The Figaro Murders (15 page)

“You and Florian were friends,” I said.

“Oh, more than friends, sir. We were going to be married.”

“He promised to marry you? When was this?”

“A week or so ago, sir. We were in the library. He promised he would take care of me—that I would not be a chambermaid here forever.”

“Did he ever confide in you?” I asked.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Well, did he ever tell you anything and ask you not to repeat it? Any secrets?”

She blushed again. “He told me many such things, sir.”

“I don't mean love talk, Antonia. I mean something else—something about someone else in the house. Was there anything like that?”

She chewed on her lip. “I don't know what you mean, sir.” She began to play with a lock of hair that had escaped from her cap. “He had plans—”

“He had something planned? What was it?” My voice was harsh and insistent. “You must tell me.”

She began to cry softly. “I cannot, sir. I promised.”

“Florian is dead, Antonia. You owe him no promises anymore.”

She buried her face in her hands and wept. “I don't know. I don't know. He told me he would take care of me. What will I do now?”

I cursed myself for pressing her. If Auerstein had discovered the identity of the spy in the household, this simple, innocent girl would have been the last person he would have confided in. I reached over and took her hand. “Don't cry, Antonia. Everything will be fine. You will marry someday, I am sure. Why, any lackey or shopkeeper's son would be honored to have you as his bride.”

She snatched her hand away from mine. Her face contorted in rage. She lifted the poker above her head. “You fool!” she hissed. “How dare you say such things to me?” My heart pounding, I shrank back and raised my hands to protect myself.

“A lackey's wife? I was to be the next Princess Auerstein!” Her eyes narrowed. “If you want to help me, signore,” she spat, “find the person who killed Florian—who murdered him so that we could not marry!” The poker fell to the floor next to me as she ran from the room.

 

Nine

An hour later I sat at a table in a catering shop next to the Am Hof church, sipping a spoonful of warm soup. After Antonia's outburst, I had sat at the desk for a few minutes, wondering how I would ever untangle the passions and animosities of the Gabler household's residents. I had pushed my work aside, pocketed the medallion, and headed down the stairs. At least there was something I could do to advance my investigation for Vogel. I had met Tomaso Piatti in the foyer of the palais, and he had invited me to dinner. I had quickly accepted, hoping to get the music tutor's impressions of the household members.

We sat at the end of a long table in one of the private rooms at the shop. The food was a bit more expensive here than in the larger public rooms, but we had agreed that we wanted a bit of quiet for conversation. At this, the prime midday dinner hour, the public rooms were filled with the lackeys of the various noble houses, all shouting back and forth at one another in some sort of competition about whose employer kept the finest carriage.

“It's a strange coincidence,” Piatti was saying. He paused as the waiter approached and offered platters of stewed beef and potatoes. Finally, something I could eat! We loaded our plates high with the food. I was starving and began to eat with gusto.

“You came to the palais on Wednesday, and the next day you are hired to teach the baroness,” Piatti continued. His plate sat untouched. “Were you there on Wednesday to speak to the baron about the job?”

I had treated myself to a glass of wine. I took a sip and nodded toward his plate. “Eat, my friend, it will get cold.” As he took up his fork, I bit into a piece of meat and studied him. His face was pale, his eyes creased with worry. The death of the page had shaken him, I could see. “Yes, I know it seems odd,” I said. “I came on Wednesday to speak to Miss Haiml. I know her fiancé.”

“But how did the baron hear of you?” Piatti persisted. He picked at his dinner.

“I was introduced to him at the opera that night,” I lied. “He told me he was considering hiring a poet to give lessons to his wife, and we agreed on the contract then and there.”

Piatti sopped his roll in gravy and chewed it thoughtfully. “You must admit, it is peculiar,” he said.

I laughed. “True, but stranger things have happened to me, I assure you.” I wanted to get him off the matter of my presence in the palais and steer him toward talking about the murder. I lowered my voice and put on a serious expression. “I had no idea I was coming the day after a murder.”

