Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  Haydn grasped his brother’s arm, too overcome with emotion to say a word. Had anything happened to Johann…

  His fingers dug deeply into his younger brother’s shoulder. Then noticing the faint grimace of pain in his features, the Kapellmeister hastily released his hold and slid forward.

  The door leading into the nave had been left ajar, allowing a small pyramid of moonlight to fall on the square tiles of stone just beyond it. The men crept inside, taking care to avoid the patch of light falling down the center of the floor.

  Haydn, leading the way, made a wide arc to the left. The pillars reaching up to the vaulted ceiling separated the pews from an aisle that flared out into a circular area containing the Barnabite chapel.

  It was within this chapel that the singers of the north choir stood during service, close by the door leading down into the crypt.

  A low growl of anger reached them as their neared it, causing Haydn to stop.

  “Where are the operas, then? I warn you, it will not go well for you if you have attempted to purloin them from me.”

  Not wishing to be seen, the Kapellmeister hastily stepped within the chapel dedicated to St. Anthony and beckoned to the others to follow him in. In the Barnabite chapel on the other side of the wall, the argument continued on unabated.

  “You hold them in your hands, you fool! All the scores you asked for.” Fury appeared to have rendered Frau Dichtler’s normally shrill voice hoarse.

  “And the chest you wanted as well, who knows for what reason.” Fritz’s light tenor rose in indignation. “Do you think Elsa would have taken the trouble to inform your mother of this unexpected development if we intended to dupe you?”

  “Your mother!” Johann echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fritz cannot be Signora Padrona’s son, then.”

  “No.” Haydn shook his head, straining his ear against the stone wall.

  The resounding whoosh of a sheaf of papers hitting the stone floor echoed through the walls of the church just then, startling him into biting his tongue. The pain nearly caused him to cry out, but he forced himself to stay still.

  “The chest that I asked for?” The words were uttered in an angry snarl. “You call this the chest I asked for? This moth-eaten bit of worthless driftwood should be destined for the garbage. And as for these scores—”

  The sound of a shoe grinding into the papers on the floor filled the Kapellmeister’s eardrums.

  “Careful! By the arrangement we had with you, half of those belong to us,” said someone in a much deeper, menacing tone. Poldi, no doubt, Haydn thought.

  “The arrangement called for opera scores, not for a parcel of worthless madrigals.” A loud crack was heard, the sound of a fist landing squarely against someone’s jaw.

  Then a thwack.

  Haydn stiffened. Poldi had begun to wield his truncheon. His opponent, whoever he was, stood no chance unless he was similarly equipped. Alarmed, the Kapellmeister swung around, but the Baron was already signaling to the Police Inspector and his guards.

  Armed with lanterns, stout ropes, and truncheons, they raced toward the Barnabite Chapel.

  “Halt! In the name of the Emperor, halt!” Haydn heard the Police Inspector call out.

  A brief commotion followed, but by the time he followed the Baron into the choir, the Dichtlers and Poldi had been restrained, their hands tied behind their backs, a strip of cloth roughly tied around their mouths to prevent them from crying out.

  Haydn’s gaze drifted past to the tall man who stood next to them, similarly restrained. His eyes roved over the other’s dark hair and hooded eyelids, thunderstruck.

  “Albrecht!” he rasped out, then cleared his throat.

  This, then, was the old merchant’s bastard son; the man who had killed Kaspar. How had he not …?

  Innumerable memories shuffled themselves inside his mind as he sought to make sense of this revelation. The man before him was the spitting image of Signora Padrona. Yet he had failed to see it.

  Worse still—

  The thought remained unvoiced in his mind as Luigi swept past him. The Konzertmeister drew his arm over his left shoulder, then swung back to strike Albrecht across the face with the back of his broad palm.

  “I could kill you with my bare hands for what you did to Kaspar, you ungrateful cur! He was a good man. He trusted you and called you his friend.”

  Albrecht’s gag had slid down to his chin, leaving his mouth exposed. He hawked, expelling a gob of spittle that barely missed Luigi.

