The Figaro Murders (19 page)

Finally, my eyes fell on Marianne. Caroline's maid had been cool toward me since she had seen the ribbon hanging out of my pocket. She had recognized it, I was sure. But whose was it? Her own? The boy's? I had no idea if it even was a clue. It could have been sitting in the drape for months, its loss long forgotten by its owner.

I sighed. I was getting nowhere. I had so many questions, but had no idea how to seek their answers. My hand brushed over my pocket, and I felt Caroline's missive within. I recalled her face as she had given it to me, her cheeks flushed with excitement and anticipation. Misery flooded my heart. I was suddenly wearier than I had ever felt: tired of this investigation, tired of Vogel and his box, tired of this house and all of its inhabitants. I was certain that I would not solve the murder, and for the moment, I no longer cared.

 

Fourteen

Caroline's cursed message was burning a hole in my pocket, so after dinner I put on my best coat and glumly set out to deliver it to its recipient. My destination was not far, just a few blocks, near the old Minorite church. The emperor had closed the Minorite order two years before, and had given the building to the Italian community of Vienna. The church was a stubby yet charming Gothic heap with an unadorned, fortresslike roof and a tower that had been truncated by a Turkish cannonball a century ago and never repaired. The church plaza was surrounded by the mansions of some of the wealthiest nobles in the city. I stopped in front of the largest, the Palais Starhemberg. Its owner had been the late empress's minister in Brussels, and it was now owned by a senior advisor to the emperor. The palace occupied an entire block, competing with the medieval church for God's attention. I shook my head. How I hated these bulky rectangular boxes that the aristocracy had built all over the city. I missed the delicate, multicolored
palazzi
of Venice, which hugged the curves of the canals and seemed to float on the water.

My knock on the monumental front door was answered by a lackey, and after replying to a long list of questions about who I was and what I wanted, I was ushered into a grand foyer and left to wait while he fetched the addressee of Caroline's letter. I looked around me. Unlike Mozart, Martín, and even Casti, I rarely see the insides of these grand houses, for the theater poet is not invited to an aristocrat's soirées, even when he has written the poetry for the arias that are performed at recitals held there. The room was dominated by a sweeping staircase of white stone, each baluster a miniature Corinthian column, its capital overlaid with gold. The newel posts were massive, squat pillars of deeply veined red granite, upon which sat lofty, overwrought candelabras. A large but ordinary statue of Minerva sat in a niche at the top of the first flight.

A man in his mid-twenties came down the stairway, followed by the lackey. “I am Matthias Starhemberg. You wished to see me?”

I bowed and took the letter out of my pocket. “I have a message for you, Your Excellency,” I said. I lowered my voice, for the lackey hovered in the background, his ears straining with curiosity. “From the Baroness Gabler.”

“From Caroline! Give it to me!” He snatched the message from my hand, removed the pin, and hurriedly unfolded the paper. While he read, I studied my rival. This was not the heir of the family, but a younger son. He was taller than me, dark-haired, slim yet muscular. His face, while not classically handsome, was striking: doelike brown eyes set over a slender nose; thin lips, which spread into a smile as he read the note. A stab of jealousy shot through me.

When he looked up from his reading, he seemed puzzled to see me still standing there. “Ah, the pin! You are waiting for the return message.” He passed the devilish object to me. I slipped it into my pocket, bowed, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” he cried. I turned back. He pressed a coin into my palm.

My cheeks burned. I handed it back to him. “I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but I am not the baroness's servant. I am a friend of hers,” I said.

His eyebrows rose. “Oh, I see. Well—take this anyway. For your trouble.” He pressed the coin back into my hand, turned, and bounded up the stairway, whistling.

I hurried into the street, my cheeks still hot. I looked down at my coat. How shabby it looked. I desperately needed a new one. Perhaps after I received the fee for
Figaro,
after the premiere, I would go over to Adam's tailor shop and order a whole new suit. Satin, maybe, or velvet.

