by Nupur Tustin
“Dressed provocatively was she?” Luigi grinned. That seemed like La Dichtler all right. “And her companion?”
“A stout man. Like a porcupine.” The Countess seemed to have tired of the conversation.
But Luigi persisted. “A porcupine?”
“His head”—the Countess’s shriveled hand circled the air irritably—“a big block with short, stiff spikes rising from it in every direction. The nose like a bulbous snout.”
“Ach so!” Luigi murmured softly. He would wager every last kreutzer it was Poldi Her Grace had seen. The stubby bristles on his head were the first thing one noticed about him. Besides, there could not be two men in Vienna quite so grotesque as that vile police guard.
* * *
The lawyer fingered a gold pen on his desk. “Yes, Dietrich did have a son. I know not who he is. Or where.” He raised his head, staring resignedly at the three men who sat before him. “He appears to have inherited his mother’s grasping nature.”
A single word penetrated Haydn’s consciousness and sat uneasily within it. Where?
“What demands has he made?” he enquired, puzzled. “And how can you fulfill them if you know not where he is?”
The same word must have caught Luigi’s attention as well, for his voice mingled with Haydn’s: “Where would he be but Cremona? It is where he was born, is it not?”
The Konzertmeister had been making his way to the lawyer’s chambers when Haydn’s carriage rolled to a stop before it. Haydn himself had been too preoccupied to see anything more than the freshly washed cobblestones of the Graben, but Johann had espied Luigi approaching.
“There you are, Joseph,” Luigi had said, hurrying over, the relief on his features unmistakable. But the confidences he wished to share had been forgotten in the revelation of Wilhelm Dietrich’s closely guarded secret.
Now as he sat within the lawyer’s comfortable chambers, Haydn threw his Konzertmeister a quick glance. What urgent matter, he wondered, had caused Luigi to venture out so early in the morning without his wig?
The lawyer had been speaking, and a single phrase arrested the Kapellmeister’s wandering mind and reined it in.
“Vienna?” he repeated. “The boy was raised in Vienna? How can that be?”
Herr Anwalt sighed. His hand went up to his forehead, fingers massaging the sagging skin between his firmly drawn eyebrows. “She followed him to Vienna. Years ago when Dietrich abandoned her, she followed him, bringing her son with her.
“She threatened to go to his wife and reveal all unless he set her up within the city, with a monthly stipend for herself and the boy.”
“Ach so!” Johann said. “Wilhelm Dietrich made all the arrangements himself, then. Brother and I were of the opinion that, being a cautious man, he would have used your services.”
“So, he did”—the lawyer dipped his head in acknowledgement of the fact—“but being ever the cautious man, he had me deposit the payments into a bank account. In his name, but she had access to it.”
Haydn leaned forward, grasping the edge of the table. “Do the payments continue now that he is gone?”
The lawyer nodded. “They are to continue during her lifetime. Almost all of Dietrich’s estate is tied up in this affair. His widow fortunately takes no interest in matters of business and seems to have accepted the view that her husband’s once-flourishing business has steadily dwindled.”
“Surely, then, it would have been a simple matter to discover her identity and her whereabouts? She must go herself to the bank or send someone she trusts.”
“Wilhelm Dietrich was my client, Herr Haydn. He trusted me not to pry into his affairs against his express wishes.” A telltale vibration in the lawyer’s voice suggested it cost him an effort to keep his tone even. “Nothing would persuade me to break that trust.”
“Of course not,” Johann interjected as always to smooth things over. “Brother only meant that it could be done now that Wilhelm Dietrich is no more. Surely his debt to her has been paid many times over. And if her son—”
“I fear her son might be a more dangerous man than anyone can conceive.” Herr Anwalt grasped the edge of his desk, the wrinkled skin on his hands beginning to stretch tautly over his bony knuckles. “I have always feared—”
“We know,” Haydn gently interrupted. “It is why we think he needs to be stopped before he does more harm.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Has a young man by the name of Fritz Dichtler ever come by your chambers?” he continued briskly.
