Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  Haydn hummed the lines assigned to Orfeo under his breath. The repeated words and phrases beautifully conveyed the demigod’s anguish at the news of his beloved Euridice’s death. But they utterly undermined the poetic form.

  The great master was so well known for changing the texts of his librettists that one of them had been heard to comment that he scarcely recognized his own work when he saw it on the stage. The madrigals he had set shared the selfsame characteristic.

  “T’amo, mia vita. I love you, my life,” Johann murmured, giving Haydn a start. He must have been speaking aloud for his younger brother to have referred to one of the better-known madrigals.

  Johann sat up and rubbed his eyes. “He uses the opening line of the poem as a refrain that the soprano interjects through the madrigal.” He gestured toward the score in Haydn’s hands. “The work must be genuine, if you see repetitions where there should be none.”

  “Y-e-es.” Haydn nodded begrudgingly. He ran a finger lightly over the soft vellum cover. There was something not quite right about the manuscript. If only he could put his finger on it. But from the ornate script, the firm, sure hand that had formed each diamond-shaped notehead, to the instrumentation and the setting of the words, he saw nothing to fault.

  His gaze fell on the cast of characters. He jerked his head up.

  “Francesco Rasi!” At Johann’s stare of utter astonishment, he continued more slowly: “It was Rasi who sang the role of Orfeo.”

  Johann nodded. “A singer with an unusual vocal range. Five semitones below the normal range of a tenor on the lower side, giving him baritone capabilities. Naturally, the lead role took advantage of his unusual abilities. What of it?”

  Haydn jabbed at the cast of characters with growing excitement. “The same troupe of singers would have sung the madrigals. Other than hiring a castrati or two, the Gonzagas would have made use of their regular singers for all their musical plays.”

  Johann’s eyes, a mirror image of Haydn’s own dark pupils, stared back at him like gray pools of blank impassivity.

  “Do you not see? I could compare the vocal ranges in the Empress’s scores and Kaspar’s bequest against the ranges in the madrigals. What composer could resist taking advantage of the talents of the best of his singers, while compensating for the limitations of the worst.” His mind went briefly to Frau Dichtler, and he winced. “No forger, however skilled, would think to replicate the vocal ranges.”

  “Ah!” A glimmer of understanding brightened Johann’s eyes. He straightened up and leant forward. “A burdensome task, but worth undertaking. And I could certainly help you and ease your load in some regard.”

  “Yes, yes.” The Kapellmeister set the score down on the walnut table next to him with an air of satisfaction. “There is hope yet.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket for a pen to make a note of his plan, when his fingers rustled against a crumpled sheet of paper. He drew it forth, his eyes widening.

  “It is the message that sent Kaspar out to his death,” he said. “I had quite forgotten it in the press of the day’s events.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I have news concerning your bequest.

  The words from the torn note that had been retrieved from Kaspar’s body rang repeatedly in Haydn’s ears. What news, he wondered as his mind ran over the details.

  The message had been written on coarse brown paper. If there had ever been a signature on it, it had been torn off leaving only the remnants of a name. The letters “lt” were all he had been able to decipher.

  There could only be one person to send such a note. Only one person Kaspar would consent to meet so late at night. And Haydn and Johann were about to meet him as soon as their carriage fought its way through the early morning traffic on the Graben.

  Herr Anwalt.

  Haydn brought his silver timepiece out of his coat pocket and glanced impatiently at it. It was too early for the lawyer to be out on business, but nevertheless he wondered whether he should send Johann on to the Kohlmarkt. The widowed Amelie would need to be warned to keep her husband’s bequest away from his lawyer.

  But they were already driving past the Plague Column—a gilded representation of the Trinity sitting amidst angels atop a bank of clouds. And Herr Anwalt’s offices were located but a few buildings past the enormous column that towered over the Graben.

  Just past the column, the carriage stopped briefly again, the horses impatiently neighing and stamping their feet on the cobblestones as they waited for the road ahead to clear.

