City of Dark Magic (9 page)

Queen Elizabeth speaking to Mo
rtimer in Schiller’s
Mary Stuart
. Elizabeth I knew her stuff. And she knew how to run a secret police. But she was too emotional, getting all bothered by Mary Stuart. Charlotte had no personal beef with anyone. Not anymore. Not even with that nincompoop over in the Oval. He simply didn’t matter. It wasn’t, Charlotte assured herself,
personal
. She wasn’t a vengeful person, really. No, not at all.

TWELVE

S
arah put on her headphones and hit “Shuffle” on her iPod. She needed a little break, so she was taking a quick jog around the castle grounds, dodging tourists and trying to work the tension out of her shoulders. Her assigned workroom in the palace—next to Arms and Armory, and down the hall from Decorative Arts—was a bit stuffy, since it had no window. Why did they always give her the windowless rooms? Were they afraid she would jump, too? Or be pushed?

She was accompanied on her run by Moritz, Max’s wolfhound, who had taken a liking to her ever since that first night.

It had been two weeks since what Sarah thought of as The Very Bad Evening. Yes, the sex in the bathroom was mind-blowing, but no one had come forward to claim ownership, so to speak. And as if that wasn’t annoying enough, she had no idea who had thought it hilarious to leave the precious fucking eleventh-century cross on her bed. Was it a joke? A message? A warning? Or just an attempt to rattle her? At the very least, it was embarrassing to be singled out that way.

To Sarah’s mind, further proof that Sherbatsky had not committed suicide was on his worktable. Contrary to what Miles had said, it wasn’t “mostly completed,” it was a mess. And the Sherbatsky that Sarah knew would never have left things half-finished and unexplained. There were copious notes about “Luigi”—Sherbatsky used the nickname for Beethoven that Beethoven himself had preferred—many of them difficult to decipher. Did the note next to “April 4, 1811, letter from Luigi to Prince L” say “Venice” or “Vienna”? Annoying. There were many notes about things to be looked up in the library at Nelahozeves, the Lobkowicz country place on the Vltava River. It was oice>

Sarah felt like taking a longer run, but her iPod was now playing Beethoven’s Piano Trio in C Minor, op. 1. It was as if LVB were whistling her back to work.

The Piano Trio in C Minor. Early Beethoven, in which you could hear the heights of Classicism, hints of Haydn, a glimmering foreshadow of the Fifth Symphony, and Luigi’s own stubborn don’t-tell-me-how-it’s-supposed-to-be inclusion of an unusual four-movement format, instead of the traditional three. Even what seemed simple and obvious about Beethoven always turned out to be complicated.

Like even his birth date. LVB was born in Bonn in 1770, but for some reason he continually denied that birth date all his life, even when copies of his birth certificate were shoved under his nose, insisting that he was born two years later. His father was undoubtedly Johann van Beethoven, but Luigi did little to contradict rumors that he was the unacknowledged son of Frederick the Great. Probably because he hated his father—an alcoholic and only middling musician—so much. Daddy Beethoven had wanted his son to be a child prodigy, another boy Mozart, and drove him relentlessly at the clavier and violin, which should have driven the music out of him but didn’t. LVB became a court musician in Bonn by the age of eleven, and was composing variations, sonatas, and lieder by the age of twelve.

And then he stopped composing for almost five years. No explanation, although his mother died during this period, and teenage Ludwig was supporting the family. Then, in 1790, a burst of activity. These lapses in work, followed by insane productivity, were to become characteristic of the composer. In 1792, the drunken father died and young Ludwig hightailed it to Vienna, making a name for himself as a keyboard virtuoso. Some thought his playing harsh and disturbing. Almost everyone thought his manners were execrable. Coming from Bonn put Beethoven firmly “from the wrong side of the Rhine” among the snobby Viennese. As a girl from South Boston, Sarah could relate. Still, despite the uncouth manners and independent streak, the musician was courted by the nobility. Prince Joseph Franz Maximilian Lobkowicz was twenty, Ludwig van Beethoven twenty-two when they met. But Prince Lobkowicz was hardly LVB’s only patron. In fact, less was known about the relationship between the two men than was known about other relationships Beethoven had with different benefactors. Which made the letters that had been found and restituted back to the family sort of exciting. Puzzling, too, in some cases.