The sudden turn in the conversation caught the lawyer by surprise. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as though clearing cobwebs out of his mind before responding. “He has indeed. You know him?”
“He is one of my musicians. A member of the opera troupe.”
“Oh! He said he was representing a man of great wealth. I cannot say I believed him. Had I known he had come on behalf of His Serene Highness…” Seeing Haydn shake his head vigorously, he faltered.
“His reticence on the subject put my guard up, I am afraid.” A hot flush of mortification suffused the lawyer’s cheeks.
“And so you sought a substantial surety to allow his patron to examine the bequest?” Johann’s voice drew the lawyer’s attention.
“No, of course not. I merely stipulated any examination take place in my presence. Surely—”
“Fritz Dichtler was not sent by His Serene Highness, Herr Anwalt.” Luigi’s quiet voice sounded insistently over the low rumble of the lawyer’s tone.
The color had drained from the Konzertmeister’s cheeks, leaving them ashen. “You think Fritz is Dietrich’s son, do you not, Joseph? I fear you may be right.”
* * *
“What can Fritz have done to arouse your suspicions, Luigi?” The question erupted from Haydn’s lips the moment they emerged from Herr Anwalt’s chambers. He steered his Konzertmeister toward the carriage waiting for them.
It would be better than talking in the street. Wagons rumbled down the Graben now; maids and housewives jostled past.
“It is not Fritz, but his wife,” Luigi responded as soon as they had settled into the comfortable seats of the carriage. The coachman prodded the horses into a slow walk.
“I thought at first we had simply been deceived into harboring a thief. But it is far worse than that.” Luigi began to recount the details of the soprano’s attempts at theft.
“A bristle-haired individual, you say?” Haydn asked when Luigi mentioned the police guard Poldi. “I recall him. He was most eager to take charge of Kaspar’s chest. Not something I would have allowed, naturally.”
“He had only to bide his time, however,” Johann pointed out. “We made no secret of the fact that we were bound for the undertaker’s.”
“I could not think where or how Fabrizzio could have chanced upon La Dichtler and her police guard,” Luigi continued. “But it all makes sense now. If Fabrizzio’s father really was old Dietrich’s friend, he must have known who Fritz was.”
“And sought, if I mistake not,” Haydn continued grimly, “to take advantage of his knowledge. It has cost him his life, unfortunately. The only question is, does he have the operas?”
“We could have the maids—” Johann began, but Haydn had already begun shaking his head.
“It would be best if they were not involved. Fritz has proven himself to be a most dangerous man. There is no knowing what he might do if he thinks they are after his precious chest.”
“What is to be done then?” Luigi stared earnestly at the brothers.
A small smile flickered at the corners of Haydn’s mouth. “Perhaps an opportunity to steal them will entice him. Unless, of course, the operas are already in his possession.”
“I know just how to do it.” Luigi grinned.
He pulled a timepiece out of his jacket pocket and gave it a quick glance. “We had best hurry. In a few hours more, I shall have to keep La Dichtler close by my side while Rosalie returns Her Serene Highness’s necklace.”
* * *
“Where is Clara?” Her Serene Highness gazed curiously up at Rosalie. The frantic ringing of her bell had impelled Rosalie to climb hurriedly up, two steps at a time, to the Princess’s bedchamber.
“In the kitchen,” Rosalie panted out the words, hoping Master Luigi had arrived at last.
It was noon, past the hour when Her Serene Highness usually arose. Her bell had rung faintly once before, but Rosalie had persuaded Frau Schwann to ignore it. The return of the necklace required the Princess’s presence in her toilette boudoir. And it was best done at a time when Frau Dichtler was not free to sweep in, unannounced.
“In the kitchen? What is she doing there?”
Her Serene Highness thrust aside the olive green drapes around her bed and swung her legs in a graceful sweep onto the polished parquet floor. The movement caused her hair, still dark despite her years, to uncoil itself. It tumbled down in glossy curls, cascading past her shoulder onto her white nightclothes.
