The Figaro Murders (20 page)

*   *   *

I lay still for a few minutes, until my heartbeat had slowed, then pulled myself up gingerly. My shoulder throbbed and I had a large scrape on my hand, but otherwise I was unhurt. I picked up my stick and hobbled down the street toward the Palais Gabler, my mind filled with worry. My attacker's accent had been northern. Had the spy discovered my true purpose at the palais and sent him to frighten me off the case? Why had my assailant called me a Jew?

The palais was dim and quiet. The baron and baroness must be out at some soirée, the others out or in their rooms. I sighed as I trudged up the stairs. The day seemed interminable. I was exhausted. As I reached the first-floor landing, the library beckoned. One of the baron's fine volumes of poetry, the comfort of the stuffed chair in my room—an evening of reading was what I needed. Work could wait until tomorrow.

As I stopped before the library door and began to turn the knob, I heard a noise: high, sharp, a grunt, perhaps of frustration. I looked down the hall. The baron's office door stood ajar. A dim light emanated from the room.

I quietly placed my stick on the floor and crept down the hallway, hugging the wall. The noise sounded again. I stopped about a foot from the doorway, and listened. I heard a shuffling sound, as if someone were searching through papers. I inched closer to the door. Did I dare stick my head into the opening? I slowly moved forward.

Another sound, this time a drawer opening and closing. I pulled my head back. My pulse began to race. I moved forward again, craning my head around the door frame. A tickle caught in my throat. I fought back the urge to cough.

The sharp grunt sounded again. I glanced into the room. It was dark, except for a single candle sitting on the baron's desk. Even in the dim light, I recognized the figure that leaned over the desk, systematically searching through the piles of paper that covered its surface. I drew my head back and quietly crept back to the landing.

I hurried up to my room, my reading project forgotten. I removed my coat, lit a candle, and sat in the reading chair, puzzled. Rosa Hahn, the spy? True, I had briefly considered her, wondering where she had gotten the money to lend to Vogel, remembering her disdain for the emperor's religious reforms. But had she murdered Florian Auerstein? Who was the man who had just threatened me? Had she sent him? Or did she merely work for a larger organization? My mind was in a muddle. I took the candle over to the writing table and sat down, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward me. I needed to write down some thoughts, clear my head. As I pushed Vogel's box to the side, I noticed its lid was ajar. Seeing it reminded me that I should put the medallion in my satchel. I rooted through the box. Hadn't I put the medallion back? When had I last had it? Yes, after Troger had accosted me in the Am Hof, I had come up here, in a hurry to get to Caroline. I had taken the medallion out of my pocket and placed it on the desk. Perhaps the girl had put it somewhere for safekeeping.

It was not on the table by the chair, or on the bed. I went over to the cupboard and searched through the pockets of my clothes. I pulled out my valise and opened it. Empty. Damn, where was it? I returned to the desk, took the muff, ring, and book out of the box, and turned it upside down. No medallion. I grabbed the large pile of work on the desk and looked through it. My Petrarch. Notes from the last lesson with Caroline. A few sheets of paper with my scribbled outline of the libretto for Martín. No medallion. Some drafts of the pantomime scene for
Figaro
. A small notebook, tied with a ribbon. I paused. Where had I gotten that? I threw it aside. An old receipt for silk stockings. No medallion. I slammed my palm on the desk. Why hadn't I taken the time to put it away before I went to Caroline?

My eyes fell on the notebook. I never use such little ones. As I picked it up, a memory came to me. I carried the notebook over to the chair, untied the ribbon, and began to read.

 

PART III

The Ungrateful Heart

 

Fifteen

Monday morning was bright and chilly. I wrapped my cloak tightly about me as I walked over to the Hofburg. The large courtyard of the old castle, which housed the imperial departments, was filled with bureaucrats hurrying toward their offices. The sun gleamed off the rows of windows lining the long quadrangle.