  “He stole my inheritance.” His eyes glittered in a baleful glare at the group. “He deserved to die.”

  Luigi raised his arm again, but the Baron drew him aside.

  “That is enough, my friend. Rest assured, the man will not go unpunished.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The events of the night had left Haydn exhausted, and he was glad to avail himself of the rooms reserved for him at the Esterházy Palace. Another note had been despatched to Maria Anna to inform her of the fact.

  He climbed into the soft feather bed and pulled the covers up. His head sank into the depths of his pillow; his eyes closed. But he found himself too troubled by the revelations of the night to drift easily into sleep.

  Had there ever been cause to suspect Albrecht, he wondered. Or had he simply been blind to the truth? His mind pored uneasily over every detail that had come to his attention since Kaspar first sought his help.

  He had considered the lawyer’s involvement in the first attempt to rob Kaspar of his bequest. But that Albrecht might be involved…

  It had never once occurred to Haydn to question the young man’s friendship. He had, he supposed, seen the man through Kaspar’s eyes. Even so, Albrecht had quite cleverly managed their impressions of him.

  A man, aware of an impending attack, might be expected to arm himself. But Albrecht had traveled unarmed. Even taken a bullet in the course of the robbery. Only a man trained in the habitual deviousness of criminals could have suspected his motives. Haydn certainly had not.

  That one gesture of trust had clouded his mind entirely. Albrecht had never been regarded as a suspect.

  He recalled the suspicious break-in at Kaspar’s house the very night the locks had been changed. It was Albrecht, he remembered now, who had suggested changing them; Albrecht who had gone to the trouble of locating a locksmith for the purpose.

  How easy it would have been for him to have a second set of keys made for his own use.

  He had even returned the very next day, curious perhaps to see how the break-in had been regarded. Or, more likely, to con poor Amelie into entrusting the chest to him. But Haydn himself had fortunately been present to take charge of the bequest.

  His eyes flew open, all thought of sleep gone.

  Small wonder he had been attacked. And Albrecht—Haydn sat up now—had made a point of saving the music, allowing the ruffians who attacked him to escape with the casket.

  “The casket”, Haydn whispered into the darkness, his mind turning to the worm-eaten chest Kaspar’s aunt had lent them. The operas were concealed somewhere within it, he would warrant.

  Wilhelm Dietrich may have wanted nothing to do with his son, but he had been astute enough to realize the wretched boy would be deceived by outward appearances.

  “Albrecht must have taken care to befriend Kaspar,” Haydn said softly to himself.

  The two musicians must have met at the Hofburg, the younger man gaining Kaspar’s trust. When the old merchant fell ill, Albrecht had no doubt made himself indispensable to Kaspar. Conveying medicaments and other healing substances to the old man.

  Kaspar, his hands full with an ailing wife, would have welcomed the assistance.

  “But old Wilhelm Dietrich was wily, too.” Haydn smiled in the darkness. “He would never have been able to confide in his wife, but he had made arrangements to secure Kaspar’s inheritance.”

  The bequest that had cost poor Kaspar his life.

  Haydn’s smile faded. Woul
d to God, the old merchant had dispensed with his prejudice and allowed his son the satisfaction of besting him. An innocent man had been caught in the crossfire, and another had lost his life as well.

  Fabrizzio, realizing that Albrecht had murdered his cousin, had apparently sought payment for his own silence. A foolish move, Haydn thought, shaking his head. Nothing good ever came of greed. Or a desire to profit from another’s sins.

  He slid down under the covers again. If anyone could find the hidden compartment, it was Papa Keller. He would send for his father-in-law as soon as dawn broke. Maria Anna…

  His mind drifted into oblivion before he could complete the thought.

  * * *

  Papa Keller, sitting astraddle one of the cushioned chairs in the Music Room, tilted his head to regard the chest on the table before them.

  “The outer dimensions of the box, Sepperl,” he said, using Haydn’s boyhood name, “are far larger than would be required given the space contained within.”

