Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  So Poldi was Madame Chapeau’s brother. Rosalie twisted her head all the way around to the front and regarded the narrow cobblestone alley. There was something deeply oppressive about the dingy buildings looming over them on either side, and she was glad when Gerhard turned the rack wagon around.

  “Your face is as white as a sheet, lass!” Gerhard’s words penetrated through the fog that surrounded her mind. “You have not done anything to—”

  “Of course not!” Rosalie swallowed. It would never do to tell Gerhard about the necklace. He would never believe Poldi had anything to do with it. But some explanation was necessary. She cast about in her mind for it when something Master Luigi had said returned to her consciousness.

  “He came to the palace, Poldi did,” she said, turning to face Gerhard. “To inform Master Luigi about a friend of his who was beaten and left to die in front of the Seizerkeller.” She forced herself to imagine the gruesome sight to lend some credence to the lie.

  “And seeing him reminded you of the awful incident, no doubt.” Concern and sympathy commingled on Gerhard’s features.

  Rosalie had never felt worse about deceiving a man. She nodded, neck feeling stiff and rigid.

  Gerhard brought the wagon to a halt and dropped the reins. “There is nothing amiss here and nothing to fear, lass,” he said, clasping Rosalie’s hands in his own strong, warm palms. “Poldi must simply have been visiting his sister.”

  He let go of her hands and took up the reins again. “Come! The warehouse is but a minute away. Sabina’s trinkets will divert your thoughts.” He smiled down at her. “Can’t have a young lass such as yourself imagining death on a summer morning now, can I?”

  * * *

  The carriage sped eastward across the city toward the Danube Canal. The charitable hospital run by the Brothers of Mercy where Dr. Goretti was frequently to be found was on the other side of it.

  “I trust he will still be there,” Luigi muttered through clenched teeth. His fingers curled around the edge of the window in a tight grasp. Even the springs on their fine Hungarian carriage could not sufficiently protect them against the wild jolts and swaying they were forced to endure as they hurtled forward.

  “He intends to return to Schönbrunn after,” Haydn said, repeating the information Albrecht had given them. He winced as a particularly brutal lurch hurled his shoulder against the side of the carriage. Every bone in his body seemed to be rattling. “We will follow him there, if we have to.”

  He ignored the pained expression on his younger brother’s face. The Empress’s summer palace was on the other side of town, nearly sixteen miles to the west of the charitable hospital on 16 Taborstrasse.

  As the carriage drove past Singerstrasse, he caught a glimpse of the towers of St. Nikolai. “I wonder if the operas—the great master’s operas, that is to say—are concealed within the walls of the convent.” If they had to chase Goretti back to the summer palace, perhaps there would be time for a brief stop at the cloister.

  “I doubt it. Sister Josepha said the convent had none but the printed copy of L’Orfeo in its possession,” Johann responded.

  “So she did.” Haydn had quite forgotten that she had. He stared at his brother and Luigi in turn. “Where then can Goretti have hoped to obtain the operas he purported to have? I doubt he has the ability to compose a single minuet, let alone write an opera in the style of Monteverdi.”

  He warmed to his subject. “If the convent had the scores, he could copy them in his own hand and pass them off as works in the great master’s own hand.”

  “If the convent had the scores, Joseph, he would not be so desperate to acquire the music left to Kaspar.” Luigi’s grip on the window tightened as the carriage rounded a sharp curve.

  “No, I suppose not.” Haydn stroked his chin as he slowly nodded. “But then there remains the question of how he knew Kaspar’s bequest was of any value. If the man cannot tell a concerto from a concerto grosso, I doubt he can distinguish between a madrigal and an opera.”

  “What are you suggesting, brother”—Johann leaned forward as he asked the question—“that someone gave him the information?”

  “Someone must have,” Haydn replied. “The only question is who? I have no doubt it was he who arranged for that band of ruffians to hold up Kaspar’s carriage the very evening he received his bequest.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The carriage drew up at last outside a building the color of a heavily overcast sky. Slabs of a darker gray granite skirted the edge of the facade in a narrow wainscot some six inches high. A brother of the order dressed in a black cassock tied loosely around the waist was hurrying toward one of the doors under a large sign marked Spital.

