Murder Backstage, page 19
“Karl, there you are! Is Donna ready? She plays Romeo,” he added, turning to Haydn and Papa Keller.
“Weren’t Ernst or Bastian available for the role?” Papa Keller wondered. “Such tall, handsome men. Surely the audience would prefer to see one of them take the hero’s part.”
Christian laughed. “Well, for one thing, they’d be wasted on La Renier. And for another, Romeo’s youth is best represented by a contralto—as is his reluctance to fight.” He turned to Haydn. “Besides, Donna is the only one of us who has any patience with La Renier’s antics.” He held out his hand. “You must be Herr Haydn. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Herr Haydn has taken on Herr Affligio’s duties,” Karl explained.
“Only temporarily,” Haydn said with a smile as he and Christian shook hands. At an indication from the bass, Karl immediately left, in search presumably of Donna Oliveri.
Haydn watched him go, then indicated the stage with his chin. “Are you not needed on the stage, Herr Steiner?” If he was not mistaken, Mercutio came on in the very first act.
Christian shook his head. “It’s Loretta’s scenes that need the most work. In particular, the scene in which the lovers decide to kill themselves in order to be together in the next life if not in this one. Romeo plunges the dagger into Giulietta’s breast and then into his own. La Renier’s squeamishness about prop knives makes the entire scene implausible.”
“I don’t suppose one can blame her,” Haydn replied, although if the knife retracted so well, how had it dispatched Donna Oliveri’s husband? “But she has nothing to fear. Herr Affligio, God rest his soul, had taken steps to have the old prop knife replaced. The coutelier was here just yesterday with a new prop fashioned from wood. Nothing could be safer.”
To Haydn’s surprise, Christian snorted. “The old fool! There was no need to replace the knife. It is just more money spent on frivolities. And all to appease that airheaded nitwit of a woman.” He glared at Loretta Renier who stood with her back arched, gazing up at the ceiling in what she no doubt considered to be a romantic pose.
Turning back to Haydn, the bass was about to say something when his gaze collided with Papa Keller who stood beside them, listening avidly to the conversation. Recalled to the old wigmaker’s presence, the singer smiled.
“What brings you here, old man? Do we not have enough wigs in stock?”
“Haydn here wants some more for his opera,” Papa Keller told him.
Christian’s smile faded. “Something can be found in the costume room below, I’m sure. Karl will know. There’s no need to spend more money on what we already have.”
“For a mere performer, you seem unduly concerned with the cost of the production, Herr Steiner,” Haydn commented coolly. He waited for a reaction, forcing himself to be as dispassionate as a scientist probing an animal on his dissection table. “More so even than any of Herr Affligio’s partners.”
“But—” Papa Keller began. Before he could say a word, however, Christian’s gaze snapped back toward Haydn and his blue eyes flashed angrily.
“I am one of his partners, too, Herr Haydn. And if I am more concerned about money than anyone else, it’s because I’ve expended a goodly amount of my own resources to ensure the Burgtheater is kept afloat. And I have yet to see the return that scoundrel promised me.”
“It wasn’t a good investment,” Papa Keller said tactlessly.
“No, it wasn’t,” Christian agreed, his eyes still on Haydn. “But I mean to get my money’s worth.”
“I don’t see how—” Papa Keller began to say, but Haydn nudged his father-in-law in the ribs, shutting him down. The same question had occurred to him. But this was neither the time nor the place to ask the bass how he meant to recover his loss.
“Any additional expenses my opera incurs will be paid by my employer, His Serene Highness, Prince Nikolaus Esterházy,” Haydn assured Christian. “The wigs, any other little thing needed as well.”
Christian swallowed, nodding tersely as the blood that had flooded into and darkened his features abated and his color recovered. “Very well.”
He jerked his head behind the wings. “There are a couple of other matters I wish to discuss with you in private. And then”—he turned to Papa Keller—“and then you may measure my head, old man.”
For a man of his bulk, Christian Steiner moved swiftly and gracefully. Haydn followed the bass down the stairs, past the workshops, to the concealed doorway into the private inner room of the impresario’s chambers.
