by Nupur Tustin
“Take van Swieten. And”—Her Majesty glared at her son—“the Police Inspector must be ordered to lie in wait with his men as well, Joseph.”
The Emperor drummed his fingers on the polished walnut armrest of his chair, then sighed. “Very well. Although I will likely look a fool, wasting the city’s resources on every tenuous thread of suspicion brought to us.”
“That we tolerate these ruffians at all makes us look like fools, Joseph,” his mother countered sharply.
She held out a note toward the Kapellmeister.
“Have van Swieten pay you for the madrigals from the privy purse. The first sum is for you. The second for the poor widow. We will secure her a yearly pension as well.”
* * *
The sight of a familiar rack wagon parked at the corner of Wallnerstrasse and Haarhof brought Rosalie to a sudden halt. For one inexplicable moment, her heart seemed to cease. Then a warm tingle prickled at the nape of her neck.
What was Gerhard doing here? Surely the Esterházy Cellar was not in need of any more wine?
She inched into the alley, forcing her suddenly leaden feet to step forward.
“There you are, lass!” Gerhard’s voice boomed out behind her. “I have been waiting here for you.”
“Oh.” Rosalie swiveled around, shoving her hands deep into her apron pockets. What could Gerhard possibly want with her? Did it have anything to do with Madame Chapeau?
From the way he was looking at her, it didn’t seem likely. A discomfiting warmth suffused her cheeks.
“I leave for Eisenstadt today. I thought I would see if you wanted me to carry a letter for you. To your mother,” he explained when she stared expressionlessly at him. “Rohrau is not far out of my way.”
“Oh.” Rosalie said again. Her eyes shifted down to the dusty brown cobblestones. She had forgotten all about Mama’s letter. It was still in her apron pocket. Unopened.
Her fingers closed around it now.
She sighed and glanced up. “It is kind of you to offer, but I have nothing to send her. I am sure Mama has no wish to hear from me.”
“Why would she write to you, then?” Gerhard’s deep blue eyes gazed down into hers with an intensity that made her look away. “She has lost a son. She must cling even more to the children that are left to her.”
“She holds me responsible for his death.” Rosalie’s gaze swung up toward Gerhard’s face. “She has never said it in so many words. But it is as clear as day in every letter she writes.”
She felt Gerhard’s warm hand upon her shoulder. “Perhaps it is her grief that makes her lash out so.”
“Perhaps.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I never saw it until it was too late, but he was lost to us long before it happened.” She glanced up at him. “I often wonder what became of the little boy he used to be. Why didn’t I see him drift away?”
“No one does, lass.” Gerhard’s tone was somber. Rosalie wondered if he was thinking of Marlene, the woman he had lost. His fingers dug into her shoulder blades for the briefest moment. “Your mother asks herself the same question, no doubt.”
Rosalie stared at him. It was not a consideration that had ever occurred to her. Did Mama merely need to know she was not the only person who’d failed to see what Sanyi had become?
She brought out the letter and tore it open.
“You are angry with me, Rosalie. How can I blame you? I have held you at fault for giving in to Sanyi’s whims. As though it was his music that led him astray. I only wish I knew what did.
“I bore your father but one son, and now he is lost to us forever.”
“One son may be lost. But another may be gained.” Gerhard’s quiet voice intruded upon Rosalie’s thoughts.
What? She raised her eyes, unaware she’d been mouthing the words out loud.
“I can take care of your parents as well as I do my widowed mother, lass. If you will have me, that is to say.”
“But…” Rosalie scarcely knew what to say.
“Think on it, lass. I don’t need your answer right away.”
What of Marlene? she wondered, but was too dazed to voice the thought. She scribbled a hasty note on a scrap of paper and watched him leave, her question still unanswered.
Had Gerhard really just asked her to marry him? What would Greta say about that? It was some minutes before she remembered the Blaufränkisch she had been sent out to fetch.
