The Figaro Murders (17 page)

Kelly looked as though he had more to say, but Nancy Storace stepped up and pulled him back into the group. “We are wasting time,” she said.

“All right, everyone, let's begin again, at the beginning of the sextet,” Mozart said.
“Riconosci in questo amplesso.”
He hummed the musical phrase. The orchestra began to play. I sat back in my seat. Thorwart approached and leaned over me. “Don't stay too long, Signor Da Ponte,” the assistant theater manager said. “Miss Storace must rest her voice. And these candles cost money.” I nodded and watched as he scurried out the side door. I leaned back, took a deep breath, and relaxed, listening as the singers wove my words and Mozart's music into a glorious fabric.

*   *   *

The rehearsal lasted until one o'clock. I ate a quick dinner in a nearby shop, and returned to my office to sketch some scenes for Martín. At around four, I headed to the Palais Gabler, happy to have spent a day in my old life without worrying about the murder investigation or my promise to Vogel. As I entered the courtyard, the baroness was alighting from a carriage. My heart turned over as she stood before the door, waiting for me.

“Signor Da Ponte!” she said. “Are you coming from your rehearsal?”

I bowed. How beautiful she looked standing there in the fading light, wrapped in a rich evergreen cloak with gold trim, her hair caught up under a chic feathered cap. I followed her into the foyer.

“I wanted to thank you again for the lesson yesterday,” she said. “It cheered me considerably.”

“It was my pleasure, madame,” I said. As I helped her with her cloak, I glanced to the side, and saw our happy faces reflected in the mirror—her cheeks colored from her ride in the park, my own face warm with the pleasure of being so close to her. I inhaled the lavender scent of her hair. As I handed her the cloak, our hands met. Did I imagine that she left her fingers touching mine just a moment longer than accident allowed?

“I am looking forward to tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Please, I would like to hear more of the Petrarch. I cannot stop thinking about that story.”

“I would be delighted, madame,” I said. The clock sounded the hour.

“Oh, I didn't realize it was this late,” she said. “Please excuse me, Signor Da Ponte. Christof and I have a supper to attend and I must change my clothes.”

I bowed again.

“Until tomorrow, then?” she asked, smiling.

I stood there, once again tongue-tied like a schoolboy. She turned and ran lightly up the stairs.

*   *   *

I spent a happy few hours reading in my room and preparing the lesson for the next day, then retired to my bed. I fell asleep right away, and did not dream of the torments of my past. I did not know how many hours I had slept when my ears perked and my eyes snapped open. The room was dark, the house quiet. As I began to drift back to sleep, I heard it. A slight sound, a scraping noise. I was wide awake now, alert to the noise. Another scrape. A bump. Where was it coming from?

I sat up, straining to hear. My heart began to pound as I heard it again. Bump. Bump. It was coming from the hallway. My mind raced. I had been uneasy when I found no lock on the door, but had slept unaccosted for several nights, secure in the belief that no one in the palais knew my real mission here. What was that slight click? The doorknob? My eyes had by now grown accustomed to the darkness, and I held my breath, concentrating all of my senses on the door, my heart sick with fear.

Was that another click?

Go open the door
.

I sat frozen, my mind racing. I pictured my body found the next morning sprawled on my bed, my life smothered out of me by the spy in our midst; or perhaps Ecker's madman lurked outside my door, waiting to kick it down and, with otherworldly strength, grab me and hurl me out the window.

If you are going to be murdered, at least put up a fight.

I strained to hear over the pounding of my heart. Nothing.

Enough.

I swung my legs onto the floor and rushed to the door. I turned the knob and flung the door open, ready to confront my would-be assailant. “Who is—”

No one. The hallway was empty. I took a few steps out of my room and stood quietly, listening intently. Nothing. And no time for anyone who had been there to make an escape. I shook my head. I had probably just heard the breeze blowing through the tall window that stood open at the end of the hall.

You fool. You and your imagination, running wild.

