The Figaro Murders (10 page)

His eyes narrowed as he peered at me, his face solemn. “Have you heard the news?”

I was about to nod when I remembered that I was supposed to know nothing of the murder. I shook my head.

“A young man who lived here—the baron's protégé—” His voice shook. “The boy was murdered yesterday.”

“Murdered! Here in the house?”

“Yes, yesterday afternoon. He—someone pushed him out the window of the library.”

I murmured words of sympathy.

“A madman must have broken into the house,” Piatti continued, his voice rising. “I found him. I'll never forget the sight, never. Every time I close my eyes I see him lying there on the stones, his head in a ghastly tilt, his legs askew, like a cloth doll a child had dropped on the floor. And the blood! I—” His hands trembled violently. His eyelid jerked up and down.

I took his arm and led him to the bench under the mirror. “Come, my friend, sit. I am shocked to hear about this. How terrible for you.”

“His eyes!” Piatti's voice broke. “His eyes were wide open, staring right at me!”

I grasped one of his hands, hoping to stop his trembling. “Were you close to the boy?” I asked.

“Yes. He often joined us when I gave lessons to the baroness.” He looked up at me. “He was a pleasure to teach. Very bright, talented. He could write a song so quickly.” He shook his head. “If his father hadn't decided long ago that the boy was destined for the diplomatic corps, I would have suggested that he go to Bologna to study music.” His voice cracked as he bent over, burying his face in his hands.

“Try to calm yourself,” I said gently.

He sat still for a few moments, then took a deep breath and sat up. “Yes, you are right. I must get hold of myself. The baroness will need my support. She was fond of the boy.” He stood up and straightened his waistcoat, then looked around the foyer. “Where has that silly girl gotten to now? Come, I know which room you've been given. It's right next to mine.” He took my valise in one hand and my satchel in the other and headed up the stairs. I snatched up my stick and followed.

“Of course, you remember the library,” Piatti said as we reached the first landing. His voice grew quiet. “That is where the boy was killed.” I nodded. He pointed down the hallway. “The baron's office is down there.”

We climbed another flight of stairs and stopped at a large landing with walls covered in fine pale green silk. Piatti pointed to the right. “The baroness's chamber is just here. The baron's rooms are farther down that hall.” He turned to the left. “The guest rooms are on this side.”

I started down the hallway. “No, no, signore,” Piatti said. “We are upstairs, with the rest of the staff.” He started up the next set of stairs. I frowned. The servants' quarters! Surely the baron did not intend that I— I checked my anger as I remembered Pergen's instructions. I was here as a poetry teacher, not in my capacity as theater poet. If the baron chose to house his teaching masters with the servants, I must go along. I stood on the landing for a minute to clear the embarrassment and annoyance from my face, and followed Piatti up to the garret.

The landing at the top of the stairs was smaller and darker than those on the floors below, its walls painted a pale gray. Piatti led me to the left, past a small alcove fitted with a wooden bench, and opened the first door. To my surprise, the room itself was bright and airy, larger than my own lodgings in the Graben. A beautifully carved wooden bed, topped by a thick linen-clad mattress, shared the right-hand wall with a small fireplace. To my left was a small cupboard, adequate for the clothing I had brought; a washbasin; and a small desk with a wooden chair. Opposite the door was a large dormer window, under which sat a chair upholstered in fabric of the same watery shade of green I had noticed on the walls a floor below.

“The baroness enjoys decorating,” Piatti said as he hoisted my valise onto the mattress and opened the latch. “Our rooms receive the castoffs.” He removed a pile of clothing from the valise and carried it to the cupboard.

I hurried to intercept him. “Please, signore, there is no need. I can do that myself later,” I said.

“It's no trouble,” he said.

“Please, Signor Piatti.” His shoulders sagged as I took the clothes from him.

“Call me Tomaso,” he said.

I nodded. “And I am Lorenzo. I hope we'll have time to discuss music while I am here,” I added. His eyes brightened. “But if you'll excuse me now, I'd like to settle in and organize my thoughts before I meet the baron and baroness.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. “I have work to do myself. I'm right next door if you need me.”

