The Figaro Murders (11 page)

“I would like my first lesson tomorrow morning, Signor Abbé,” she said. “Marianne will come for you.”

I let go of her hand and bowed again. When I looked up, she was gone.

*   *   *

I stood looking after her, my mind newly invigorated despite my lack of sleep. I knew exactly which poems I would use in the lesson tomorrow. Perhaps two or three of those to start, and then—

Heavy footsteps came from the hallway. They sounded like the ones I had heard from this same room yesterday. Footsteps that belonged to the person who had lied to Troger, who had told him I had threatened Florian Auerstein, who had claimed to have seen me running from the house. Footsteps that belonged to the person who had landed me in this mess.

I strode to the door, ready to confront my enemy. I grabbed the knob and pulled open the door.

“Who the hell are you?” A short, broad-chested man in his fifties stood before me. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

I looked down at him and offered my hand. “I am Lorenzo Da Ponte,” I said. “I have been hired by the baron to teach poetry to his wife.”

“Poetry!” He snorted, ignoring my outstretched hand as he pushed by me. My eyes watered from the strong smell of French cologne. “What does she need with that nonsense? Her head is already full of fanciful sentiments.”

“The baron believes his wife might enjoy the lessons,” I said.

He glared at me. “I wasn't told anything about this! Caroline said nothing to me!”

“I believe the decision was made just yesterday.”

He looked me up and down. “Yes, I see. Well, as a stranger to this house, you may not be aware that this is a difficult time for the baroness. There has been a murder. Someone broke into the house yesterday and killed the baron's page.”

“I was saddened to hear about it,” I said. “But I have just met the baroness, and she is eager to begin our lessons tomorrow.”

He looked at me for a moment, speculatively. He turned on his heel, went over to one of the bookcases, and studied the titles.

“I beg your pardon, but you haven't told me your name,” I said.

“I am Dr. Urban Rausch,” he said without turning.

Ah, the baroness's guardian.

He pulled a book from the shelf and turned to me. “I live here as a special guest of the baroness,” he said. “What did you say your name was? De Monte?”

“Da Ponte. Lorenzo Da Ponte.”

“What are you, some sort of teacher at the university?” he asked.

“No, sir, I am not. I am honored to hold the position of poet to His Majesty the Emperor's Court Theater.”

He waved his hand as if dismissing my title to the breeze. “I see. I'm afraid I've never heard of you. I don't frequent the theater. Where did you attend university—up north? What degree does one earn to qualify one to teach poetry?” I didn't think I imagined the sneer in his voice.

“I studied literature and poetry in my native Venice,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I see.” He turned back to the bookcase, replaced the book, and drew out another. I winced as he opened it widely, cracking the spine. He studied a page for a moment, then carried the volume over to the sofa, sat down, and began to read.

I stood fuming. What a pompous ass! Was I to stand here all day? I cleared my throat. He looked up with an expression of feigned surprise that I was still there. He pulled a large gold watch from his pocket and made a show of studying it, replaced it in his pocket, and waved his hand at me.

“You may go. Close the door behind you, if you will.”

I stalked out, suppressing the temptation to slam the door. I stood at the stair landing for a moment to calm myself. The bombastic jackass! What degree did I have to qualify me to teach poetry! As if understanding and appreciating the true meaning of a poem could be learned through dry, technical lecturing instead of by years of reading, contemplation, and reading again.

I started up the stairs to my room, my mind brimming with questions. Could the doctor be the spy and murderer? What would be his motive? He had known the baroness since she was a child. Why would he spy for Frederick, knowing that his activities could jeopardize her husband's career?

Then again, perhaps he had grown tired of being a “special guest” of his ward, and had been offered an opportunity to make a large sum of money by spying on the baron.

As I reached the third floor and opened the door to my room, another question sprang to mind. I was sure I had recognized Rausch's footsteps as those I had heard before I had left the house yesterday. Had he been the person who had lied to Troger, claiming he saw me running from the house? Had he been acting just now, pretending he didn't know me? If he had lied to Troger, what were his motives? Why had he blamed me for the murder?

