Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  Haydn saw no reason to acknowledge the barb. He might have countered with a rejoinder of his own, but the gold snuff box drove every thought away. It belonged, he was quite certain, to Kaspar. How had it come into Goretti’s hands?

  “A remarkable piece of work,” he said, tilting his chin at the tiny golden case. “May I ask where you obtained it?”

  “What? This snuff box?” Goretti attempted a laugh. “It is from my father’s collection.”

  “Indeed! I was not aware your father knew my Prince.” Haydn allowed his eyes to bore into the other’s. The engraving of the winged griffin carrying a sword in one hand and three roses in the other was unmistakable. It knelt at the feet of the double-headed eagle that represented the house of Habsburg.

  Only on one occasion had His Serene Highness thought to include both the Habsburg emblem and his own on his snuff boxes. Kaspar was one of the few persons besides Haydn himself and Luigi to have received one such.

  “You are mistaken, Herr Haydn. My father received this from a noble patron in Venice.” Goretti’s fingers curled over the case. He quickly slipped it back into his pocket. “The mourners have all left. We should follow them, no?” He strode away without waiting to see if either of his companions would follow.

  Haydn’s jaw tightened. Therese was mistaken. Here before him stood his friend’s killer, and there was nothing he could do about it. Not now. Not with Amelie watching him so closely.

  He offered his arm to her. “Come, let us be on our way. It would be unseemly if you were not seen to preside over the funeral reception.”

  * * *

  “Ready?” Gerhard lifted the reins and looked down at Rosalie. When she nodded, he gently tugged the reins. The nag bestirred herself and the rack wagon moved slowly forward.

  Rosalie braced herself against its narrow seat with one hand and nervously fingered the folded sheet of paper in her pocket with the other. It contained a rough drawing in Frau Schwann’s hand of the stolen necklace, but she didn’t dare take it out.

  She cast a surreptitious glance up at Gerhard, lowering her eyes before she could be detected. What would he think if he knew she was looking for a necklace of a specific design? Pearl petals clustered around an emerald center. The pendant made of gold and encrusted with diamonds.

  “What kind of trinket do you mean to buy for Greta?” Gerhard enquired, never taking his eyes off the road as he concentrated on steering the wagon through the morning crowd.

  Rosalie took a deep breath. “Something fashioned out of pearly white beads,” she began, fingers closing over the rough wooden edge of the seat. The coarse fibers chafed against her skin and the sharp edges of a nail dug into her palm, making her wince. “And bits of green glass, perhaps, made to look like emeralds. Greta will like that.”

  Gerhard let out a deep throaty laugh. “Has fancy tastes, does she, our Greta? Well, Madame Chapeau has more designs than you can conceive of.” His eyes flickered toward her, warm with concern. “I only hope we have time enough to pick out something you like.”

  They would be arriving a full hour before Madame Chapeau’s establishment opened for business at eleven. To give Sabina time to attend to their needs, Gerhard had said. Madame herself was unlikely to bring herself down at that hour, being more likely to be ensconced in her room with a cup of chocolate like the fashionable ladies she hoped to serve.

  “It will, I am sure.” Rosalie forced herself to smile. It would have to suffice. She clutched the seat a little harder. She had but one chance to retrieve Her Serene Highness’s necklace. And to prove Frau Schwann’s innocence.

  * * *

  It was but a short walk from Karlsfriedhof where poor Wilhelm Kaspar now rested to his uncle Wilhelm Dietrich’s home within the city walls. The house stood a few yards to the left of the Carinthian Gate, so close to the cemetery the merchant’s widow had insisted upon its use for her nephew’s funeral reception.

  Haydn ushered Amelie into the parlor where the mourners were now assembled, giving the room a cursory glance as he pulled the door shut behind them. The pale pink furnishings he recalled from the previous day had been replaced with a more subdued black. And Kaspar’s colleagues from St. Michael’s were all in attendance.

  There were even a number of musicians from the Hofburg. Kapellmeister Reutter had apparently not begrudged them the few hours away from their duties at the imperial palace.