  He had almost reached it when Haydn flung himself out of the carriage, not waiting for it to roll to a stop. He heard Luigi’s heavy footfall and Johann’s lighter tread behind him as he ran to catch up with the friar.

  “Whoever you are, let go!” the religious said when Haydn stopped him, fingers closing over the other’s wrist in a firm clasp. “A man lies dying in one of the beds within. I must go.” He was about to wriggle free when Luigi laid a heavy hand on his arm. The friar looked up, indignant.

  “We require but a moment,” Johann hastened to assure him before he could utter a word in protest. “The Italian physician who volunteers his services at your order, is he within?”

  The friar wrinkled his nose, his hand still pressed against the black door. “We have no need of Italian medicine, gentlemen. And the only physicians here are brothers of the Order of Johannes von Gott.

  “But a foreigner does come often to our apothecary. You may find him there.” He gestured to the sign at the end of the building to the right. “The entrance is around the corner past the sign.”

  Brushing Haydn’s hand off his arm, he thrust open the door and dashed inside before either the Kapellmeister or his companions could ask any further questions.

  “We have but wasted our time coming here.” Luigi was still breathing heavily from his exertions. “Are you sure of your information?”

  Haydn hesitated. Albrecht had seemed quite certain of his facts. Could Goretti have lied to the young violinist about frequenting the hospital run by the Brothers of Mercy?

  “It does us no harm to go to the apothecary,” he suggested. “How many Italians can there be who frequent this place?”

  “Then let me, at least, go to Schönbrunn, Joseph. It is on the other side of town, and I have no doubt Goretti will rid himself of that snuff box when he realizes its significance. If he has it”—Luigi’s lips tightened—“I would like to see it for myself. He will not find me quite so easy to fob off.”

  * * *

  The granite slab wainscoting continued around the corner, but the light gray facade of the convent and hospital run by the Brothers of Mercy gave way to patches of dingy yellow that had yet to be replaced. Scaffolding clung to the sides of the building and clouds of paint dust hung in the air.

  Johann clapped a kerchief to his nose as soon as they rounded the corner, and after swallowing a mouthful of dust, Haydn decided to follow suit. The only entrance on this side of the building stood under a black pomegranate-shaped globe. A black plate on the wall beside the glass-fronted door indicated they were at the Apotheke.

  Inside, another brother in a black linen cassock stood behind a counter busily dispensing bottles of medicaments and packets of powder. Haydn and Johann waited, admiring the paintings on the low vaulted ceiling and the head of Christ above the wooden shelves behind the counter.

  “Prescription, please.” The friar approached them at last. “The prescription that the brother doctor gave you,” he repeated when Haydn stared uncomprehendingly at him.

  “Ach no!” Haydn said, understanding at last. “It is not medicaments we are here for, but information. We were told an Italian physician by the name of Goretti frequents the apothecary. Was he here today?”

  “A while ago. Is he really a physician?” The friar stare
d at them in avid curiosity.

  Haydn exchanged a glance with his brother. “So we were given to believe. He was recommended as being an expert in problems of the womb.” He supposed Amelie’s ailments could be categorized under that broad rubric.

  “He cannot be much of an expert, then,” the friar replied with a smile. “His own wife suffers from a number of ailments. He himself suspected child-bed fever due to her frequent miscarriages. But then he says the cold baths at Baden have provided great relief.”

  “What does she ail from then?” Haydn asked. Kaspar had spoken of Amelie’s frequent fevers. He knew nothing of medicine, but if it were child-bed fever, surely a warm bath would be better than a cold one. Oil of almond or a spoonful of poppy syrup, perhaps.

  “Most likely a wandering womb. We recommended a tincture of chamomile to soothe the irritability and a vigorous massage. The latter is best performed by a husband rather than a maid. The brothers instructed him as best they could.”

  “Why?” Johann wanted to know. “Surely, a maid could achieve the very same results.”

