The Figaro Murders (12 page)

“Dinner is ready in the kitchen, signore.” She whirled and headed toward the stairway.

I sighed. Dinner in the kitchen, with the staff. The baron was taking this charade too far. At least I would have a chance to learn more about the household.

The basement kitchen was large and warm. A wooden table set for six stood in front of the wide hearth. Antonia and Rosa Hahn were ladling vegetables into large bowls. My mouth watered from the aromas as I took a seat opposite Marianne. I was famished.

Jakob Ecker entered, followed by a scowling, thickset man of about sixty. Antonia's ladle clattered to the hearth as she ran to pull out the chair at the head of the table.

“Sit here, Papa,” she said. “Near the fire.” He grunted a greeting of sorts and sat. Antonia took the seat to his left.

I gaped. This was Antonia's father, the valet, Gottfried Bohm? He seemed much too old to be the father of a girl in her teens. I studied him. He did not look like any valet I had encountered before. His hair was unkempt and oily, his face clouded with a closed, almost surly expression. I could not imagine him as manservant and confidant to the smooth young nobleman I had just met.

Rosa placed the food on the table and took her place next to me, at the opposite head from Bohm. Marianne passed the plates as Rosa filled them with steaming carrots, potatoes, and slices of meat. My stomach growled in anticipation. The room was quiet as we all began to eat. I gazed at the large slab of overroasted pork on my plate, took up my knife and fork, and began to cut the meat into small pieces. The meat was tough, the knife dull. I sighed, longing for the dishes of home: brothy stews brimming with fish fresh from the sea; soft, cheesy polenta; risotto cooked tender to the bite. I pushed the meat to the side of my plate. I would have to make do with the carrots and potatoes. I turned my attention to making conversation.

“Signor Piatti will not be joining us?” I asked.

Rosa sniffed. “He prefers to take his meals outside the house.”

“And the doctor?”

“Dr. Rausch dines with the baron and baroness,” Rosa replied.

“The doctor considers himself much too fine for this company,” Marianne said. Rosa gave her a sour look. Marianne met her gaze with cool eyes.

“You will find the doctor will trumpet his connection to the baroness whenever he can, signore,” Ecker said.

I smiled. “I've already experienced that.”

“Madame thinks he is an old toad.” Marianne giggled. “She loves to poke fun at him and his fiancée.”

“The doctor is engaged to Franziska Heindl,” Ecker said, turning toward me. I was glad to see him warm up to me. He could provide me much useful information if I developed a friendship with him. “You've heard of the Heindl family?”

I shook my head.

“She is the widow of a grain merchant. He died a year ago, leaving her his fortune. Dr. Rausch is her physician, and as he treated her for her grief, he found his way into her heart.” Ecker's eyes twinkled.

“And her purse,” Marianne added.

“That's enough,” Rosa said sharply. “There will be no gossip at my table.” She turned to me, her face red. “Please ignore them, signore,” she said. Her voice was high-pitched. “I am certain the baroness is happy to have her guardian here with her at this difficult time.”

The company returned its attention to the dinner. I sawed at the meat, finally succeeding in cutting it into smaller pieces. As I finished the potatoes and began to discreetly hide the bits of meat under the remaining carrots, I wondered how to go about getting information from the staff. I decided to use the housekeeper's last remark as my opening. I put down my utensils and turned to her.

“The boy's death must be very difficult for both the baroness and the baron,” I said. I heard a sharp intake of breath from the end of the table, where Antonia sat with her father. I looked around. “And for all of you,” I added.

“A murder!” Ecker said. “It is nerve-racking. The idea that a madman could gain entry to this house and kill that boy in the middle of an afternoon, while we were all going about our daily routines. What if he strikes again?”

I looked down the table at Antonia. Her face was pale, and her hands trembled as she lifted her fork to her mouth. Her dour-faced father concentrated on his plate.

“That's nonsense,” Rosa said. “The front door and servants' door are always kept locked. No one can just walk into this house. The murderer must have been someone Florian knew from the outside, someone he invited into the house himself.”

Antonia dropped her fork.

I looked across at Marianne, who was staring at me, her face thoughtful.

“What was the boy like?” I asked.

Rosa pursed her lips. “He was a troublemaker.”

