1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (64 page)

And Merlin, singing to the melody that had been the
Pater Noster
in earlier scenes, drew the sword from Arthur, placed him in the barge that floated out from stage left, and in a final duet with Guinevere promised that Arthur was going to the Isles of the Blessed where he would be healed of his deadly wound and lie sleeping for the time of the people’s need.

Arthur raised up to sing a short farewell, promising to return when he was needed most, then floated off to stage right.

The final grand chorus began with a mass shout of
Ave Arthur, Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus!
, then reprised the great Alleluia fugue from the wedding scene, with Guinevere standing in front, sword lifted high, voice skirling over them all.

And with that, the final curtain dropped.

* * *

Ciclope had made his way across the western bridge into the oldest part of the city. After almost running into the procession of Marine guards and the emperor’s car on the Gustavstrasse boulevard, he stuck to the side streets, moving always in the direction of the Schardius warehouse.

He was still muttering about the loss of his kill. If the
Polizei
cost him his ten thousand dollars…

A noise intruded on his consciousness as he was walking by one of Old Magdeburg’s many churches, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder.

“You? What are you—”

Chapter 70

Friedrich found himself on his feet, beating his hands together as hard as he could, stomping his feet, and shouting nonsense at the top of his lungs. After a minute or two of that, he grabbed Gronow around the shoulder and gave him a fierce hug. “You genius!” he shouted in his friend’s ear. “I forgive you!” And he went back to clapping and shouting.

* * *

Gustav pursed his lips and nodded. “If this is what an opera is, maybe I will come to more of them. The final music was a little harsh, though.”

“The up-time influence, I’m afraid,” Ulrik replied. “They tell me we will become accustomed to it.”

“I thought it was good,” Caroline Platzer replied from the row behind them. “Not that I’m a connoisseur of operas, you understand. They didn’t stage them in Grantville very often.” Her grin was sly enough that Ulrik knew she meant that the Grantvillers had never had one.

“Frau Linder,” Gustav mused, “she is like steel on the stage. Is she like that away from the stage, from the music?”

Ulrik pointed to Baldur to answer.

“From all accounts she is a very pleasant woman, but one with a very strong view of the world,” the Norwegian responded.

“Frau Caroline, do you know Frau Linder?” Gustav asked.

“Not well,” she replied. “I was an out-of-towner, not one of the Grantville natives. But I am acquainted with her, and certainly know of her. I would say that she’s not a tough broad—not a hard person—but she is a passionate person who will stand up for what she believes in.”

Gustav folded his hands together and tapped his lips with his forefingers several times. “We shall officially ignore the song on the radio and the records,” he said finally. “This is a woman who it is better to have as a friend than a foe. She could not have played that queen as she did if she is not capable of hardness. Let us not make her discover just how hard she can become.”

The emperor stood, stretched, and yawned. “Now, I believe I would like to return to the palace and rest. You,” he pointed to one of the Marine guards standing in the rear of the box, “go tell the driver to warm up the car.” As that worthy almost leapt out the door, Gustav turned back to the family group. “But tomorrow—do we have a Trommler record player in the palace?”

Caroline looked up from where she was trying to get Kristina to wake up enough to walk. “I believe so, in the great room with the piano.”

“Good. I believe that I would like to hear Frau Marla’s infamous song for myself. Do any of you own the record?”

No one spoke for a moment, then Baldur cleared his throat. Ulrik looked at him in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought that of you, Baldur.”

Baldur shrugged. “I’ve heard her sing before. I like her voice.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s a first pressing copy of the record. In a few years, it will be worth a small fortune.”

They gathered their coats and other paraphernalia. Baldur finished off a couple of near-empty wine bottles.

“Frau Caroline?” Gustav said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Please arrange with the palace staff to have the major figures in this opera invited to the palace.”

“Can do, sir.”

* * *

Gotthilf dismounted from the police department carriage, joining Byron and Karl Honister at the bottom of the front steps of the opera building.

“Kid delivered safe and sound?”

“Yah. Turned him over to my mother and Pastor Gruber. Between them, they’ll take care of him.”

