by Laura Lebow
“It must have been there all winter,” Benda said. “Last autumn seems so long ago now. The general always gave a large party before closing up the estate for the winter. There were hundreds of people here. Young couples always found their way into the privacy of the garden rooms. A lady must have lost it and never noticed.” He handed the brooch to the constable, who put it in the pouch. “Continue searching,” he ordered.
A moment later, Troger came around the corner. He nodded at us and stared down at the body. “That’s four now,” he said.
“Yes,” Benda replied. “It’s time to arrest Richter, before he strikes again.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe—”
“Da Ponte has another theory,” Benda told Troger. “But I’m certain Richter is our man. Another nobleman murdered—it fits into the pattern I’ve described.”
Troger glanced at me. “I’ve heard Da Ponte’s theories before,” he sneered. “He has quite the imagination—better suited for the theater than for investigating crimes.”
I bit off an angry retort. I should not waste my time arguing with these two. Benda had already made up his mind before reviewing any evidence; Troger despised me and would not welcome any ideas I had to offer. I stood and watched as the two of them walked back to the palace, their heads together, planning the unfortunate protester’s arrest.
The constable approached me. “I think I’ve found everything I can, sir,” he said, handing me the pouch.
“Was there anything else?” I asked.
“Not much, sir. Just more litter from that party, I guess. A few more ribbons, a lady’s earring, and some shoe buckles.”
Benda returned. “The hearse is on the way,” he said. “Troger has sent a man over to guard von Gerl’s house. We should go there now to interview his manservant. Then I’ll have to report the news to Christiane.” He clenched his fists. “The fiend! It will be a pleasure to see him hang. He murders her father and now he despoils her property. She’s always loved coming here. She once told me it was her refuge.”
I held out the pouch. “Do you want this?” I asked.
“No, I don’t see that it’s of much use.”
I tucked the pouch into my cloak pocket and started to follow Benda. I hesitated, and then turned to take a last look at the scene. Atop the tall marble plinth, Apollo, the god of art, music, and light, leaned on his tambourin, wooing the beautiful nymph. Below it lay von Gerl, his bloody, handsome face in repose, as if dreaming of his own last lover.
Twenty
Benda’s carriage rumbled through the city to the Freyung. When we reached von Gerl’s palace, Benda instructed the driver to return to the Palais Albrechts and to avoid mentioning his errand to his mistress. Troger’s constable stood outside the door.
“Is anyone home?” Benda asked him.
“The manservant, sir,” the constable replied.
“What’s the fellow’s name?” Benda asked me as we stood in the empty, still foyer.
“Teuber,” I replied.
“Hello! Teuber! Are you there?” Benda’s shout echoed up the stairs.
A moment later, the manservant appeared on the landing and started down the stairs. The cocksure demeanor I had observed in my previous dealings with him had vanished. His face was lined with worry, his clothing was disheveled.
“Signor, is it true what the man out there told me? My master is dead?”
I nodded.
Teuber collapsed on the lowest step. “No, it is impossible! It can’t be!” he moaned.
I stepped forward and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Now what shall I do?” he cried. “Where will I go? How will I find another job without a reference?”
I pulled my hand back.
“And what about the wages he owes me?”
“Your master has been brutally murdered!” Benda snapped. “This is no time for such concerns.”
The manservant looked up at us with guarded eyes.
“Murdered?” he asked.
“Yes. When did you see him last?” Benda asked.
“Last night. He went out at about seven o’clock. He was expecting a guest for supper. I was setting the table in the dining room and helping the cook.”
“If he was expecting a guest, why did he leave?” I asked.
“A boy came with a message. My master read it and told me he had to go out for a few hours.”
Benda and I exchanged glances.
“Do you know what the message said?” Benda asked.
“No.”
“Where is this message now—in his chamber?” I asked, my excitement growing.
“No,” Teuber said. “My master put it in his pocket and took it with him. He instructed me to make his guest comfortable, and told me that he would return before midnight. He hurried off. He did not even put on a waistcoat and coat or take his cloak.”
“Did he take the carriage, or just a horse?” I asked.
“Neither, sir. He walked.”
“He must have hailed a cab in the street,” Benda murmured to me.
“What happened to him, sir?” Teuber asked Benda. “Did this maniac who is roaming the streets get him? Where did you find him?”
“None of your concern,” Benda said. “We must search the house. Come along. You can tell us if anything is out of place.”
Teuber reluctantly shuffled behind us as we climbed the stairs.
“Had the baron received any other messages lately?” I asked him as we passed through the two large, empty salons on the first floor.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” The manservant sniffled. “He received many messages in the post—letters from people he had met in his travels, bills of sale and notices related to his collections, those sorts of things.”
“No, I meant a message from someone here in the city, delivered by another boy, or by a lackey.”
“I don’t recall anything,” Teuber said. “The master had held off hiring more staff. It is just me and the woman who comes in to cook. If someone had come to the door with a message, I would have known.”
“What was the baron’s attitude toward the war?” Benda asked as we approached the library.
Teuber frowned. “The war, sir? I don’t know. He never mentioned it to me.”
