by Laura Lebow
“What do you mean?”
“Take your cloak and come with me,” he said.
“What? I have a pile of librettos to edit.”
He came over and pulled my arm. “You must come with me. I have someone I want you to meet.”
* * *
I grumbled about my work as Casanova led me up the Herrengasse to a grand palace near the end of the street.
“Whose palace is this?” I asked.
“Wait a moment. You will see,” my friend said. I followed him into the courtyard and was surprised when he opened the door and ushered me into the foyer. A lackey came to us, bowed to Casanova, and took our cloaks. My friend bounded up the stairs. I followed more slowly, baffled by the ease with which he had gained entry to the palace.
When we reached the second floor, Casanova led me down a long hallway to a wide set of double doors. He knocked twice on the door and opened it, beckoning me to follow. We were in a large, opulent bedchamber. A large bed draped in gold velvet, the bedclothes in a tangle, stood against one wall of the room. Across from it, a velvet chaise and two armchairs were grouped around a fireplace with a mantel elaborately festooned with garlands of marble laurel leaves. Paintings of well-dressed ladies frolicking in pastoral settings hung on every wall.
In the center of the room, a middle-aged woman in a white silk dressing gown sat at her toilette, applying spots of rouge to her sagging cheeks. When she saw us in her mirror, she turned and stood.
Casanova bowed over her hand and kissed it. He gestured to me. “Elisabeth, may I present the theater poet, Lorenzo Da Ponte. Lorenzo, this is my esteemed friend, the Countess Stoll.”
“It is a pleasure, Excellency,” I said, bowing. I squirmed as she assessed me from my head to my feet, as if I were a stallion she was considering as a mate for a mare on her country estate.
“Please call me Elisabeth,” she said, motioning us to the armchairs. “All of my friends do.” As she reclined on the chaise, her dressing gown dropped open, revealing a plump breast and brown nipple. I fixed my eyes on the painting hanging on the wall behind her.
“I owe you an apology, signore,” she said. “I am sorry my boy alarmed you when he delivered Giacomo’s messages.”
Ah, this must be the absent diplomat’s wife, Casanova’s hostess.
“I understand you are investigating these terrible murders,” she said.
I glared at Casanova, who merely shrugged.
“No, you must not blame Giacomo. The entire city knows about them. Giacomo and I were discussing them last night. He told me he knew someone involved in the investigation. You are working with Richard Benda, correct?”
I nodded.
She shook her head. The dressing gown opened further. “I don’t know what Anton Pergen was thinking, choosing Benda to find this killer. I suppose it is because of his connection with Christiane Albrechts. The count is so upright, so dull, so unimaginative. I don’t believe he possesses the qualities necessary to solve these murders.”
I said nothing.
“It has come to my attention that Michael Richter has been arrested on suspicion of murdering General Albrechts, and perhaps the other victims, also.”
I decided I might as well tell her. “Yes. He was heard arguing with the general and seen rushing from the Am Hof the night the general was killed.”
To my surprise, she laughed and shook her head. “I cannot explain why Michael allowed the general to goad him into argument. I do not understand his passion against the war.”
I raised my brow. “You are acquainted with Michael Richter, madame?”
“Of course. I can explain why he was rushing from the Am Hof that night. He was coming here to see me.”
“He was coming here, madame? I don’t understand.”
“You silly man.” She laughed again. “Must I spell it out for you? He is my lover.” She glanced over at Casanova. “One of my lovers. He comes to me late at night. He is devoted to that old mother of his, so he cannot leave until she goes to bed.”
I leaned forward eagerly. “Do you remember what time he arrived that night?”
“Of course I do. It was a little after one. He was late. He usually arrives between eleven and twelve, but he had sent me a message earlier in the day, telling me that he had a meeting that night and that he would be late.”
“How did he seem when he arrived?”
“How did he seem? He seemed as he usually seemed—anxious to see me and eager to take me to bed.” She smiled. “His passions expand to other activities besides opposition to the war, I’m happy to say.”
I shook my head involuntarily. I could not imagine that unkempt, shabby young man being entertained by this woman in this elegant room. I racked my brain for further questions to ask.
“Was he out of breath when he arrived?”
“Yes, he was. He told me he had run all the way here.” She arched an overplucked brow. “He realizes that if he keeps me waiting too long, I will have no more of him. Even with the war on, there are still many handsome young men in Vienna. A woman like me can take her pick.”
A wave of sympathy for her husband flowed over me.
She gazed at me, a small smile on her painted lips. “Do you have any other questions? Is there anything else you want to know? You must have the police release Michael immediately.”
“Was there anything else, anything out of the ordinary about him that night?” I asked.
“He wasn’t soaked with blood, if that is what you want to hear. He was out of breath from running, and happy to see me. I gave him a brandy and let him rest for a few minutes. He told me he had encountered the general in the Am Hof. The old man had recognized him and shouted at him, calling him a traitor for opposing the war.”
I chewed on my lip. She looked at me expectantly.
“Did Richter ever read anything by Dante, do you know?”
