Death of a soprano, p.13
Death of a Soprano, page 13
“Of course, we cannot say with any certainty that the two circumstances are related. We, therefore, implore the reader not to give in to any speculations based on the sparse facts available so far.”
Greta snorted. “We urge the reader not to speculate, they say. Not speculate, indeed. How could anyone avoid it after reading this?”
The question caused an icy chill to run down Rosalie’s spine.
Did someone want them to believe the Archduke was responsible for Signora Pacelli’s murder?
“But why?” Greta asked, puzzled when Rosalie voiced the notion aloud.
“Out of spite, I suppose,” Rosalie said. “To make sure the marriage doesn’t take place.”
Although when she said it out loud, the thought seemed outlandish. Why should any of the servants or the performers care whom the Archduke married? Or even whether he did so or not?
Yet Rosalie was quite sure she was right. And now she remembered why.
“Didn’t Hannah say Signor Pacelli thought the herbs had come from Frau Haydn?” she asked.
Greta’s blue eyes narrowed, attempting to recall what the seamstress had said.
“So she did,” she said at last. “What of it? Everyone knows it’s Frau Haydn who dispenses medicaments in small muslin pouches.”
Rosalie turned to face her friend. “Then why doesn’t the article mention Frau Haydn’s name? Why go straight to the Archduke?”
For some moments, Haydn and Johann stood on either side of the Archduke, silently watching Gabor calm the stallion down. The long, rhythmic strokes of the head groom’s arm along the horse’s glossy black flank seemed to ease the irritation out of the Archduke’s being as well.
“My brother tells me, Your Imperial Highness, that you find your constitution much improved,” Haydn eased into the conversation.
“I do, indeed,” the Archduke replied, looking on as Gabor urged his stallion into a walk.
“You have discarded the herbs, I hear,” Haydn continued.
The words were like a whiplash, causing the Archduke’s head to snap around to face the Kapellmeister.
“So I did. What of it?” His blue orbs stared coldly into Haydn’s brown eyes.
“The herbs seem to have made their way into Signora Pacelli’s hands,” Johann quietly responded. “Brother was wondering how? And why?”
A furrow appeared on the Archduke’s brow and he began to turn toward Johann. But before he could say a word, Haydn took up the thread.
“The barber-surgeon discovered your bundle of herbs. It turns out they include the very substance that proved so fatal to Signora Pacelli and caused her demise.”
“I d-d—?” The Archduke’s head pivoted from Haydn to Johann and back again. He swallowed once, twice, then emitted a harsh laugh. “If that is true, Herr Haydn, surely your wife is to blame. I didn’t make up that vile concoction. It was your wife’s doing.”
Haydn’s eyes blazed. The Archduke’s utter lack of remorse was galling. To kill a woman and then to lay the blame at another’s door was so coldly callous, the audacity of it took Haydn’s breath away.
“My wife would never have administered pennyroyal to a woman in Signora Pacelli’s condition.”
“Her condition?” The Archduke repeated. A nonplussed frown appeared on his brow that exasperated Haydn no end.
“She was with child,” he said. “But I am sure you were aware of that.”
He withdrew Lucia’s note from his pocket and handed it to the Archduke. The nobleman’s white features, rigid and expressionless, told Haydn all he needed to know.
“This was discovered in your study. It is the note you discarded yesterday, is it not?”
The Archduke raised his horrified eyes from the crushed piece of paper toward Haydn.
“I thought Lucia had written it, but—” He paused, his eyes searching the stable yard.
Was he feigning bewilderment, Haydn wondered. His eyes sought Johann’s.
“But what, Your Imperial Highness?” Johann gently probed.
The Archduke turned slowly toward Johann. “But when I confronted her with the fact—and offered her money in exchange for her silence—she was most offended.”
“As any woman in her condition surely would be,” Haydn said.
“No.” The Archduke scratched his head. “It seemed to me she was offended that I should suspect her of stooping so low.”
