The Figaro Murders (14 page)

I looked over at the baroness, who was nodding at my words. “It is thought that Petrarch chose the name Laura to call to mind the laurel, which was the tree whose leaves were used to crown the poet laureate of Rome. That was the highest honor awarded to a poet during Petrarch's lifetime.”

“Are there more verses, signore?” the baroness asked.

“Yes, two more, madame.”

My thoughts of you are the arrows, your face the sun,

and desire the fire; with all these weapons

love pricks me, dazzles me, and destroys me;

My voice began to shake.

and the angelic song and the words,

with the sweet spirit from which I cannot myself defend,

are the breeze before which my life flees.

“The poor man,” the baroness said. “He is passionately in love with her, and she doesn't even seem to know.” She rose from the sofa and came to me. My heart leaped into my throat as I stood. “If she did exist, she was a cruel woman,” she added. She took my hand. “Thank you, Signor Da Ponte,” she said softly. “That was beautiful.”

I leaned toward her. My lips moved involuntarily toward hers. I caught myself, swallowed, and gave a sterile bow. “He is my favorite poet,” I said. She squeezed my hand. I stood stupidly, my heart in my throat, as she took her place on the sofa.

Marianne shook her head. “The words are beautiful, yes,” she said, “but I can't get over how silly the poet was! To waste your life on someone who doesn't know you are alive? Or who might not even be a real person?” She laughed, and returned her attention to her mending.

“What else have you brought us?” the baroness asked.

I hesitated, then drew another sheet of paper from my pile. “I have another poem here, madame, one that I wrote myself.” She smiled. “Of course, I am no Petrarch,” I added.

“I would love to hear it, signore.”

Had I imagined it, or did her cheeks color slightly as she looked at me this time? “This is another poem about love, from a different perspective,” I said. I stood and read.

I don't know anymore what I am, what I do,

one moment I'm on fire, the next I'm freezing,

every woman I see makes me redden,

every woman I see makes me throb.

Just the mention of “love” and of “pleasure”

unsettles me and stirs my heart,

and I am compelled to speak of love

by a desire that I cannot explain.

I speak of love while waking,

I speak of love while dreaming,

to the waters, to the shadows, to the mountains,

to the flowers, to the grasses, to the fountains,

to the echo, to the air, and to the winds,

which carry away with them

the sound of my futile words.

And if I have no one to hear me,

I speak of love to myself!

As I finished, the two women burst into applause.

“Bravo, Signor Da Ponte,” Marianne said. “Now that is a poem I can understand!”

I turned to the smiling baroness.

“That was charming, signore. Thank you for sharing it with us.”

I flushed with pleasure and bowed.

“Is that for the new opera you are writing?” the baroness asked. She knew of my opera! She must have asked someone, probably Piatti, her music teacher, about me.

“Yes, madame,” I replied. “It will premiere in three weeks. As a matter of fact, we will be rehearsing this piece tomorrow morning.”

“Who is the character who sings the poem?” she asked.

“A teenage boy, madame, who is discovering women and love for the first time. As you can tell from the poem, he is in love with the idea of love. He—” I broke off. The women were silent. Marianne bowed her head and busied herself with the work on her lap. Tears filled the baroness's green eyes. She reached over and took Marianne's hand.

I looked at them, confused. My shoulders sagged as I realized what I had done. What a dolt I was! Why had I chosen that poem? I rose and went over to the sofa. “My apologies, madame,” I said. “It was thoughtless of me to say such things. I did not mean to upset you.”

She shook her head. “No, signore, you must not apologize. I know you intended no harm.” She looked around her. “It is just this room…” Her voice trailed off.

“Shall I read another Petrarch poem?” I asked, though I knew that the pleasant mood had been irreparably broken.

“No, I think that is enough for today,” she said, standing. Marianne gathered her sewing and the two women made their way to the door. I followed, murmuring apologies. Marianne went out into the hallway. The baroness stopped at the door and turned to me. She placed a finger on my lips to quiet me. Her delicate touch shot a lightning bolt through my body. I gazed at her, hating the knowledge that I was the cause of the sorrow on her face.

“Thank you so much, signore,” she said. “The poems were beautiful.” Her hand dropped to her side. Her eyes traveled around the room, as though searching for something, then came to rest on my miserable self again. She stood silently for a moment, as if she were wrestling with a decision, then spoke. “Perhaps—”

“Madame?”

“Perhaps on Sunday you could come to my chamber for the lesson. We will be more comfortable there.”

My heart began to pound. My mouth was dry, and I could not force my lips to form words. I nodded dumbly.

“Come at one o'clock,” she said. She left, closing the door gently behind her.

Come to her chamber! I smiled. A lady entertained only her most intimate friends in her private chamber. I floated over to the table and gathered my papers, left the library, and bounded up the stairs to my room, humming the tune Mozart had set to my poem.

*   *   *

I spent about twenty minutes working on the pantomime scene Mozart and I had discussed yesterday, then threw my pen down. I was too excited to work after my encounter with the baroness. I made a mental note to copy out a few more Petrarch poems for our meeting on Sunday.

My eyes fell on Vogel's box, which I had put next to the cupboard when I returned yesterday. I went over and carried it back to the desk. I took the muff out and turned it idly in my hands. I would have to go to the debtor's prison, I knew, but I was reluctant to tell my barber that I had reached a dead end in the investigation so soon. I didn't really believe that he would remember something from his past that would help us, as I had told the Mozarts.

The fur on the muff, although cheap, was silky and soft. I put my hands inside it. What woman had worn it last? What were her circumstances? If she was indeed Vogel's birth mother, had she wept when she placed her treasures in this box and gave her child away? I wished the muff could tell me.