* * *
It was far too late to return to Landstrasse to Papa Keller’s home. The Kapellmeister and his brother repaired instead to Wallnerstrasse and walked toward the Grüner Baum, a small inn down the street from the Esterházy Palace.
Soft strains of music emanated from within its quiet tavern.
“It is one of your quartets, brother,” Johann said, turning to the Kapellmeister with a smile. “Shall we go in?”
Haydn listened for a moment, his head cocked. One of the violins was ever so slightly out of tune, but there was such emotion in the way the performers played the lyrical minuet section of the quartet, one hardly noticed it.
“It is an excellent performance,” he remarked, making his way to the old oaken door, weathered and warped from long use. He pushed it open, wincing at the sound of the loudly creaking hinges.
The tavern’s patrons, crowded around the four bearded performers, turned their heads at the noise and glared. Haydn, looking as contrite as he could manage, hurried quietly in toward a table in a dark corner.
They had no sooner seated themselves when the innkeeper approached them, a bottle of wine, some glasses, and a dish of pickled mushrooms on his tray.
“You are new here, gentlemen?” It was phrased more as a statement than a question, but Haydn nodded in response.
“A word of advice, then,” the innkeeper continued as he poured out their wine. “Next time, wait until the players have finished a movement before opening the door.”
“The performers are much sought after, I suppose?” Haydn pushed one of the wine glasses toward Johann and drew another toward himself.
“It is the composer who is popular, gentlemen,” the innkeeper replied. “You may have heard of him, Joseph Haydn.”
“We are familiar with the name,” Johann said, suppressing a smile.
Few people expected the great Haydn to be a small fellow, no different from themselves, with brown pock-marked features and a humorous light in his eyes. Small wonder the innkeeper had failed to recognize the Kapellmeister.
“His music is decent enough,” Haydn agreed.
The lukewarm words would have to suffice. He could hardly praise his own music. And to express his pleasure at the reception of his works would only serve to disclose his identity.
Not something he was keen to do, given the nature of their mission.
The innkeeper was outraged. “Decent enough!” he exploded. “He who cannot appreciate Haydn’s works can know nothing at all of music. Decent enough, indeed!” He left the table, still muttering under his breath.
There was little to do but wait, and the Kapellmeister and his brother settled down to it. The musicians took up a quartet by Dittersdorf, then played one of Jommelli’s trio sonatas transcribed for four strings.
By the time Haydn and Johann had ordered the evening meal—a simple beef gulasch served with noodles and potatoes—the tavern had attracted a few more customers. But no one paid any attention to the two men sitting quietly at a table in the corner.
At the appointed hour, Haydn settled his bill, leaving ten gulden for the musicians.
“The music was superb and the musicians excellent,” he explained to the astonished innkeeper.
He and Johann strode out into the cool night air, making their way toward the Kaiserhaus. The palace—once the property of the Empress’s deceased husband, Franz Stephen—stood directly opposite the Esterházy Palace.
The portico over its front entrance afforded such an excellent view of the Music Room, they had arranged to meet Baron van Swieten under it to await the events o
f the night.
His Lordship was already there when they arrived.
“Are you quite sure the thieves will strike tonight?” he asked in a low voice when the brothers joined him.
“If Luigi has fed them the bait correctly, I have every expectation they will, Your Lordship,” Haydn replied.
“There is a police guard patrolling the streets. He has stopped before the palace several times.”
“It will be Poldi, no doubt,” Johann said. “Was he a stout man with hair that stood up on his head like the bristles of a porcupine?”
The Baron nodded. “The same. But never fear, we shall bring the matter to an end tonight. There are two men posted near the inn down the street and the Police Inspector himself along with a fourth man at the other end, near the Kohlmarkt. All at the Emperor’s orders.”
Haydn peered up at the Music Room window. Luigi would be concealed within, but he doubted the Dichtlers would be foolish enough to keep the stolen music in the castle. Most likely, Poldi would deliver the music to Fritz’s mother at Singerstrasse.
