The Figaro Murders (28 page)

I did not know what else to say. The two of us sat quietly for a few minutes. Marianne wept softly. Bile rose in my throat as I recalled my encounter with the drunken baron in the library
. If she does anything to jeopardize my career, I'll kill her.
He had been unfaithful to his wife. He had fathered Antonia's child. Had he also committed two murders?

 

Twenty-five

Two hours later, I shifted uncomfortably in the seat of a hackney cab as it rumbled through the southeastern suburbs of the city. I had paid little attention to the scenery on my journey. My mind was filled with thoughts about murder.

Christof Gabler was the father of Antonia's lost child, Marianne was certain. Had Antonia, upon learning she was pregnant, turned to the person she considered her only friend in the household—Florian Auerstein? It was likely. She had confided the identity of her baby's father to him, and he had “promised to take care of her,” as Antonia had so vehemently declared at the first dinner I had shared with the staff. She had believed he intended to marry her himself, and claim the child as his. But what if that was not what he had intended? Had he instead blackmailed his patron, planning to give the money to Antonia so she could leave the palais and start a new life when the child was born?
Received 30 florins from C.G.
Could the initials in Florian's notebook, the record he kept of blackmail, those I had been so quick, because of my own emotions, to ascribe to Caroline, belong to her husband instead? Had the baron killed Florian because of the blackmail? Had his wife found out about it, and had to be killed also?

I glanced out the window of the cab. The village of St. Marx came into view. The spire of its neat, small church and the bulbous dome of its poor relief hospital nestled into rolling green hills.

My heart lurched as the cab hit a rut in the road. I grabbed the bench beneath me to steady myself, then returned my gaze to the view outside. The cab rolled by farm after farm, row after row of small green seedlings grasping for purchase.

Ten minutes later, we reached the gates of the emperor's new cemetery, established just two years ago. In the past, Vienna's dead had been buried within the city walls, in church crypts and small cemeteries. Modern science had concluded that the accumulation of so many bodies—in Vienna, over ten thousand new ones each year—was unhealthy to the living residents of the city, so the emperor had ordered new cemeteries to be created out in the suburbs, where land was available and the population was less dense. He had even gone so far as to ban the burial of coffins. Wood took up a lot of space in cemeteries and was expensive. Instead, corpses were to be sewn into linen sacks and lowered into common graves.

The people of Vienna had accepted the new cemeteries, but had rebelled against the banning of coffins. After a few months, the emperor had relented and restored the option of individual plots and burial in coffins. The enlightened thinkers of Viennese society, who agreed with the emperor's public health motivations, usually chose the newer sack and common grave for burials, leaving the old methods to the uneducated and superstitious.

The cemetery was quiet this afternoon. A lone black crow sat on the iron gate. I wondered if Caroline's body lay in one of the common pits, her beauty covered for eternity by a rough linen sack. I did not know what plans had been made for her funeral, and I did not feel it was my place to ask the baron. Icy fingers clutched my heart as the cab rolled by the cemetery. My eyes filled with tears, and in the privacy of the cab's interior, I allowed myself to grieve freely.

After about ten minutes, I dried my eyes with my handkerchief and returned to my previous musings. I was certain the baron had killed Florian Auerstein and Caroline, but I had no proof. If I accused him, I would be asking Pergen to take my word against that of the protégé of the most powerful politician in the empire. I had to face the truth. No one was going to believe my charges against the brilliant Christof Gabler, in mourning for his own young protégé and his beautiful wife. Accusing him would mean the end of my life in Vienna. To take on such a powerful man, with his many friends and sponsors? I would be mad to even consider it. I knew in my heart that while my own patron, the emperor, gladly supported me in my battles with my enemies in the theater, he would not take my side in this fight. All of Vienna would turn against me. I would lose my position in the theater and would have to flee yet again, to build a new life in another city.

I gazed blankly out the window at the never-ending farmland. But what about the victims—the boy, too young to die, and my own beloved Caroline? In my heart I could hear them crying for justice. I was the only one who could see to it that their murderer was punished for his crimes.