*   *   *

I crossed the room and looked out the window. I was relieved to see that it overlooked a small formal garden, not the stony courtyard. The chair was comfortable, nicely stuffed. Between it and the bed stood a small round table with a candlestick. I had already noticed a small box of candles on the desk. For the first time since I had been awakened from my sleep by Pergen's men, I felt a glimmer of happiness. I could not afford to have such a chair in my lodgings, so I was forced to read sitting straight in my hard desk chair. Candles were expensive, so I never felt I could afford to read or work into the night. Perhaps my stay here at the palais would not be as onerous as I had expected. I could spend what spare time I had in this snug chair, reading the beloved books I had brought with me. Perhaps the baron would even allow me to borrow some of the volumes in his collection.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. My mouth was sour with exhaustion. My right temple throbbed, and my shoulder was filled with a dull pain. I felt as though I could sleep for a week. But I had better unpack and begin my task. The sooner I could bring Pergen and Troger some useful information, the sooner I could return to my own life.

I hung my clothes in the cupboard and turned to my satchel. I carefully removed my books and set them on the table next to the reading chair, then emptied the rest of the contents onto the desk. I decided to begin my investigation with a visit to the library. Perhaps I would get some sense of the crime there. As I left the room, I looked in the keyhole for the key. There was none. A twinge of worry crossed my mind. How could I protect myself against a murderer with no lock on the door?

The house was quiet, and I encountered no one as I went down the two flights of stairs and let myself into the library. The room was empty, still, and dark, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the late-morning sun. No fire had been lit in the grate, and I shivered as I approached the wall of windows, whether from a real chill or from uneasiness, I could not say. I had never been at the scene of a murder before, and I struggled to keep my imagination in check as I pulled the drapes open and examined the windowsill where the boy had hidden from me just yesterday. It was about a foot and a half deep, and made a comfortable alcove from which a small-bodied boy like Florian Auerstein could eavesdrop on members of the household. I leaned over and studied the cream-colored wood of the sill, but could see no evidence of a struggle: no scuffs from the boy's shoes; no chips in the paint; and to my relief, no blood.

I climbed up onto the sill and knelt in front of the large windows. I turned the knob that held them closed. The hinges creaked loudly as the windows slowly swung outward from the center. Cool, fresh air rushed into the room. I took a deep breath and stuck my head out of the right window, forcing myself to look down at the courtyard. My empty stomach flipped as I stared down at the dark patch on the stones directly below. Piatti had said there had been a lot of blood. My head began to swim. My eyes filled with bright stars. I could hear the boy screaming as he fell through the air.

I quickly pulled my head back into the room. Blinded by the stars, I groped for the bottom of the window frame in an attempt to steady myself. I knelt on the sill until my head and vision cleared, then closed the windows and turned the knob.

I hoisted my body around and tried to sit in the position in which I had found the boy yesterday. The afternoon had been warm, and the windows had been open during my visit. Florian must have sat right where I was now, cross-legged on the sill. The murderer must have been someone he had known and trusted—he would not have sat next to a wide-open window while arguing with someone he feared. Even though the boy had been small for his age, it would have taken some strength to push him out the window. The murderer would have had to lift him a bit to clear the window frame before pushing him to his death.

I carefully pulled myself to a standing position and reached up to examine the drapery rod and the thick velvet that hung from it. I pulled on the soft drapes, first the left one, then the right, but could see no spots where the fabric had come loose from the rod, and no evidence that the boy had grabbed onto the drapes in an attempt to save himself.

As I started to lower myself to a kneeling position, my foot twisted in the left drape. I kicked at the heavy fabric and grabbed onto the window knob to steady myself. The large windows began to groan open. I kicked again at the drape, but only tangled my foot further. I clung to the latch as the right window swung out to the courtyard, taking me with it. My heart pounded as I looked down at the stones. If the knob broke I would share the boy's fate. I kicked again at the drape, then again. Pain shot through my shoulder as I struggled to keep the heavy window from dragging me farther. The pit of my stomach was empty and cold. I took a deep breath and kicked my foot again, as hard as I could. Mercifully, the fabric released me from its grasp. I jerked myself back from the window, pulled it shut, and secured the knob.

