Sent to the Devil (9 page)

She came to me and offered her hand. I bowed, and then looked up into large violet eyes full of sorrow. Her raven hair was pulled back into a chignon. Gone was the extraordinary emotion I had witnessed in the cathedral days ago. It was as if she were a balloon fallen to the ground, all of its roiling, hot air cooled, leaving just a limp cloth shell. “I am pleased to meet you, Signor Da Ponte,” she murmured. “Richard has explained that you will be assisting him with his investigation.”

“It is an honor to meet you, mademoiselle,” I said. “May I offer my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your father?”

“And mine to you, for the loss of your friend,” she said.

Benda sat on the nearest sofa. “Come, sit down, Da Ponte,” he said.

“I'll ring for some coffee,” Christiane said. I remained standing until she had rung the service bell and sat back in the armchair.

“Please make yourself comfortable, signore,” she said. I took a seat next to Benda.

“I'm sure Richard has already explained to you that Count Pergen wishes to keep the true circumstances of my father's death from the public,” she said.

I nodded.

“That is also my wish. I do not want my father's name involved in sordid gossip.” She leaned forward and studied me intently. “Can you think of any possible relationship your friend could have had with my father?”

“Come, love, we have discussed this,” Benda said. “We believe Father Bayer was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The killer wanted to strike at the church by murdering a priest—any priest.”

Christiane gazed at him. “I know that is what you believe, Richard, but I—” She looked over to the door as a servant entered the room. “Yes, what is it?”

“Excuse me, mademoiselle. Baron von Gerl is downstairs. He wishes to present his condolences.”

Her thin hand flew to her throat. “Von Gerl is here?” She looked over at Benda, who had stood. “I don't think I'm ready to receive anyone yet.”

“It's just von Gerl, my love,” Benda said. “He's probably come to offer his assistance.”

“No, Richard, please. I don't think I am able to see anyone else, not today.” She sat upright in the chair, her body stiff.

“We should receive him, Christiane. He is your neighbor. It would not be proper to send him away.” Benda addressed the servant. “Send the baron up.” The man glanced at his mistress, who sat wringing her hands together, then nodded at Benda and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“But Richard,” Christiane protested. “My hair, my dress, I am not prepared to receive guests—”

“Nonsense,” Benda answered. “You look beautiful. No one expects you to be dressed à la mode when you are in mourning.” He went to her, squeezed her hand, and moved to gaze out the window.

A moment later the door opened once more. A tall, lissome man with short, curly black hair and a cropped dark beard bounded into the room.

“Baron von Gerl, mademoiselle,” the servant announced.

Von Gerl rushed to Christiane's chair and bowed to her. “Mademoiselle Albrechts,” he said. “I have just this minute returned from taking the waters in Baden. My valet told me about your father's unfortunate demise. No, no, please. Do not get up.”

I watched as he leaned over, took her hand, and kissed it, his lips lingering a bit too long than was neighborly. Her violet eyes widened.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. Christiane shook her head.

“Had he been ill? What happened?”

Benda glanced over at me and shook his head slightly, warning me not to discuss the murders in front of this man. He moved to stand by his fiancée's chair. “It was a seizure,” he said. “It was very sudden.”

Von Gerl released Christiane's hand and grabbed one of Benda's. “Benda! I'm glad you are here with her.” Christiane's hand trembled as she idly fingered the lace at the collar of her dress. The newcomer turned to me.

“Von Gerl, this is Lorenzo Da Ponte, a friend of mine,” Benda said. “Da Ponte, Valentin von Gerl.”

The baron's eyes widened. “Da Ponte? The theater poet?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It's a pleasure to meet you!” von Gerl said, shaking my hand.

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” I replied.

“I loved your latest with Salieri. I'm afraid I missed your big hit, the one with the Spaniard, Martín. I was living abroad when that was performed. And the one you wrote before that, the one based on the Beaumarchais play—” He scratched his head. “What was the name of that composer?”

“Mozart,” I said.

“Of course! Mozart. I've never heard his work. Maybe someday, now that I am in Vienna to stay. I'm a great fan of the opera.”