“Yes, it is an unfortunate time for all of us.” He sighed. “The baroness is upset about the boy's death. She's canceled our lessons for a few days. She wants to be alone in the mornings.”

My heart jumped at this news. She had put off Piatti to find time for me! A warmth spread through me as I momentarily contemplated our next meeting. I forced my attention back to Piatti. “Tell me about the boy,” I said.

He hesitated, looked around him, and leaned in toward me. “I don't like to speak ill of the dead—”

I gave a conspiratorial nod.

“But to tell the truth, the boy was a nuisance. It was impossible to get a serious word out of him. He eavesdropped on conversations and spied on everyone. I think he even peeped at the ladies through the keyholes sometimes.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“He ridiculed everyone who worked in the house—and even Rausch! Just last week I heard him call the doctor a pompous quack—to his face!

“What did Rausch do?”

“He was so angry I thought he was going to strangle the boy, but he managed to get a hold of himself and walk away.” Piatti shook his head. “To say that to a man who trained at one of the finest medical schools in the north. I don't think I could have controlled myself if he had said that to me!”

I took another forkful of the flavorful stew.

“Florian did a nasty imitation of Bohm, the valet—walking behind him, aping that lumbering gait Bohm has, with his hair messed up and shirttails out. Of course Bohm was angry, but what could he do? He is just a valet after all.”

“I had dinner with him yesterday. He seems a strange choice to serve the baron,” I said.

Piatti nodded. “I know! Such a boor, and so unkempt. I don't know why the baron hired him. Vogel left suddenly to open his shop, and the baron was desperate, I suppose. Bohm turned up a few days later with that strange daughter of his, and got the job.” He pulled out his watch. “Good, I have a few more minutes. Not that Florian was the most virtuous member of the household, mind you,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“He was so sloppy! Of course, he was always clean, but his shirts always hung loose, and his hair was never neatly tied. And his work—the lessons he turned in to me were a mess, inkblots all over the place, his handwriting a scrawl.” His face saddened. “He was a talented musician, though. I think I mentioned that the other day.”

“You did,” I said.

“Anyway, Bohm was very angry at Florian.” Piatti hesitated.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, I probably read too much into the incident. I shouldn't say,” he said. He took a sip of water.

I lowered my voice. “You can trust me, my friend.”

“Well—a few days ago, I was about to go into the library when I overheard voices,” he said.

I nodded encouragingly.

“It was Bohm and Florian. They were arguing. I don't know what about exactly. But I think I heard—mind you, I wasn't eavesdropping; they were yelling at one another; I couldn't help but hear—”

I sighed inwardly and nodded again.

“I heard Bohm tell Florian that if he didn't stop, he, Bohm, would kill him.”

“Stop what?”

“I don't know. I didn't hear that part, just the end. I heard Bohm's footsteps near the door, so I turned and hurried down the hall. I didn't hear anything else.”

“Did you tell the police?” I asked.

He shook his head vehemently. “No, no, I don't want to become involved. I'm not a citizen here. Besides, I may have just imagined that they were arguing. I only heard that small part.” He looked at me. “Please, Lorenzo, don't tell anyone.”

“All right,” I said.

Piatti signaled to the waiter for the check. “But enough of all these people,” he said. “I invited you to dinner because I wanted to hear about your opera. What are you writing now?”

“I'm finishing the finale—the long ensemble piece—for the second act,” I said.

“That must be difficult to write, no? Finales are so long, and so important to an opera.”

“Yes, it is a challenge,” I said. “You know, my words have to show off Mozart's genius, and that of each singer. I must use every speed of singing: slow, moderate, fast, superfast, extra superfast.”

He laughed.

“Every singer must be included. Solos, duets, trios, quartets, quintets. If there are a hundred singers, I am required to have them all sing together at some point. And my carefully crafted plot is thrown to the wind while all this virtuosity is on display!”

The waiter brought the check.

