Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  It caught La Dichtler’s attention, however. Her gaze shifted toward him, eyes narrowed enough to cause a small frown to appear between her delicately drawn eyebrows. She said nothing, and Luigi continued, barely pausing to take a breath.

  “His Serene Highness was keen to know whether we had any plans to perform the opera itself—”

  “How could we, when it is lost? Along with most of his other works.” But La Dichtler’s eyes had widened with ill-concealed interest.

  Luigi’s lips broadened involuntarily into a smile. “They appear to have been found.” He patted the chest. “The music is old. Ill-suited to modern ears, perhaps. Haydn has asked me to peruse the scores—”

  “All of them?” La Dichtler interrupted, appearing to have trouble withdrawing her eyes from the chest. “They are all there?” She tipped her chin toward Luigi’s desk, sounding breathless.

  “I believe so.” Luigi lifted the rusted hasp and brought out a sheaf of the papers, holding them out toward the soprano. She peered at them, sitting perilously close to the edge of her own chair, mouth parted.

  Luigi replaced the scores in the chest. “Haydn will be by tomorrow to discuss the changes necessary. The tempo will undoubtedly have to be quickened. As for the ornaments—”

  “You don’t mean to make the changes on the score, do you?” Luigi could have sworn the woman seemed stricken with horror.

  “Where else would we make them?” he asked, his tone as guileless as he could make it.

  Naturally, neither he nor Haydn would dream of writing on scores purported to be in the great master’s hand. Any more than they would consider painting over the Auerbach that hung in His Serene Highness’s receiving chamber.

  No need for La Dichtler to know that, however.

  “I may even begin some of the work now unless…” He made a reluctant gesture toward the harpsichord.

  She rose at once. “I think we had better rehearse that piece again, Herr Tomasini. Especially if you would like me to sing it this evening.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “They are valuable at least. That is some comfort.” Haydn returned the madrigals to the apparently worm-eaten chest that had concealed evidence of the old merchant’s sordid liaisons and his illegitimate offspring.

  After Luigi’s departure that morning, he and Johann had spent the day poring closely over the scores from Kaspar’s bequest.

  It was plain to see the great master had been attempting a set of madrigals that were derived directly from the operas written for the Mantuan court.

  “I saw no reason to raise Her Majesty’s hopes yesterday regarding the discovery of the operas,” Johann replied, handing over the scenari they had used to put the madrigals in some kind of order.

  “But it is likely those”—he motioned toward the scores with his head—“will restore her spirits greatly.”

  “And soothe the Mantuans too, I hope,” Haydn said, recalling the details Baron van Swieten had shared with them. “Although they will undoubtedly carp at the fact that the collection excludes his last three operas.”

  “The three Venetian operas? They must have been so well known to audiences in the city, he saw little reason to replicate the material.”

  Haydn nodded. That might well have been the case. Unlike the Mantuan operas intended for a private ducal audience, Poppea, Ulisse and Nozze d’Enea had been written for the public opera houses.

  “Or he was too infirm to attempt anything of the sort,” he suggested. They had been written, after all, barely three years before the great master’s passing.

  Whatever the case, he doubted the madrigal versions of the three Venetian operas were missing. Far more likely they had never existed. Wilhelm Dietrich’s possession of the scenari for those operas as well could only mean one thing.

  They had been intended to aid in the authentication of the operas. Not the madrigals. His pulse quickened as he closed the lid, snapping the hasp into place.

  “Although I doubt any sense of infirmity would prevent him beginning the work.” Therese’s dulcet tones interrupted his thoughts. She stood smiling by the door, a case in her hand.

  “He seems to always complain of ill-health in his letters,” she explained with a smile when the brothers glanced up at her.

  “Will Reverend Mother Catherine allow your return?” Johann inclined his chin at the valise of plain brown leather in the nun’s hands as he rose from his seat.

