries to say. Frau Schwann is the only person that dratted woman has been desperately trying to get rid of. And from the way Sabina was carping at the work we had her do, she wasn’t expecting to be a mere kitchen maid.”

  “No, she was not,” Rosalie said quietly.

  They had just turned onto Wallnerstrasse, and she could see Gerhard’s covered rack wagon parked outside the wine cellar. She would feel silly asking him to take her back to the milliner’s cellar. But it was for Frau Schwann’s sake, she told herself. And since she wasn’t actually going to buy anything, she would owe him no more than the favor of a ride.

  Greta must have sensed some of her misgivings, for she squeezed her hand as they entered the palace gates and made their way to the servant’s entrance. “Your going may be as much of a favor to him. Sabina must direct some custom his way in return for any clients he refers to her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The carriage conveying the Kapellmeister and his brother turned onto a busy thoroughfare and halted just past a milliner’s establishment.

  The name on the sign caught Haydn’s eye as he stepped out, and he stopped, arrested by its pretentiousness.

  Madame Chapeau.

  “Madame Hat? Whoever calls themselves that?” he remarked, turning to smile at Johann. “But at least her designs show some flair.” He indicated the jewelry displayed in the shop window.

  “Paste, judging by the prices.” Johann dutifully inspected the wares on display. “But beautiful, nonetheless.” He took in his surroundings. “Where is Herr Moserle’s establishment?”

  Haydn pointed. “In that narrow alley up ahead, I believe.”

  The sign of a black hearse hanging from one of the buildings was barely visible from where they stood. The alley itself was too narrow to admit a carriage. The three- and four-story buildings on either side of the cobblestone-paved lane leaned precariously forward, almost meeting at its center.

  Haydn reached within the carriage for the ivory-inlaid chest that held Kaspar’s bequest. He lifted it off the seat and swung around, raising it high above his head to avoid hitting the passersby who crowded between Johann and himself.

  “His Serene Highness’s madrigals are safe enough in the carriage, but these—” he leaned back as two burly men jostled past him but felt a vicious elbow digging into his ribs, nevertheless.

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” In the Vienna of his youth, such rudeness would have been unthinkable. But unless Eisenstadt had made him too much of a country gentleman, it was becoming all too common in the city these days. “Do you not see my brother and myself standing by the carriage?”

  The men, swarthy-featured, ill-humored brutes, turned back and stared up and down the Kapellmeister’s form, clad in blue-and-gold livery.

  “We saw you standin’ all right?” the taller of the two growled, inching closer to Haydn. “Right in the middle of busy folks’ way. Did you not see us passin’ by? And did you think to move out of our way, then?” He moved even closer, his voice sounding slurred. “No, you didn’t, did you?”

  “The carriage is parked at the edge of the street,” Haydn pointed out in as even a tone as he could manage. A strong whiff of stale beer assailed his nostrils. Two other bearded men, artisans by the look of them and reeking just as strongly, pressed in on either side of the first two.

  Under the circumstances, neither anger nor indignation would serve their purpose. Best to defuse the situation as quickly as he could. Already the commotion was beginning to attract a mob.

  “There is room aplenty on the other side of the carriage,” Johann was beginning to say when Haydn felt the chest being wrenched out of his arms.

  He tugged back as forcefully as he could, but a few more ruffians had gathered close and were now pushing him back against the carriage.

  “What’s this, then? A chest full of precious jewels? Or is it money you carry so close to yourself?” a harsh voice taunted. “Give it here, then! Give it here!”

  Haydn could barely see who it was jeering at him. A sea of outstretched arms sought to snatch the chest from his grasp.

  Once he caught a glimpse of his brother, trying in vain to push the men between them out of the way. “Call for help, Johann!” he shouted. “Call—”

  He heard a sharp thwack. His head felt as though it was split in two. A streak of blood ran down his forehead and over his eye. Had someone hit him? He staggered forward, feeling the chest fall open as it was yanked out of his arms.

  He tried to grab at the scores as they floated toward the muddy water pooling at the edge of the street. But a hard fist made contact with his gut, the pain nearly makin
g him retch. Another caught him in the eye as he bent forward from the force of the first blow.

  “Herr Haydn! Herr Haydn! Brother!” He heard the chorus of voices coming closer at the same time as a female voice exploded: “For shame!”

  “The music,” he gagged. He was beginning to sink to his knees.

  “It is safe.” A pair of strong arms caught hold of him. “It is safe, Herr Haydn.” Albrecht supported him under the armpits.

  He could feel his eye swelling up and closing over, but through its narrow slit he discerned a slender elderly form batting her reticule, like an agitated crow, at the few passersby who still lingered on the scene. “There is nothing to see here. Off you go! For shame! Would you watch while an innocent man is attacked?”

  “The music?” Haydn asked again. God forbid, they should have lost it!

  “I have it here, brother.” Johann extended the stack of scores out toward him. “Herr Moserle’s pistol startled your attackers away.”

  Pistol? That must have been the explosion he had heard.

  “One of the men who first confronted us made off with the chest,” Johann went on. “But Albrecht’s fist delivered such a masterful punch to the other’s nose, he was forced to relinquish his hold on the music.”

  Haydn was about to reply when he felt something sharp scraping at his wrist. A small wrinkled hand was attached to his wrist. “If it is a chest you need, I have one for you. It is old and worn and not half as nice as the one I gave Kaspar, but it will do.”

  * * *

  Rosalie hung back a few paces. Gerhard had finished unloading the crates of wine bottles meant for the Esterházy cellar and now sat on the wagon, eating a bit of bread and pickled mushrooms. The horses lazily munched the hay he had thrown down for them. She might have stood there forever had Gerhard not turned around.