  “At this rate, it would be easier to walk the few yards that remain,” Haydn muttered. He leant out of the window to survey the busy street. He was about to climb down from the carriage when his eye caught sight of a familiar figure ambling down the other side of the street. He followed its progress with an annoyed frown.

  Fritz Dichtler, assigned the role of Mengone in The Apothecary, the opera that would open the season at Eszterháza, should have been at the castle rehearsing his part. Instead, here he was sauntering down the Graben, gawking at the sights like a tourist. Haydn’s eyes narrowed as the tenor smiled flirtatiously at a pretty woman who passed him by and stopped to talk with another, his hand sliding down her bustle in a manner that was altogether too familiar.

  He turned to his brother. “I want a word with that young man. I shall be back directly.”

  Johann seemed startled, but Haydn was too irked to bother with explanations. He turned around, struggling to push open the carriage door. He had just succeeded when Fritz Dichtler happened to turn around. The tenor’s jaw dropped open, and his hand dropped from its resting place on his companion’s bustle.

  Haydn climbed down from the carriage and began bearing down toward the young man. “What in God’s name are you doing here, Fritz?” he demanded furiously.

  “Noth—nothing,” the tenor bleated, a stricken expression on his face. “What are you doing here, Herr Kapellmeister? Taking in the sights, are you?”

  Haydn’s brows drew together. “Have you permission to miss a rehearsal session?”

  “Yes—No, no.” Fritz Dichtler looked around as though searching for inspiration. “Best be getting along, then.” His lips stretched into a weak smile. “Wouldn’t do to be late now, would it, Herr Kapellmeister? How would that look?”

  He had been edging away from Haydn as he spoke. And now, before Haydn could respond, he pivoted on his heels and fled, disappearing into the crowd.

  The Kapellmeister returned to his carriage, which had driven past the Plague Column and pulled to the side of the street.

  “Maria Anna was right,” he fumed as he climbed back in. “Fritz Dichtler’s behavior is as deplorable as his wife’s. And he is just as irresponsible. It will be a miracle if that opera is anything but an unmitigated disaster.”

  * * *

  The Music Room in the Esterházy Palace on Wallnerstrasse was not nearly as large or as grand as the one in Eisenstadt. There was no fortepiano. The harpsichord, painted a bright orange with a floral pattern in black, was small and light enough not to require two sturdy footmen to move it out of the way.

  But the room was large enough to make plenty of work for two, Rosalie thought as she pushed open the window overlooking the street. Greta stood behind her, vigorously polishing the Kapellmeister’s desk. She removed an untouched copy of the previous day’s court newspaper from the desk and added it to the growing stack in the closet.

  “Look at all these newspapers! Unread, untouched.” She fingered the stack longingly. “There is enough here for a month’s supply of curlers. If I took one—just one of these—”

  “Herr Haydn would know.” Rosalie smiled as she began to scrub the window panes. Greta’s tightly curled hair needed the frequent aid of curlers. Without them, the thick blond strands became wavy and hung limply down to her shoulders.

  “He didn’t miss the one that Herr Rahier filched,” Greta pointed out. Her plump cheeks puffed out the way they usually did when she was annoyed. S
he tried to conceal it by tightly pursing her lips. “He assumed it hadn’t been delivered.”

  “That was because I thought it hadn’t.” Rosalie paused in her task and looked over her shoulder. “The footman was still sorting through the mail when I took my place behind Frau Schwann. And Herr Rahier didn’t come out of his office in all that time. I don’t see how could he have laid his hands on it.”

  “He must have—” Greta clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh! I was going to say he must have swiped it from the Music Room, but—”

  “It never made its way to the Music Room. I never saw it, and I delivered Herr Haydn’s mail to him that day. I waited to see if you were around to do it because…” The corners of Rosalie’s mouth tightened as they invariably did these days at the thought of Mama and her constant recriminations.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Greta came over to her and gently squeezed her hand. An awkward moment of silence followed, then Greta cleared her throat. “Well, this is quite a mystery! How do you think Herr Rahier did it, then?”

