The Figaro Murders (26 page)

“Yes, yes. If you would be so kind as to help me get up—”

He helped me to my feet and gave me my stick. My legs heaved from under me. The lackey held me up. My cheeks began to burn as I saw that my mishap had drawn a large crowd. “You are lucky to be alive, sir,” a man called. “The police should do something about these speeders. One day someone won't be so lucky.”

I held on to the young man for a few minutes, until my heart had stopped pounding and my legs had steadied. The crowd dispersed.

“Will you be able to get home on your own, sir?” the lackey asked. “Shall I call you a cab?”

I shook my head. “No, it is not far. Thank you for your help. You saved my life.” I handed him several coins. When he saw the amount I had given, he grinned and tipped his cap. I leaned on my stick, trying to regain my composure, and watched as he walked away.

“Sir?” I felt a tug at my sleeve.

I looked down into the blowsy face of a market vendor. “It wasn't an accident, sir,” she said. She shifted her basket of onions in her arms. “I've been here all morning. He's been driving around the block for an hour. A couple of times he would stop, over there.” She pointed toward the Herrengasse. “Then he would go around again. Like he was looking for someone.” She paused.

I nodded for her to continue.

“He was sitting over there when you came out of the theater, sir. When he saw you, he whipped the horses and came straight at you.”

 

Twenty-one

I stumbled down the Herrengasse toward the palais, clinging to the façades of the small palaces that lined the street, flinching every time I heard the beat of hooves behind me. A light rain began to fall. By the time I had dragged myself up the stairs to my room, I was exhausted. My appetite had disappeared. I took off my cloak and slowly hung it in the cupboard, wincing as I straightened my arm to reach the hook. The shoulder I had injured during my encounter with Pergen's policemen throbbed.

I went over to the desk. Someone had come in and left a pile of papers sitting in the center of the table. They were the scenes from the libretto that I had lent Piatti the other day. To my irritation, I saw that the music master had provided me with comments. Lines of neat, small handwriting covered each page. I sighed. Once a teacher, always a teacher.

I took off my waistcoat and lay on the bed. Every bone in my body ached. Troger's warning rang in my ears. My relationship with the emperor was a good one. He had supported me against my enemies many times. But I had to wonder if there had been some truth to Troger's threats. When matters of state were in the balance, could I really expect my Caesar to continue to protect me?

Perhaps because of my dispirited mood, my thoughts turned to my last days in my beloved Venice. I had lived in the house of a noted political reformer, Giorgio Pisani, and had served as tutor to his young sons. I had fallen in love with a young woman whose husband had left her while she was pregnant. We were happy together. Pisani was running for the office of procurator of St. Mark's. I wrote a poem in support of his candidacy. In the poem, I echoed his calls for political reform and made the mistake of naming three powerful current senators who opposed Pisani's bid for office. My work was a resounding success, read all over the city, by intellectuals and common people alike. Soon after, friends heard that I was to be accused of the crime of
male vita
—living an immoral life. Before the authorities could arrest me, I fled to Gorizia, the closest city in the empire to Venice. I was tried and convicted in absentia, and banished from Venice for fifteen years. If I were to return before then, I would be thrown into a windowless cell to serve out my exile.

My breathing slowed. I floated for a while between unconsciousness and consciousness. For a brief moment, a thought niggled at the back of my brain. Something I had seen—what was it? I was too tired to try to remember. I drifted to sleep.

I dreamed I was making that flight again, escaping from Venice, through the fields of the farms that hugged the bottoms of the mountains. My feet stung with blisters, my clothing hung tattered and wet on my body. My few prized possessions lay bundled in a scrawny sack on my back. Afraid I was being followed by the Venetian authorities, I avoided towns, stealing food from the fields and sleeping in empty hovels. As I threaded my way toward freedom in Gorizia, I was seen, and farmers set their dogs on me. I ran, my legs ready to collapse, until the beasts gave up the chase, and all I could hear was men cursing at me in the distance.