*   *   *

I had just begun to unbutton my waistcoat when there was a tentative knock at the door. I opened it to a thin, small, middle-aged man with a narrow face pitted with smallpox scars.

“Signor Da Ponte?” he asked in a soft voice. “I am Jakob Ecker, the baron's secretary. He would like to see you in his office.”

I crossed over to the cupboard, pulled on my better waistcoat, and followed him down the stairs. As we passed the library, I noted that the door stood open and the room was empty. Dr. Rausch must not have found his reading as interesting after I had left as it had been when I had been there to ignore.

The secretary stopped at the end of the hallway and knocked on one of the wide double doors. He opened it and gestured for me to enter.

“Ecker, where is that clock Kaunitz brought me from Paris?” The deep voice came from a man seated behind a large desk across the room. His attention was fixed on a pile of documents, and he did not look up at our entrance. The secretary scurried past me.

“Let me look, sir. It is not on the table?”

“No. I saw it there yesterday, but now I can't find it. Look around, would you? Perhaps the girl mislaid it.” The baron looked up from his work and stood. “You must be Da Ponte. I am Christof Gabler.” He was the type of man women found handsome: strong, chiseled bones set in a wide face; long, dark hair tied back; tall, with an athletic build. He seemed to be a few years younger than me. He and his wife must make an elegant pair, I thought with a pang of envy.

I bowed.

“Is it there?” he asked impatiently, looking over to the corner of the large office, where Ecker was searching frantically through a tall cupboard. His face red with agitation, the secretary shook his head.

“We have someone with sticky fingers in this house,” the baron explained as he waved me toward a chair in front of the desk. “Several things have disappeared in the last few months. Ecker, never mind, you can do that later. Bring me the letters and I'll sign them now.”

The secretary scooped up a pile of papers from a smaller desk and laid them before the baron. While he signed the documents, I surveyed the room. The furnishings were lavish yet masculine. A sofa and a set of chairs in a muted blue striped fabric were grouped before the fireplace, which dominated the left wall of the room. A long sword clad in a plain scabbard, its hilt unembellished, unlike most of the swords worn by the aristocracy, hung over the mantel.

The baron handed the documents to Ecker and looked over at me. “That is the first weapon my father ever made,” he said. He crossed the room in long strides and plucked the sword from the wall. Pulling off the scabbard, he presented the sword to me. “Look, it is over fifty years old, but see how sharp it is,” he said. I stared at the blade, imagining it slicing into a man's neck, the blood spurting from the wound. I gulped and managed a nod, which I hoped he took as a sign of admiration.

The baron turned to Ecker. “You may go,” he said as he sheathed the sword and hung it back on the wall. “Come back in an hour and I will dictate the memorandum to Kaunitz.” The secretary bowed, nodded to me, and headed toward the door. “Wait,” the baron called. “Has there been a message from Esterházy?”

Ecker pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nothing yet today, sir. Shall I send over to the prince's office to see if your invitation has been waylaid?” he asked. “The dinner is tomorrow night.”

The baron scowled. I heard him swear softly. “No, never mind.” The secretary bowed again and left the room, shutting the doors behind him.

Gabler sprawled in his desk chair and regarded me. “Well, Da Ponte, I suppose I should be grateful to Pergen for sending you here, but in truth, I have no idea what help you will be. A poet as an investigator! What could you possibly learn? And this idea about a spy! It is ridiculous. A few documents were misplaced, that is all. No one in this house could be working for Frederick.”

“I think, Your Excellency, that the count is concerned about the boy's death,” I ventured.

He picked up a letter opener and began to tap it against his left palm. I noticed it was a miniature of the sword, done in silver. “That was an accident,” he said. “It must have been. The boy was always jumping around. He must have been looking out the window in the library and tripped. I think Pergen has lost his mind, calling it murder.”

