The Figaro Murders (18 page)

“You'd better learn fast, hadn't you? You have nothing for me?”

I shook my head.

“You're wasting time, Da Ponte. The prince wants the murderer of his son. Count Pergen is getting pressure from Kaunitz and the emperor.” He shook his head. “I told him this plan would never work,” he muttered.

I recalled Rosa Hahn's theory that the murderer had been invited into the palais by Florian Auerstein himself. “I do have a question for you. On the day of the murder, did anyone visit the house? Perhaps a friend of the Auerstein boy?”

His smile was cold and sarcastic. He released my arm and gave me a push. I stumbled and bumped into the wall. “No, Da Ponte. No one else. Just you.”

*   *   *

I rushed back to the palais and went to my room. As I pulled off my cloak, the medallion fell from the pocket. I leaned over and picked it off the floor, put it on the desk, and put on my better waistcoat. I grabbed my Petrarch and my notes and hurried down to the baroness's chamber.

The room was bright and airy, its walls covered in the same watery green silk I had seen around the house. The baroness sat at a large dressing table opposite the door. She still wore her dressing gown, a frothy white robe that set off her auburn tresses. She smiled at me through the mirror and indicated a settee a few feet behind her chair. I settled myself on the peach-colored velvet, and inhaled the sweet, fresh scent of her lavender perfume.

She picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. Our eyes met in the mirror. She smiled. I shuffled my papers, wondering whether I should begin. “Are we waiting for Miss Haiml?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, she is out doing some errands. It is just me today.” My heart began to pound as I watched the brush move rhythmically through her long curls. “Have you brought me another of the Petrarch poems?” she prompted.

“Yes, madame. Are you ready to hear it?”

She nodded.

My hands trembled as I lifted the sheet of paper. What was wrong with me? I had romanced many women in my thirty-seven years. With this one, I felt like a callow youth. I read the poem.

Sometimes, lady, blushing with shame that I have

still not spoken of your beauty in my rhymes,

I turn to the time I first saw you;

there will never be another who pleases me.

My voice rose to a squeak at the end of the verse. I cleared my throat.

But I find a weight not for my arms,

a work not to be polished by my file,

and my talent, judging its lack of strength,

freezes in all its attempts.

I stopped and looked at her. The brush had stopped its movement. Our eyes met in the glass.

“Please, continue, signore,” she said.

“Madame, perhaps, if I might be so bold as to ask—”

“Yes, signore?”

“I would be honored if you would call me by my Christian name, Lorenzo.”

She smiled. “All right, if it pleases you, I will be glad to. Lorenzo.”

My heart leapt to my throat to hear my name swirled in her delicate mouth.

“Please, go on with the poem, Lorenzo,” she said.

I cleared my throat again.

Many times already have my lips opened to speak

but my voice remains in my chest—

for what sound could ever soar so high?

Many times have I begun to write verses,

but the pen and the hand and my intellect

remain defeated in the first assault.

We sat silently for a moment. I rubbed my fingers over the soft velvet of the settee. The baroness sighed. “The poor man,” she said softly. “He seems so unhappy, even though he is in love with this Laura.”

“He is a poet, madame, who cannot find words beautiful enough to describe the object of his longing,” I said. I held her gaze in the mirror. “That is frustrating for any poet.”

“I find his story tragic, Lorenzo. To pine for someone for so long, to never speak the words of love. That feels terrible, I am sure. Why did he never try to speak to her?”

“She is a symbol, madame. Of the unattainable.”

“But he should have tried,” she cried. She threw down the brush. “Perhaps she was in love with him also. Perhaps she was unhappy in her marriage.” She began to weep. I cast my papers aside and stood as she turned to face me. My heart wrenched at the sight of tears on her cheeks. I crossed to her and took her hand.

“Oh, forgive me, Lorenzo. I am a silly woman. I don't know why I am crying.” She shivered. “It is this murder. It has affected me more than I would like everyone to know.”