“Was he acquainted with that war protester, Michael Richter?”
“I don’t recognize the name, sir.”
“The young man who stands on the crate shouting against the war. He’s all over the city. Surely you must have seen him.”
Teuber shook his head. “I don’t get out much, sir. I’m busy here seeing to my master’s needs.”
We entered the library. Except for a pile of papers on the desk and a rumpled blanket on the sofa, the room looked the same as when I had toured it a week ago. I went to the desk and riffled through the papers. There was a bill of sale for a painting, a catalog from an art dealer in Paris, a letter from a butterfly-collecting society in Prague, but no sheets with quotations from Dante. I looked around the library. The Dante excerpts could be anywhere, I thought.
We glanced at von Gerl’s room of natural artifacts, and then retraced our steps to the staircase. “What’s in there?” Benda asked Teuber, pointing toward von Gerl’s art galleries.
“The baron’s painting collection,” the manservant replied.
“Let’s search his chamber,” Benda said. I led the way up the stairs and down the hallway to von Gerl’s chamber.
Benda reached to open the door. “Why is this locked?” he asked Teuber.
Teuber’s hand went to his mouth. “The master wanted it kept locked,” he said.
“Open it,” Benda said.
“I cannot, sir. I don’t have the key.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “The baron always kept it on his person.”
“What’s that in your pocket?” I asked.
He pulled out a key. “This key, sir? Uh … it is the key to the pantry.”
“Give it to me
,” Benda said.
Teuber sighed and handed the key to Benda, who fitted it into the lock and turned the knob. The door opened.
The manservant raised his hands. “I don’t know how—”
“Quiet!” Benda ordered.
Von Gerl’s chamber looked as though a cataclysm had struck—the bedclothes disheveled, the baron’s many suit coats strewn over the bed, the chairs, and the floors. The plumed hat lay askew on an armchair.
“What has happened here?” Benda asked.
“This is how it usually looks, sir, before I am allowed in to straighten it,” Teuber said. Beads of sweat had formed above his lip. I crossed over to the small table by the bed, but found no papers on it. Swearing softly, I opened the drawer of a writing desk that sat under the large window. It was empty.
We walked through the half-empty closet into von Gerl’s butterfly room, then into his private art salon. Both rooms appeared in the same state as they had when I had last seen them. I searched through the drawers of the wooden cabinet, but found nothing amiss. Closing the door behind me, I followed Benda and Teuber downstairs.
“Is there anything else, sirs?” the manservant asked.
“What did you do last night?” I asked.
“As I told you before, sir, I was here. When the master went out, I told the cook to put the dinner at the edge of the hearth, in case he should want it when he returned. I sent her home. I was here the rest of the night.”
“What about the baron’s guest?” Benda asked.
“No one arrived, sir. I guess my master must have run into the person on his way out, and decided to eat supper elsewhere.”
“You didn’t leave the palace at all?” I asked.
Teuber shook his head. “No, sir. I was here all night, I swear.” He slumped onto the step and renewed moaning over his fate.
As Benda and I walked outside, I wondered why the manservant hadn’t mentioned picking my landlady’s daughter up last night at eight o’clock.
Twenty-one
I decided it best to speak with Sophie before telling Benda that Teuber had lied about his whereabouts. I did not want to involve her or her mother in this sordid mess if it wasn’t necessary.
“I’d better go break the news to Christiane,” Benda said as we walked toward the Freyung. “It will upset her. Not only did this fiend defile her home, but she was fond of von Gerl. He was a good neighbor to her.”
“Marta must be informed also,” I said. “She knew von Gerl in Venice. I should come with you and tell her.”
“Marta?” Benda asked. “Oh, Miss Cavalli. I don’t understand. Why should you come to Christiane’s house to see her?”
“I was under the impression she had spent the night at the palais as a guest of Mademoiselle Albrechts.”
Benda shook his head. “No. She was here yesterday, to dine with Christiane. But when I arrived home a bit before six, Christiane’s maid told me that Miss Cavalli had left. Christiane was ill and had gone to her room. She had asked not to be disturbed, so I changed my clothes and left a half hour later for a dinner at the chancery.”
I frowned.
We agreed to speak again the next day, and I walked back to my office, my mind filled with questions. Where had Marta been last night, while I was knocking on her door? Why had Teuber not told us that Sophie Lamm was the guest von Gerl had been planning to entertain before he was called away by the mysterious message?
I arrived at the theater and took the stairs down to my office. Workmen had removed the pile of props that had collapsed when Benda had fetched me this morning. I took off my cloak and hung it in the cupboard, fished the leather pouch out of the pocket, and placed it on my bookshelf. The message von Gerl had received—had the killer sent it? Three of the four victims had received messages the night they had been murdered. Yet no missives had been found on their bodies. The killer was clever, removing any evidence that could be traced to him.