I stirred as the shouting grew louder. Heavy footsteps pounded nearby, men running. I opened my eyes. Where was I? “Help! Come quickly!” A man's voice, one that in my confusion I could not identify. The room was dim. Rain beat against the small dormer window. The next word I heard made my blood run cold.

“Murder!”

I bolted off the bed and raced to the door. Once in the hallway, my mental fog cleared. Bohm and Ecker raced down the stairs. I followed them down to the foyer and into the courtyard. Evening had fallen. The court was lit only by the few torches near the doorways. A cold, driving rain hit me as I ran toward the small group huddled in the center of the yard. My heart leaped to my throat. There, in the same place where the boy had died, Bohm, Ecker, and Piatti leaned over a mound of dark clothes.

“Turn her over!” Piatti cried. “The poor soul!” A small woman, wrapped in a coarse, dark cloak, her head covered by its hood, lay face downward on the stones. She did not move. A dark stain had spread across the back of the cloak. Bohm and Ecker gently turned her over.

“No!” Piatti shrieked. “No!”

“Good God!” Ecker exclaimed. Bohm crossed himself. Piatti began to moan.

I stood as still as a statue. My heart raced. The hood of the cloak fell off the woman's head. I heard a loud groan. The voice was my own. I tasted salt as the rain streamed down my face. I forced myself to look down. Green eyes stared at me without expression. Auburn tendrils lay matted around her head. Her cheeks were pale—paler than they had been the first time I had ever set eyes on her. I moaned. Piatti shrieked again. I fell to my knees.

 

PART IV

Finale

 

Twenty-two

“We'll all be murdered in our beds!”

I stood by the library window as Piatti paced before the fireplace. It had been an hour since we had discovered Caroline's lifeless body in the courtyard. The numbness that had overwhelmed me when I saw her lying there had begun to wear off, and I was attempting to deaden the almost physical pain that had taken its place with large quantities of the baron's brandy.

“I don't think the killer is committing these crimes at random,” I said. “He is targeting his victims for a specific reason.”

Piatti stopped his pacing and took a large swallow of brandy. “But what possible reason could he have, Lorenzo? First the boy, now the baroness. What could they have in common?”

“I don't know.” I turned and looked out the window. The rain had subsided, and darkness had fallen. The courtyard was brightly lit by torches, giving me a view not unlike that of the stage of the theater. The body had been covered with a blanket. I watched as the baron and Troger stood over it, huddled in conversation. A constable was directing two young boys to light more torches.

I stared at the small covered bundle. Caroline! My throat thickened. I would never again see her soft smile, smell the lavender perfume in her hair, hear the music of her laugh, or feel the exquisite shock when her fingers brushed mine. I would never have the opportunity to taste her sweet lips.

A carriage pulled into the courtyard. I winced when I saw Pergen climb down from it and approach the baron. The two men spoke for a few moments, then Pergen knelt, lifted the blanket from the body, and crossed himself. He stood and led the baron into the house.

Piatti sighed loudly and threw himself onto the sofa. I studied him. He looked exhausted—his face gaunt and gray, his hands shaking. The slight tic in his left eye throbbed rhythmically.

“You should rest, my friend,” I said. “The police will have questions for us tomorrow, I expect. Pull the table in front of your door if you can, if it will make you feel safer.” I intended to do the same when I retired for the night.

“You are right,” he said. “I need to save my strength. There will be a lot to do. I will have to write music for the funeral.” He stared into the fire. “I expect I'll have to start looking for a new position.” He laughed bitterly. “The baron is unlikely to keep me on to teach music to the lady's maid!”

I looked out the window again. Troger had disappeared, and all but two of the torches had been extinguished. The miserable constable kept a lonely watch over Caroline's body.

Where had she been going, in the driving rain, all alone, at dusk? To meet Starhemberg? Why had she been wearing a shabby old cloak? Who had waited for her in the shadowy courtyard? Had she recognized her killer, or been surprised by the sudden sharp pain that had caused her to slip to the stones? How long had she lain there, feeling her life drain onto the cold cobbles?