“Then, it is just a matter of time,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Luigi shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He had been standing within the coat closet for so long, his legs felt stiff and a soreness had crept into his knees. Rosalie had long since snuffed out the candles in the Music Room, but the room was not entirely bereft of light.
Through the partially open window, the full moon cast a dull golden glow that illuminated Haydn’s desk and the chest containing the scores he had tempted La Dichtler with. The rest of the room remained in obscurity, but the Konzertmeister found himself able to see well enough.
The streets would be more brightly illuminated despite the clouds that flitted briefly across the moon. Haydn and Johann, he hoped, would have had the forethought to take up a discreet position opposite the Esterházy Palace.
The quiet of the night was broken only by the steady clip-clop of a solitary police guard’s boots on the street outside interspersed every now and then with the calling of the hour. Luigi heard the harsh cry once again and wondered if it was Poldi patrolling Wallnerstrasse and the surrounding streets.
When would La Dichtler come? He shifted his weight yet again, flinching at the sound of his joints snapping, the sound eerily explosive in the stillness of the night. He was about to move once more when he heard the soft murmur of voices and the muffled sound of footsteps.
He pressed himself against the rear wall of the closet, scarcely daring to breathe. The door to the Music Room opened just a crack. Then a little more. La Dichtler crept into the room, the candle in her hand illuminating her features. But even without it, Luigi would have recognized the tall, voluptuous figure of the soprano.
Fritz sauntered in behind her. “Where is it?” he asked, looking around the room.
The soprano whipped around. “Shh!” she hissed. “The maids may still be up.”
“At this hour?” Fritz sounded skeptical, but he lowered his voice nevertheless.
La Dichtler had reached the desk now and was fumbling with the hasp on the old chest. “I cannot understand why he wants the chest as well. It would be much easier to simply take the scores and leave this old thing behind.”
He? Luigi leaned closer to the closet door, pressing his ear against the tiny crack between the door and the jamb. Was La Dichtler referring to Poldi? What could Poldi possibly want with the chest?
“We had better take it, then, Elsa. Here let me.” Fritz reached for the hasp and after some wiggling managed to lift it up.
“There is no need to inspect them, Fritz. They are all within,” the soprano hissed impatiently. “Let us be on our way.”
For once Luigi found himself in agreement with her. The scores would not hold up to a very close inspection, and he doubted even a man as vapid as Fritz would be entirely deceived.
But Fritz had already brought out several sheets and was peering at them, head lowered. He moved his candle slowly over the sheet. A blob of molten wax dripped onto the edge of the paper, eliciting a sharp cry from his wife.
“Now, look what you’ve done!” She attempted to grab hold of the papers, but Fritz moved them out of her reach. “Put them back, Fritz.”
“These look nothing like operas, Elsa.”
Luigi cursed the young man under his breath. But La Dichtler merely snorted.
“What can you know of the matter? Of course, they are operas. That’s what Herr Tomasini said they were.”
“In five voices?” Fritz continued to scan the sheets in his hand.
“You must be looking at a chorus. Now put them back, and let us be on our way.”
For the first time since his acquaintance with the soprano, Luigi found himself thankful for her supreme ignorance. Fritz, too weak-minded to argue with his wife, obediently returned the scores to the chest.
But his next words were so odd, Luigi hardly knew what to make of them.
“I still think we should keep a few of these for ourselves,” Fritz said as he hoisted the chest up and made his way to the door.
Keep the music for ourselves.
The words echoed in Luigi’s mind. He was vaguely aware of the door clicking shut as the Dichtlers left the Music Room. But the Konzertmeister remained within the dark closet, too preoccupied to move.
Who was Fritz stealing the music for, if not for himself? And who else but Fritz would want anything to do with the chest that contained the scores?