Nevertheless, before I returned to my bed I moved the desk chair under the doorknob, and I did not regain my happy sleep that night.

 

Twelve

On Sunday mornings, all of Vienna goes to church. The streets are crowded with the carriages of the wealthy: the horses in their finest plumage; the lackeys wearing their most lavish uniforms. The aristocracy frequents the four inner-city churches: the Stephansdom, seat of the archbishop of Vienna; the newly consecrated Italian church; the old Carmelite church on the Am Hof; and the elegant St. Michael's, closest to the Hofburg. The rest of the population attends the smaller neighborhood churches.

I spent the morning in my room at the palais, outlining the libretto for Martín. When I heard the rumbling of carriages returning from the churches, I took my cloak and stick and headed toward the Graben.

Once I reached St. Peter's Church, I continued down the Tuchlauben toward the Hoher Market, then turned into the Schultergasse. My destination was on the right side of the street, at the end. I peered in the window, and saw I was in luck. I knocked on the door. The proprietor sat hunched over a table, deep in concentration. He looked up and scowled. I knocked again. He put aside his work and came to the door.

“We're closed today, sir,” he said. “Can you return tomorrow?” He started to close the door. I put my stick in to block it.

“Are you Gunter Bernhard?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I'd like to speak to you for a moment, please.”

“I'm not allowed to sell anything or take in work on Sundays, sir,” he said.

“I'm not a customer,” I said. Suspicion filled his hard, small eyes as he looked me over. “Don't worry, there's no trouble. I'm wondering if you could help with a personal matter,” I added.

He sighed and opened the door, gesturing me inside. The shop was dim, and cluttered with shoes, boots, and scraps of leather. He returned to his worktable and sat. “I'd like to keep working while you talk, sir.” He picked up a last onto which was tied a smooth leather sole. “My wife will be waiting with my dinner.” He began to work a stitching awl into the leather.

“Actually, this is about your wife. I think it is she I really need to talk to.”

He looked up with a surprised expression. “Therese? What could you possible want with Therese?”

I saw no chair or bench on which to sit, so I leaned against a counter near the front window. “I was told that she has an aunt, the Abbess Elisabeth, of the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin convent.”

Although his head was bent over his work, I thought I heard a sharp intake of breath when I said the abbess's name. But he said nothing, just continued to twist the awl into the leather. “I'm trying to find someone for a friend of mine. I was told the abbess might be able to help me.”

He laughed sharply. “Well, sir, you are right. You'd better speak to my wife about her aunt. But I don't think you'll find what you're looking for here,” he said, looking up at me. “Go around the corner. Second floor.” He returned to his work.

I thanked him and went into the street. A few steps took me to the door of the lodgings. I climbed up two flights of stairs and knocked on the only door on the landing.

“It's unlocked,” a light, silvery voice called. I opened the door. A plump woman of about thirty was regarding herself in a cheap mirror that hung by a nail just inside the door. A frilly white cap sat on her blond curls, which surrounded a pretty round face.

“Oh, pardon me, sir, I thought you were my husband,” she said. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and pulled off the cap, patting her hair back into place.

I gave a slight bow. She blushed. “My name is Lorenzo Da Ponte, madame,” I said. “Your husband sent me up to speak with you.”

She smiled and pointed me toward a small sofa in the center of the simple, neat room. Its fabric was worn, but the cushions were well stuffed. I leaned back into them. The aroma of baking bread wafted over me, and I remembered the meager roll I had taken from the palais kitchen for breakfast. She placed the cap on her head again and looked in the mirror. “I just can't tell if this cap sits properly on my head. What do you think?”

“It frames your face very well, madame,” I said.

“Do you really think so? I made it myself. I'm just not sure—”

“It looks lovely on you,” I said.

She blushed and turned toward me with sparkling eyes. “Tell me, what can I do for you, sir?”

“I am looking for your aunt, the Abbess Elisabeth.”

Her hands dropped to her sides. “Oh dear. Auntie?”

I nodded. “Is your aunt available? I will only take a few moments of her time.”