By the time I reached the Herrengasse my dismay had turned to anger. How could Caroline have humiliated me like this? She must have sensed how I felt about her. How could I have misjudged her so badly? She was just like the rest, attracted to men with money and looks, the superficial sort. What kind of lover could that inexperienced young man be? As I fingered the pin in my pocket, I longed to just drop it on the ground, to let the horses' hooves bury it in the mud, and to tell her that, sadly, there had been no return message.

The street was crowded and noisy this time of day. I moved close to the building on my right as a gilded carriage drawn by four horses rushed by. As I continued down the street I saw Ecker, the baron's secretary, walking a few yards ahead of me. I did not relish returning to the palais just yet, so I decided to follow him.

The Michaelerplatz was more crowded than the street. Pedestrians milled about. Cabs stopped to discharge passengers outside the court office buildings. Guards on horseback patrolled the grand arch that led to the Hofburg courtyard. I stepped around a group of chatting courtiers. Ahead of me, Ecker consulted his pocket watch, then quickened his stride.

I bumped into something. A child began to wail. “Sir! Mind where you are going, please!” A stout woman pulled the small boy to her skirts. I quickly dug a coin out of my pocket and handed it to the child.

I looked across the plaza. Where was Ecker? Ah, there, heading toward St. Michael's Church.

“Make way!” A large cart laden with wine barrels trundled by, blocking my view of the church's entrance. I darted to the right and craned my neck to find Ecker in the throng. Damn! He was nowhere to be seen. I sighed. I just was not cut out to be an investigator.

As I was about to turn back in the direction of the palais, the little secretary appeared at the very edge of the crowd, pushing his way through a group of laughing merchants. I hurried to follow him.

“Da Ponte!” a voice called. I tried to keep my shoulders from sagging. I recognized the voice. It was one I could not possibly ignore. I stopped and watched as Ecker hurried out of the plaza and headed down the street past the Spanish Riding School stables.

*   *   *

I turned and dropped to my knees before a nondescript man in his forties, of average height and weight, his countenance engaging only because of his lively, cornflower-blue eyes. He was dressed in a simple brown coat and breeches, such as a merchant might wear to survey his warehouse. I took his hands in mine and kissed them.

“Get up, Da Ponte, get up,” the emperor said, pulling me to my feet. “Why do you Italians always insist on kissing my hands? You know I hate that.”

I blushed. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” I said. “I was surprised to hear you call me, and my emotions got the better of me.” I looked past the emperor. A single servant stood a few feet behind him, watching us, but beyond that, as was his preference, there were none of the trappings of his great office: no gilded carriage, no retinue of fawning nobles, no satin-clad lackeys.

“Apology accepted,” he said. “I'm glad I ran into you. Tell me, how goes the opera?”

“Very well, sir. Mozart and I are putting the finishing touches on it, and we are in rehearsals, as you probably have heard.” The emperor was a passionate opera fan, and consulted with Rosenberg about many of the details of his theater's operation. I will never forget that it was he who hired me, a poet who had never written a libretto; he who had overruled the theater director when my first opera with Salieri failed; he who had given me a second chance.

The emperor dug into his coat pocket and brought out two chocolate drops. He popped one into his mouth. “How are you finding working with Mozart?”

I eyed the other chocolate drop. My stomach growled a bit, reminding me that I had only picked at my dinner. “I'm enjoying it very much, sir. Of course, I've had to write many more ensemble pieces than in the usual comic opera, but we both are pleased with our work. It will not be the shortest opera ever performed in your theater, but I think you will find it one of the best.”

He laughed. “Good. But I hope you haven't cut all the bite out of the play. We will still tweak the noses of my princes, eh? Now, what's next for you? Something for the Spaniard, Martín, correct?” He bit into the second chocolate.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Another comedy.”

“Good, I'm glad you are busy.” He clapped me on the shoulder.

I hesitated and bit my lip, debating whether I should confide my predicament with Pergen to him.

He peered into my face. “What is it, Da Ponte? Some problem with the Spaniard? Is he difficult to work with?”

“Oh no, Your Majesty. Nothing like that. He is my good friend, we work well together. It is just—”

“Just what? Tell me, man!”