“The back entrance to Affligio’s chambers,” Christian said as he pushed a key into the tiny keyhole. “Few people know of it.”
“But you do?” A troubling thought had entered the Kapellmeister’s head.
Affligio’s dead body had been discovered in the inner chamber. He had been struck in the head from behind. Had his killer entered from this concealed doorway that few except Affligio’s paramours and Karl—and Christian as well, apparently—knew about?
The bass turned to face Haydn, his blue eyes cold and appraising. “I keep my eyes open, Herr Haydn.” He returned to his task, jiggling the rusty key in his hands in the old lock. “I am not the only one who does so.”
Unlocking the door, he pushed it open. The door creaked—an annoying squeak that grated on Haydn’s ears—on its hinges. The carpet with its bloodstain and Affligio’s form impressed into it was immediately visible. Haydn pursed his lips at the sight, recalling that he had meant to have it replaced.
He must have spoken aloud for Christian immediately turned to him. “It is an unsightly reminder of our mortality, is it not, Herr Haydn?” He grinned. “I suppose the sight of blood makes your stomach turn.”
“Yes, it still does,” Haydn confessed readily. “And I thank the good Lord that it is so.” He raised his eyes to the other man—Christian was a head taller than he. “Murder is not a deed any God-fearing man should be accustomed to.”
Christian rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting. “I will have Karl replace the offensive rug,” he said. “It is likely too mundane a chore to have taken priority when there are more pressing matters at hand.”
But Haydn was barely listening; his gaze had returned to the carpet. Affligio had fallen with his head facing the concealed door, he suddenly perceived. A sure sign the killer had been standing by this door when he had swung . . . Haydn frowned. What could the killer have swung at the unsuspecting Affligio?
Worse still, was the murderer in his presence at this very moment? Christian’s voice, still speaking as he led the way to the impresario’s cluttered desk, registered on Haydn’s mind.
“Cleaning the backstairs, now that,” he was saying, “is a far more important job. It was getting impossible to use the area with the way Affligio kept it.
“Failed to keep it, to be more precise,” he added, lowering himself into the impresario’s chair.”
Haydn stared at the man, too troubled to notice the singer had taken his seat. “I was given to understand no one used the backstairs.”
“Pshaw!” Christian emitted a rude sound, spraying the desk with spittle. Haydn squelched the sense of revulsion that overcame him, forcing himself to attend to the singer’s words. “Affligio’s paramours habitually entered through that door. How else, do you suppose they came here, unnoticed, other than by the backstairs?”
“I know not.” Haydn settled himself heavily into the chair across from the desk. “What is it you wished to speak with me about, Herr Steiner?”
Christian threw a quick glance over his shoulder, then leaned forward. “You have had an opportunity to examine Affligio’s papers?” When Haydn nodded, he continued. “Had the Archbishop of Salzburg paid his dues?”
“His subscription for his box?” Haydn asked. “No. That remains unpaid, but—”
“No, no, not that.” Christian shook his head vehemently. “His Grace had all but agreed to buy a thirty percent share in the Burgtheater. The money was to be paid on Sunday. I assume he brought it when—”
“When he was asked to intercede in Leopold Mozart’s supposed assault on the impresario?” Haydn’s tone was intentionally dry.
A deep burgundy hue suffused the singer’s fleshy cheeks. “His Grace was well aware the money was due. He had an appointment that very evening to convey the funds to Affligio.”
“Are you certain of this?”
With a handkerchief protecting his fingers, Haydn gingerly cleared a space on the desk, stacking the sheets of papers littering the surface and pushing them to the side. He could not recall leaving the desk quite so untidy the last time he’d sat here. Unable to find the appointment book, he dabbed unthinkingly at the droplets of spit.
Dear God, he thought becoming aware of the action, now his handkerchief was ruined. It would have to be discarded. He dropped the kerchief.
“There was nothing noted in Affligio’s appointment book,” he continued. Haydn could see the page as clearly in his mind as though it lay before him. “Surely he was not expecting His Grace to come here?”
“Of course His Grace was expected here. How else—?” Christian’s voice skidded to a halt.