  It was not a particularly important question, but Rosalie was grateful for the distraction. She thought back to the day. It had been the last mail delivery before they set out for the city.

  “Either the footman made a mistake,” Greta went on. “Or someone must have gone up to the table before he finished sorting the mail.”

  “Yes, but no one did.” Rosalie was beginning to shake her head when the vivid image of someone sweeping down the hallway invaded her mind. “Frau Dichtler!”

  “What about her?” Rosalie’s startled cry had taken Greta aback.

  “She insisted upon looking through all the mail herself before it had been sorted. And when she came away…”

  “It could’ve been her,” Greta said. “She is friendly enough with Herr Rahier. I wonder what his wife thinks of that!”

  Rosalie barely paid attention. She concentrated on the image in her mind, her violet eyes almost squinting from the effort. Had there been anything tucked under the singer’s arm?

  “But what could either of them want with an old copy of the Wienerisches Diarium?” Greta babbled on.

  Rosalie shook her head. She had no explanation for it herself, but it worried her nevertheless. “That woman is always to be found wherever there’s trouble of any kind,” she muttered.

  * * *

  A solidly built, ruddy-complexioned man opened the door to Haydn and Johann. He was slightly above middle age and dressed in a plain black suit.

  “Herr Anwalt’s chambers?” Haydn enquired, not sure who the man was. The suit was of a cut far beyond the means of a mere assistant. But a lawyer would not answer his own door. Much less allow a client to do it.

  The other gazed earnestly at them before lowering his eyes to the card Haydn had handed him.

  “Herr Haydn!” He opened the door wider and gestured toward the interior. “I have long been expecting you, my dear sir.”

  “Herr Anwalt, I presume,” Haydn said, following him into an antechamber furnished with chairs surrounding a low table.

  The lawyer nodded in response as he led the way into a larger chamber dominated by an enormous desk cluttered with papers. “My assistant is out on an errand, leaving me to answer the door. Please—” He gestured toward the chairs covered in burgundy leather.

  He waited for his visitors to be comfortably seated. “Kaspar … You have heard the news?” His eyes moved tentatively from Haydn to Johann, coming to rest eventually upon the Kapellmeister’s features.

  Haydn nodded. “You saw him on the day of the unfortunate incident, I believe.”

  “Saw him?” The lawyer looked surprised. “I have not seen Kaspar since the day Wilhelm Dietrich’s will was read.”

  “Not even once since that day?” Johann sounded skeptical.

  Herr Anwalt shook his head, a perplexed expression beginning to form on his features.

  “You did not send for him on the night he was killed?” Haydn’s tone was stern. The lawyer’s befuddlement seemed genuine enough, but the message Kaspar had been carrying could only have come from Herr Anwalt.

  The lawyer shook his head again. “What is this about, gentlemen?”

  “A message was found on Kaspar’s person,” Johann explained as Haydn reached into his pocket only to bite back an oath. He had been wearing a different jacket on the day before. And, in his haste to leave the Keller house that morning, he had entirely omitted to retrieve the crumpled bit of paper from its pockets.

  God forbid, Maria Anna should forget to turn his pockets out before putting the jacket in the wash! It was an important bit of evidence. Now, thanks to his carelessness, it was all but lost.

  Haydn swallowed his consternation. “The writer claimed to have some news regarding Kaspar’s bequest. And, apparently, asked to meet him at the Seizerkeller.”

  Was it his imagination or had the lawyer turned pale? He pressed home his point.

  “Who else but you could have any information regarding his inheritance, Herr Anwalt?”

  The lawyer pushed some papers around on his desk, then, clearing his throat, looked up. “I assure you I sent him no message. If I had any news to convey, I would have had him meet me here in my chambers. During my hours of business.”

  He pursed his lips for a space.

  “I do not frequent wine taverns,” he finished at last with a defiant tilt of his head.

  Haydn exchanged a glance with Johann. He wished he had the note with him. He was at a singular disadvantage without it. He turned back to the lawyer.

  “Who else could have sent it?”

