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  I shook my head. “No, I don’t believe so. He was a scholar. He spent his days studying ecclesiastical philosophy. His books and work were his life. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him speak about political issues.”

  “What was his view of the war?” Pergen asked.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. We never spoke of it.”

  Troger raised an eyebrow. “Never? Why, everyone in the city is talking about this war. It seems that is all people talk about. Surely you two must have discussed it once or twice.”

  “We talked about books and poetry,” I said. “Are you saying that some madman killed Alois because of his political views? That is ridiculous.”

  Pergen glanced at Benda.

  “It could be that the old priest represented something to the killer,” Benda said. “The fact that he was murdered at the base of the Capistran Chancel—below that statue of the saint subduing the Turk—might be important. The killer may be attacking symbols of Austrian greatness.”

  I opened my mouth to interrupt, but Benda raised his hand to stop me.

  “He has already murdered the general, the country’s greatest war hero,” he continued. “Perhaps he wished to attack the church next. He may have lurked outside the cathedral last night, waiting for a priest—any priest—to come by. Your friend might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Pergen nodded. “That’s as good a theory as we have,” he said. He turned to me. “Da Ponte, I have a proposal for you.”

  I slumped in my chair.

  “I was very impressed that you found the killer in the Palais Gabler two years ago,” he said smoothly. “We are shorthanded here at the ministry. Many of our staff investigators are with the emperor in Semlin. We have our hands full with other matters of great importance to the future of the empire.”

  My heart sank. I knew where this was leading.

  “Count Benda is going to lead the investigation of these murders for us,” Pergen continued. “When Troger mentioned that you had come here yesterday, I realized that you would be a good candidate to assist him. He knew the general well, and you were close to Father Bayer. You have some experience solving a murder, which he does not.”

  “But—”

  “I’m confident the two of you can solve this case for me.” He studied me. “What do you say? Will you help us find the killer of your friend?”

  I shook my head. “I cannot—”

  “If you are worried about the danger, you may rest assured that I will guarantee your safety,” Pergen said.

  I sighed. I wished I were anywhere in the world but here, slumped in this chair in this opulent office. It had taken me a long time to recover from my ordeal two years ago. I didn’t believe I had the strength to go through such a challenge again. And could I trust Pergen and Troger to protect me from harm? But then I remembered the look on Alois’s bloody face. The fear I felt right now was nothing compared to what he must have felt when he had encountered his killer, and realized that his life had come to an end. He had been a second father to me. How could I not attempt to find his murderer?

  I sat up straight.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  * * *

  Benda and I made our way to the pastry shop in the Michaelerplatz. At this time of the morning, the small, cheery café was bustling with patrons. The proprietor recognized Benda and led us to a small private room.

  “Have you been here before?” Benda asked as we sat. “The cream slice is my favorite. But the doughnut puffs are also delicious. If you prefer something lighter, I’d suggest a fruit ice.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” I said.

  “Oh, but you should try these. The owner, Dehne, came here from Württemberg two years ago.” He gestured toward the busy main room. “As you can see, he has built a following. He caters all of the society parties now.”

  A waiter approached. Benda ordered a cream slice, and I asked for coffee.

  “I had to use all my connections to get Pergen to agree to let me investigate the general’s murder,” Benda said after the waiter left. “I promised Christiane—my fiancée, the general’s daughter—that I would find her father’s killer. She is distraught with grief, as you may well imagine.”

  The waiter brought my coffee and Benda’s pastry. The crust crunched as the count’s fork cut into it. He took a bite and smiled. “Delicious, as always. Would you like a taste?”

  I shook my head. I had no appetite.

  “Pergen’s busy tamping down the protests against the war and implementing the new censorship rules. He’s also involved with suppressing the uprisings in the Netherlands. When the general’s body was found, the ministry believed it was just a vicious robbery. They were content to let the constabulary investigate. Of course, that department is useless—they are hopelessly understaffed.”

  He paused to shovel another large bite of pastry into his mouth.

  “Christiane was indignant. She believed that one of her father’s enemies had murdered him. I was at my estate in Bohemia when it happened. I rushed here to be with her. When I learned about the burns on the body, I agreed with her.”

  I took a sip of coffee.

  “Christiane had already asked the police to say that her father had died of natural causes. When I made inquiries, I found the constabulary had done little to investigate the crime. When your friend was found yesterday, Pergen was forced to pay attention to the similarities in the deaths.”