I knelt down beside her chair. My heart pounded as I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. “Madame, may I say—”

She did not pull her hand away.

“May I tell you that you have my undying affection and loyalty. I am your servant, madame. I would do anything for you.”

“Oh, Lorenzo, I don't know—”

“Please, madame. Caroline. I see your sorrow. Your husband—”

She placed her finger on my lips. “Lorenzo—”

“You are a beautiful woman. You deserve to be desired, loved, adored.”

She looked down at our hands, which were clasped on her lap. “I don't know if I can trust you,” she said in a small voice.

“Caroline. My loyalties are only to you. I am not the sort of man who spreads gossip around the city. You must believe that anything you ask of me will remain between the two of us.” I gazed into her tear-streaked face. She frowned, then was thoughtful, making her decision. She looked into my eyes, smiled gently, and nodded. I clasped her hand again, and leaned over to kiss her lips.

To my surprise, she dropped my hand and rose from her seat, gently pushing me away. She crossed the room to the fireplace and took a small silver box from the mantel. She opened the box and pulled out a letter, folded small, then returned to the dressing table. I stood, puzzled, as she opened up an ornate jewel case and pulled out a long, thin golden pin. She pushed the pin through the top right corner of the note, fastened it, and handed the packet to me.

“Would you deliver this message for me, Lorenzo?” she asked. I looked down at her neat handwriting. My eyes widened as I read the name of the addressee. My heart sank to my feet.

“Please give it directly to the man to whom it is addressed, no other,” she said. “And Lorenzo?” I nodded miserably.

“Tell him to send the pin back with you if he agrees to meet me.”

 

Thirteen

It took another few minutes for me to escape the room. I stood in the hallway, wondering what to do next. My head throbbed from the noxious scent of lavender. My arms hung heavily by my side, and I could not find the energy to propel my cumbrous legs up the stairs to my room. The small billet-doux weighed heavy in my hand, the golden pin attached neatly to the corner, a gleaming invitation that should have been mine. As I shoved the letter into my pocket, I felt a sharp sting. I pulled out my hand. A droplet of blood wept from my finger, where the infernal pin had stabbed me. I poked around my pockets with my other hand, found my handkerchief, and wrapped it around the wound.

The chiming of two o'clock by the small clock at the end of the hall brought me out of my stupor. I decided to go to the kitchen for dinner, to see if I could find out anything new from the household staff. If all that was served was tough roast, all the better. The sour taste in my mouth had dulled any appetite I might have had an hour before.

When I arrived, all was quiet in the large kitchen. The table was set for dinner, and I could smell meat cooking. The room was empty except for Gottfried Bohm, who sat in a chair by the fire, a long quill and a short, sharp knife in his hand.

“A valet, cutting pens?” I asked. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“In my last job,” he said.

“Where was that?”

He did not answer.

“Have you always worked as a valet?” I asked.

He grunted.

“Here in Vienna?”

He looked up at me. “Do you always stick your nose into other people's business, Signor Da Ponte?” he asked.

I raised my hands. “Sorry, I'm just trying to make conversation.” I decided to try another tack. “Everyone seems so jumpy in the house since I arrived—since the murder.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The ladies especially seem very upset.”

“I wouldn't know anything about how they feel.”

“But your own daughter—I know she was fond of the boy.”

He stiffened. “She has foolish ideas. She is here to do her job, not mix with her betters.”

I plowed ahead. “It's natural for a girl her age to have romantic fancies. And of course all the ladies are shaken. A young, handsome, innocent boy like that, thrown to his death—”

He snorted. “You don't know what you're talking about. He got what he deserved.”

“What do you mean? He deserved to die? What had he done?”

He put down the quill and stuck the knife in his pocket, then took a brush from beside the hearth and swept the scrapings into the fire. He rose and smiled at me grimly. “Tell Miss Hahn I'll be dining out this afternoon.”