“How else would he have proof that Leopold had been provoked beyond measure?” Haydn asked. His mind churned as bits and pieces of information settled into place. “Was that the arrangement with His Grace?”
Christian rose, stone-faced. “I know not what you speak of.”
Haydn got to his feet as well. “Was Affligio still alive when you left to fetch His Grace?”
“It was Karl who fetched His Grace.” Christian snarled. “Everyone knows that. Why not ask him?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rosalie stood on tiptoe and stretched her arms up, trying to direct the rag tied at the end of the heavy pole into a particularly dusty corner of the ceiling. Try as she might she couldn’t reach. And her slender arms were beginning to weary of the long, cumbersome piece of wood.
With a grunt, she lowered her arms. “It’s no use,” she complained, turning to Greta. “It’s too high for me to get to it.”
They had decided to tackle the backstairs area of the Burgtheater that morning. There were cobwebs high in the ceiling, clinging to the rafters, and a layer of dust seemed to be permanently engrained into the walls and the stairs.
Greta, who was on her knees scrubbing the steps with a soapy washcloth and a sturdy brush, glanced up. It had been Karl’s idea to tie their cleaning rags to a pole. Clearly it wasn’t working.
“We’ll have to ask Karl for a ladder, then.” Greta swiped her hand across her perspiring face, leaving a trail of soapsuds and dust across her fair skin. “Or find one ourselves if he’s still busy upstairs.”
“If this place even has any,” Rosalie grumbled as she leaned her pole against the wall and sank down onto the top step. “I’ve yet to see one.” And Karl hadn’t been too happy at the prospect of them standing a ladder on the stairs either.
“What if you were to fall?” he’d said, a worried frown appearing between his brows. “The steps are narrow and rickety. God alone knows if they’d support the weight of a ladder, never mind you two.”
Or was it the thought of having to procure a ladder that had bothered him?
“Although I don’t see how a theater couldn’t have one?” Rosalie went on. How else was anyone to sweep cobwebs and dust from the ceilings?
“There should be one in the prop room,” Greta said, busily scrubbing away. “Come to think of it”—she glanced up, her cheeks rosy from her exertions and her blue eyes sparkling—“the carpenters were building one for Herr Haydn’s opera. Karl told me that. It’s going to be used to climb up a mountain or a hill. I don’t think anyone will mind us taking it.
“Let me finish this step and we’ll go find it.”
Rosalie nodded, although Greta, with her head bent over her work, wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. She’d considered telling her friend about Herr Haydn’s suspicions regarding Karl, but then had dismissed the thought.
The Kapellmeister’s misgivings seemed to have abated on their own; there was no need to worry her friend. Still, she’d wondered about the prop knife.
“Did I tell you that Herr Haydn found out at the police station that it was the prop knife that killed Herr Affligio?”
Greta looked up at her sharply. “So that’s where it was?” She dipped her washcloth into the bucket of soapy water on the step below her and wrung it out. “Small wonder the coutelier was demanding a prince’s ransom for it. He must’ve known we’d never find it!”
“Herr Haydn doesn’t think he had anything to do with it,” Rosalie blurted out without thinking.
“Oh!” Greta looked sharply up again. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded her friend. “How do you know that?”
Oh dear! Rosalie bit her lower lip guiltily. In her reluctance to reveal that Karl had been under suspicion—if only briefly—she’d neglected to tell Greta anything at all about what she’d learned.
“When I returned with the ink and paper Herr Haydn wanted, I shared our fears about the coutelier.” Quickly she recounted the details.
Greta sat up on her haunches. “So, he agrees Steffi may have seen the killer,” she said with a thoughtful frown after Rosalie had finished.
“Yes, and he thinks the killer must be someone very familiar with the prop knife. The medical examiner told Herr Haydn only someone skilled in its use could have stabbed someone with it. It retracts too well.” This last she’d heard from Karl, but she kept that fact to herself.
She had a feeling Karl hadn’t mentioned any of this to her friend. How could he, when it would mean admitting that Herr Haydn had for a brief time held him guilty? And for her to say anything now would only drive a wedge between him and Greta.