I shook my head. I must not give in to such dark thoughts. I turned back to Piatti. “Have you considered a visit to Italy?” I asked him. “The change might do you good. You must have money saved—perhaps you could find a position closer to home.”

His face brightened. “I might do that, Lorenzo. Now would be a good time. I haven't seen my son in ten years. He's almost eighteen now. Soon he'll be married with a family of his own, and I will never have gotten to know him as a man.” A stab of jealousy shot through me as he began to muse aloud, making plans. How I longed to return home, to let my beloved city's golden light seep into my soul, cleansing me of grief!

“I shall go write to my wife,” Piatti said. He stood and placed his brandy snifter on the mantel. “Are you coming up, Lorenzo?”

“No, I'll stay for a while.” We nodded good night and he left.

The sound of horses' hooves drew my attention to the courtyard once more. My chest tightened as I watched a hearse pull up. The driver and another man climbed down from the cab. They removed the blanket from Caroline's body. I wanted to run down and embrace her, but all I could do was watch as they slowly wrapped her in a large white cloth. Tears filled my eyes, but I could not look away. The constable opened the back of the hearse, and the attendants lifted her and placed her inside. The two men climbed up to the cab, and whipped the horses. The hearse pulled away.

I watched the vehicle move out onto the street. A wave of anger surged through me. I turned from the window and put my glass on the table. For the first time since I had entered this house, I was grateful to be here. I would find whoever did this, and I would happily watch as he swung from the gallows.

 

Twenty-three

The next morning I rose early, my heart heavy. Somehow I managed to wash, dress my leaden limbs, and make myself somewhat presentable. I saw no one as I left the palais. I hurried across the cobbled courtyard and went into the street. The day was sunny, but the streets were muddy from last night's storm.

At the Hofburg, I stopped and left a message, then went to my office, worked for two hours, and walked back out into the Michaerlerplatz.

As I turned to go back to the palais, a small man wrapped in a thick cloak crossed my path, his head hunched close to his chest. I stepped back to let him pass. He kept walking without a word, never looking up at me. His body and gait seemed familiar. It was Ecker. I looked around. No one I knew was in sight. Now was my chance to follow the furtive little secretary. I looked over and saw him pass under the archway that led from the plaza to the Augustine church. I quickly followed.

Ecker hurried past the Spanish Riding School stables and the large plaza outside the Imperial Library. I followed at a safe distance in case he should turn around abruptly. The streets had come to life. As I passed the old Augustine church, a group of monks tumbled out its door, blocking my path. I stood aside to let them pass. When I looked up, I was relieved to see Ecker at the end of the street. He was heading toward the old hospital, where I had met Josepha Hassler. I ran to make up lost ground.

Ecker did not turn into the hospital complex. Instead, he cut straight across the top of the area, and took a left onto the Karntnerstrasse. The wide street was lined with market stalls. It seemed every cook in Vienna was doing her shopping this hour. I quickened my step, afraid to lose my quarry. He walked in the direction of the Stephansdom and then turned down the Annagasse. I waited a few seconds and then followed, passing by the pale gold, spare façade of Count Esterházy's city palace. I paused in the shadow of the old Church of St. Anne on my left and peered down the street. Ecker had stopped before a building several doors down on the right. I drew myself closer to the wall of the church as he quickly looked around him and entered the building.

I hurried past the church and crossed over to the other side of the street. I stopped in front of the beerhouse at number fourteen. A large pile of rags sat near the door, waiting for pickup by the junk man. I studied the building next door, the one Ecker had entered. Its façade was nondescript, and there was no plaque on its wall to indicate the building's use. I swore with frustration.

“What? Eh? Who's there?”

I jumped. I looked up at the windows of Ecker's building. Had someone seen me and called to me? I saw no one at any of the windows. I felt something move at my feet. I looked down at the pile of rags. Something was underneath them. Rats, most probably. I shuddered and turned to move across the street. A claw clutched my ankle.

“Alms, sir?” I looked down. An old beggar grabbed at me. He gave a toothless grin. “After all, you woke me up,” he said.