Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  “It is a mere precaution, that is all.” Johann gave the widow a reassuring smile. “And you will need a new set of keys now that Kaspar’s are lost. I take it you have no spare?” When the widow shook her head, he continued: “Then, a fresh set of locks must be made as well.”

  Haydn returned to the room. “The purse was found discarded on the street near”—he took a deep breath—“near the wine cellar where Kaspar…where he was found, Amelie.

  “In all likelihood, the thieves rid themselves of his keys somewhere along their way. It would be too much to expect the guards to conduct a search for something quite so trivial and…” He lifted his hands in a gesture of mild apology.

  “I quite understand.” Amelie gave them a faint smile. “But the keys—the ones to the bureau, at any rate—were of some value. They were made of gold; each one embedded with a tiny diamond and hanging from a slender gold ring.”

  She smiled again. “I suppose that is why Kaspar kept them so close. That and his snuff box and the gold band he wore on his finger were the only things of value we possessed.”

  Haydn allowed his eyes to drift toward Johann. “Then, I suppose that is why they were stolen.” It was not a supposition he was inclined to believe himself, but there was no reason to alarm Amelie. And the new locks Albrecht was having made would keep the thieves at bay.

  He turned his gaze upon the bureau, his eyes searching its scratched surface. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. Had the thieves merely contented themselves with trying the locks? Quite possibly they had not had sufficient time to do very much more than that.

  “Still, it would be as well to look through his papers to ensure all is in order,” he suggested. The task of sifting through the contents of her husband’s bureau would, at least, keep Amelie occupied.

  * * *

  Not more than an hour had elapsed since her conversation with Her Serene Highness’s maid when Rosalie was startled to hear a commotion in the inner courtyard. This was soon followed by a sharp knocking on the enormous paneled doors at the entryway.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she went out into the hallway, arriving just in time to see a footman opening one of the double doors.

  A uniformed palace guard stood outside. He frowned at the sight of the footman. “There is a police guard here,” he announced. “Insists Her Serene Highness sent for him to report a theft.”

  “And so she did!” A tall man in the blue-trimmed white uniform of a police guard thrust himself forward. “Would you stand in the way of justice?” The guard had by this time wedged himself through the doorway, forcing the footman to step aside.

  Rosalie’s eyes narrowed. The brusque voice had seemed familiar enough. But there was no mistaking the bristly brown hair. It was Poldi, the police guard who had introduced himself to Frau Dichtler on Singerstrasse that morning. Had Her Serene Highness really sent for him? But why? Surely, she didn’t suspect her own maid.

  “What does a police guard want with us?” Rosalie heard Greta’s voice behind her, pitched too low for anyone else to hear. She winced slightly as her friend’s plump hand sank heavily down on her shoulder.

  “Something to do with the necklace stolen this morning and Frau Schwann, I’ll warrant.” She regarded the men arguing in the doorway. “It doesn’t bode well for her, I fear.”

  She was about to push Greta back into the kitchen when Poldi’s sharp blue eyes, scanning the hallway, espied her. “Hey du, you there! You were there this morning, weren’t you, lass?” A peremptory forefinger beckoned her forward.

  Rosalie had to fight down her trepidation as she reluctantly obeyed the summons. “I was.”

  She forced herself to keep her gaze on Poldi as she spoke, then turned toward the bewildered footman and the frowning palace guard. “A street urchin filched a necklace from Frau Schwann this morning, it is true. But this officer was fortunately able to retrieve it.”

  She was determined not to admit to anything more. Poor Frau Schwann was in enough trouble as it stood. “I know of nothing else that has been stolen since then.”

  “Oh, but it has!” Frau Dichtler’s strident voice loudly contradicted Rosalie. She swept past the maid. “For heaven’s sake, let the man in!” She pulled Poldi by the arm into the hallway, motioning the footman and the palace guard out of the way with an urgent flick of her wrist.

  “It was a paste necklace in the case you retrieved, my dear Officer,” she continued, leading Poldi down the hallway once both servants had departed.