“I haven't had much time to work on the opera for Martín. There have been certain distractions. I—I have found myself in a difficult situation.”

He looked at me, his eyes full of concern. The words tumbled from my mouth. “Oh, Your Majesty. I have been framed for murder.” To my horror, I began to weep. “I innocently went to a noble house and spoke with a boy. He was murdered that same afternoon. Now the police have forced me to investigate for them, to live in the house to find the murderer. They told me I came highly recommended to them, probably by my enemies at the theater, I believe. They have threatened that I will hang for the crime if I cannot solve it. I am filled with fear, sir. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot work.”

He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. “Come, Da Ponte, stop blubbering.” I wiped my eyes. “This is the Auerstein boy's murder, I presume?”

I nodded.

He sighed. “I shall have to speak with Pergen. He's gone too far.”

My heart leaped with joy. I chided myself—I should have gone to the emperor as soon as Pergen released me. I should have known that he would help me.

“Threatening you with hanging. That is a bit heavy-handed. I told him that I wanted simply to get you into the Gabler house. He needn't have frightened you so.”

I stared at him. “I don't understand, Your Majesty,” I said slowly. “
You
wanted me in the house?”

“Yes. Pergen came to me six months ago, telling me that he suspected Frederick had placed a spy in the Gabler house, asking for an increase in his budget so he could hire someone to go undercover. I was occupied with the Dutch treaty, so I put him off. When the boy was murdered, I realized it was the perfect time to put someone in there. I wanted someone intelligent and observant, someone I could trust, to find out what was going on. I immediately thought of you.”

“But Your Majesty, I have no experience. I am no police professional.”

“That is just what Pergen argued. No, Da Ponte, you are the one I want in that house.”

I swallowed and nodded at him.

He leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “I need you to do this for me, Lorenzo,” he said. “The security of my throne depends on you.”

“I am humbled by your confidence in me, Your Majesty,” I said.

“Well then. I look forward to hearing the opera. Try to get some work done for Martín.”

“I will, Your Majesty.”

He turned and walked away, followed by the manservant. I watched as he made his way through the plaza, stopping now and then to give a coin to a child or to converse easily with a passerby. A moment later, he disappeared under the arch that led to the Hofburg courtyard.

*   *   *

I turned and walked down the street that hugged the side of the Hofburg, my thoughts in such a whirl that I barely noticed the gate through which the police had taken me that fateful night. So Pergen's threats had been hollow, just meant to frighten me. I trusted the emperor. I knew he would look after me. I clutched my stick tightly and hurried toward the Palais Gabler, my sense of purpose renewed. My Caesar needed
me
to solve this case. I vowed to do it for him.

I reached the Minoritenplatz and walked past the long cloister that clung to the left side of the old church. The afternoon had grown late, and the interior of the covered archway was dark with shadows as I passed by.

“Signor Da Ponte? Is that you?”

I stopped and looked around the plaza. It had emptied since I had been here earlier.

“Signor Poet?” The voice came from inside the cloister.

“Yes, who is there?” I asked. I walked through one of the tall arches into the shadows. A hand grabbed my arm. My stick clattered to the ground.

“Who is there?” I cried. My arms were pulled behind me. Pain shot through my injured shoulder. “What do you want?” My knees shook as I waited to feel grubby hands groping my clothing, searching for the small purse in which I carried my coins.

A sharp object pressed into my back. A guttural voice sounded in my ear. “You are sticking your nose where it does not belong, signore.” I retched at the smell of rotten meat on his breath. “Stop it, or you will be sorry.”

“Who are you?” I shouted.

My assailant twisted my arms tightly against my back. I winced with pain.

“Be quiet!” he hissed. “You know what I am talking about. Mind your own business.” He grunted. “Don't tempt me. I've always wanted to kill a Jew.”

I twisted and struggled to release myself from his grasp. “You have the wrong person! I am a priest.” He laughed and threw me to the ground. I lay hugging the cool stones, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, listening to his footsteps recede.