But if my theory were correct, there would be some evidence—the pages containing the Dante excerpts. I shook my head, frustrated that I had been unable to find any such papers in von Gerl’s palace. They must have been there, tucked away somewhere in the baron’s vast collection. Troger and Benda would surely laugh if I asked them to assign the ten or more men it would take to search the palace from cellar to attic, in order to prove my theory. But by now I was certain the murderer had sent von Gerl quotations from Dante, referring to one of the five remaining deadly sins—avarice, sloth, lust, wrath, or pride.
* * *
I worked for about an hour, until dinnertime, but found I had no appetite, so I decided to return to my lodgings. I did not look forward to breaking the news of von Gerl’s death to Marta. I wanted very much to believe that she no longer loved him.
I walked through the Graben and the Stephansplatz, at each location averting my gaze from the scene of Hennen’s and Alois’s murder. I cut down the Schulerstrasse, a street lined with expensive apartment houses and the city’s finest hotel. A block down the street, I saw a familiar figure standing in front of the entry to number 846.
“Constanze!” I bowed and kissed her hand. “Where’s Wolfgang?”
“Hello, Lorenzo,” Constanze Mozart said. “He’s at home with the children. It is such a beautiful day, I decided I wanted a walk.”
Her normally cheery face was tinged with gloom. I glanced at the entry of the building, where she and Mozart had lived two years ago in a spacious, luxurious apartment on the first floor. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes followed mine.
“How is the little one?” I asked.
She sighed. “She is still ill. But it appears that spring has finally arrived. We hope she’ll recover soon.”
I reached for her arm. “Come, I’ll walk you home,” I said.
“Oh, no, thank you, Lorenzo. It’s out of your way,” she protested. “And I’d like to stay out for a while longer.” She studied my face. “You look tired. Are you getting enough rest?”
“I just have a lot of work,” I lied. “Please don’t be concerned about me. Just take care of your family.”
She reached up and kissed me on the cheek, then started down the street. After a moment, she turned back to me. “Lorenzo, please,” she said.
I raised a brow.
“When you see Wolfgang, please don’t tell him you saw me over here.”
I nodded, and we parted.
* * *
Marta was sitting in the garden, a small book in her hands, when I arrived at my lodgings. I took a deep breath and approached her.
“Marta,” I said.
She looked up at me with eyes red from weeping. I dropped my satchel on the ground and sat on the bench next to her.
“You’ve heard the news,” I said, offering her my handkerchief.
She shook her head. “What news, Lorenzo?”
“About von Gerl.”
“Please, Lorenzo. Valentin is the last person I care to discuss right now.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I’ve been sitting out here for hours, thinking about what a fool he’s made of me.”
I frowned. “But—”
Her fists clenched in her lap. “I said I did not wish to discuss him,” she said.
I reached over and unclasped her hands, taking one in mine. “Marta, you must prepare yourself for terrible news. Von Gerl is dead.”
She snatched her hand away. “What! Are you playing with me also, Lorenzo? What do you mean, he is dead?”
“You must believe me. He was murdered. His body was found early this morning.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Murdered? Valentin is dead?”
I nodded.
Her eyes squeezed shut as she shook her head back and forth. “No, no,” she moaned. “Not Valentin. No, it cannot be.” She grasped at my arm. “Please, Lorenzo, tell me it is not true.”
“I cannot.”
“What happened to him?” she whispered. Her eyes widened as I told her about the previous murders.
“My G
od!” she cried. “But why Valentin?”
“We don’t understand the killer’s motives yet,” I said gently.
She began to weep. I reached to take her in my arms, but she pushed me away.
“Valentin!” she cried. She clutched her arms to her chest and rocked back and forth, tears streaming from her eyes. “My poor husband! My love!”
“Marta—”
She looked up at me. “Please, Lorenzo, please. Leave me.”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” I said.
“Go away,” she shrieked. “Leave me alone! Oh my God! Valentin, no, no!”
Misery flooded my heart as I stood. I looked down at her sobbing figure for a few moments and then I went into the house.
Twenty-two
I rose early the next morning and went to my office. Since it was a Sunday, the theater was empty. I poured my sorrows over Marta into a poem for a while, and then tore the paper into pieces and threw it away. I turned to my work, and was deep into editing a new libretto when Casanova came in at noon.
“Is it true what everyone is saying? There’s been another murder?” he asked.
I sighed. Pergen, Troger, and Benda were foolish to believe they could hide these killings from the people of Vienna. A slip of the tongue from one of the constables, a speculation made by one of the victims’ neighbors, an identification passed on by a gravedigger at the cemetery in St. Marx, and rumors would spread faster than the pox that plagued the city in very hot summers.
“Yes,” I said. “The victim was Valentin von Gerl. You met him at the Redoutensaal ball.”
“Did you find any Dante?” Casanova asked.
I threw down my pen. “No. But he was an avid collector. His palace is filled with objects from his travels. It was impossible for Benda and me to perform a thorough search.”
“Benda is still fixed on the idea that the murders are related to the war?”
“Yes. I’ve tried to tell him my theory, but he dismisses my ideas. He is certain that protester, Michael Richter, is the killer. He and Troger were going to have him arrested yesterday.”
“He’s going to have to look elsewhere,” Casanova said, his eyes gleaming.