“Of course, if the finale turns out to be a muddle, if the soprano's voice cracks, if the tenor cannot reach his note, it will all be my fault!” I winked at him.

“I'm sure it will be brilliant,” Piatti said. “No, no, this is my treat.” He threw some coins on the table. “I'd love to look at your writing sometime, if you wouldn't mind. I enjoyed your last opera immensely. I'd like to see how you put things together.”

“Of course. Come by my room and I'll give you something.”

We gathered our belongings and went out into the Am Hof. A trapezoidal area that had been the jousting grounds of the Dukes of Austria in the thirteenth century, the plaza was not a fashionable gathering place like the Graben or the Michaelerplatz. It was used for more-practical pursuits. Market stalls dotted its expanse. Its east side was dominated by the snowy white façade of the baroque Carmelite church, while the west side contained a series of buildings that had at one time housed the city's arsenal but now stored equipment for fighting fires. At the center of the plaza stood a tall monument dedicated to the Virgin Mary, who, legend has it, helped the Viennese repel the Swedes during the wars of the last century. The good lady stood on top of a column of black marble, its plinth defended by cherubs clad in battle armor.

“Which way are you headed?” Piatti asked.

“To the Stephansdom,” I said. Ahead of us, a motley group of about twenty men and women, all dressed in coarse jackets and wearing paper dunce caps on their heads, were sweeping the stones. These were the city's felons, chained together and forced to suffer public humiliation.

Piatti elbowed me in the side. “Look, there's that ass Count Harzy.” He laughed, pointing at a tall, elderly man in the middle of the chain. “He's come down in the world, eh? No fancy palace for him anymore!” As part of his criminal law reforms, the emperor had insisted that all criminals serve on the chain gang, no matter into which class of society they had been born. I felt a twinge of sympathy for the count, who stumbled as he tried to keep pace with the chain as it moved along the periphery of the plaza. I wondered what crime he had committed.

Piatti had stopped laughing. “Do you know the musician Klein?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. Klein was a violinist in the court orchestra.

“There he is.”

I looked at the man who brought up the rear of the chain. It was indeed Klein. I had heard that he had been arrested for forging a bill of sale for several valuable musical instruments. As I stared at him, his eyes lifted from the ground and met mine. I gave him a small, encouraging smile, but he quickly looked away, his face full of shame.

“Well, my friend, I go this way,” Piatti said as we reached the Bognergasse. I shook his hand, thanked him for the dinner, and promised to come to his room for a glass of wine one evening. He headed in the direction of the Palais Gabler, and I turned the opposite way. I quickly looked back over my shoulder. The chain gang had begun another miserable peregrination around the plaza.

I shivered as I watched Klein shuffling along. If I could not solve Florian Auerstein's murder, my fate would be much worse than Klein's. Despite the emperor's liberal philosophies and love of reform, the punishment for murder was still death.

 

Ten

I turned left onto the Tuchlauben and cut across to the Stephansplatz. The great church loomed above the plaza. I tucked my head into my chest and hurried into a building across from the north tower. I trudged up four flights of stairs, turned down a small corridor, and knocked on the door at its end.

“Come,” a voice called.

I pushed open the door. “Alois?”

“Lorenzo!” A gray-haired priest stood and slowly came from behind a large desk to greet me. He felt insubstantial in my embrace, as if age were reducing him to mere bones; his skin felt like parchment, easily torn.

“How good to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure? Do you have a new book for me?”

“No, not today, my friend,” I said. “I need a favor, something with which I think only you can help me.” I pulled the medallion out of my cloak pocket and handed it to him. “Could you possibly identify this for me?”

“Let me see, let me see,” he said, waving me to a seat near the desk. He returned to his chair and pushed aside the large volume he had been reading. His hands trembled slightly as he put on a pair of spectacles. As he examined the medallion, I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of the place—the must of the hundreds of old books piled everywhere in the small room accented with the sharp scent of the peppermint drops Alois loved.