  “The signature was torn off,” Johann enunciated slowly, beginning to realize Haydn was not carrying the evidence with him. “But the last two letters of it were clearly visible: ‘l’ and ‘t.’ How many people does Kaspar know other than yourself whose names end with those letters?”

  “That I cannot tell.” The lawyer rose from his seat, his fists clenched at his side. “But I can tell you this much: I have known Kaspar for as long as I have known his uncle, Wilhelm Dietrich. I would not harm a hair on his head.”

  He walked around his desk, coming to stand before Haydn. “I have been approached by several interested buyers, Herr Haydn. The sooner you can examine the scores, the better. You will be doing his poor widow a favor.”

  “Yes, of course.” Haydn tore his eyes away from a document on the lawyer’s desk that had attracted his attention. “Is—”

  “It is not here.” Herr Anwalt’s tone was curt. “Kaspar chose not to entrust it in my care. He may have lived, if he had.”

  It was not what Haydn had meant to ask, but the lawyer’s words caught his attention nevertheless. His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but a furious knocking at the door interrupted him. The lawyer’s assistant must have returned to his post, for the sound of the door opening came to their ears.

  “Oh, come quick! We have been set upon by thieves again.” Rudi, Kaspar’s old servant, burst in through the door and gazed at each of them in turn. “Mistress is at her wit’s end. Come quick, good sirs!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Haydn stepped gingerly across the worn parlor carpet in Kaspar’s apartment. He kept his eyes riveted on its faded colors, chary of stepping on any broken bits of glass that might still be embedded in its nap.

  “You have cleaned the place well, Rudi.” He turned toward the servant. “There is not a single fragment of glass on the carpet.” He inspected the carpet again but failed to detect the least glint on its surface. It was just as well, he thought. The identity of the perpetrator could hardly be read in a heap of broken shards.

  “There appear to be none on the windowsill either.” Johann rubbed a finger carefully along the length of the inner sill and turned it over to inspect the tip. A smattering of dust stained the fleshy pad. He glanced up to smile reassuringly at Kaspar’s old servant.

  But Rudi lowered his head, embarrassed. “Mistress was in so agitated a state this morning, no thought
of sweeping floors or dusting mantles entered my mind.”

  “Then…?” Haydn peered down at the floor, his forehead corrugating into a slow pucker. A strange revelation was beginning to unfold in his mind, gradually releasing its significance.

  “The parlor is as we found it this morning.” Rudi tilted his chin to indicate a teardrop-shaped vase with swirls of emerald near the base. “Had the thief broken the right pane instead of the left, that would have shattered as well.”

  “How considerate of him to have weighed the consequences of his actions,” the Kapellmeister replied, quite certain now of what had happened. He used his hands to brace himself against the sill and leant as far as he could over it. Ah yes, just as he had suspected.

  A few large shards of glass lay scattered on the narrow ledge below the sill, with several more on the one beneath it.

  Pulling himself back in, he turned around to face the parlor. Amelie was deep in conversation with Herr Anwalt. Haydn stared closely at her. Her cheeks appeared fuller than they had yesterday, the complexion less sallow.

  His gaze wandered around the room. Were the papers littering the surface of the bureau a result of her inspection? Or had the thief rifled through its contents again?

  The low murmuration of Johann’s voice mingling with Rudi’s penetrated his consciousness, drawing his attention back.

  “Has such a thing happened before?” Johann was asking Rudi.

  Rudi hesitated. “I heard noises on the day Master was killed. A scuffling as of a key being jiggled in the lock. I thought it was Master returning home. But if his keys were stolen …” He swallowed, clearly stricken by the implication.

  “They must have been quite desperate to have made a second attempt,” Johann ventured. His gaze shifted toward Haydn; the words he left unspoken, easily divined. It said something about the importance of Kaspar’s bequest, surely?

  “Someone was desperate,” Haydn agreed softly. His eyes returned to where Kaspar’s widow sat with the lawyer. She twisted and untwisted her slender hands ceaselessly as she peered up at Herr Anwalt, but whether from agitation or eager anticipation, Haydn could not tell.