The wheels of the carriage turned, taking me toward my destination. The wheels of my mind turned, taking me toward a decision that I did not wish to make.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, the cab arrived at a small village. I instructed the driver to pull up near the church in the middle of the main street, and asked him to wait for me. The church was surrounded by the large dwellings of the community's founding families, prosperous shopkeepers and important landsmen. I hoped that one of these was the address I sought. But when I hailed a passerby and asked directions, he pointed me down the road, toward the outskirts of the village.

My heart filled with dismay as I approached the cottage. It was a small, shabby affair, but I could see that the tiny garden out front was neatly kept. Green flower shoots were breaking through the ground. I knocked on the door. A moment later, it was opened by a woman in her late forties, her graying hair tied neatly up in a bun. Two small children regarded me seriously from the safety of her skirts. Behind her I could see a younger woman seated by the hearth, nursing a baby.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the older woman said. “Can I help you?”

Now that I was finally face-to-face with her, I did not know what to say. I gave a small bow. “Good afternoon, madame. Are you Katrin Aigen, formerly Katrin Spiegel?”

Her face grew wary. She nodded.

“I've come about your son,” I began.

She gasped, and clutched the doorjamb, trying to keep herself steady. Her face was white. The two children began to cry.

“Matti? Are you here about Matti?”

Matti? Who was Matti? Perhaps it was the name she had given Vogel before she gave him up for adoption.

“Yes,” I said.

She shrieked. “He's dead, isn't he?”

I gaped at her. “I—”

Before I could finish, she fell to the ground in a dead faint.

 

Twenty-six

“Who are you? What did you say to her?” The young woman rushed to Katrin and knelt beside her. “Don't just stand there like an idiot, help me!”

My tongue was tied with embarrassment. I put down my stick and helped the girl lift her mother, who was regaining her senses. Together we led her over to the chair by the hearth. As the daughter fussed over her mother, I looked around the room. Unlike the outside of the house, this main room was cheery and neat, with flowered curtains hung at the windows. Over in the corner, the baby wailed from the cradle into which his mother had dropped him when Katrin fainted.

“Mama, are you all right?”

“Some water, please. That's all I need.” The girl hurried to the back of the house. Katrin's eyes wandered around the room, confused, and finally lit on me. “Matti,” she moaned. She began to cry. The girl returned with a mug of water and knelt beside her mother. Katrin took a long swallow.

“Who is Matti?” I asked the daughter.

“My younger brother. He is in the army. Surely you know that?”

I chided myself for my clumsiness, for blurting out as I had, frightening these poor women. I shook my head.

“You are not from army headquarters?” Katrin asked.

“No, madame, I am here on another matter.” I introduced myself.

“What could the theater poet want with me?” Katrin asked.

I looked over at the girl, who was listening intently. “Perhaps if I could speak to you alone, madame? My errand is confidential.”

The girl snorted. Katrin squeezed her hand. “It's all right. Take the children outside. I'll listen for the baby.” The girl glared at me, but called to the two toddlers, wrapped them in bulky woolen cloaks, and ushered them out the door. She paused to give me one last cold stare on her own way out.

“Now, sir, if this is not about Matti, what is it? You said you wanted to speak to me about my son.”

“Yes, madame. About your other son. Johann.”

She looked at me, confusion all over her face. “Johann? I don't have a son named Johann.”

My heart sank. Had I come this far to find Vogel's mother only to have her deny ever giving birth to him? I reached into my cloak pocket and pulled out the medallion. “This belongs to you, I believe.”

Her eyes widened as she turned the medallion in her hands. “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

“It belongs to a friend of mine, a man named Johann Vogel. He found it among his adoptive mother's things after she died.” I described the muff, the ring, and the book to her. “I found this medallion inside the muff, and used it to trace you.” I hesitated. She had bowed her head and was staring at the medallion. “I hope that you do not find my being here a terrible intrusion,” I said. “My friend is desperate to find his birth mother. He was unable to search himself, so I agreed to help him.”