The door opened and a servant entered with a large tray containing a pot of coffee and four cups. He placed it on the sideboard, poured four cups, and brought one to Christiane. Her hands trembled as she accepted the drink.

Von Gerl settled on the sofa across from me, at the end nearest his hostess. “How long have you been in Vienna?” he asked me.

“Almost seven years,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“I can still hear the Veneto in your speech,” he answered.

I raised an eyebrow. “I am impressed, sir.”

“Venice, I would guess,” von Gerl continued. “Am I right?”

“Yes, I lived several years in Venice, before I came here.”

The baron beamed. “Hah! I could tell.”

“Very good, von Gerl,” Benda said. “Very impressive.” He returned to his place on the sofa and turned to his fiancée, who was gazing at her neighbor. “Don't you think so, Christiane?” Benda asked.

She leaned toward him and murmured an unintelligible reply.

“I was in Venice about six months ago,” von Gerl said.

“On business?” I asked.

“No, just traveling. It was my last stop on my grand tour, before I had to come back here.”

“The baron's father died recently,” Benda explained to me.

“Yes,” von Gerl said. “I am the second son—the troublesome one.” He grinned. “My brother was the heir. I was intended for the priesthood, if my sainted mother had had her way. She made my father swear on her deathbed that he would send me to a seminary. Luckily for me, my father knew I was not fit for the church. Once my mother was gone, he sent me on a tour of Europe, with the idea that when I returned, he would use his connections to find me a position in the government.”

Christiane slowly ran a fingertip up and down the bodice of her dress.

“Once I was away from my father's beneficial influence, I determined not to return to Vienna until I had seen some of the world,” von Gerl continued. “My father and brother were busy managing our estates and paid little attention to my whereabouts. I stayed away for ten years. I traveled everywhere, all over Europe, and to the east also. I returned a few months ago, when I received news that both my father and brother had been taken by the pox.” He shrugged. “That is my story. I am now Baron von Gerl, stuck here in Vienna with a big, empty palace.”

“Christiane was wondering a few weeks ago how you were settling in,” Benda said. “Weren't you, my love?”

She started. “Yes, yes I was,” she said.

“You must come over and see!” von Gerl said. “Of course, not before your mourning period is over. But after that, I could use some feminine advice.”

The servant returned with a fresh pot of coffee. Benda rose and took it from him. As her fiancé leaned over to refill her coffee cup, Christiane looked over his shoulder at von Gerl with desperation on her face. He grinned at her. Did I imagine a slight, teasing lift of his dark brow?

Benda came over and refilled my cup. Christiane put hers on a small table beside her chair and rose. “Richard, I am suddenly very tired,” she said.

Benda rushed to her side. “I'll ring for Charlotte,” he said.

“No, I am fine.”

“I'll take you up, then,” Benda said.

Von Gerl and I rose.

“Signor Da Ponte, it was a pleasure to meet you. We will meet again soon, I hope,” Christiane said. I bowed.

Von Gerl reached for her hand. “My most beautiful friend, please—if I may be of service to you, I await you in my house,” he said.

She pulled her hand away and took Benda's arm. Von Gerl's eyes followed them out the door. He opened his mouth to say something to me, but changed his mind. He sprawled in Christiane's big armchair.

“I've just finished having my father's old things carted away,” he told me. “I've picked up a large number of items in my travels and I'm eager to display them all.” He thought for a moment. “You must be a poetry lover.”

I nodded. “Of course. The great Italian poets were among the first books I read as a child. And I write poetry myself.”

“You should come over to the house and take a look at my collection. I've purchased some books, but the library in the house is huge, so I'm going to need many more. Perhaps you could help me fill it, by guiding my purchases.”

“I'd be honored to consult with you, sir,” I said. There was little I liked more than spending time in a library.

“The Italian poets?” von Gerl asked. “Petrarch and the like?”

“Yes. Petrarch is my favorite. I esteem him as the greatest of all poets.”

“Greater than Dante? He's my favorite.”