I entered the door at the center of the southwest wing and stopped to ask directions of the passersby in the long corridors—most of them clerks scurrying from door to door, carrying piles of documents to and fro between offices. After a few wrong turns, I finally stumbled upon my destination.

The room, well lit by the sun streaming through leaded windows along its rear wall, was as large as the parterre of the theater, its expanse partitioned only by a waist-high wooden wall that ran the entire width of the room about eight feet from the doorway. Behind the wall were arrayed ten rows of six desks apiece. Each desk was occupied by a young man in a dark suit. Some were bent over their labor, while others conversed with their neighbors.

I approached a large desk on my right, where a middle-aged clerk was sorting a large stack of papers. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He did not look up from his task. I crossed my arms. He continued to riffle through the pile. I coughed. No response. He came to the end of the stack, pushed some wayward sheets into place, and rapped the bundle against the desk.

“Excuse me, I am looking for—”

“Just one moment,” he said, his eyes fixed on the papers. He licked his index finger and began to flip through the pages once more. I exhaled loudly. His fingers moved through the sheaf of documents. When he was halfway through the pile, he paused and peered at a page. “Humph.”

My pulse quickened. “I just need a moment of your time—”

His eyes did not leave the document. After another moment, he sighed, put down the papers, reached over, and took up another packet.

“I am looking for—”

“Just another moment,” he said. He began to read the top page of the new bundle. My cheeks grew hot. I wanted to reach over, grab him by the neck, and choke the pittance of information I required out of his officious little mouth. I took a deep breath to calm my temper and looked around the room. Many of the young men had left their desks. Some flitted through large doors at either side of the office, others had congregated around a few of the farthermost desks and, as evidenced by the laughter coming from the area, seemed to be sharing the latest gossip and jokes.

After what seemed to be another five minutes of study of the same document, the clerk finally looked up at me. “Who is it you wish to see?” he asked.

“Rupert Maulbertsch.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. You can tell him Alois Bayer referred me to him.”

The clerk sniffed. “I'm afraid without an appointment—”

I leaned across the desk, hovering over him. To my satisfaction, he shrank back a little. “Would you please tell Mr. Maulbertsch that Lorenzo Da Ponte, the theater poet, would like to see him on an important matter?”

He stood. “I'll check for you, but I can't guarantee that he'll have time for you.”

“Thank you,” I muttered through clenched teeth. I watched as he ambled down a long corridor. The twit! Next time I'll use the emperor's name. I rubbed my left temple.

A few moments later, a tall, lanky man came down the passage toward me. “Signor Da Ponte?” he asked. “I am Rupert Maulbertsch.” I shook his hand. His bright blue eyes protruded from a perfectly egg-shaped head, on which a wig was perched askew. “You are a friend of Alois's? How can I help you?” He gestured down the corridor. “Come, let us talk in my office.”

He ushered me into a small, low-ceilinged room lined with tall cabinets on all four walls. The sole window was blocked by the height of the furniture. A large desk, on which sat a solitary lamp and a large volume bound in dark sheepskin, took up most of the remaining space in the dim office.

Maulbertsch indicated a chair and took a seat behind the desk. “How is Alois?” he asked. “I owe him a visit.”

“He is well, busy with his books, as usual,” I said. “He recommended that I speak to you about an investigation I am conducting.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I am trying to help a friend find his birth mother,” I said. I explained about the muff and the medallion. “Alois identified it as one given to the novices of the convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin. He said you might know how to trace the medallion's owner.”

“Oh yes, the sisters. I remember that convent well. Small, only about ten sisters left at the time of the dissolution, I think. Most of them were elderly.” He sighed. “It was a difficult process, dissolving that convent. I remember the old abbess, she was very upset that we decided to shut them down. But it was necessary. The emperor was determined to close all the monastic houses that served no purpose to society. Those nuns spent most of their time in contemplation. That did nothing to help the people of the empire.”

“I understand that they ran a hospital for young women who had gone astray,” I said.