Sarah forced herself to leave the sunshine and beauty of the Prague Castle grounds and returned to her monastic cell, shooing away Moritz, who wasn’t allowed in the workrooms. Today’s task involved going through Luigi’s Fourth Symphony orchestrations page by page and determining that each page was there, not a forgery, and in acceptable condition. In his own hand, Beethoven had carefully written out the parts for every single instrument, from flute to timpani. She used a microscope to examine each sheet of paper and the ink, as well as the shape of the letters and musical notes. Like most people’s, Beethoven’s writing shifted with his mood but was still basically consistent.

Beethoven’s moods. It still blew her away that she was sitting here, touching (with gloves, but still) pieces of paper that Beethoven had touched. When he had written the Fourth in 1806, he was still a black-haired young man, not the white-mopped madman of later years. Looking through the microscope at the way the nib of Beethoven’s pen had dug into the yellowed parchment as he wrote out the viola’s part, Sarah felt a chill up her spine. She stopped for a stcope at moment and listened to make sure no one was coming, then slipped off her left glove and gently put her index fingertip against an emphatically marked quarter note. She was startled to feel a little electric zing, but chalked it up to the polyester content of the gloves, hot weather, and static electricity. That’s what her father would have said. She put the glove back on.

Sarah sighed and stretched. Hours had a way of slipping by when she was working like this. Bending down, her eye was caught by a Post-it note that Sherbatsky must have stuck above the work table. In the stifling summer heat, it had come unstuck and fluttered down onto the orchestration for the bassoon. Sarah read the note: “Luigi—Prince L 12/31/06 Nelahozeves.” There were two asterisks below it. (Sherbatsky never gave grades, but if one turned in exceptional work, he would return it with an asterisk marked on top. Sarah was his only pupil ever to receive two asterisks.)

Sarah flipped through the binder of xeroxed correspondence between Beethoven and Prince Lobkowicz that she had made for reference purposes. “The 7th,” as he was known among the scholars at the palace, had been scrupulous in keeping copies of all his correspondence. Actually, he sometimes didn’t open his correspondence and some of the letters to him had been read for the first time years after his death—but he didn’t throw anything out. Neither did his heirs. Even the Nazis had left the papers alone.

There was a note from Luigi to the prince dated December 15, 1806, expressing regret that Luigi couldn’t make it to the Christmas ball. There was another on January 16 from the prince thanking Luigi for the gift of an Aztec amulet vial. Hmmm. No New Year’s Eve letter. She wondered how Sherbatsky knew about the December 31 letter if there was no copy of it, and no mention of it in the other correspondence. The gift of the Aztec amulet was interesting, too. Luigi wasn’t much of a gift-giver. He was pretty stingy.

Deciding to do a little detective work, Sarah obediently locked the door of the workroom behind her (Prince Max had insisted on this measure) and headed down to Miles’s office. If they could find the Aztec amulet, it would make a nice part of the display.

•   •   •

“Y
es, Huitzlipochtli,” said Miles, in response to her query about the amulet. “I’m told that’s the name of the figure depicted on it. We haven’t found him yet, but the Nazis took a picture of him.” Miles flipped through some files and produced a grainy black-and-white photo of a small ceramic vial with a bird god on it.

“Beethoven used to call Prince Lobkowicz ‘Fitzliputzli’—his play on the name of the Aztec god Huitzlipochtli,” Sarah said.

She studied the photo for a second, then laughed out loud.

“Guess what Huitzlipochtli was famous for?”

Miles smiled and crossed his arms, waiting.

“The Aztecs believed he ate blood and hearts, so they made a human sacrifice in his honor every day.”

“That’s supposed to be funny?”