  Rosalie followed the pair down the wide passage. Clara Schwann—an expression of utter dismay on her face—stood beside Greta now; drawn out, most likely, by the sound of raised voices.

  “The guttersnipe who snatched it must have substituted a fake for the original, or…” The soprano allowed her voice to trail off as her palm moved eloquently through the air in the direction of the lady’s maid.

  “At any rate, I thought it best to call you back to question all who were present at the scene before”—Frau Dichtler’s dark eyes went unerringly toward Clara, lingering upon her stout person—“the trail grows any colder.”

  Rosalie’s forehead puckered in annoyance. “That woman seems to be trying very hard to make Frau Schwann lose her position,” she whispered to Greta as the soprano led the police guard and Her Serene Highness’s maid into the servant’s hall.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What trouble can Therese be in?” Haydn shifted restlessly in his carriage seat, his fingers drumming an anxious beat on the windowsill. “And what can Maria Anna expect me to do about it?”

  He glanced down at the note clenched in his fist, his frustration mounting at the deliberate vagueness of the message. When could she expect him to grace her parents’ home with his presence? Maria Anna had enquired. Her younger sister was in dire need of his help.

  It had apparently not occurred to her to elaborate any further on the circumstances.

  “We shall know soon enough, I suppose,” Johann replied. “Although, what predicament a nun leading a sheltered life could have gotten herself into, I hardly know. Could my sister-in-law have been exaggerating the circumstances?”

  “Who can tell?” Haydn moved uneasily in his seat again. “The woman delights in being cryptic.”

  But for the mention of Therese, he might have been tempted to ignore his wife’s summons. Kaspar’s death and his widow’s well-being were problems of sufficiently great moment to risk Maria Anna’s displeasure. But if Therese were in distress…

  He thrust his head out the window. “We should have gone past the Michaelerplatz instead of taking this circuitous route.”

  The Keller house, in the suburb of Landstrasse just beyond the city gates at Stubentor, was not above a few miles distant. Their journey should have taken no more than twenty minutes. Yet, here they were, still on Dorotheergasse, marking a slow progress past the carriages and people thronging the narrow streets of Vienna.

  He turned toward Johann. “She can scarcely be in need of money or of means to support herself, can she?”

  Johann considered the question, then slowly shook his head. “It is unlikely.” He gazed pensively out into the streets. They appeared to have made their way beyond the city center. “Most likely the convent needs some help with a quandary of its own—something that requires your connections or your expertise in music, no doubt.

  “The Archduke Joseph has been chafing at the bit—ever since he was made co-regent, according to Papa Keller—to close down every cloister and monastery in the city that serves no useful purpose.”

  Haydn pursed his lips. “And in his mind, I suppose, none of them do!” He hoped it was nothing more than that. A scandal—or even the suspicion of one—could result in a nun being dismissed in disgrace. But surely Therese would not—He shook his head. Best not to even consider the possibility.

  But the prospect of meeting Therese again after all these years still unnerved him, and it was with tremendous reluctance that he forced himself to climb down from
the carriage outside the doors of 51 Raabengasse where Maria Anna’s father, the imperial wigmaker, Peter Keller, made his home.

  “Ah, there you are, husband!” To Haydn’s relief it was Maria Anna who responded to his uncertain rap on the door. “I was beginning to think you had quite forgotten the purpose of our visit—to see Therese and my family, of course,” she continued in response to his blank stare.

  Johann’s eyes met Haydn’s, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “Then your sister is not in any grave trouble, I take it.” He followed her across the spacious courtyard, a mild note of enquiry in his voice.

  Maria Anna spun around. “I have promised her your assistance, husband.” Her chin jutted out defiantly. “You will not let me down!” She turned on her heels.

  Haydn was about to enquire further into the matter when she called over her shoulder: “What took you so long, anyway?”

  “It was Kaspar—”

  “What about him?” Maria Anna sounded impatient. “What ails him that you must neglect your own family to help him?”