  Her brow crinkled, then cleared as memory returned. “Ah, the cold sister feigned on my behalf yesterday!” Therese’s smile widened. “My return to health can hardly be surprising. Sister’s healing potions have been known to do their work in a day.”

  “And the Reverend Mother will be in need of your voice and not ask too many questions, I imagine.” The small jest allowed Haydn to forget the strange awkwardness that afflicted him.

  He stifled a strong desire to shuffle his feet. A decade earlier their parting had been rife with recriminations. He had felt betrayed, then. But now… He scarcely knew what to feel.

  The silvery tinkle of her laughter dissolved all traces of tension. “No, she will not.” She came into the room and, more sober now, grasped both him and Johann warmly by the hand.

  “I cannot thank you sufficiently for what you have done. There have been rumblings of the Emperor’s discontent with the convents and monasteries. We serve no purpose, His Majesty says. The slightest hint of any impropriety…”

  “There is little to fear as long as Her Majesty is alive, Therese,” Haydn assured her, his ability to do so placing him on a firmer footing. “I will let her know that were it not for one of the nuns of St. Nikolai, the deception Fabrizzio perpetrated on Goretti and herself would have eluded discovery.”

  Her sapphire eyes held his. “That is kind of you.” She stretched her hand out to him, fingers lightly brushing the gold embroidery on his jacket.

  “I hope you find your operas, Joseph. If they are to be found, that is,” she added with a gentle smile.

  * * *

  Maria Anna poked her head around the door before he could respond. “The carriage is here, husband!” His look of surprise propelled her hands onto her hips. “Surely, you were not thinking of letting her go alone.”

  “No, of course not,” Haydn said hastily before further recriminations could follow. He allowed himself to be bustled out of the parlor like a stray hen.

  He had no objection to escorting his sister-in-law back to St. Nikolai. Although, since she had come from the convent without his help, he could not fathom why she should need it to return.

  Her last words to him, and the skeptical tone in which they had been uttered, chafed Haydn no end. There was no doubt the operas existed. How could they not after all the mayhem the bequest had caused?

  Besides, all the rigmarole with the English play and the caskets must mean something, he muttered to himself.

  “We will find out soon enough where they are, brother.” Johann’s quiet voice penetrated his consciousness. “Fritz would not be after them if they did not exist.”

  “No, he would not.” Haydn squinted against the bright sunlight that blazed uncomfortably into his eyes as he stepped out onto the courtyard. But he was beginning to doubt the operas were in the casket the young tenor had stolen from him.

  Why else had Wilhelm Dietrich taken such pains to make the chest he had acquired on his travels appear worm-eaten? It could not merely have been to prevent his wife peering within and detecting his secret. Yet the false bottom had contained nothing but a packet of letters and the old merchant’s journal.

  “And the reference to them in his mother’s letters to the old merchant”—Johann’s voice interrupted the Kapellmeister’s reverie again—“could not have been clearer.”

  Haydn nodded. “Unless”—the thought brought a smile to his lips—“she is anything like our Frau Dichtler and managed to mistake a parcel of madrigals for a set of operas.”

  He watched as Maria Anna opened the gate an
d peered out. There were no signs of a carriage outside, and her muttered grumblings told him it had yet to arrive. His wife, as usual, had exaggerated, hustling them out of the comfort of the parlor before the need arose. He was too preoccupied, however, to be irked by it.

  Another thought occurred to him, and he glanced over his shoulder at his brother. “The bank Herr Anwalt mentioned. It is on Singerstrasse, is it not?”

  “What business have you at the bank, husband?” Maria Anna’s voice cut in sharply just as Johann nodded. They had been speaking in such low tones, Haydn had not thought it likely that his wife, still standing by the gate, could overhear their conversation.

  “It is where Wilhelm Dietrich’s mistress goes to collect her payments,” he explained. “The bank manager—”

  Maria Anna uttered a snort. “I doubt the bank manager will reveal her whereabouts to you so easily, husband. I have heard he hoards information as though it were gold. Besides, Wilhelm Dietrich will have enjoined him to be discreet.”