She looked up at me. “Oh, sir! Seeing this has brought back so many memories, both good and bad. My little boy! To think he is all grown-up. I thought I would never see him again. But—”

“He is eager to meet you,” I said.

“But you don't understand, sir. You have made a mistake.”

“Madame, I assure you, he only wants to meet you. He does not expect any money,” I lied. It was obvious there was no money here to save Vogel from his prison sentence.

“He is not my son,” Katrin said.

“But I don't understand. The medallion—those are your initials, are they not?”

She nodded. “Yes, the medallion is mine. Thirty years ago, I was a novice at the convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin. I was fifteen years old. I had no desire to become a nun. I was in love with a local boy. We wanted to marry.” Her voice hardened. “My father hated Anton, I don't know why. He would not let us get married. He knew that in a year I would be sixteen, that I would not need his permission. He wanted to lock me away, separate us forever. He went to the old priest at the church here. Together they arranged to have the abbess take me on as a novice in the convent.”

She took a sip of water.

“I worked in the infirmary as part of my training. The convent took in a lot of unwed mothers, as you probably have learned.” I nodded. “I loved nursing, especially taking care of the babies before their adoptions were arranged. One of them in particular touched my heart. A little boy. I remember he was not adopted right away. I took care of him for several months.” She smiled at a distant memory. “I remember his chubby hands and fat cheeks,” she said. “Whenever I had spare time, I would pick him up, rock him, and sing to him.” She lifted up the medallion. “He loved to grab at this. I used to take it off and swing it in front of his face, watching him follow its gleam and trying to catch it.”

Disappointment washed over me.

“After four months, the abbess was finally able to arrange an adoption for my little friend. On the day he was to leave, one of the nuns brought me a new suit in which to dress him, and a box. She told me it contained the few items his mother had left behind. I peeked inside it and saw the muff, the ring, and the book. I didn't think these were things that would help him in his new life. He was a baby, he needed a plaything. So I pulled the medallion off my neck, and quickly sewed it into the lining of the muff. I guessed that his new parents would find it when they returned home with him, and it would be too late to bring it back to me. I hoped they would let him play with it.”

I sighed. “I apologize for coming here like this, and for frightening you. May I ask you—did you ever meet the boy's birth mother?”

She shook her head. “A few months after the baby left, my father died in an accident. I knew by then that I wanted to be a wife and mother, not a nun. I left the convent, married Anton, and started a family of my own.”

“When you took care of the child, did you ever hear any mention of his mother? Did the nuns say anything about her?”

She shook her head once more. “No. No one told me anything. I never knew her name, or where she came from. I have no idea what happened to her.”

 

Twenty-seven

When I arrived at the theater Saturday morning, the main hall buzzed with the excitement and trepidation that only a full dress rehearsal can bring. The candelabras had already been lit, and the candles belched wispy smoke overhead. On the stage, a wardrobe mistress was hastily stitching the hem of Nancy Storace's dress as the prima donna ran her voice through the scales. The orchestra members were subdued, concentrating on tuning their instruments instead of trading bawdy jokes back and forth, as they had done at previous rehearsals. Thorwart, the assistant theater manager, bobbed up and down, greeting and seating the privileged patrons and nobles who had been invited to get the first view of the opera.

Mozart was already there, dressed in the rich red suit and gold-laced hat he usually saved for performances. I had put on my best suit, also, worn as it was, for it is often said that a man's clothing can be a suit of armor. I had told Mozart of my plan to thwart Rosenberg's edict against the ballet in the third act. His eyes had widened, then he had laughed and hurried to give instructions to the singers.

Now I sat in a seat a few rows in front of the stage, off to the side, where I could observe both the rehearsal and the reactions of the guests who had come to watch. Rosenberg and Casti had arrived shortly after we had begun; Salieri had hurried in ten minutes later. Within two hours, Mozart had led the singers through the first two acts with only a few missed cues and forgotten lines.