“You must understand, signore,” Ecker said. “Florian was young, very immature. One of my duties was to give him a basic education about our work here, so the baron would not have to waste his valuable time. He was an inconsistent student, one day completely absorbed, asking dozens of questions of me, the next day lazy and flighty, hiding when I sought him out.”

Antonia gasped.

“He poked around everything,” Ecker continued. He turned to Bohm. “Didn't you find him going through the baron's private cupboard?”

The valet grunted.

Antonia's fork fell to the table. “Stop it!” she shrieked. She rose from her seat, knocking over the chair. “You are horrible! None of you really knew him! He was a gentle boy. He loved me! He was going to marry me!” She burst into tears.

The staff stared at her, mouths agape.

“Don't be ridiculous, Antonia,” Rosa said. “The boy was not going to marry you. He was the son of a prince. If he did tell you he loved you, it was just to use you.”

The girl turned to her, eyes ablaze. “What do you know about it, you dried-up old witch! He promised me he would take care of me. He told me I would have beautiful things, like before—”

She stopped as her father rose from his seat.

Bohm's slap was quick and loud. Antonia screamed. Her hands flew to her cheek. She stared at her father, her eyes wide with shock. Marianne jumped from her chair and ran to her, cradling the girl in her arms. Bohm gave a grunt, looked around the table, and stalked out of the room.

Marianne drew Antonia to her feet. “I'll take her to her room,” she said. The rest of us sat quietly as she led the weeping girl away, then turned our attention back to our plates. The food had grown cold.

“Forgive me, madame,” I said to Rosa. “I should not have brought up the subject of the murder. I had no idea she would react so violently.”

She smiled tightly at me. “Yes, she is a foolish girl, full of fanciful dreams. Sometimes I think there is something wrong with her. She makes up such stories. And that pig of a father.”

We sat silently for a few minutes. I pushed the meat around on my plate, then gave up and put my utensils down, cursing the day a year and half earlier when I had trusted that scoundrel Doriguti with my health. I had recently had a tooth pulled, and a painful tumor had formed on the spot. The court surgeon had advised me to have it lanced, but I had been squeamish about sharp instruments and had delayed having the procedure performed. Doriguti was also a surgeon. He was passionately in love with the daughter of my landlord. Unfortunately, the girl had eyes only for me. Doriguti had told me that surgery was unnecessary. He had given me a liquor to dab on the growth a few times a day for two weeks. The tumor had disappeared after a few days, but Doriguti had urged me to keep using the liquor for the full two weeks. By the next week, I had lost sixteen of my teeth. The serpent had given me aqua fortis, an acid used in cleaning and engraving. If the maid who washed my clothing had not recognized the bottle, I would be dead. As it was, I had just now begun to recover my appetite after the damage the poison had caused to my innards. But now I had only stumps where before I had teeth. If dinner at the Palais Gabler was always going to be roasted meat, I would have to join Piatti and eat outside the house.

The long silence had grown uncomfortable. I racked my brain for something to say. “Did you enjoy your Easter?” I asked the housekeeper.

She sniffed. “To be truthful, I enjoyed the service much more before the emperor made all these silly new rules,” she said. “I miss seeing the statues and pictures decorated, and the glorious music. And I always enjoyed the processions.” As part of his church reforms, the emperor had shortened the service and banned some of the more elaborate, medieval rituals.

“I don't know why he has to meddle in everything,” Rosa continued. “Every time it storms, I hide down here in the basement, since the emperor stopped the bell-ringing.” For hundreds of years, the churches of Vienna had rung their bells during thunderstorms, for it was believed that the bells warded off lightning strikes. The emperor had banned the practice, citing the American Franklin's discovery that lightning was actually electricity. Now lightning conductors, not superstitious bell-ringing, protected Vienna from thunderstorms.

“The church is none of the emperor's business!” Rosa said.

“Shh!” Ecker hissed. “Be careful what you say!”

“I have a right to my opinions!” she snapped. She rose and began to clear the table.

I turned to Ecker. “The baron told me you have worked for him for a long time,” I said.

He reached for the pitcher in the middle of the table and poured water into his mug. “Yes, I worked for his father before he died.”