  “I rather doubt it,” Haydn said hastily. The intricacies of the female womb were not matters he wished to discuss with his younger brother.

  Small wonder, Amelie had looked so bright and rejuvenated after her husband’s death. What expense might Kaspar have saved himself had he but known. “Where did the good doctor go, do you know?”

  * * *

  Rosalie had to resist a strong urge to hide behind Gerhard as he rapped his knuckles on the ancient door at the millinery’s side entrance.

  After what seemed like an interminable period, the uneven rattling of a bolt being pried open came to their ears. The door creaked open, drawn back with some difficulty, and Sabina’s long, narrow features peered out at them.

  “You!” she cried, staring straight into Rosalie’s eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  An indignant flush suffused the thin cheeks of the milliner’s shop assistant. Her eyes roved past Rosalie as she spoke and stopped inches above her head. Her mouth stayed open, but the next words remained unsaid.

  “You know her?” Gerhard exclaimed. He twisted his head around to face Rosalie. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as he stared down at her. It seemed like an eternity before he turned away.

  Rosalie felt more than ever like cowering behind him when she caught sight of a hint of a smile on Sabina’s features. The shop assistant regarded Rosalie with a malicious glint in her dark eyes, then swept her lashes up at the tavern keeper. “She looks familiar, like—”

  “Oh, I do recall you!” Rosalie straightened her shoulders, determined not to let the woman best her. “You came to the Esterházy Palace, didn’t you? Was it yesterday?”

  She didn’t think Sabina could have any suspicion she had been followed the previous day. And as to the events at the palace, they showed the milliner’s assistant in a much worse light than they did her.

  The smile was gone from Sabina’s features, and her lips puckered into a thin line. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re on about. I have never been to the palace.”

  She looked down her long nose at Rosalie and sniffed. “I merely mistook you for one of the many maids who come here with jewelry pilfered from their mistress, thinking Madame Chapeau will aid in their misbegotten activities.”

  Rosalie twisted the corners of her apron, aware of Gerhard’s eyes on her again. Sabina’s spiteful remark had aroused his suspicions again, and she had barely allayed them.

  Not that she could blame him. What else was the poor man to think? She’d been lurking outside the milliner’s premises just yesterday. And been so apprehensive at the mere sight of Poldi this morning.

  “Well, it is not Madame Chapeau she has come to see, Sabina,” Gerhard said firmly. “The lass is here to look at your wares. You had not forgotten, had you?”

  “Of course not.” A veil of civility had by this time descended upon Sabina’s face. She glanced down her nose at Rosalie again. “So, this is the girl. Captured your fancy, has she?” she muttered, loud enough for Rosalie to hear, although there was no telling whether Gerhard had heard the remark or not.

  “Well, come on then.” Sabina spun around. “I don’t have all day.” She led the way down a narrow flight of steep stairs, still speaking, “Madame Chapeau expects the shop to be ready at precisely eleven o’ clock. That is when we open.

  “Here we are.” She stepped into a dimly-lighted cellar overflowing with goods and swept a satin-sheathed arm around the room as Rosalie and Gerhard followed her into it.

  Trunks with drawers fitted into their sides were thrown open revealing lacy gloves, stockings, and scarves. Hats, the most elaborate affairs Rosalie had ever seen, hung upon pegs.

  The lids on some of the hat boxes stacked beneath were left ajar. Bolts of colorful silks, satins, and printed linens lined a long row of shelves near a second shorter flight of steps leading up to the shop. Gerhard had already stepped over that way and was examining the fabric.

  But where was the jewelry? And where could Her Serene Highness’s necklace be?

  “Have you no earrings?” Rosalie asked. “Or pretty bracelets or even a necklace?” She took a deep breath. “Gerhard—Herr Heindl—says Madame Chapeau’s paste jewels are as beautiful as anything you could buy at one of those fashionable jeweler’s in the Kohlmarkt.”

  Sabina tugged at her earlobe. Her eyes flickered to where Gerhard stood by the hat boxes.