  “That would suggest the presence of an inner compartment, would it not?” Luigi leaned closer to the chest, hazel eyes bright with excitement.

  The Kapellmeister had shared his nighttime ponderings on the subject with him, and they left no doubt as to the existence of the operas. Somewhere within this chest were the entire operatic works composed by the great Monteverdi.

  Luigi’s feverish anticipation touched Haydn as well. He could almost feel the thick, old, handmade paper in his hands; smell its musty odor. His heart seemed to be executing a never-ending rapid trill.

  But the memory of the compartment he and Johann had discovered dimmed his eagerness, tingeing it with frustration.

  “The one Johann and I found”—he drew up the lining that concealed the compartment—“had nothing save for some letters and a journal Wilhelm Dietrich kept.”

  “Of his numerous conquests, I have no doubt,” Papa Keller snorted.

  The comment startled Haydn. He stared at Papa Keller, wondering how much his father-in-law knew of Wilhelm Dietrich’s various dalliances. He had not supposed the news to be so widely known.

  Papa Keller, if he noticed Haydn’s astonishment, chose to ignore it. He continued instead to regard the chest, rubbing his forefinger pensively across his chin.

  Haydn slid back in his chair, swallowing his curiosity. Most likely, the old merchant had bragged about his amorous affairs as well. His younger brother, had he been present, might have tactfully elicited an explanation from Papa Keller.

  But Johann had set out at the stroke of dawn in search of a tenor and a soprano to replace the Dichtlers who, along with Poldi and Albrecht, were detained in the Alte Burg. There under the watchful eye of the Swiss palace guards, they awaited the Emperor’s justice.

  Johann had not been gone above a half hour when the carriage Haydn had sent for his father-in-law and Maria Anna had arrived.

  The prospect of spending an entire day browsing the delightful wares within the expensive establishments on the Kohlmarkt had persuaded Maria Anna to forgo breakfast, and she had deposited her father outside the palace and set off.

  “There must be another compartment,” Papa Keller said at last. “The outer dimensions of the box are much larger than would be warranted by even the one you discovered, Sepperl.”

  “Another false bottom, perhaps,” Luigi said, stuffing the last of the sweet rolls into his mouth. He wiped his fingers on his breeches and drew the chest toward himself.

  Reaching within, he rummaged around for some time. “I can find nothing,” he said, pushing the chest toward Haydn.

  “Where could it be, I wonder.” Haydn set it on his lap and slowly rotated it, surveying the casket from top to bottom. Small brass plates decorated the corners at the top.

  He let his forefinger slide back and forth on the smooth, cold surface.

  His eyes turned toward the brass legs at the bottom. They were quite extraordinary: ornate, angled pieces that looked rather like wings. Each affixed to the bottom corner of the casket.

  Something stirred in his brain. He might know nothing of carpentry, but even he knew that an angled piece could serve as a lever.

  He pressed a forefinger and thumb on either side of one of the pieces. To no avail.

  “The bottom drops out, I’ll warrant!” Papa Keller cried. “But the carpenter will have fashioned four levers. Here”—he reached out—“let me hold it up for you. Put your other thumb and finger at the opposite end. There! Now twist hard, Sepperl.”

  Haydn pushed, grunting with the effort. He could feel the pieces slowly move, but they had not been oiled in a long time and it took all of his strength to twist them away from the box. Luigi reached up and began pushing the brass pieces at the third and fourth corners.

  They had barely managed to pry open the last lever when, with a small crash, the bottom dropped down. Four slim wooden pipes extended down from the middle of the box to the deep receptacle that had dropped out.

  “There are papers in there,” Papa Keller’s voice was hushed. “A thick stack of yellowing pages. Are those your operas, Sepperl?”

  “Set the chest on the table here, Joseph,” Luigi advised, beginning to draw the box down.

  Haydn could barely draw breath. The pages were face down within the container. What if they were not…

  * * *

  A hard rapping on the door nearly made him bite his tongue. The door opened, revealing His Serene Highness, Prince Nikolaus Esterházy.