“Dante? The poet? I have no idea. I’m not interested in him for his mind. We don’t discuss books when he is here. We don’t discuss much at all.”
* * *
“Richter is exonerated,” I said to Casanova as we headed to a catering shop near the Minorite Church for dinner. “How could he possibly have killed the general and arrived at Countess Stoll’s palace a few minutes later without any blood on him? These murders have been brutal. The killer must be soaked in blood afterward.”
We arrived at the shop, were shown to a table, and placed our orders.
When the waiter had left, I put my head in my hands. “I’ve never felt so useless,” I told my friend. “Two more men have died since I agreed to help Benda investigate this case. We’ve made no progress. We can’t even agree on a possible motive for these murders.”
“Well, Elisabeth’s story weakens Benda’s theory,” Casanova said. “It is difficult to believe that there is another person in Vienna who speaks against the war as vociferously as Richter.”
“I think there are many people who oppose the war,” I agreed. “But Richter is the most visible. He was an easy choice for Benda.”
“Let us put theories aside and consider what we know,” Casanova said. “There have been four victims. Three of the four had strange markings—” He held up his hand to stop me from interrupting. “These markings may or may not be the peccatum from Dante’s Purgatory. The fourth victim’s lower torso was burned.”
The waiter arrived with our dinners. Casanova hung his head over his plate and took a deep breath. “It smells delicious,” he said. We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.
“You’ve been told that three of the four victims—the general, Hennen, and von Gerl—received a mysterious note the evening of the murders.”
“Yes. Alois may have received a note, also. But we couldn’t find it in his office, and it appears the murderer is taking the note away with him after he slays his victim,” I said.
“Finally, you’ve found lines from Dante’s Purgatory in the possession of two of the victims, Hennen and Alois. We don’t
know if the general or von Gerl received similar messages.”
“I couldn’t find anything in von Gerl’s palace,” I said. “Although it’s possible they might be there. He may have tucked them away somewhere in those vast collections of his. And Benda has been hostile to my theory, so I have no idea whether the general ever received any excerpts.”
“Let us suppose that your theory is correct—that someone, for reasons known only to himself, is working through the list of the seven deadly sins. He chooses a victim, sends the unfortunate subject of his attention the passages from Dante.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But why does he do this?” Casanova asked. “The quotations Alois and Hennen received are full of arcane references. Did the killer expect his victim to understand them? Not everyone has read Purgatory. You had to explain one of the gluttony passages to me, and I consider myself a very well-read individual.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Most likely the passages mean something to the murderer. He’s carrying out some sort of mission, some task his deranged mind has invented. He understands the passages, so perhaps it doesn’t matter if the victim understands them.”
“If we assume that the killer is the one sending the victims notes on the evenings of the murders, another questions arises. Why are the victims answering his summons? What could the notes possibly say that would lure these men to meetings in deserted city squares in the small hours of the morning?”
“I wish I knew,” I answered. We returned to our food and finished eating in silence. The waiter removed the plates.
“There is one thing we are overlooking,” Casanova said. “Something—or I should say someone—at least three of the four victims have in common.”
“Who?”
“The woman, Christiane Albrechts.”
I thought a moment. “Of course!” I said excitedly. “The general was her father. She had been engaged to Hennen several years ago but broke it off when he was injured in the carriage accident. And Alois told me that he had been her confessor when she was young.”
“Perhaps the killer is obliquely aiming at her in some way,” Casanova said.
“Murdering all the men around her?” I asked. A thought niggled at the back of my brain. “You know, now that I think of it, it seemed that she and von Gerl had a relationship of some sort.” I described the behavior I had observed the first day I had met the two of them—Christiane’s nervousness in von Gerl’s company, the pleading look she had directed toward him, his raised brow.
Casanova sat quietly for a moment. “Have you considered that Benda might be the killer?” he asked.
“Benda! You must be joking!”
“Listen to me, Lorenzo,” Casanova said. “If Christiane Albrechts is the common factor in all the killings—”
“What are you saying?” I said. “You expect me to believe that Benda is killing every man who has been close to her? What is his motive—some perverted jealousy? Besides, I truly believe he was surprised to learn that Hennen had been engaged to Christiane.” I shook my head. “No. I’ll admit I don’t like the man, but I don’t think he’s capable of these killings.”
The waiter approached and Casanova ordered a milk ice for dessert. “You are probably right,” he said after the waiter left. “And we have no proof that Christiane and von Gerl had any sort of relationship. The baron was an attractive man,” Casanova said. “Many women must have reacted the same way in his presence. What you observed likely means nothing.”
The waiter returned with the ice.
“Did you disapprove of Elisabeth?” Casanova asked me as he took large bites of the frozen concoction.
“No,” I said. “Who am I to judge her? But I’ll admit that she shocked me a bit. I’m of the old school, I suppose. I believe a woman should allow a man to be the pursuer.”
Casanova raised a brow.
“All right.” I laughed. “A woman should allow a man to believe that he is the pursuer.”