  “Earrings, you say?” She seemed to be having some trouble taking her eyes off the tavern keeper, who was now bending down to examine a quantity of rose satin.

  “We have some of those. But wouldn’t you rather look at some dresses instead?”

  The assistant indicated a number of outfits neatly hanging from a row of pegs attached to a cross-piece in the ceiling. “Something like mine”— she ran her hand down her outfit—“would cost you next to nothing.”

  Small wonder for who would wear a dress like that? Rosalie thought, eyeing the garment. It was, if anything, even more outrageous than the hat Sabina had worn the day before.

  The skirt fashioned of wide strips of pink and red satin; the bodice all red; and the sleeves pink and all puffed up near the shoulder, but wrapping the arm tightly below the elbow.

  She was still trying to frame a response when the tavern keeper intervened.

  “She has set her heart on a piece of jewelry,” Gerhard said, managing to knock the lid off one of the hat boxes as he straightened up. He was about to pick it up when Sabina scooped it up from the floor and jammed it back on the box.

  “Do be careful!” she snapped. “Those are Madame’s latest designs.”

  “A present for a friend,” Rosalie added, watching Sabina. “Greta is—”

  “Full-figured?” Sabina adjusted the mound of hat boxes. “I don’t suppose a dress will do, then.”

  “No, but a hat might.” Rosalie took a few paces toward the milliner’s assistant. She was beginning to have an idea where in this vast room, brimming with all sorts of merchandise, the necklace might be hidden.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “I think you had better content yourself with looking at the jewelry.” Sabina withdrew a pile of flat, round boxes from a shelf behind the hat boxes.

  She arranged them into a tall stack and shoved them into Rosalie’s unprepared arms. “I doubt Madame’s hats will suit your budget even at my rates.”

  “Madame’s hats cost more than her dresses?” Rosalie gasped, reeling back. The boxes were light enough, but Madame Chapeau’s assistant had rammed them against her chest with enough force to crack a rib, and she felt winded.

  She would’ve fallen had Gerhard not caught hold of her arm and steadied her. “Easy now, Sabina!” he said as the milliner’s assistant began to retrieve another pile of boxes from the shelf. “The lass can barely carry these

  “Here”—he cleared some lengths of fabric cut into strange shapes off a small worktable and drew it closer to Rosalie�
��“set those down.”

  Rosalie did so, watching the milliner’s assistant with some interest. Gerhard’s mild admonition seemed to have displeased her no end. She doubted it had anything to do with her own interest in Madame Chapeau’s hats.

  “I would think a mere kitchen maid would be robust enough for anything,” Sabina muttered as she thrust the jewelry boxes back and swirled around. Her eyes fell on the lengths of fabric Gerhard had cleared off the table.

  “My sleeves!” She glided across the room in a single swift motion, snatched the fabric pieces off the chair, and placed them on a second worktable lined with ribbons in various shades of pink and purple.

  “I did not think you would want them mixed up with your ribbons,” Gerhard said simply, apparently as much at a loss to explain Sabina’s behavior as Rosalie herself. Sabina’s narrow features appeared more pinched than ever and a splotch of angry red burned in each pale cheek.

  “Why does Madame Chapeau charge more for her hats?” Rosalie asked again.

  “Because she manufactures them for ladies of fashion,” Sabina snapped, turning toward her. “Pearls, emeralds, and other costly gems are sewn onto the ribbons.”

  “Oh!” Rosalie’s heart sank within her as she glanced up at the hats on display. So that was how Madame Chapeau disposed of the stolen items that found their way into her shop.

  She could only hope Madame had left Her Serene Highness’s necklace intact. It would be impossible to track down each pearl, emerald, and diamond that had gone into its making.

  Gerhard must have mistaken her sigh for disappointment, for he turned to Sabina with a determined air.

  “They cannot all have precious gems. Surely, there are some with paste jewels. It’ll be an extra crate of wine for you, if you let the lass have one of your cheaper hats.”

  * * *

  “Herr Tomasini went that way.” The footman Haydn had accosted with his enquiries threw open the garden doors and pointed a gloved hand out over the terrace.