“To Beethoven it probably was. That was what he was teasing Prince Lobkowicz about, that he was expecting his pound of flesh. Beethoven sh.ace="had to tear his own heart out and put it down on paper in order to keep his patron happy. The vial is for his own blood.”

“Conjecture,” Miles said.

“Yeah,” Sarah said. “But I bet I’m right.”

“Well, if we find the amulet, we could display it with the letter,” Miles said. “If you think it’s of interest.”

Sarah felt a satisfying rush of power and, beyond that, a feeling of pride that she had deciphered Beethoven’s joke. Most people didn’t get Luigi’s sense of humor.

Miles turned back to his computer. “Eleanor was looking for you. She’s going out to Nelahozeves tomorrow and wondered if you wanted to ride along.”

“I do. There are a bunch of notes Sherbatsky left about things to look up there. Maybe I’ll go dig around. See what I can find.”

Miles looked sharply at her. “Whatever you find, bring it straight to me.”

“Of course.”

Sarah was glad for the chance to go to Nelahozeves with Eleanor. Nearly all the originals of correspondence were kept there in the library, and technically all the academics had access to them. The catch was that only Max had the key. Since the night of the crucifix debacle, he had become more surly, withdrawn, and paranoid. According to Suzi, when she had gone to Max’s office to ask him a harmless question about missing hunting trophies, he had refused to let her in, and had all but accused her of spying. He spoke to no one but his dog, Moritz.

“He’s a nut job,” Suzi said. “You know how these Hapsburgs are all inbred. Look at him, he’s the exact image of every one of his relatives going back five hundred years. That’s not healthy.”

Max took his meals apart from them now, and Sarah had only passed him once in the hallway. He didn’t make eye contact.

Sarah made loud footsteps on the polished terrazzo floor as she walked down the hallway to his office. She rehearsed her speech about asking for the key, and steeled herself.

But only Jana was in the office, with Moritz panting beneath her desk. He thumped his tail at the sight of Sarah. “Are you looking for Prince Max?” Jana asked politely.

Sarah nodded. “We need the key to the library,” she explained.

“The prince is at Nelahozeves now,” Jana said. “But the phone lines are down and his mobile is turned off. I’m not sure . . .”

“Will he be there tomorrow?” Sarah asked. “I mean, is it okay if we just show up?”

Jana hesitated.

“We won’t disturb him,” Sarah promised. “But we really need the time with the archives. I promise he won’t even know we’re there.”

“I did get one message from the prince asking for his drum set,” said Jana. “Petr was going to take it in the van tomorrow. Perhaps you and Eleanor can drive the van and deliver it for us?”

Drum
set
, thought Sarah.
That completes the picture.

“Oh, and would you take this to him?” Jana asked, handing Sarah a letter. “It came yesterday.”

Sarah looked at the envelope. It was high-quality stationery, printed with the return address of the Hotel Gritti Palace in Venice. Fancy.

“Sure,” Sarah said. It was weird how everyone assumed it was an honor to do things for aristocrats. As if they weren’t already the privileged ones.

As she was turning away, she sensed Bernard Plummer, the Rococo expert, to be close by. Once Sarah’s nose had cleared, she learned that Bernie tended to overdo it on Chanel No. 5. Beneath the massive chest beat the heart of a refined and accomplished French matron. He often brought embroidery to the dinner table.

“Oh, Sarah, some of us are going over to Old Town Square for dinner out,” Bernie said, appearing from behind a corner. “It’s Godfrey’s turn to cook and I just can’t face the offal.” Sarah nodded.

“Plus we have to plan the costume ball,” he said, as they turned into Daphne’s portrait hall. Daphne, dressed as always in her impeccable lab coat, was giving instructions to two workmen who were carrying a glass case.

“Costume ball?”

“Yes, we’re all dressing up like
them
.” Bernie nodded at the family portraits staring down at them. “I’ve already dibbed rights to Maria Manrique de Lara and I found an extraordinary shop where I can get ermine. Fake ermine! I love these kinds of things.”