Greta’s forehead scrunched into a deeper frown. “That’s not what we’ve heard.”
“No, and other than Herr Affligio himself and one other man—Herr Haydn said Karl didn’t know his name—no one had seen the coutelier demonstrate the knife.” She kept to herself the fact that Karl had been the source of this tidbit as well.
She’d questioned Karl after they’d both left Herr Haydn’s presence. Distressed at being thought capable of murder, Karl had opened up to her.
“Another man?” Greta said. “Could it be another partner? Herr Affligio seems to have had quite a few. And Karl would’ve recognized the singers, I’m sure, if it was one of them.” When Rosalie acknowledged the observation with a nod, she continued, “We’ll have to find out who it is, then. Master Johann and Master Luigi will want to know.”
“Besides, who knows”—Rosalie leaned forward—“this man, whoever he is, may even be the killer. Herr Affligio couldn’t have stabbed himself. And Herr Haydn is convinced it isn’t Herr Mozart.”
“Or the coutelier.” Greta made a face as she wiped the soap off her hands. “Too bad. He seems just the kind of weasel who’d do such a thing.” Then, apparently struck by a thought, she looked up. “He might have some idea who the other man in Herr Affligio’s chambers was.”
“He might at that,” Rosalie agreed. Who knew, but the impresario might have addressed the other man by name. And if it had been in the coutelier’s hearing, God willing he’d kept his ears open.
“If only we knew where to find him . . .” She left the thought unfinished, but her eyes twinkled. She and Greta both knew Karl would be able to tell them where the coutelier’s shop was.
Greta grinned. “Well, let’s find that ladder and finish up here. And then we can go see about hunting down that ferret-faced good-for-nothing.”
Giulietta and Romeo were singing a duet when Haydn returned upstairs. Loretta Renier’s singing was, for once, tuneful and Donna Oliveri made a convincing, if rather imposing, Romeo.
Frau Oliver possessed a considerable flair for acting, Haydn thought as he cast his gaze around in search of Papa Keller.
The contralto’s mannerisms and gestures were entirely those of a man. She clearly had an observant eye and a gift for mimicry. Were it not for her dark, heavy features and her deep voice, she might have gone far.
These thoughts were running through Haydn’s mind when he found Papa Keller at last—sitting eagerly forward in a front-row seat, his eyes riveted to the spectacle playing before him.
“It goes well, I think,” Karl said, coming up to stand beside Haydn in the wings.
Haydn nodded, but he was too preoccupied to enjoy either the music or the poignant love song being performed. Christian, he noticed, had positioned himself in the wings across from them. The singer glowered at the action onstage, his legs wide apart, his hands on his hips.
Recalling their conversation, Haydn pursed his lips. The discussion had been fruitless, and he had only succeeded in provoking the man. Romeo swaggered jauntily off the stage, and a scene followed with Giulietta and her nurse.
Haydn leaned over to Karl.
“Were you aware Herr Steiner had formed a partnership with your master?” The bass had a twenty percent interest in the Burgtheater—smaller only than the thirty percent the Archbishop had supposedly procured for himself.
Karl turned sharply to face the Kapellmeister.
“No. I can’t say I did. But”—Karl’s eyes drifted diagonally across the stage to where Christian now stood—at the edge of the forestage—directing the action—“it doesn’t surprise me. Herr Steiner is reputed to be the son of a wealthy Baron. His father can’t—or won’t—acknowledge him, but the Baron has never denied him his purse.”
“A man of means, then?” That would account for Affligio pursuing the fellow. But had the money dried up? Or had Christian invested more than he could afford?
Karl shrugged. “As long as his father lives, Herr Steiner will want for nothing. But the Baron is on his deathbed, and his heirs may not feel so kindly toward a half-brother. One fathered upon a lowly mistress at that.”
“No, I imagine they would not,” Haydn agreed. Small wonder Christian was concerned about the lack of return on his investment. Loretta Renier and Donna Oliveri were back onstage with a priest. “Did Herr Affligio seek a partnership with any of the other singers?” Haydn asked as he watched the scene.