  He had no sooner settled Amelie into an armchair when Kaspar’s widowed aunt bore down upon him.

  “Herr Haydn! Your injuries heal well, I trust.” She took both of his hands in her own gnarled brown ones. “You will have a glass of wine, won’t you?” She turned to beckon to a round-featured maid bearing a silver tray laden with glasses of fine red Blaufränkisch.

  Haydn was about to accept when the widow whipped around. “Or better still, a glass of the healing concoction I prepared for you yesterday. It will ease any discomfort that remains. Adelita here”—the maid had by now reached their side—“can boil up the herbs.”

  To his alarm, she turned toward Adelita, ready to instruct the maid on its preparation.

  “There is no discomfort at all, Madam. The wound is quite healed,” Haydn hastened to assure the widow, shuddering at the thought of having to endure yet another cup of the revolting brew. That he had tasted it once was misfortune enough. He was determined not to repeat the unfortunate incident.

  To his relief, a few more guests arrived, recalling the widow to her duties. He reached for a glass of wine from the tray the maid held out to him. He would have taken another for Amelie, but Kaspar’s colleagues and their wives thronged around her, wishing no doubt to pay their respects and offer words of condolence.

  Dr. Goretti appeared to have assumed charge of the entire proceedings. It galled Haydn no end to see him standing guard over Amelie. The men who had come to mourn Kaspar’s untimely passing had all known him far longer than the upstart physician.

  Yet here was Goretti, a mere guest himself, beckoning this guest forward and drawing that one away from the widow.

  Fabrizzio, dressed today in a fine suit of black silk, approached Amelie’s chair and bent down to speak a few words. His eyes collided with Haydn’s as soon as he looked up, and he turned swiftly around.

  “That is the music scholar, I suppose.” Luigi’s voice rang as loud as a gunshot in Haydn’s startled ears.

  He had been so intent on watching Fabrizzio retreat rapidly to the other end of the parlor, he had failed to notice his Konzertmeister come up beside him. Johann, he was glad to see, was not far behind.

  “Fabrizzio,” Haydn responded with a nod. “The son apparently of an old friend of Wilhelm Dietrich’s. From Italy.” He turned to his younger brother. “Maria Anna was able to escape the confines of St. Nikolai without mishap, I hope.”

  “More easily than anyone could have expected.” Johann smiled. “We were no sooner there than Reverend Mother Catherine insisted we take ‘Sister Josepha’ home. Ostensibly to bring her investigation to a close, but she hustled us out so quickly, it was quite evident that was not her only reason.

  “I am afraid the sore throat sister-in-law feigned may have alarmed the nuns into fearing the infection might spread to the rest of the convent, and so bring to naught their preparations for the Sunday service.”

  Haydn smiled broadly, momentarily diverted by the news. For the sake of music, any convent in the city could be persuaded to bend the rules. St. Nikolai was no exception. He had used the knowledge to his own advantage to snatch a few precious hours with his Therese when she first entered the convent.

  But that was before he had agreed to take Maria Anna as his wife. Before Therese had banished him forever from her presence. The memory recalled him to the gravity of their current circumstances.

  “Therese was unable to recognize Dr. Goretti as the scribe the convent hired. I feel sure she is mistaken. But the fact remains: we have nothing more than our suspicions now that he is indeed our man.”

  It wa
s evident from Johann’s face that Therese had already acquainted him with their brief disagreement at the cemetery. “Sister Josepha said as much. She was quite adamant that she was not mistaken.”

  “Could it not be that young jackanapes?” Luigi, eagerly following the interchange, now broke in upon the conversation.

  Haydn followed his gaze to where Fabrizzio stood near the parlor door, deep in conference with Dr. Goretti. Haydn’s eyes narrowed. Did the two men know each other?

  “He is Italian,” Luigi went on, “just like our Goretti. And I have never seen a man more ostentatiously dressed. Only observe how his jacket flares out behind him. And the extravagant frills of that lace cravat! In a woman’s eyes, I suppose, that might pass for elegance.”