  “He is dead, Maria Anna.”

  “Dead!” Maria Anna swung around to face him, then turned toward her brother-in-law.

  “He was found this morning in the Tuchlauben,” Johann explained. He glanced at his brother before continuing. “Attacked by robbers, the police guards think.”

  Maria Anna seemed shaken by the news. “And what of Amelie?” she asked, turning toward Haydn with a frown. “The bequest”—she glanced down at Haydn’s empty hands—“have you examined it?”

  “No—” A mortified blush darkened Haydn’s nut-brown cheeks. Amelie had still been sifting through Kaspar’s papers when he and Johann had abruptly left her husband’s house. “There was not enough time—” He broke off, unwilling to give voice to his thoughts.

  But Maria Anna seemed to have divined his unspoken words. “Well, I should have known the least mention of Therese would bring you scurrying here.” She pushed open the door, head held high as she stepped over the threshold.

  * * *

  “Peregrin di lido in lido.”

  It was not a song he was familiar with, but the words sung in Therese’s rich, dulcet voice brought a smile to Haydn’s face. Left alone for no more than the few minutes it had taken Maria Anna to greet them at the door, Therese must have gravitated, as she was wont to, to the small clavichord that stood by the parlor window.

  “Che del ver cherch’il…” Still singing, she was about to seat herself at the instrument when Maria Anna pushed open the door.

  Haydn could have wished the song to continue, but Maria Anna’s brusque, “He is here, Therese,” brought her sister’s singing to an abrupt end.

  Therese—Sister Josepha, as she was now called—turned, lips stretching into a beatific smile. She was at the door in an instant, arms outstretched in greeting. “Joseph, how well you look! Why, it has been—” The skin visible under her wimple corrugated in an effort to compute the intervening years.

  “A decade, at the very least,” Haydn replied, feeling the strain from the past few hours melting away under the warmth that shone from his sister-in-law’s sapphire-blue eyes.

  Therese’s smile widened, threatening to dissolve the hard knot of resentment he had carried with him from the day he had learned she was abandoning him for the Lord.

  She turned to greet Johann. “You were a boy still in Rohrau when Joseph lodged with us, but Maria Anna speaks so frequently of you in her letters, I feel I am meeting an old friend.”

  “They came as soon as they could.” Maria Anna led the way into the parlor.

  Sun streamed in from the window, casting bright patches of light on the dark wood of the clavichord and the damask roses on the cream upholstery and rug. “His friend was—” Maria Anna turned a sickly shade of gray.

  “Poor man,” she muttered. “What is the world coming to?”

  Therese turned toward Haydn, eyes filled with such compassion and concern, he felt anew his guilt at failing Kaspar. He explained the situation as delicately as he could. “Amelie is as well as circumstances will allow, for the moment. But you have troubles of your own, I hear. Maria Anna—”

  A carmine flush suffused Therese’s features. “You did not rush here on my account, I hope?” At Haydn’s nod, she turned a reproachful glance toward Maria Anna. “Oh, sister, you should not have—” She turned back to Haydn. “Besides, I know not how you can be of any help, Joseph.

  “And with your friend gone, surely his poor widow’s straitened circumstances must take precedence over—”

  “Well, now that he is here, you may as well entrust the matter to him.” An undercurrent of impatience, mingled with irritability, harmonized Maria Anna’s words. She bustled toward the serving girl who had just entered, nearly snatched the tray of coffee out of her arms, and set it down on the parlor table.

  “Whatever you may say about the man”—she glared at Haydn over the coffee pot—“he is resourceful enough. I am sure some means can be found.”

  Therese sighed. “I hardly know where to begin.” She carefully extended a steaming cup in Haydn’s direction. “Although the task Reverend Mother Catherine has set me is so onerous, any assistance would be welcome.”

  “It is this task that brings you out of your convent, then?” Johann asked, reaching out to receive his cup from the nun.