“A minor activity, I assure you. Many years ago, they were known for their nursing, but that declined as the nuns grew older. And the emperor had just built the new hospital, which would have taken over the maternity ward anyway. The sisters were given a choice, but they did not want to teach in the schools or work in the new hospital as nurses. We needed to sell their building and treasury to fund the emperor's new public health programs. Those nuns wanted the emperor to forgo that money so they could live out their lives in that old convent.” He shook his head. “I'm sure they are all better off wherever they landed, these years later.”

“The Abbess Elisabeth is dead,” I murmured.

“Is she? Oh, that is too bad. Well, she was quite old, as I recall. Now, tell me about this medallion. May I see it?”

I shook my head, but did not offer the information that I had lost it. I described it.

“The initials ‘K.S.,' you say?” He thought for a moment. “If the medallion belonged to one of the nuns or novices, we should be able to match those initials with the records we took from the convent.” He looked around the room at the cabinets. “That might narrow your search a bit.”

Excitement rushed through me. “That would be of great help. Do you have those records here?”

“Most of them were kept by the junior minister who ran the dissolution project, but I have a few of them here. I'll look around for you. It may take a few days, though.” He paused. “Do you believe that the owner of this medallion is your friend's birth mother?” he asked.

“She must be,” I said. “Why else would the medallion be in the muff?”

“A novice or nun who had to leave the convent because of pregnancy would be quite a scandal,” he mused. “It would be useful to speak to one of the former nuns. Give me time to look for the records.”

I thanked him and told him how to contact me. As I opened the door to leave, he called to me.

“You might want to go over to the Deaf School. I just remembered—one of the nuns who belonged to the convent, the cellarer, works over there now. She was a bit younger than the other women. When the convent was closed, she found a job at the school. She does all the purchasing for the kitchens over there. What is her name? Josepha. Yes, that's it. Josepha Hassler. Tell her I sent you.”

*   *   *

I walked back into the busy Michaelerplatz. As I passed the theater, I saw Mozart, astride a gray horse, approaching from the Kohlmarkt. Although the beast was only about five feet tall, the small composer appeared to be hanging on to the reins for dear life.

“You don't look all that comfortable up there, Wolfgang,” I said. “When did you get the horse?”

“Just yesterday. My doctor's been nagging me to get more exercise. The Spanish Riding School was selling this fellow. It seems he marches to his own tune, not that of their choreographer. This is our first outing.”

The handsome animal flicked its tail at some imagined pest and regarded me with soulful, dark eyes.

“Have you found anything about your barber's parents?” Mozart asked.

“I have a few avenues to investigate,” I said. He fiddled absently with the reins as I told him about finding the medallion and my visits to Alois Bayer and Maulbertsch.

“The mystery gets deeper and deeper,” he said. He pulled up on the reins. The horse started. Mozart grabbed onto the long gray neck.

“Don't wriggle around so much while you're on that creature,” I said.

He laughed. “Yes. It wouldn't help my doctor's reputation if his prescription for exercise ended in my death by a broken neck.”

I rubbed the horse's shoulder. “What's his name?” I asked.

“I haven't decided yet. Carl wants to call him ‘Horse' but I think we can do better than that, can't we, boy?” He rubbed the horse's long head. “So far I only have ideas about who to name his ass after.” We laughed.

Mozart climbed off the horse. “Oh, that reminds me,” he said as he tethered the animal to a nearby post. “Rosenberg wants to see you. I was here yesterday working with Miss Laschi and he came looking for you.”

A pang of anxiety stabbed me. “What do you think he wants?”

“Probably nothing important. Just to have his fingers in the pot, I'd say, so when our opera is the hit of the season he can take credit for it.” He opened the theater door. “Are you coming in?”

I hesitated. Should I see if Rosenberg was in his office now? The bell of St. Michael's chimed the hour. No. I'd better wait until tomorrow. I was due in Caroline's chamber in a half hour to give another lesson—and to deliver her lover's message.

“No, I have an appointment,” I said.

Mozart nodded. “Let me know what Rosenberg wants,” he said. He went inside.