* * *
Luigi found Haydn and the Baron van Swieten waiting for him under the portico that loomed over the enormous wooden entrance of the Kaiserhaus. He had barely time to wonder where Johann was, or what the Baron was doing there, when the Kapellmeister grabbed hold of his arm.
“That way!” Haydn whispered urgently, hustling Luigi along in the direction of the Kohlmarkt. “I sent Johann after Fritz and his wife, but that bristle-haired scoundrel of a police guard is with them—” he shuddered, not wishing to complete the thought.
He had seen Poldi walk past several times as they waited, his truncheon swinging from his hairy wrist. He hurried on, sickened by the thought of what a blow from such a weapon could do to his younger brother’s frail form.
“Never fear, Herr Haydn,” the Baron panted after them. “Master Johann will not have to deal with the ruffian by himself. The police guards stationed near the Kohlmarkt will have begun to follow him and have been instructed to intervene at the slightest hint of trouble.”
Haydn merely nodded. “Her Majesty suggested His Grace accompany us,” he explained to Luigi. He had noticed his Konzertmeister glancing over his shoulder at the Baron in a bewildered way.
“Ach so! But how will we find Johann?”
“The Baron was kind enough to supply Johann with some kuchen. The trail of pieces he lets fall to the ground will guide us.” It had seemed a silly idea at the time, but Haydn was grateful the Baron had thought of it.
They were at the Kohlmarkt now, but Johann was nowhere to be seen. Haydn turned left, carefully scanning the ground for the white pieces of kuchen. He walked a few more paces, close to the Graben now. But there was still no sight of the marzipan-covered pieces Johann had promised to let fall.
He was beginning to grow desperate when the Baron called to him in a low voice.
“They turned right, Herr Haydn.”
Haydn spun around. “Right? But that is the wrong way. Signora Padrona’s house is on Singerstrasse. They ought to have turned left.”
“They appear to be headed for the Michaelerplatz,” Luigi remarked.
“What reason could they have to go there?”
“Perhaps they intend to meet someone other than Signora Padrona.” Luigi recounted the conversation he had overheard.
“Perhaps,” Haydn agreed.
But quite another alternative had suggested itself to him.
What buyer, after all, would want the chest as well as the scores? There were only two people in all of Vienna
who could have any interest in the old merchant’s chest. One of them was Signora Padrona. And nothing in her manner had suggested the casket in her possession was not the one she sought.
The other could only be…
He recalled the Signora’s dark, hooded eyes and her features, vaguely familiar to him. Fritz looked nothing like her. And, but for his interest in the bequest, Haydn would have sworn the boy had not a trace of Italian blood in his veins. Was it possible that Fritz was not the Signora’s son, after all?
But in that case, who was?
* * *
The trail of kuchen crumbs Johann had left behind came to an abrupt end at St. Michael’s Square.
Haydn paused near St. Michael’s Church at the corner, hugging its shadows as he craned his head to inspect the enormous square. The Hofburg rose before him, the greenish patina of its copper dome illuminated by the light of the full moon.
He heard Luigi’s firm tread and the Baron’s heavy footfall behind him, the sounds seeming to ring out in the quiet of the night. Where could Johann possibly have gone?
The palaces of the nobility lined Herrengasse on the left, while the imperial palace continued on to the right of the square. There was no telling where his younger brother had turned.
A dark figure moving under the church portico caught his eye as he twisted his head around. He was about to draw back when it raised an arm, frantically motioning him forward.
“It is Johann,” Luigi whispered in his ear.
“What can he be doing there?” the Baron huffed. “Would to God, he has not lost trace of the thieves!”
Haydn made no reply to this, determined not to consider the possibility at all. It was enough that his brother was safe. Still hugging the shadows, the men inched forward, circling around the church facade until they reached its entrance. Johann emerged from the portico.
“Whoever they are meeting is within the church, brother,” he said in a low voice as he gestured within. “Waiting near the door that leads into the crypt. The police guards are already within.”