“You must have done a lot of traveling with the two of them,” I said.

“There has been some travel, yes,” he said. “It's one of the advantages of the job. I enjoy seeing the world, getting out of Vienna. I'm looking forward to going to St. Petersburg when the baron assumes the ambassadorship.”

“Were you born here?” I asked.

He looked at me closely, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem to have an accent of some sort. It's a hobby of mine to identify accents,” I lied. “There are so many different ones here in Vienna.”

“No, I was born here,” he said, his voice cold.

“Did you ever get to my native Venice in your travels?”

“No, I'm afraid I haven't been there.” He pushed his plate away.

“You must have traveled all over the empire with the baron,” I said. “I'd like to see more of it myself—Hungary, Bavaria, even up north. Have you been to any of the northern principalities?”

His face reddened. He stood and looked down at me. “Are you interrogating me, Signor Da Ponte?” he asked.

I held up my hands. “No, no. Forgive me, I am just curious about people. I meant no harm.”

“If you are to stay in this house, signore,” he said softly, “you should mind your own business!” He left the room.

I sat and sipped my mug of water, watching as Rosa cleared the table and stacked the dishes. I considered the various theories of the murder I had heard. I did not agree with Ecker that a madman had entered the house and killed Florian Auerstein. But perhaps someone from the outside had come to visit Florian on the day of the murder. I should ask Troger if he knew if anyone besides me had come to the house that day. I shuddered at the thought of seeing him again.

One thing was certain. The members of the staff were worried, and afraid. For it must be as obvious to them as it was to me that a third theory of the murder remained unvoiced. If a madman had not been able to enter the house, and no one had visited Florian on the day of his death, then the conclusion was unavoidable. Florian's murderer lived at the Palais Gabler.

*   *   *

I stopped by my lodgings to pick up Vogel's box, intending to bring it back with me to the palais later, then walked past the Stephansdom and turned into the Schulerstrasse. Ahead of me, several doors down, a finely dressed aristocratic couple climbed out of a carriage in front of the cheery yellow façade of the city's best hotel. I turned into the inner courtyard of number 846 and climbed the stairs, admiring the handsome curlicued iron railings and stuccoed walls of the court. I stopped at the nearest door at the top of the first flight of stairs. My knock was answered by a maid, and as I entered the apartment and handed over my cloak and stick, Constanze Mozart came out to greet me.

“Lorenzo! It is good to see you again. Wolfgang will be right out.”

I shifted Vogel's box to one arm and bowed to kiss Constanze's hand. Her large, almond-shaped eyes lit up as she laughed and pulled her hand out of my grasp.

“You are well?” I asked.

“I feel as fat as a sausage!” she answered. “This is my third pregnancy, but I'd forgotten how bad the swelling is at this stage. I can't get my feet into any of my good slippers.”

“You look beautiful. Aglow, like the Madonna,” I said.

“Such nice words! Enough! Enough!” She waved me off, laughing. A moment later, a small brown terrier, chased by a chubby toddler, darted into the vestibule and tangled itself up in Constanze's skirts. Wolfgang Mozart followed. He grabbed the child and swung him into his arms just in time to save the poor dog from a painful squeeze.

“No, no, Carl, don't torture Gauckerl,” he said. “Lorenzo! Welcome!” He shifted the child in his arms and offered me his hand. The boy, laughing, pulled at his father's hair. “No, not Papa's hair! Don't muss Papa's beautiful hair!” Mozart cried as he tried to loose his son's grasp. The child laughed and gurgled as he tried to grab more of the light, fine hair on the composer's head. As I watched them, I felt a brief stab of regret as I remembered the dark night when I had left a tiny, warm bundle at the hidden window of the Ospedale della Pietà in Venice.

Constanze reached for her son. “You two go in. I'll bring some wine.”

We moved into Mozart's study, a large room with tall windows overlooking the Schulerstrasse. A fine pianoforte held pride of place in the near corner. A large table surrounded by armchairs sat in the middle of the room, and served as the composer's desk. On the far right wall, a large birdcage sat next to a manuscript cabinet. I put Vogel's box on the desk and walked over to the cage, clicking my tongue. A starling, resting on the perch within, raised its head and ruffled its feathers.