Haydn didn’t know what to make of this. “But you don’t deny the child was yours,” he pressed.
The Archduke looked up, dazed. “I had no notion she was with child. She never mentioned it.”
Haydn stifled a sigh. The Archduke’s brains seemed to be addled. His responses made no sense. The Kapellmeister resisted the urge to drag his hands through his wig. God grant him patience. At this rate, they would never get to the bottom of the affair.
But Johann, fortunately, was undeterred in the face of the Archduke’s obduracy.
“If you had no notion of her condition,” Johann said, “why was Your Imperial Highness so convinced it was Signora Pacelli who was attempting to extort money from you?”
“Well, who else would it be?” The Archduke stared blankly at them both.
Chapter Twenty
For the first time, Haydn found himself longing for the days when he was a starving choirboy in Vienna. His belly had been perpetually empty, but at least he’d possessed the freedom to clobber anyone who tried his patience.
Mindful of his position, he quelled the urge.
“And the reasons for her demands?” Johann persevered.
“Well . . .” For the first time, the Archduke looked bashful. A faint pink tinged his pale cheeks as he lowered his head. “She was taking up on behalf of . . .” his voice trailed off again.
But Haydn had finally understood what the Archduke was referring to.
“It was the incident in Vienna, I suppose.” How had Lucia known about that, he wondered.
“I offered at the time to . . . to do the right thing,” the Archduke stammered, his eyes on the cobblestones. He glanced up at Haydn. “It was not my decision to send her to a convent. Or to take away her child. I did not even know such a thing had happened.”
Haydn frowned. Then how had Lucia known?
“She wished you to reverse the poor girl’s fate?” he asked.
The Archduke nodded. “Mother will not hear a word I have to say on the matter. There’s no talking to the Emperor, either.” He sighed heavily. “It must be the first time they are in agreement on anything.” He spread his hands wide. “There’s nothing I can do. It was in vain that I tried to explain it to her.”
“And Signora Pacelli’s child?” Haydn persisted. “You deny it is yours?”
“I am old enough to know how a child is fathered, Herr Haydn,” the Archduke replied stiffly. “I assure you I had no opportunity to beget one with your soprano. She had no interest in me.”
Whose child was it then? Jakob’s? Haydn recalled his conversation with the tenor.
“And the herbs?” Johann asked.
“I have already told you about the herbs. I asked my valet to get rid of them. I couldn’t stand the taste of them and had no intentions of taking a second dose.”
Haydn searched the young man’s face. Was he telling the truth? The herbs had clearly not been disposed of.
How had they found their way to Lucia’s changing room? Had she consumed them by mistake? Or had someone murdered her?
The Prince and his guests had just sat down to their midday meal when Luigi returned to the palace. Escorting Maria Beatrice D’Este to the Sala Terrena where the meal was being served, the Konzertmeister headed back to the entrance hall.
He was about to make his way to the Officers’ Mess for his own meal when a folded sheet of paper placed on a low console table caught his eye. Curious to see what it was, Luigi made his way toward the hand-carved mahogany piece.
It was a broadsheet—one of the many anonymous publications put out in Hungary. The news—as was to be expected—was about Lucia’s demise.
Luigi tilted his head to read the headline: “Poison Takes Prima Donna’s Life!”
Well, that was more accurate and more honest than the miserable report Trattner had put out. In his effort to paint Joseph as either immoral or incompetent, or both, the nitwit Trattner had only succeeded in showing himself to be an inept purveyor of news.
Pursing his lips at the memory, Luigi unfolded the broadsheet and casually perused the article. He had not expected to find more than the broad facts of the case.
But what he read made his heart sink.
It was bad enough that the writer was aware of Lucia’s illicit relationship and its fatal consequence—the child she carried in her womb. But the insinuation—however subtle—that the Archduke had fathered the child and had, therefore, silenced its mother was far more troubling.
That they themselves suspected it, was one thing. Whether it was the truth was quite another.