  “Signora Padrona might have more information, Joseph,” Therese chimed in, stepping quickly back as Maria Anna closed the gate with a loud clang. “And be more willing to help. She has dwelt in the vicinity twenty years or more. It is more than likely the woman you seek lodged with the Signora when she first arrived.”

  “Padrona.” Maria Anna sniffed again as she turned around. “An assumed name, if ever I heard one. It means ‘mistress,’ I believe.”

  At Haydn’s stare of surprise, she went on: “It is the only bit of Italian I recall from the lessons we had from some singer or other Papa hired for us. He was convinced we needed Italian to succeed at the task.”

  But the Kapellmeister had already ceased to listen.

  * * *

  The iron gate that led into the ancient stone walls of St. Nikolai clanged firmly behind Therese. The nun who had responded to their knock allowing them only the briefest farewell before nudging Therese in and drawing the gate shut.

  Haydn blinked as it swung past his nose but took no offence at this abrasive dismissal. It would be most unseemly for a nun to be seen lounging by the gate in conversation with two strangers. Besides after Maria Anna’s strange suggestion, he was curious to renew his acquaintance with Signora Padrona.

  They had no sooner turned their steps toward the lady’s cream-colored dwelling with its twin gable roofs when Johann, discerning the Kapellmeister’s thoughts with his usual perspicacity, asked: “Do you suppose sister-in-law was right?”

  Haydn considered the question, merely raising his head slightly as an indication of having heard it. Thanks to Porpora, his Italian was sufficiently up to the task of setting an entire opera to music. But he had never needed it for more than that, and the nuances of daily speech still eluded him.

  “I cannot tell. Whoever she is, she has bested old Wilhelm Dietrich and could certainly be called mistress of the situation,” he began slowly after they had walked a few paces down the narrow street. “And a woman who runs an inn or provides lodgings as does the Signora could also be called padrona.

  But a man’s lover, a kept woman, is more commonly referred to as a mantenuta.”

  “It is not a name any woman would wish to assume,” Johann said, his rejection of the idea quick and emphatic.

  “No,” Haydn agreed. No woman he knew would care to degrade herself so in the eyes of the world.

  “I fear it was merely Maria Anna’s prejudice speaking,” he said after a while. “Besides, it would be too much of a coincidence that the first Italian woman we have encountered in the city should turn out to be Wilhelm Dietrich’s mistress.”

  But he had no sooner voiced the thought than he saw a familiar satin-clad form sweeping into a waiting carriage.

  “Elsa Dichtler!” Johann’s voice seemed explosively loud to his ears. “What business could she have here on Singerstrasse?”

  “It is what I would dearly like to find out,” the Kapellmeister replied, his voice grim. His eyes took in their surroundings. They were but a few steps away, he realized, from their destination. Signora Padrona’s house—low, set back from the street—was not easily visible even from a distance of a few paces.

  “I imagine she came to visit her mother-in-law.” He gazed after the soprano’s departing carriage, Maria Anna’s supposition beginning to take deeper hold of his mind now.

  * * *

  “What is it now?” Anger lent a harsh edge to Signora Padrona’s voice. She wrenched open the oak door, then took a step back in surprise at the sight of the Kapellmeister and his brother.

  Her hooded eyes opened a little wider and her features, roughened with irritation, smoothed themselves out. “I beg your pardon. I thought you were—”

  “Frau Dichtler,” Haydn interjected without hesitation. “You appear not to like her.”

  If the Signora was surprised by the Kapellmeister’s ready conjecture, she showed no signs of it.

  “How could I?” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “There is little enough to like about that one.”

  “Your son might disagree,” Johann pointed out, although Fritz exhibited no more signs of marital fidelity than did his wife.

  “He sees through her well enough now,” Signora Padrona said sharply as soon as he had finished, then glanced up in open curiosity. “You know him?”