“What is this about, sir?”

I sighed inwardly. I did not wish to explain things twice, first to this woman and again to her aunt.

She looked at me expectantly.

“I am doing a favor for a friend of mine, madame,” I began. “He has recently learned that he is adopted. He is trying to trace his birth mother.” She frowned. “I've found a medallion that I think belonged to the woman. An expert at the Stephansdom sent me here. He told me it belonged to a nun at your aunt's convent, the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin.”

Her hand went to her throat.

“I was hoping your aunt might recognize the initials on the medallion, and tell me something about its owner.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, sir, I am sorry. You have come here for nothing. My aunt can be of no help to you.”

“I understand she is very old. Is it her memory? Perhaps if I talked to her—gently, of course—I could learn something.”

She shook her head.

“Please, your aunt is my friend's only hope of finding his mother.”

She drew a kerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Oh, sir, I feel terrible for your poor friend. To grow up not knowing your mother—I can't imagine that. But there is nothing here for him. My aunt has been dead for a year now.”

My heart softened as I looked at Therese. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I'm sorry for your loss,” I said gently. “Your aunt must have been an extraordinary woman.”

“She was,” Therese said. “She worked so hard to become the abbess, but she still had time for a young niece whenever I needed her advice. My mother died when I was in my teens, you see. Aunt Elisabeth was like a second mother to me.” She smiled softly. “I remember visiting her in the convent. I wanted to become a nun, just like her, but she would have no part of it.
Find a good man to love, Therese
, she would tell me.”

I thought of the grim, taciturn man working in the shop below.

“She loved that convent,” Therese mused. “I remember when the emperor ordered it to be closed. Those poor old nuns, who had spent their whole lives inside those walls. They were given a small pension and sent out to make their way in a world they knew nothing about. Even Auntie, who was a woman of the world—she had to be, to fight with the church officials for everything the convent needed—even she had nowhere to go.”

I nodded sympathetically.

Her voice grew steely. “Gunter did not want her here. He said it would cost him too much to support her. But I insisted. How could I turn her away?”

I nodded again.

“He never gave her a chance. He always treated her like a burden. And after all that, she was only here for a year before she fell ill. She stopped eating and sleeping, and lost weight. It took her another year to die.”

“The wasting disease?” I asked.

“That's what the doctor said, sir. But if you'll forgive me for saying so, I blame the emperor for her death. When he closed the convent, he took away her reason for living. My aunt died of a broken heart.”

*   *   *

As I cut across the Judenplatz on my way back to the Palais Gabler, my thoughts were in a whirl. I had hoped the Abbess Elisabeth would know the name of the woman who had owned the medallion. I was puzzled by its presence in the muff. Alois Bayer had said the medallions were given to the novices at the convent. Had one of these girls been tempted by the gifts of a man, strayed from her vocation, and become pregnant? Why had she put the medallion in the muff?

I started as my arm was grabbed from behind.

“Where have you been, Signor Poet?” Troger's cold, dark eyes stared at me.

I pulled his hand off my sleeve. “I can't talk now, Troger. I have an appointment.”

He took my elbow. “You'll talk to me when I want you to. Now.” Pain shot through my forearm as he pinched his fingers together, hard. “What were you doing at the cobbler's shop?”

“Are you following me?”

“I am watching you. What were you doing there? What do that cobbler and his wife have to do with the Auerstein murder?”

I tried to pull my elbow away from his grasp. He tightened the pinch. “Nothing. I was doing an errand for a friend, that is all. Now let me go. I have an appointment with Baroness Gabler.”

“Ah, the beautiful baroness. Enjoying the benefits of the palais, are you, Da Ponte?”

“Don't offend the lady, Troger,” I said.

“What have you learned? Have you discovered the spy?”

“No, not yet.”

“What have you been doing all these days, besides romancing the baron's wife?”

“I've been listening, observing—just as the count instructed. You know I'm not an investigator! I've had to feel my way around. I don't know how to discover the things you policemen can get from people.”