Luigi gripped the paper, nearly crushing it. Was the entire village privy to the sordid tale? He knew too that no matter what they suspected, there was a chance—albeit a very small one—that the Archduke was innocent of the charges. That had happened in more than one case. It was best to be cautious.
That the Archduke’s pouch of herbs had been discovered in the dead soprano’s changing room could hardly be denied. But His Imperial Highness had claimed to have discarded the herbs. What if his valet had failed to carry out his instructions?
What if Lucia’s child had been fathered by someone else? It could just as easily have been Friberth or one of her other colleagues, couldn’t it?
Although if that were the case, it hardly made sense for Lucia to attempt to extort money from the Archduke, did it?
Unless—the thought made Luigi pause. He stared out the open entrance doors, his hazel eyes crinkling as he considered the matter.
Had Lucia preferred to let Paolo believe it was the Archduke who’d fathered her child? It would be more palatable than letting poor Paolo think his rival was one of the other musicians.
His hazel eyes—shrouded in anxiety—returned to the broadsheet in his hands.
The Archduke’s marriage was not a sure thing. These rumors could hardly be allowed to circulate unchecked. Not until they’d been proven one way or another.
He glanced at the clock. He would’ve preferred to wait until Joseph returned. But there was no time for that.
The Archduke’s story would have to be confirmed.
“If he did throw away the herbs,” Luigi muttered to himself, “then we can be sure someone else was responsible for taking the pouch to Lucia.”
Who and why were questions that could be dealt with later. For now, something had to be done—and quickly at that—to determine the truth and nip the gossip in the bud. If not, rampant speculation would be taken for the truth.
“If anyone knows what happened to those herbs, it’ll be His Imperial Highness’s valet,” Luigi mouthed the thought at the broadsheet in his hands. “The question is will the conceited knave deign to answer my questions.”
He shook his head. It was unlikely that the valet, intent on saving his own skin, would do anything but lie. The maids, on the other hand, might have an easier time getting the truth out of the high-handed rascal. It would be best to let them handle the task.
His decision made, Luigi waved a passing footman over.
“Send one of the maids up to the Music Room, will you?” he ordered.
Maria Anna was in the kitchen when Haydn returned home.
Hearing his footsteps cross the threshold, she whipped around, exasperated.
“What brings you home, husband?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “At this hour, no less. I have nothing for you to eat.”
Haydn followed her gaze to the clock. Ach so! It was well past the hour for the midday meal. And now that Maria Anna mentioned it, he was hungry.
“A few slices of bread, some of your cheese, and some pickle will suffice,” he assured her, catching sight of the items on the kitchen countertop.
Maria Anna let out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, then. I still don’t understand why you brought yourself home. Isn’t there food to be had at the palace?”
Haydn ignored her grumbling. He seated himself at the kitchen table. He was wondering how to put his questions about Lucia to her when Maria Anna broached the subject herself.
“Did the barber-surgeon have anything of interest to report to you?” she asked, not bothering to turn around. Her knife clacked loudly against the wooden cutting board.
“He confirms Lucia was with child,” Haydn began only to be interrupted by a loud snort.
“Any fool could’ve told you that, husband.” Maria Anna carried a plate of bread, cheese, and pickles over to the table, setting it in front of him.
Haydn’s head jerked up. “You knew of her condition?” Lucia had not bothered to confide in anyone else. Even Hannah, the seamstress, a longtime friend of the soprano’s had been unaware of the fact.
“Why wouldn’t I? Why else do you think she needed medicaments?”
Haydn stared at her. “Why did she need medicaments?” he asked warily, not sure he wished to know the answer. God have mercy, had his wife been supplying Lucia with the means to rid herself of her child?
“To settle her stomach, of course.” Maria Anna rolled her eyes. “Your ignorance never fails to astonish me, husband. When a woman is in the delicate condition Lucia found herself in, it takes very little to make her queasy. Has no one bothered to tell you that?”
Haydn chewed his bread thoughtfully, digesting the information his wife had provided. If Lucia had sought remedies for her nausea, then surely she had no desire to rid herself of her child.