*   *   *

I stared after him. What was the source of his enmity toward Florian Auerstein? Had his daughter been telling the truth all along, that the boy had promised to marry her? Had her sullen father seen through the boy's promises, and threatened to kill Auerstein to protect his daughter's honor? But what about Pergen's belief that Florian had been killed by the spy? The baron had told me that Bohm was too uneducated to be a spy, and I hadn't seen anything to convince me otherwise.

My conjectures were interrupted by the entrance of the staff, and a few moments later, I sat at the table, again pushing small bits of tough meat around my plate. There were five of us: Ecker; the three ladies, Rosa Hahn, Antonia, and Marianne; and myself. Once again Piatti had chosen to dine out. The company was quiet, everyone lost in his or her own thoughts. I struggled to push my despondency over Caroline to the side so that I might think clearly about the murder.

Troger had said I was the only visitor admitted to the palais that day, so the murderer/spy must be a member of the household. Everyone had been alone that afternoon, with no one else to vouch that he or she had not confronted Florian in the library. I looked over at Ecker. His pockmarked face was pale, his expression drawn. He had been defensive when I had asked whether he had ever traveled to the north, where the King of Prussia ruled. But why would he spy for Frederick? He had worked for the baron for years, and for the first baron before that. Had something happened to turn his loyalties?

I thought about the pompous doctor, Rausch. He had studied medicine at a northern university. It was possible that as a student, he had developed an admiration for Frederick, as many youths had at the time, and thus had welcomed an invitation to spy on his ward's husband for the Prussian king. I shook my head. Although I disliked the man, it was obvious that he cared deeply for Caroline. He had seemed worried that the scandal of Auerstein's death might affect the baron's standing in Vienna, and thus hurt his ward, whom he had raised from childhood. I also wasn't naïve enough to believe that his concern was only for Caroline. His engagement to the wealthy widow might be threatened by the murder scandal.

The idea of Piatti being the spy seemed far-fetched, also. As far as I knew, Vienna was the farthest he had traveled from his native Bologna, and he seemed to take deep pride in his position as music master in the household. The position must pay well, so he would not have needed the money the Prussian king paid. I hadn't heard him speak of politics, so what could possibly be his motive for stealing secrets from the baron?

Antonia hiccupped. I turned to regard her. Once again, her eyes were swollen from crying. Her plate remained untouched. I recalled her fancies, her claims that Florian was going to marry her. He had promised to take care of her, she had told me. It was obvious that she had been in love with the boy, which made her the least likely candidate to be the murderer. I had not considered that a woman could have the strength to commit this crime until the scene in my room with Antonia, her anger as she raised the fireplace poker over her head. Was it possible that they had quarreled that day in the library, and she had grabbed the poker there, and threatened Florian with it? Perhaps he had dashed her dreams, made clear to her that he would not marry her. I closed my eyes and pictured him sitting on the windowsill, trying to defend himself as she raised the poker to strike him. Could he have fallen out the window trying to protect himself? If that was the case, then what about the spy? Who was it? Certainly not this flighty girl, who seemed most of the time to reside in a dreamworld.

I could not say the same for Rosa Hahn. The housekeeper sat at the head of the table, helping herself to another serving of potatoes. She sensed me regarding her, and lifted her eyebrows to ask if I wanted the bowl passed. I smiled and shook my head. I remembered the conversation she, Ecker, and I had had after Antonia had collapsed at dinner. She had made clear her dislike of the emperor's religious reforms, and so might have been receptive to an offer by Frederick's agents to spy on the baron. What better person to have access to all parts of a house than the housekeeper? And where had she gotten the large amount of money to loan to Vogel? But could she have murdered Florian Auerstein? Although she was slender, she must be strong, lifting heavy pots and piles of laundry all day. She certainly possessed the coolness of mind to commit murder, I was certain. But who had reported to Troger that I had argued with Auerstein and run from the house? The footsteps I had heard in the hallway had been heavy, a man's.