  At Johann’s nod, she went on: “I would ask how you made his acquaintance. But you are musicians as well, so it is no surprise.”

  She opened the door a little wider, turning her nearly lidless dark eyes up to Haydn at the same time. “What brings you here again?”

  “The need for some information.” Haydn followed her into the courtyard. “About a fellow compatriot of yours,” he elaborated as her brow lifted up, revealing some more of the lustrous pupils that usually hid behind them.

  “Who is it?” she asked, leading them past a row of densely flowering shrubs that separated her cottage from the lodgings she let out at the back.

  “A woman who arrived in the city some twenty years ago.” Johann paused briefly to admire the pink blooms of Alpine rose that covered the shrubs.

  “I have been here as long as that.” She threw them a quick glance over her shoulder as she stepped across the threshold of her cottage. “But people come and go. I cannot claim to know every Italian who comes into the city.”

  “No, of course not,” Haydn began, then stopped short, his eyes arrested by the chest that stood in full view directly across the room. “What is that?” he asked, having trouble uttering the words.

  It was plain to see what it was, but he had not expected to see it displayed quite so brazenly in the Signora’s parlor.

  “Was it Fabrizzio who brought that here?” He heard Johann ask the question, and almost wished that was the case. If not, it would mean…

  The Signora looked past them to see what had attracted their attention. “That chest? It belongs to my son. It has nothing to do with Fabrizzio.” She planted herself before them. “Now what was it you wanted to know? This Italian woman you mentioned?”

  “I believe we have found her.” Haydn’s head swiveled slowly toward the Signora’s long, narrow face. “You were involved, were you not, with the merchant Wilhelm Dietrich?”

  The Signora regarded him, her eyes cold as stone. “I have no husband to defend my honor, Herr Haydn. But surely the misfortune of widowhood does not merit such a scurrilous attack on my person? In my own home at that!”

  Haydn was momentarily stunned. He had failed to notice her widow’s weeds. Could he be mistaken, then? But his gaze fell on the chest again, stolen from him only two days ago. By the Signora’s own admission, her son was guilty of the deed.

  “A small portrait, strongly resembling you, was found among the merchant’s belongings.”

  It was a lie, but the nearly imperceptible flicker of the Signora’s eyelashes suggested he had hit his mark, and he pressed his point. “Your letters to him remain intact. A comparison of those against your hand would reveal the truth
quite easily. Do you still deny you were his mistress?”

  The Signora’s features tightened. “And what if I was? What has that to do with you or my lodger’s untimely death?”

  “Everything if it was your son who killed him.”

  The Signora flinched hard as though he had slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. “My son has killed no one. He has no reason—”

  “No reason?” Haydn cut through the Signora’s increasingly shrill voice. “Rejected by his father, his birthright given to another. I would say he had every reason to kill anyone who stood in his way.”

  “And his cousin Kaspar stood in his way, did he not?” Johann softly added.

  The widow did not deign to give him a glance. Her arms hung straight down by her side; her fingers twisted the folds of her gown, bundling the plain black fabric into a wrinkled ball.

  “You have no proof of it,” she said at last.

  Her lips stretched into a thin, icy smile.

  “And without it”—she gave a tiny shrug—“well, you have seen how little the police guards care whether one lives or dies in this city.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “She all but confessed her son’s guilt to us!” Johann stared at the Signora’s door, implacably closed now to their inquiries.

  “She all but threatened us,” Haydn reminded his brother. He had thought it best to leave after the Signora’s last remark, having no desire to match cudgels with the likes of a ruffian such as Poldi.

  It was not cowardice that had sent him away, although the Signora’s sly smile as she watched them depart left no doubt as to her own opinion on the matter.

  Johann was too frail to hold his own in a brawl. And without a weapon, Haydn, although more sturdily built, would soon succumb to any attack. Their death would serve no purpose at all. Besides, the police guards and the marauding band they controlled were a matter for the Emperor to deal with.