Was I mistaken, or did I hear anxiety in his voice? “The count seemed certain that Auerstein's death is related to Prussia,” I said.

He pointed the little sword at me. “Yes, I know what he thinks,” he snapped. “But I can't imagine anyone here working for Frederick. It's a small household. I've known most of them for years. I'm certain of their loyalty.” He threw the letter opener onto the desk. “God, I wish I had never agreed to accept that boy as a page.”

“He was troublesome?”

“He was flighty, easily distracted. His work was careless. I knew there was no future for him in the diplomatic corps. I couldn't even get him to wear his livery with any pride. His father was here late yesterday, to take the body and clear out Florian's things. The boy's room was a mess, clothes and papers scattered everywhere. I was embarrassed for the prince, to have to see how his son lived.”

“If, just for the sake of argument, to please Count Pergen, we assume it was murder—”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I plowed onward. “I believe you have a new valet—Gottfried Bohm?”

Gabler laughed. “You think he is the spy? The man is stupid! Trust me, he can barely perform the duties of a valet, let alone steal state secrets.” He nodded toward the door. “Ecker worked for my father. He's been my secretary since I left university.”

“I met the doctor—Rausch, is it?” I asked.

“Surely you don't suspect him! He was my wife's guardian. He dotes on her. He would never do anything to embarrass me. And he is very comfortable living in my house, off my money.”

“And Signor Piatti?”

“Piatti?” He snorted. “His head is full of music. I don't think he pays any attention to politics. Besides, he's an Italian. Why would he work for Prussia?”

For the money, I thought. “I met the Auerstein boy yesterday,” I said. “Although he was small, I think it would have taken some strength to push him out the window. The murderer would have had to lift him over the bottom window frame.”

He rolled his eyes at me and picked up the little sword once more. I pushed on. “That would eliminate the ladies of the household from the list of suspects, I think. They all seem far too delicate to have been able to lift the boy.”

“Oh, I don't know about that, Signor Abbé!” He barked with laughter. “Sometimes it is necessary to convince a woman to give in to her desires. They can be very strong when they want to play the little virgin act before they surrender to you.” He gave me a knowing wink. I struggled to avoid showing my distaste on my face.

“Anyway, I think we are wasting our time, but as you say, since it would please the count and Prince Kaunitz, you should stay awhile,” he said. “At least the baroness will enjoy the poetry lessons.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Let Ecker know if you need anything from me.”

I stood and bowed. “Thank you, sir,” I said. As I turned to go, I remembered the favor I wished to ask. “If I may, sir,” I said hesitantly.

His attention was already deep into a document. “Yes?” he asked, not looking up.

“I have had the opportunity to admire your beautiful library,” I said. “May I tell you what an impressive collection you have? I would be honored if you would allow me to use some of the volumes, to take to my room perhaps, to read at night.” I winced at the sycophancy I heard in my voice.

“Of course,” he said, still not looking up at me. “Read whatever you like. I don't even know what's there—the books came with the house when I bought it.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come,” the baron called.

Marianne entered the room. “Oh, pardon me, sir, I did not know anyone was here with you,” she said, giving the baron a curtsy.

He looked up from his work. His eyes raked over her slim body, hungrily taking her in from head to toe. “What is it?” he asked.

She handed him a note. “The baroness asked me to deliver this, and to tell you that there will be a guest for dinner this afternoon,” she said.

He opened the note and read it. Marianne looked over at me and smiled tightly. I nodded back. Her eyes widened. Her face turned white. She was staring at me, her eyes fixed on my legs.

The baron tossed the note aside. “All right, Marianne, you may tell your mistress I will be ready for dinner at three.” He waved us both away. Marianne gave another curtsy, glanced at me, and headed toward the door. As I followed her, I quickly looked down and saw a small piece of white fabric hanging from the pocket of my breeches. It was the ribbon I had found in the library.

 

Seven

Marianne waited for me in the hall. Her face betrayed no sign of her reaction to the ribbon. It must have worked its way out of my pocket after I had left the library.