  Therese nodded. “Ordinarily the Kellermeisterin would have been sent out. It was she who noticed that our vellum and our handmade paper had been used. And she who made the subsequent discovery that vast quantities were missing from our supplies.” Therese wrung her hands.

  “But the convent library, in particular the music it contains, are under my charge …” She wrung her hands again. “The Reverend Mother wishes me to make enquiries at every bookseller within the city and within a mile outside its gates.”

  “To what end? To track down quantities of vellum and paper?” Haydn burst out. “But that is a fool’s errand, Therese!”

  “She is not tasked with tracking down the convent’s writing supplies, husband!” Maria Anna rolled her eyes “Her Abbess wishes her to look for manuscripts that might have made their way out of the convent to the booksellers.”

  “Stolen?” Haydn was aghast. From a community of devout women lacking any contact with the outside world? Surely, that was impossible! How could anyone have spirited anything out?

  Therese bit her lip. “It is a possibility that must be considered”—she hesitated—“although nothing is missing that we know of.”

  Haydn glanced swiftly at Johann. Had Therese, cloistered all these years at St. Nikolai, picked up her sister’s habit of speaking in riddles?

  “What then?” he asked, returning his gaze to her.

  “Some months ago, we employed a scribe—a male scribe, the female usually assigned to us being unavailable for the purpose. It was quite urgent, you see.” Therese gazed at them earnestly, hands clasped together. “Her Majesty has asked for some of our papers—old papers entrusted to the convent upon our founder the Empress Eleonora’s death.

  “Reverend Mother Catherine thought it would be wise to make copies for Her Majesty rather than let the original documents out of the convent.”

  “To what purpose?” Johann’s voice reflected Haydn’s own bewilderment. The Abbess could hardly be so jealous of the convent’s possessions that even Her Majesty’s handling of them might be cause for concern.

  The corners of Therese’s mouth twitched. “It was not Her Majesty’s request for the papers that caused the Reverend Mother any concern. The manuscripts are so ancient, we feared they might be damaged beyond repair if carelessly handled.”

  Her mouth twitched again at Haydn’s look of utter surprise. “Old vellum turns brittle, you see. The ink may fade or flake off entirely. It is for this reason that we keep a quantity of vellum and handmade paper—that our oldest documents may be preserved in a state as close to the original as possible. The scribe even attempts to copy the precise deta
ils of the hand that penned the original.

  “And it was clear, the papers were of great significance to Her Majesty. It would have been no great trouble to hire a scribe from one of the other convents, but when a man presented himself to us, bearing a letter from the Hofburg, naturally we hired him directly.”

  “He was sent by Her Majesty, then?” Haydn enquired.

  “So the Reverend Mother thought. But, now it would seem… That is to say…” Therese’s voice warbled with uncertainty. “Her Majesty may have misjudged the man, of course.”

  It took a moment for Haydn to comprehend her concern. Then his eyes widened as the reason for it began to dawn upon him. “If the man was sent by the Empress, you will need concrete evidence of theft before leveling any accusations against him.”

  Therese nodded vigorously. “There is always the possibility that he deceived us, but …”

  “But were the Reverend Mother to admit the possibility, it would expose her to a charge of carelessness.” Johann’s voice was soft.

  “Precisely.” Therese nodded again. “The matter must be handled with the utmost discretion.”

  Haydn stared vacantly at the cherry tree outside the window, pondering the issue. The missing vellum and paper were an odd detail. Yet if the convent’s possessions appeared to be in order … He was about to put the question to Therese when the door opened and a servant announced the serving of the afternoon meal.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Clara Schwann and her escorts were nowhere to be seen when Rosalie and Greta followed them into the short passage leading to the kitchen area of the palace. But the gruff tones of the police guard’s voice soon drew them to the small parlor the head steward shared with the housekeeper.

  The soprano had left the door slightly ajar, and through the narrow crack, the maids could see Clara sitting opposite her interrogators, her head held low. Rosalie pressed her ear to the crack.