Gotthilf looked at the other two men. “Well, what are we waiting for? I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get some sleep sometime tonight.”

Byron shrugged. “Let’s do it.”

They started up the steps together.

* * *

Franz stepped backstage into a scene of almost riotous celebration. Three different less-than-delicate drinking songs were being sung by different groups of the cast. Dieter had donned Nimue’s blond wig, and was singing part of Nimue’s victory song in a falsetto that was so high it was almost painful. It didn’t help any that he was intentionally missing pitches and slurring words.

Marla was laughing, but she was wincing as well. She saw Franz standing and grinning at her, and she flew to him, producing an “Oof!” when she made contact and threw her arms around him. She was still wearing her final costume with the tin armor, and it was not very forgiving.

Franz returned the embrace, and they stood there like that for a long while, oblivious to all the pandemonium occurring around them. Finally, he broke the hold and held her shoulders, reaching up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“Mad all gone?” he asked with a small smile.

“Yep.” She grinned back. “Not that I wouldn’t mind a little time to kick Herr Schardius where it would hurt the most a time or three.” She looked around. “Speaking of that snake, I wonder what happened to him.”

Franz lifted his eyes above her head. “I think we’re about to find out.” He pointed to Byron and Gotthilf coming through the side door. They descended first on Amber. After a brief conversation, she looked to Franz and Marla and beckoned. They followed her and the detectives to the Men’s Dressing Room, on the opposite side of the stage.

Amber closed the door behind them, and the din outside dropped to a dull roar. “Okay, guys, what’s up?”

Byron heaved a big sigh, and began, “You don’t have to worry about Schardius anymore. He’s dead.”

Amber’s eyes widened, and Marla grabbed Franz’s arm in an exceedingly tight grip.

“He ran for the east bridge to the Altstadt, and kept shooting at us. We had no choice but to return fire. He made it to the bridge, but took a hit there and fell over the wall into the canal. By the time we fished him out, he was dead. So,” Byron shook his head, “he won’t be bothering you or anyone else anymore.

Marla shivered for a moment. “I detested the man, yeah, but I don’t think I wanted him dead.”

“If it is any help to you,” Gotthilf put in, “we were tracking him anyway because we suspected him of being involved in several murders. Not a nice man, Herr Schardius.”

“I wish we’d known all this up front,” Amber said bitterly. “Mary wouldn’t have taken a lead pfennig from the man if we’d had any idea that he had that kind of baggage. We were all a little uncomfortable around him, but we couldn’t nail anything down, and we needed the money.”

“If there is a next time,” Gotthilf replied, “which I pray God there isn’t, listen to your instincts.”

“Oh, you betcha,” Amber said.

“Anyway,” Byron concluded, “we’re going to need to take statements from you two ladies, and from the guy with the sword, whoever he is and wherever he went…”

“Friedrich von Logau,” Franz interjected.

“Thanks,” Byron replied as Gotthilf pulled his notebook out, “but that can wait until tomorrow. No pressing need for it now, the way things worked out.”

“But we do need that room sealed off,” Gotthilf said. “It’s a crime scene now. We at least need to get the photographer in there first thing tomorrow.”

Amber shifted uncomfortably. “I knew you would want that, so I had it closed down, and the room behind it—after we got the costumes out.”

The two detectives both started to frown.

“Sorry, guys,” Marla chimed in. “But only two or three people went in, people who were already in there, and as much as possible they walked around the footprints and stuff. But we had to have those costumes.”

Byron looked at Gotthilf, and after a moment they both shrugged.

“It’s not what I would want,” Byron said, “but in
this
case, I don’t think it’s going to matter. But keep everyone out of there until after we’re done tomorrow morning.”

“We won’t be here until after two in the afternoon,” Amber said. “That’s our regular schedule. We have a few more performances to give before we pack this show away.”

“That’s all for now,” Byron concluded. “We’ll be in touch.” He shook hands with Amber and Franz, and gave Marla a big hug. “Glad we got here in time tonight.” He separated with a big grin. “Jonni would have killed me if I’d let anything happen to her baby sister.”