“Making the cup of hot chocolate you requested, Your Serene Highness,” Rosalie replied, hoping the excuse would suffice. The Princess had made no such request that morning. Or the night before. Her frown suggested she had trouble recollecting it, but she accepted the statement without remark.
“She asked me to help you into the toilette boudoir.”
“She must have great confidence in your abilities.” The Princess pushed herself to her feet and led the way into the boudoir. “You are one of the kitchen maids, are you not?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the maid and at Rosalie’s nod continued: “Unable to make a good cup of chocolate, are you?”
“No , Frau Schwann merely thought . . .” Rosalie faltered, feeling foolish.
Frau Schwann could just as easily have returned the necklace. But Her Serene Highness’s fledgling suspicions would only be strengthened if the stolen necklace were miraculously discovered by the very person suspected of stealing it.
The Princess glided toward the marble-topped dressing table.
“You may dress me,” she said, sinking into the upholstered bench standing in front of it. “But I will not have any hands beside Clara’s attend to my hair, do you understand?”
She gazed into the tall, gilt-framed mirror above the dressing table. Her blue eyes, kind and shrewd, held a hint of humor as they met Rosalie’s violet orbs in the polished glass.
“Yes, Your Serene Highness.” Rosalie was glad to be spared the task. An uncomfortable flush spread over her cheeks as the Princess continued to regard her in the mirror. Had she divined something was amiss?
Rosalie’s own gaze shifted toward the door. When would Frau Schwann arrive? Despite the instructions the lady’s maid had issued, Rosalie was not sure she was quite up to the task of dressing the Princess.
“My gowns are in the closet.” The Princess waved a graceful hand in the direction of the white double doors in the wall behind Rosalie. “Behind you,” she said again when Rosalie wavered.
Rosalie smoothed down her apron and slowly turned around, aware of Her Serene Highness’s eyes on her. The necklace she had retrieved from Madame Chapeau’s establishment felt heavy in her pocket, weighing her entire body down.
She forced herself to walk to the closet and open the doors. A dazzling array of gowns in expensive silks and satins hung before her.
“Has Clara told you which gown I am to wear?” The Princess’s musical alto startled her. “It would be most remiss of her if she has not. But Clara is nearly as old as I am, and quite forgetful besides.”
“It is the peacock-colored dress,” Rosalie replied, made nearly breathless by the spectacular swell of rich purples, gorgeous crimsons, and brilliant blues; all barely contained within the closet.
“There it is!” Her Serene Highness’s voice, ringing out behind her, made her flinch.
It took Rosalie a moment to see it, tucked between an emerald-green silk and a rose-hued satin. She reached a tentative hand up, fingers brushing against the rich folds of fabric. Her other hand drifted toward her pocket. Was Her Serene Highness still looking at her? She cast a quick glance at the mirror.
Her gaze collided with the Princess’s
“Yes, that is the one. Bring it down!”
If only Her Serene Highness would look away. Rosalie hardly knew how to retrieve the necklace from her pocket without being caught in the act. Where could Frau Schwann be? Without her, the plan they had devised was sure to fail. And unless the necklace was returned this morning, Frau Dichtler would soon get wind of its recovery …
An annoyed furrow creased the Princess’s forehead, and she opened her mouth to speak when a soft knock sounded on the door.
Frau Schwann entered the room bearing a tray with a silver pot and a ceramic cup.
“Here is your chocolate, Your Serene Highness. Oh dear!” Her round features proclaimed her alarm. “I didn’t think you would still be undressed.” She hurried over to the dressing table, set her tray down, and bustled over to the closet.
“Here let me bring that down.” Frau Schwann reached for the peacock-colored silk gown, her ample hip nudging Rosalie unceremoniously out of the way and into the closet. A soft thud followed. The sound of metal hitting the parquet floor.
“What was that?” The Princess swept across the room.
“Your Serene Highness’s necklace!” Frau Schwann cried, feigning astonishment. “How did it get there?”
Rosalie bent down to pick up the piece of jewelry she had dropped. “It must have been caught up in the dress.” She held her palm out as she straightened up.