  For a moment he stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed upon the chest standing as it were on stilts. Then he strode into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  “You have found the lost operas, I see.”

  Before Haydn could say a word, His Serene Highness bent down and plucked the stack of papers from within the lower receptacle.

  He cast his eye over the page on top. “It would appear the old gentleman knew who amongst his nephew’s acquaintances was willing to kill for these works.”

  He handed the page down to Haydn who spread it on the table before them.

  “Beware of whom you befriend, my boy,” Dietrich’s unsteady hand had scrawled the warning across the page. “If you have found these, for God’s sake, keep them safe from Albrecht. He means you no good.”

  “If only we had found these in time.” Haydn’s voice was tinged with regret.

  If only he had taken possession of the scores the very night he had arrived in Vienna. But news of the Empress’s acquisition had only convinced him Kaspar’s bequest was nothing valuable.

  “Her Majesty will be most pleased to add these to her collection, Haydn,” the Prince said as he took a vacant chair between Papa Keller and Luigi. He set the stack of scores down. “It would be as well to examine them, however, before we get her hopes up.”

  Haydn nodded. He glanced down at the pages. Even if it were not for the name inscribed at the top, he would have recognized the loops that graced the stems of Monteverdi’s notes.

  He had noticed the characteristic in a letter the composer had written to the Empress Eleonora, daughter of the Duke of Gonzaga.

  Her Majesty had shown it to him the previous day, having requested the entire correspondence between the great composer and her great-great-grandfather’s second wife be sent to her from St. Nikolai. It was to the nuns of the convent she had founded that the Empress Eleonora had entrusted her papers and her most precious possessions.

  “It may help you recognize his hand when you see it, Haydn,” Her Majesty had said.

  “If it will set your mind at rest,” the Prince’s deep voice interrupted his thoughts, “the Emperor has ordered Albrecht and the wretched police guard be publicly executed.”

  Publicly executed! Haydn looked up, too stunned to speak.

  It was a harsh punishment, reserved only for the worst traitors. One of his violinists had met his death thus not more than five months ago for a heinous act of treason.

  But the relentless and brutal murder of Vienna’s citizens were
an act of treason as well, he supposed.

  “Was there no trial?” Papa Keller enquired.

  There had been some rumors of judgment being passed and punishments being meted out to supposed criminals without the benefit of a trial. It was said these were men who tended to be too outspoken in their criticism of His Majesty.

  Haydn supposed it was true, the Emperor not being one to brook opposition lightly.

  “He saw no reason for one, and for once I agreed with him,” the Prince replied. His nostrils flared in distaste. “I have met few men so hardened in their crime, they showed no remorse for their deeds.

  “The ape Poldi bragged to all who could hear of the gang of thieves he had spearheaded to terrorize the city. And Albrecht was no better, crowing about having led the great Haydn by the nose.”

  “He said that?” Luigi’s voice vibrated with a quiet menace.

  “He was well aware the music scholar had duped Goretti and that the man was in desperate need of the scores he had promised to procure for Her Majesty. Once his attempt at a robbery failed, he casually let drop news of the bequest.”

  “Kapellmeister Reutter surmised as such,” Haydn said. “We all thought the young man was naïve, too prone to gossip. I suppose he hoped initially the physician would be able to purchase the bequest.”

  “Or that the music scholar might,” the Prince added with a nod. “In either case, it would be easy enough to procure the chest. He was never interested in the madrigals they contained, foolishly imagining them to be of no value.”

  “Wilhelm Dietrich counted on him to be just so stupid,” Haydn said with some satisfaction.

  In so many other ways, however, Albrecht had proven himself to be quite devious. He recalled the palpable fear Fabrizzio had exhibited upon hearing of Kaspar’s demise.

  “I suppose he deliberately led Fabrizzio into sending Kaspar the note that took him to his death.”

  “Not deliberately, although the consequences could not have been more fortuitous, Haydn. Your attention was so consumed by the physician and the scholar who had both expressed such an interest in the bequest—”