“Get out of here,” Marla said, grinning also.

* * *

When they came out of the room, they found Mary Simpson and Rebecca Abrabanel standing by the stage manager’s desk, talking with Frau Frontilia and Heinrich Schütz.

Heinrich held out his hands, and Amber took them. “A triumph,” the older musician said. “A veritable triumph, thanks to all of you.”

“Indeed,” Mary said. “The first opera in Germany, written by a German, sung in German, performed by—mostly—Germans. And the emperor stayed awake through the whole thing. All in all, a cause for celebration.”

“I think an even greater cause for celebration,” Rebecca said, “is that our own monarch returned to us. He is not the King Arthur of legend, of course. No real kings are. Still, things would probably be much worse now if he hadn’t.”

“Amen to that,” Amber said.

Dieter had apparently been listening in on the conversation. Still wearing the blond wig, he turned to the celebrating cast and crew.

“Hey, everyone, be quiet! Quiet!”

Dieter had a big voice, so it wasn’t long until a condition of sort-of quiet existed. He held up the wine bottle he’d been drinking from. “Everyone fill your hands. I’m going to propose a toast.”

It took some hunting and scurrying, but before too many moments had passed everyone had some kind of container with either ale or wine in their hand.

“Everyone got one?” Dieter asked, looking around. “Good. Here’s my toast:
To Gustav Adolph, the Once and Future King!
”

A roar went up in response, glasses/bottles/cups/etc. were clinked together, contents were drunk, and a rousing cheer echoed in the rafters.

The ensuing party, although not the earliest to celebrate the emperor’s restoration, was certainly one of the rowdiest. But what could you expect from a bunch of musicians and actors—and one very rowdy Italian singer?

* * *

“Do you carry that sword stick with you all the time?” Gotthilf Hoch asked Friedrich von Logau when they caught up with him at Walcha’s Coffee House for their interview.

“Oh, no,” Friedrich replied. “That is my evening walking stick. My morning walking stick,” he lifted the tool in question, “is merely solid oak. At night, you see, one sometimes needs a bit more than to thump someone to discourage them.”

Byron snorted. “So do you know how to really use that blade, or were you just lucky?”

Friedrich smiled. “I am rather good with it, in fact. Years with Viennese and Italian fencing masters. Boring, really, but it has come in handy on occasion.”

“Such as a certain night in a certain opera hall basement,” Gotthilf said.

“Indeed.”

Chapter 71

Karl Honister and Mayor Gericke entered the building that housed Georg Schmidt’s offices, to be confronted with what appeared to be a miniature mob. A number of men were gathered around the door leading to Schmidt’s office, all of them talking excitedly.

Honister tried to shout over them, but quickly had to give that up as an exercise in futility. It took a blast on his patrolman’s whistle to bring silence.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, as soon as he removed the whistle from his lips. A babel of voices responded, and he blew the whistle again.

In the resulting silence Karl held up his badge wallet, flipped open to display the snarling lion mask. “Sergeant Karl Honister, Magdeburg
Polizei
.” He stowed the badge in a pocket and pointed to one man.

“You—what’s your name and why are you here?”

“Samuel Bauer. I work at the ledgers for Master Schmidt.”

“Right. Now what’s going on?”

A couple of the other men tried to speak, but Karl held up his hand. Samuel said, “Someone said the master has killed himself, and we all came to see if it was true.”

“What?”
Karl and the mayor spoke in unison, in identical tones of mingled disbelief and astonishment.

“And it is true,” Samuel averred, with nodding heads all around to back him up.

“All right,” Karl said, snapping into detective mode. “You, Samuel, did you see it happen?” Negative headshake. “Right; then you run and find a patrolman, tell him I’m here, and I want a police photographer and a crime scene team here yesterday. Got that?”

Samuel nodded his head quickly.

“Good. Run.”

Samuel did as he was commanded.

Karl looked around.

“The rest of you, back up. Get out of the way. Line up against the hallway wall.”

Once the crush of bodies was untangled, it proved to be seven more men.

“Did any of you see what happened?”

Headshakes all around.