  Haydn regarded the music scholar speculatively. Luigi’s idea was not without its merits. He was still considering it when Johann spoke. “It is a likely possibility, brother. You yourself surmised he may have broken into Kaspar’s apartment the night he was murdered.”

  “If that is the case,” Luigi pressed his point, “that is our man, Joseph. Who else but his killer could have gained access to Kaspar’s keys?”

  Haydn stared at the two foreigners still engaged in conversation. Therese’s description of the scribe the convent had hired would have fit either man, although the physician seemed to be the older of the two by several years. Had his initial impression of Fabrizzio been correct?

  On the other hand, the man who had penned the note luring Kaspar out—the very same who had copied the convent’s manuscripts—must also have killed him. How could that man not be Dr. Goretti? Moreover…

  “Who else could have stolen his snuff box?” His softly muttered words had the effect of jolting both his Konzertmeister and his brother.

  “What! How can you know who took it?” The words erupted out of Luigi’s mouth, entwining themselves in a discordant counterpoint with Johann’s stunned: “You cannot mean Kaspar’s snuff box?”

  “You recall the snuff boxes His Serene Highness ordered some years back, don’t you, Luigi?” Haydn turned toward his Konzertmeister. “The lid showed the Esterházy griffin kneeling at the claws of the Habsburg eagle?”

  “Made for the Empress.” Luigi nodded. “And a few of us musicians received one as well. Kaspar was fiddling with his that night at the Seizerkeller. It was taken from him when he was killed.”

  “And is now in Dr. Goretti’s possession,” Haydn quietly informed them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “He was foolish enough to show it to you?” Disbelief colored the rising tones of Johann’s voice.

  “I doubt he knows what the emblem on it represents,” Haydn replied. “When I tasked him on the matter, he insisted the snuff box was from his father’s collection. A gift from a noble patron in Venice, apparently.”

  “With the same coat of arms as both His Serene Highness and Her Majesty?” Johann turned toward Luigi. “Surely, that is not possible.”

  Haydn’s gaze followed his brother’s, resting expectantly upon his Konzertmeister’s features.

  Years ago, Luigi, a mere valet at the time, had been sent by His Serene Highness’s older brother to Italy to develop his mastery of the violin. His long travels there had made him familiar with most of the noble families and their crests. If anyone could shed light on the matter, it would be him.

  The corners of Luigi’s hazel eyes crinkled as he considered the question. “I can think of only one emblem that comes even close to the Esterházy griffin. A lion with a divided tail.”

  “The Gonzaga lion,” Haydn said at once. “It is the watermark used on the convent’s paper,” he explained when Luigi looked at him in surprise. “To honor their foundress, the Empress Eleonora, who hailed from the house of Gonzaga.”

  “If you have seen it, you know the two emblems are nothing like each other,” Luigi replied.

  “The doctor is clearly unfamiliar with the griffin, then,” Johann remarked to Haydn. “Or what it represents. He would hardly have attempted to deceive you had he realized its significance.”

  “Is it Dr. Goretti you speak of?” Albrecht, who had been hovering nearby, drew closer.

  “His inability to acknowledge his own ignorance on certain matters,” Haydn explained with a smile.

  How much of their conversation Albrecht had overheard he did know. But there was little point in arousing his curiosity any further by denying the subject of their discussion. Their eyes, fixed on the doctor, as they spoke of him told the tale plainly enough. And who knew, it might elicit some gossip from the young violinist.

  “You still find him admirable, I suppose?” Luigi, quick as always to follow the Kapellmeister’s lead, asked in a teasing tone.

  “W-well, I know nothing of medicine, gentlemen,” Albrecht faltered. “But in matters of music”—he cast a surreptitious glance around the room and lowered his voice—“it would appear the good doctor is not as well-versed as he lets on.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Johann asked.

  “You see the young man leaving his side?”

  “The music scholar, Fabrizzio,” Haydn said. “What of him?”

  “Well,” Albrecht continued, clearly relishing the older men’s interest in the tidbit he had to offer. “He is something of a pretentious know-it-all, if you want my opinion. But he demonstrated quite clearly the good doctor’s musical insufficiencies.”