As I withdrew my hands, the fingers of my right hand brushed against a rough patch in the lining. I turned the muff inside out. The fabric lining was sewn in tight, small stitches all around both edges, but as I peered at it, I could see an area about an inch wide that was sealed with broader stitching. I pressed my fingers around the area of the stitching. There seemed to be something buried inside the stuffing under the lining. I hurried to the cupboard and rooted through my valise, where I kept a small mending kit. I carried the kit back to the desk and withdrew a small pair of scissors.

A sharp rap sounded at the door. I put down the tool and went to the door.

“May I come in?” Urban Rausch asked, pushing me into the room. I shrugged, and gestured to the reading chair in the corner.

“I prefer to stand, if you don't mind,” he said. “This won't take long.”

“How can I help you, Doctor?”

“I demand to know the true reason that you are in this house,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows. “I am here to teach poetry to the baroness, Doctor,” I said. “That is all.”

“Come now, don't take me for a fool! I'd heard not a word from my ward or her husband about plans to bring on another tutor, then that boy is killed in this house, and the next day you arrive.”

“An unfortunate coincidence, sir,” I murmured.

He stepped closer to me and drew up his chest so we were eye to eye. “I ask you again. Will you tell me your purpose here? Are you working with the police?”

My heart began to race. Had I been so obvious, that he was able to find me out so quickly? I laughed. “Me, working with the police? I am a simple poet, sir. The police would have to be very desperate if they believed I could help them with a murder investigation!”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” he said. “But you must admit, your arrival is suspicious.”

“I think it is just an unfortunate coincidence,” I repeated.

“Dammit, I am worried about Caroline, Da Ponte. I feel that she is burdened by something she will not share with me.”

“I have only met the baroness twice, sir, I wouldn't know anything about that. A murder in one's household is a trying matter. Perhaps she is just grieving for the boy.”

“Perhaps.” He began to pace around the room. “I know she was fond of Auerstein. And she is probably worried about the family's reputation. The heir to one of the princes of the empire murdered here! The baron's career could be threatened.”

“I know nothing about politics, Doctor,” I said. “If you are concerned about your ward, I suggest you speak to her.”

He stopped by my desk and looked curiously at the muff. I crossed the room and shuffled my papers into a pile, put the muff back into the box, and replaced the lid. He looked at me, speculation in his eyes.

There was another knock at the open door. Rosa Hahn stood there. I beckoned her to enter.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, signore, I thought you might need more of these,” she said, handing me a box of fresh candles. She did not acknowledge Rausch, who had moved over to the window and stood looking out on the garden below.

“Thank you, Miss Hahn,” I said. I placed the box on the desk.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“No, I am fine,” I said. She glanced over at Rausch and nodded at me. She turned to leave. As I began to turn back to Rausch, I saw Rosa pause. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her staring toward the window. The look of hatred on her face sent cold down my spine. A moment later, the door closed.

*   *   *

Rausch left a few moments later. I hurried over to the desk and removed the muff from the box. I took up the scissors and gently snipped one of the large threads, then pulled it from the lining. I pulled out several more stitches and stuck my finger into the gap I had created. There was definitely something hidden inside, something smooth and cool. I grabbed onto it and teased it out of the muff.

I turned the object in my fingers. It was an oval bronze medallion about an inch and a half long, half as wide. The obverse side showed a robed woman standing on a pedestal, her arms stretched in front of her in a gesture of either blessing or supplication. On the reverse side were a simple cross and two small letters, a
K
and an
S
. A suspension ring was attached to the crest of the oval, but whatever chain or ribbon had been threaded through it had long ago disappeared.

What was a religious medallion doing in Vogel's muff? Had his birth mother hidden it there? Why? A rush of excitement seized me as I turned the medallion around in my fingers. Perhaps I had not reached the end of my investigation for my barber after all. After dinner I could—

I started as a gentle tap broke me out of my thoughts. I put the medallion down on the desk and quickly stuffed the muff back into the box. “Yes?” I called.

“Sir, may I clean your fireplace?” a small voice asked.

I opened the door to Antonia Bohm. She curtsied, then carried her pail, brush, and pan over to the fireplace. As she knelt and began to work, I noticed that she was still pale, and looked as if she had been crying again. I turned back to the desk and pulled out the scene I had been working on. For a few minutes we both worked without speaking. I jotted down a few ideas for the scene to the rhythmic scratching of Antonia's brush as she swept up the ashes. I wanted to ask her about Florian Auerstein, but was afraid that she might react violently again.

Finally the soft noises stopped. I looked up to see her standing a few feet from me. She was gazing at the desk, clutching the fireplace poker absently. I watched as her eyes explored the desk's surface, looking first at my papers, then at the box of candles, next at the medallion, then at Vogel's box. She blushed when she saw me regarding her. She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly closed it.

“Did you want to ask me something, Antonia?” I asked gently. I remembered what Rosa Hahn had said, that the girl was not quite right in the head. I guessed that like any child, she was wondering what was in the box.

She started. “Oh! No, no, sir. It is just—do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I said. She gave a quick curtsy, but did not turn to leave. I decided to take a chance on questioning her.

“Antonia, tell me about Florian. What was he like?”

“He wasn't like they all say, sir. Not at all. If he caused trouble for anyone, it was because he was bored. He was smart. And very handsome.” She blushed.

“Did you spend a lot of time with him?”

“Yes. He used to come into the library when I was cleaning. He liked to kiss me.” She blushed. “He told me I was beautiful. No one has ever said such sweet things to me. He told me all about his home. He lived in a grand palace, sir, with many servants. Not like here. He missed it very much.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Just like I miss my old home. And he was a good listener. It was nice to have someone to talk to, someone my own age. Everyone here is so old.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Marianne is the youngest of them, and she's much older than me.”