“This is not the paste replica, Clara!” Her Serene Highness’s eyes when she looked up were startled. “It is the necklace you lost on the way to the bank.”
Frau Schwann’s hand flew to her mouth. “I must have taken the paste necklace to the bank and forgotten that one here with your dress.”
Her Serene Highness frowned. “But I thought—”
“That is exactly what must have happened, Frau Schwann,” Rosalie hastily interjected. Best that the Princess didn’t recall the incident in Leopoldsdorf. There was no explaining that away. Although her quick mind had already divined a method to remedy the problem.
“Well, I am glad it is found,” Frau Schwann declared. “But come, Your Serene Highness. Let us get you dressed.”
“I would like it taken to the bank, Clara. At once. Ring for Elsa.”
“No!” Rosalie cried sharply. “I m-mean,” she stuttered as the Princess’s head jerked up in her direction. “I mean that Master Luigi said they were on no account to be disturbed. Frau Dichtler is with him, preparing for the evening’s entertainment.”
She clutched at the corners of her apron, hoping that at least was true.
The Princess sighed. “Then, I suppose I shall have to do it myself. Have the carriage prepared as soon as I am dressed, Clara.”
* * *
“You have somewhere to be, Frau Dichtler?” Luigi enquired, his tone all innocence. He sat, fingers poised above the harpsichord in the Music Room, ready to play the same phrase that had occupied their entire practice.
“Not at all. I am entirely at your disposal this morning, Herr Tomasini,” the soprano said sweetly enough, although the Konzertmeister thought he heard an irritated sigh as she twisted her head back from the door and gazed down at him.
“Shall we sing the phrase again?” Luigi suppressed the twitching of his mouth. The appoggiatura, he had known, would trip La Dichtler up. The woman could barely read music. “The first note must be sung on the beat. It is part of the melody.”
“Then why not write it as such instead of as a small note,” the singer grumbled. “One naturally treats those as incidental, and of no significance at all.”
But she dutifully sang the phrase again, although her eyes kept wandering, he noticed, to the wooden chest on Haydn’s desk. Luigi had found it in Papa Keller’s barn, Haydn being loath to part with either the chest Dietrich had brought back from his trav
els in Italy or the madrigals the merchant had left his nephew.
“I am still inclined to believe it conceals the operas,” the Kapellmeister had said. “It would be a mistake to allow Fritz to get his hands on it.”
It had taken the better part of an hour, but with Frau Haydn and her sister, the nun, lending a hand to the effort, they had succeeded in copying a substantial number of them.
The changes made had been sufficient for the scores to hold up to a cursory inspection. Frau Haydn’s sister had even offered up some of the paper he and Haydn had retrieved from Fabrizzio’s lodgings.
“They will lend the deception greater credence,” she had said with a twinkle in her lovely blue eyes.
“Continue, please.” Luigi motioned with his head as La Dichtler came to the end of the phrase. Her voice warbled and wavered, then grasped the next note.
“Excellent!” he said when the piece had come to a close. “Now, if we could add some emotion—”
“I am tired, Herr Tomasini. And my voice is dry. Won’t you be a dear and—”
“I will ring for some water.” Luigi smiled broadly. She would not be rid of him quite so easily. It was not yet time for the trap to be sprung.
He strode easily to the bell pull near the door and gave it a quick tug. When he returned, it was not to the harpsichord but to the chair by Haydn’s desk. He sank into it and stretched his legs out.
La Dichtler had already made herself comfortable in the chaise between the instrument and the desk. Her eyes, he noticed, were riveted on the chest.
“Opera scores,” he explained, drawing the chest toward himself and brushing off some of the dust that still clung to it. “There seems to be a renewed interest in the works of a composer by the name of Monteverdi.”
“I have heard of him, Herr Konzertmeister.” The soprano sounded annoyed. “I am an opera singer after all.”
“Yes, of course. And you sang his Lament of Ariadne the other night. A remarkable performance. His Serene Highness called me aside himself to commend me on it.” The Prince had done no such thing, but it was a small lie.