“I’ve known Elisabeth for thirty years, since she was sixteen,” Casanova said. “Like most marriages, hers was a business arrangement between families, not a love match. Her husband is away at his diplomatic posts. She won’t agree to live in a rural outpost, so she remains in Vienna. They see each other once or twice a year.” He scraped the remaining ice from the bowl with his spoon. “A woman like Elisabeth needs attention. She’s very lonely.”
I nodded, and signaled the waiter for the check.
“Things are changing, Lorenzo,” Casanova said. “Women are different now. They are much more independent, much more concerned with their own needs. Just look at your Miss Cavalli, selling everything she owned to travel here to Vienna. In my day, it was the rare woman who would do that.” His eyes twinkled. “But there were a few whom I met on my travels. Long days spent in a dark coach, our bodies thrown together whenever the wheels hit a rut…”
I did not want the discussion to lead to Marta, so I changed the subject.
“What about you? Will you go back to Dux?” I asked.
He sighed. “Yes. As I told you the other day, it is not a perfect situation for me. But I think that at this age, it is good for me to be settled somewhere. And of course the count pays for all of my expenses.” A faraway look came to his eye. “I long to go home one last time before I die, though.”
“To Venice?”
“Yes. Perhaps I still might, when I finish my work in the count’s library.”
I sighed. “You are lucky. You can return whenever you wish.”
“How many more years on your sentence?” he asked.
“Seven,” I said.
“You should do what I did,” Casanova said. “Offer to spy for the Council of Three. You have access to some of the top people in government here. Your banishment could be reduced if you were able to relay Austrian state secrets to Venice. Once you’ve proved you are a changed man, they’d welcome you back. There’s money to be had working for the Inquisition there. That’s what I was doing when we first met.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Don’t give me that look,” he said. “A man must do what he must do. If you want to return home, that’s the way to get there. For God’s sake, you’re working for Pergen on these murders! He’s becoming as oppressive as the Council of the Three. What’s the difference?”
I just shook my head. The waiter brought the check and I placed enough coins to cover it on the table. I glanced over at my old friend. His shoulders sagged as he stared down at his hands. I hated to see him so unhappy. So I said the words that I knew would cheer him.
“I have a little more time,” I said. “Tell me again about your escape from the doge’s palace. I never tire of hearing the tale.”
Twenty-three
I stayed for another half hour, listening to Casanova’s account of his escapade: how he had been arrested for alleged crimes against religion and sentenced without trial by the Council of Three to five years in a low, small room in the Leads—the dreaded prison cells directly under the roof of the doge’s palace, broiling hot in summer, freezing cold in winter; how after nine months he was allowed out to exercise in a vaulted area under the roof, where he found an iron spike which he eventually managed to smuggle to a fellow prisoner, who dug a hole in his own ceiling and one night escaped his cell and came for Casanova; how the two men waited until the moonlight would cast no shadows, and then climbed out onto the lead roof of the palace, where they found a skylight and slipped down a rope made of bedsheets into the locked offices of the Inquisition, where they convinced a night watchman that they were noblemen who had been mistakenly locked in overnight; how they strode out of the front door of the palace, hailed a gondola, and crossed the lagoon to Mestre, where they parted, Casanova riding a donkey toward the border near Brenta and then making his way to Paris, where he dined out on the story for years.
After I left my friend, I went to the Palais Albrechts, eager to inform Benda that Countess Stoll had vouched for Richter. A maid
opened the door, took my cloak and satchel, and asked me to wait. She returned a moment later, telling me that Benda was not at home, but that her mistress had asked me to come upstairs. I followed her up to the salon.
Christiane sat in the large armchair, a piece of embroidery lying idly in her lap. Her skin was ashen, her eyes rimmed with red.
“Richard is not in, signore,” she told me. “He received a message from Bohemia this morning. He hurried off to attend to matters at the chancery. Is your errand anything I can help with?”
The maid returned with a tray of coffee. Christiane told her she would pour and dismissed her.
“I’ve learned some important information about the murders,” I said.
“Oh, please, I would be obliged if you would tell me,” she said. Her hands trembled as she poured the coffee. I hurried over to take mine before it splashed all over the tray. I sat on the sofa near her chair and reported my encounter with Countess Stoll.
“Elisabeth Stoll. I am not acquainted with her. She is much older than me. She has a reputation as a very liberal person.” She stared at a place somewhere to the left of me. The lone sound in the room was the ticking of the clock.
Finally she spoke again. “I feel as if I am in a nightmare. My beloved father, torn from me. Father Bayer. Now my neighbor has been taken. And you may not be aware, but I knew Walther Hennen when we were younger.”
I nodded.
“I despair of my father’s murderer ever being caught.” She sighed. “Richard will be disappointed. That protester was the best suspect.”
“Do not worry, mademoiselle. We will catch this monster. The last murder was different from the others. The killer is becoming more frenzied. He is beginning to make mistakes.”
She closed her eyes.
“I wonder, mademoiselle, if you could tell me—” I paused, reluctant to increase her unhappiness.
“Yes, signore?”
“Do you know if your father received any strange messages in the days before his death?”
She frowned. “Messages? Are you speaking of letters? Strange in what way?”