  “Why, what did he do?” Luigi impatiently pressed the younger man.

  “It was at the Seizerkeller, and in the good doctor’s defense, he had consumed more wine than was good for him. It must have gone to his head for he started discoursing at length on the fine marks of style that distinguish one composer from another. Fabrizzio would have it the music of the past, unlike modern music, is all of a piece.”

  “By which assertion he only succeeded in showing up his own ignorance,” Haydn commented softly.

  The remark elicited a puzzled stare from Albrecht, but at Haydn’s brief nod of encouragement, he resumed his account.

  “To prove his point, Fabrizzio brought out a sheet of music, laying a wager Dr. Goretti would not be able to tell whether it was by Bach or Vivaldi.”

  “Indeed!” Johann raised an eyebrow. “What happened then?”

  “The doctor perused the work and identified it positively as a concerto grosso by Vivaldi.” Albrecht stared wide-eyed at his listeners.

  “And it was not, I take it?” Haydn was beginning to tire of the young man’s unnecessarily dramatic style.

  “It was a violin concerto. Inspired by the seasons, or so the title would have us believe.”

  “He mistook a concerto for a concerto grosso?” It appeared to take Luigi an effort to keep his voice low. His lips twitched. “Not even a child would make that mistake.”

  Albrecht seemed about to smile as well, but restrained himself. “If it were only as bad as that!”

  “You mean it was actually a Bach concerto? With a title from one of Vivaldi’s works?” An impish grin spread over Luigi’s lean dark features. “I do believe I begin to like the man.”

  “Ach no!” Albrecht shook his head vigorously. “It was by neither composer. Just something Fabrizzio himself had penned. An exercise in contrapuntal style with several errors that he painstakingly pointed out after he owned to writing the piece.”

  “He is only a physician,” Johann pointed out gently as Luigi began to chortle. “How can he be expected to know anything of counterpoint?”

  The Konzertmeister, seeming somewhat ashamed of his outburst, curbed his amusement. “There is that, I suppose.” He turned toward Haydn, but the Kapellmeister was lost in his own thoughts.

  “If he understands so little of music, how could he have known Kaspar’s bequest was valuable?” Haydn said so softly, he seemed to be speaking to himself.

  “He had no opportunity to see it,” Johann reminded him, evidently having heard the words. “It can have been nothing more than a surmise.”

  “A surmise on which
he was willing to gamble a substantial amount of money.” Haydn turned to face his brother. “And I would like to know why,” he added grimly as he surveyed the parlor.

  But most of the mourners had left, and neither the physician nor the music scholar were among the few that still remained.

  * * *

  The Carinthian Gate came into view as Gerhard’s rack wagon made its turn onto the street where Madame Chapeau’s millinery was located. They were still a half-mile from their destination, but Rosalie could discern the glass doors and fancy awning of the establishment.

  A single mote of light reflecting from the glass panes flashed in her eyes. It disappeared, replaced by a familiar bristle-haired, stocky figure swinging a truncheon.

  Poldi!

  Rosalie grabbed hold of Gerhard’s arm, unconsciously driving her nails into the flesh. His sudden yelp of pain made her release her hold on him. The rack wagon lurched to a halt.

  “I didn’t mean to…” she faltered, but then saw the police guard headed their way. She laid hold of Gerhard’s arm again. “Quick! Turn into the next alley.”

  “Why?” Gerhard regarded her, baffled. He held the reins aloft, but made no move to prod his nag forward.

  “Please, just do it.” With a swift motion of her chin, the maid indicated the police guard advancing toward them.

  “Scared of police guards, are you?” Gerhard sounded amused, but he began nevertheless to slowly guide the rack wagon into the alley. “It is just Madame Chapeau’s brother. He has a rough, blustering manner about him, but I doubt he means any harm.”

  “Her brother!” If Poldi was Madame Chapeau’s brother, then…

  Rosalie cast a quick glance behind her, turning her face away just as Poldi came into view. If he had troubled to look their way, he would have seen no more than a few straggling curls of her hair framing a sliver of cheek, but he strode out of sight, never once looking into the alley.