“Herr Hipfl wondered if she’d sought to expel the child from her womb,” he said at last, swallowing the piece of bread.
“Why in the name of heaven would she do that?” Maria Anna’s voice rose in astonishment. “The candles she so diligently lit at St. Gerard’s altar and her prayers had finally borne fruit. Why would she rid herself of the very thing she wanted?”
It was true Lucia had desperately wanted a child. But if the child had been fathered by a man other than Paolo, would she have been quite as eager to give birth to it?
Haydn glanced at his wife. She had answered the question he had lacked the courage to voice openly. Yet he couldn’t help but probe further.
“It was Paolo’s child, then?” he inquired.
Maria Anna sniffed. “Whose did you suppose it to have been? Yours?” Her blue eyes held his, challenging him to respond.
Made uneasy by her stony gaze, Haydn averted his eyes, turning his attention to the half-eaten bread on his plate.
A few minutes later, he resumed the discussion. “Those who know Paolo are quite certain he could not have fathered a child. I am told he had none by his first wife, either.” How he had heard this, Haydn didn’t know, but he was certain someone had mentioned it.
It may have been Lucia herself in the early days of their acquaintance.
“It was St. Gerard who helped them, husband.” Maria Anna leaned forward eagerly. “I realize you are a man of little faith. But constant prayer to the saints can overcome any obstacle. Lucia proved it to be the case.”
Haydn suppressed a sigh. He had as much faith as the next man. But prayer, he had come to see, was futile in their case. No prayer and no saint could cure Maria Anna of her barrenness. But it would be a cruelty to point that out to her.
Lucia had clearly exploited his wife’s weakness. Haydn’s nostrils pinched together in cold fury at the realization. Worse still, she’d encouraged Maria Anna in her delusions with her lies. Why else had his wife taken to lighting candles at St. Gerard’s altar?
Haydn was willing to wager an entire year’s income Lucia had neither lit any candles herself nor offered any prayers. No, there was a more rational explanation for her condition.
“You may tell the barber-surgeon she had no desire to rid herself of her child,” Maria Anna’s voice broke into his thoughts. “She eagerly awaited its arrival.”
“I will let him know,” Haydn agreed quietly. He would discreetly make inquiries at the church as well. If Lucia’s conception turned out to be a miracle, he said to himself cynically, he’d willingly give up music.
He sliced off a large piece from the hunk of cheese on his plate. “Did the Archduke’s mixture of herbs contain pennyroyal?” he asked.
“They help settle the stomach,” Maria Anna replied. She had risen from her chair, turning to go toward the counter. Now she glanced over her shoulder. “Why, is he in need of any more?”
Haydn shook his head. “Apparently, he discarded them, having no further need of the medicaments. But the pouch found its way to Lucia’s changing room, and Herr Hipfl fears she may have ingested some of the mixture.”
“It would’ve been best not to, but I doubt the herbs would have done her any harm,” Maria Anna said, returning with a few more slices of bread. She set the plate and a dish of butter before him. “There is some Apfelkuchen left, if you want it,” she offered.
The news cheered Haydn. The small repast had failed to satisfy him. A slice of dessert with, hopefully, some of Maria Anna’s sweet cream would go a long way toward filling his stomach.
He eagerly plucked a freshly cut slice of bread and bit into it. The Archduke’s herbs could not have killed Lucia. The information did much to ease his anxiety. But—
He frowned as another thought occurred to him.
He set down his bread. “I thought pennyroyal was to be avoided at all costs by women in Lucia’s condition. Herr Hipfl is certain it was what killed her.”
“It’s the oil that kills. Not the leaves, husband.”
“The oil?” Haydn repeated, not understanding.
“Yes, the oil, husband. Isn’t that what I said? I have some in my kitchen,” she informed him, pointing toward one of her cabinets. “There’s no better way to get rid of pests. But only a fool would use it as a medicinal remedy.”