“To me, yes, Petrarch is a better poet than Dante.” I smiled. “But of course, they were both geniuses. I suppose it depends on the reader's mood.”

Von Gerl laughed. “You should come over today.” He pulled his watch from his pocket. “It's almost dinnertime. Why don't you come dine with me?”

“Thank you, sir,” I demurred. “But I have work—”

“No, I insist. I'd love your company. Besides, I have something you should see. You must know about the prints Botticelli made to illustrate
The Divine Comedy
. I own two of them.”

My eyes widened. “You own some of the Botticelli cycle?” I asked. At the end of the fifteenth century, the great artist had prepared over one hundred drawings illustrating his fellow Florentine's work. I had heard about them, but had never seen one.

“They are right next door,” von Gerl said. “Please, come have dinner with me. I assure you it won't be any trouble. I'm always on the lookout for someone to show off my collections to.”

I paused. Perhaps I should go. A fine dinner and the diversion of the baron's collections might be just what I needed after the gruesome last few days. Work could wait. “I'd be delighted to come,” I said.

Benda returned. “I apologize for Christiane,” he said. “She is taking her father's death very hard.”

“You must let her grieve,” von Gerl said. “No worry, Da Ponte and I have become fast friends. He is coming with me to see the collections and have dinner.”

Benda accompanied us downstairs to the foyer, where a servant waited with my satchel, von Gerl's pale gray velvet cloak, and a hat with a large gray plume the likes of which I had not seen anywhere in Vienna.

“Tell Christiane I will come by again when she is feeling better,” von Gerl said.

Benda nodded. “She will enjoy that. Thank you.” He turned to me. “I'll communicate with our friend about that issue we discussed and let you know what he says.”

I stood, puzzled, for a moment, until I realized that he was telling me he would find out more about the war protester from Troger. I nodded, and von Gerl and I walked out the door.

*   *   *

In the courtyard the bustle of packing had died down. The last cart was pulling through the archway, on its way to the Belvedere. For a moment I was grateful for my lack of worldly possessions. I could not imagine the trouble of packing and moving between two houses twice a year.

Von Gerl and I walked into the street. “My house is up there,” he said, pointing to the left, where the Herrengasse merged with the Freyung to form the highest point of the triangular plaza. I scurried to keep up with the baron's long strides as we approached his palace. It was a twin of the Palais Albrechts except for the choice of ornaments on its façade. We paused outside the entry arch, where von Gerl took a deep breath. “Ah! Can you smell that, Da Ponte?”

“Smell what?” I asked.

“That scent—floral, but not heavy. It is familiar. Yes, I remember. I once knew a woman—”

“There you are, you monster!” a voice screamed. A small shape rushed past me and pounced on von Gerl. I moved to come to his aid and a moment later found myself sprawled on the ground.

“You fiend! You traitor!” A young woman pounded the baron's chest with her fists as he held her by the shoulders. I stood up. A small valise sat at my feet. I must have tripped over it when she had seen von Gerl and flung it to the ground.

“I'm going to kill you!” she cried. “I'll tear your heart out!”

“Marta, calm yourself,” von Gerl said. The woman twisted in his grasp, unable to free herself. Her pleasingly plump figure was fitted into a modest woolen traveling cloak, which rode up as she attempted to escape von Gerl's hold. Her small cap had gone askew on her head, revealing tendrils of silken red flecked with gold.

I glanced across the plaza to the front of the Scottish Church. A small group of bystanders stood gawking at us. A sturdy, dark-haired young man wearing a forest-green cloak lounged on the steps of the monastery, watching the scene. As our eyes met, he gave me a slight, sardonic smile.

“Perhaps we should go inside,” I said to the baron.

He looked down at his attacker. “Marta,” he said, as if addressing a recalcitrant child. “If I let go of you, will you promise not to kill me until we are inside?”

She pounded on his chest once more. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. She took a deep breath and ceased her assault.

“That's better,” von Gerl said. “Now, since you say you are here to kill me, I must ask you—do you have a knife or pistol with you?”