I turned around and slumped on the sill, my heart pounding. I closed my eyes and tried to regulate my breathing. After a few moments I climbed off the sill and looked around the room. Everything seemed exactly as it had been when I left here yesterday. The little Harlequin figurine stared at me from the table near the sofa. The rows of books sat silently on their shelves. I shook my head. It was clear that I would find no help with my inquiry here.

I turned to check that the windows were tightly latched and straightened the drape that had twisted around my foot. A bright patch at the bottom near the floor caught my eye. I leaned over to examine the spot. It was not a part of the drape, but a piece of ribbon caught in the velvet. I pulled it out. It was about a foot long, white, with a delicate floral pattern embroidered in gold thread—the kind of ribbon used to decorate a lady's bonnet. How long had it been lodged in the folds of the drape? To whom did it belong? Had Florian Auerstein brought it here, or had his murderer inadvertently dropped it?

“But madame—” I started as a voice came from the hallway. A moment later, the door opened.

“I must see it for myself,” a warm, melodious voice said. I stuffed the ribbon into the pocket of my breeches and quickly closed the drapes.

*   *   *

“But madame, you shouldn't.” I recognized Marianne Haiml's voice as she entered the room, followed by another woman of the same petite, slender build. “It will only upset you. Oh! It is so dark in here. Let me open the drapes.” Marianne headed toward where I stood in the shadows. I cleared my throat and stepped forward.

Marianne screamed. “Who is there?” She ran to the drapes and yanked them open. Sunlight filled the room. “Signor Da Ponte? What are you doing here?”

I could not answer her, because my eyes were fixed on her companion, who remained standing at the door. My heart twisted as I stared at her. She was dressed in white, as she had been last night. Today, her auburn hair was gathered into a thick braid. Her skin was still pale, and she looked as though she had been crying.

She crossed the room to me. “Are you the Abbé Da Ponte?” she asked, taking my hand. I could not force my lips to form words, but I was able to make my head nod. “I am so happy to meet you. I am Caroline Gabler.”

Her hand felt smooth and small in mine. I stared into her eyes, which were a soft jade green. “I am looking forward to our lessons,” she said.

I bowed over our clasped hands as my tongue finally untangled itself. “I am honored, Your Excellency,” I managed to say. She smelled like lavender.

She continued to hold my hand as she smiled at me. “Please, you must not be so formal with me. I will be your student.”

To my dismay, I found myself bowing once more. Idiot! Stop bobbing like that children's toy, that silly clown in the windup box. My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she gently pulled her hand away.

“Lessons?” Marianne asked, looking at me. “I don't understand.”

“Yes,” the baroness answered. “I haven't had time to tell you, Marianne. It all happened so quickly. My husband has wished to hire a poetry master for me for a while now. He had heard that the abbé was the best poet in the city.”

My heart swelled with pride at her words.

“They were able to finalize the agreement just last night, I believe.”

I turned toward Marianne. “Yes, I signed the contract while I was at the theater last night,” I lied.

Her intelligent eyes gazed at me coolly. “Well, I hope this appointment will not interfere with any of your other projects, signore,” she said.

“I do not expect that it will, Miss Haiml,” I said.

The baroness approached the middle window and ran her fingers over the wide sill. “I cannot believe he is dead,” she murmured. “He was so young—” Her voice caught. Marianne hurried to her and took her hand. I longed to do the same.

“I have heard the news,” I said gently. “I am sorry to have come at such an unfortunate time.” She gave me a sad smile and nodded.

“Come, madame, let me take you back to your chamber,” Marianne said. “I'll make you a dish of chocolate. That will help you feel better.”

The baroness gave one last sad look at the window. “Yes, I am coming,” she said. She offered her hand to me again. My right arm tingled at her touch.