  He ate the last bite of pastry, then scraped the remaining cream off his plate with his fork and popped it into his mouth.

  “Ah, I could eat two more of those,” he said.

  “Which day was the general’s body found?” I asked.

  “Last Wednesday morning. As I was saying, once Pergen’s office became involved yesterday, I went directly to Prince Kaunitz.” Kaunitz was the emperor’s chancellor, who was running the government while the emperor was away at the front. “He agreed with me that these killings had a political motivation. He instructed Pergen to let me lead the investigation.”

  “I don’t understand the politics,” I said.

  “There is a lot of opposition to this war,” Benda said. “No, not many are as vocal as these young men who stand shouting in the streets, but in the private rooms of the city, there is a great deal of discontent.” He scraped his fork along the surface of the empty plate. “I believe the killer is murdering his victims as an expression of opposition to the war, to the government, to everything the country stands for.”

  I thought for a moment. “I accept that someone might have seen the general as a symbol of the country, but what about Alois?” I asked. “He was just a simple priest, a scholar.”

  “First the killer murdered the general, a great war hero. He struck at the heart of Austria’s power, the army. For his next murder, he aimed at the church, another powerful institution.”

  “But Alois wasn’t involved in running the church—”

  Benda shrugged. “As I said back in Pergen’s office, I think the killer wanted a priest, any priest. Father Bayer just had unlucky timing. The killer would have chosen any priest he encountered that night.”

  I gritted my teeth at his dismissal of Alois as merely a random priest, but I knew there was no purpose in arguing with the man. His mind was made up. “Where do we begin?” I asked.

  “Yesterday Troger’s men finally questioned people who live and work around the Am Hof, where the general was killed. They found a witness who says he saw the general early Wednesday morning. He’s a baker who has a shop near the plaza. Do you have time to go see him now?”

  I nodded. Benda called for the waiter and paid the bill. We left the shop and walked down the busy Kohlmarkt, then turned left and continued down the Naglergasse, the narrow street that had been home to the city’s needlemakers in the Middle Ages. At the very end of the street, just before it joined the Heidenschuss, the baker’s sign hung over the entra
nce to a small shop. As we approached the door, it opened, and a tall, red-faced man rushed out.

  “You’ll pay for this, Vetter!” he shouted back into the shop. He waved a loaf of bread in our faces. “Look at this! This is what he calls a loaf of bread! It’s half the normal size!” He spat on the ground. Benda took a step back.

  “He’s a goddamn thief!” The man stormed off toward the Am Hof.

  We entered the shop. There were not many loaves left on the shelves at this time of day. Baskets of stale crusts for soup and bags of crumbs sat on the long counter. To the side, charcoal left from the baker’s ovens sat in tubs awaiting sale to those whose budget did not include fresh wood.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment.” The baker was leaning over his baskets, his back to us. When he turned and saw Benda’s fine clothes, he hastily stood to attention.

  “Gentlemen, how can I help you?” He glanced at the door. “I apologize for my last customer.”

  “You must hear a lot of that these days,” Benda said.

  “Oh yes, sir,” the baker said. He shrugged. “But what can I do? Everyone in the city knows that the wheat from Hungary is now sent to the troops. I spend half my day trying to locate new sources of flour. And no one wants the darker loaves; everyone wants the nice white bread. So I am forced to make my loaves smaller. What else can I do?”

  We nodded our sympathy.

  “How may I help you, sirs?”

  Benda introduced himself and then me, and explained that we had some questions about the general’s death.

  “Ah, yes. The constable told me to expect someone,” Vetter said. He sighed. “The poor general. My father served with him in the war. To think that I might have been one of the last to see him before he died.” He frowned. “Funny, though. He didn’t look ill when I saw him.”

  “What time was this?” Benda asked.

  “It was one o’clock Wednesday morning, sir. I know because I was on my way here to the shop, to start work.”

  “You don’t live upstairs?” I asked.

  “No, sir. I know it’s odd. And to be honest, it isn’t easy for me. I live with my wife’s family around the corner in the Tiefer Graben. Her mother refused to leave her own house to come live here with us when my father-in-law died. My Johanna wants to be close by, to keep an eye on the old lady. So I must come here every night.”

  “Tell us where you saw the general,” Benda said.

  “I was coming down the Tiefer Graben. I had almost reached the corner when I saw a man hurry by. It was the general.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Benda asked.

  “Oh yes, sir. I’d seen him once or twice before, so I recognized him. And it was a clear night. The moon wasn’t full, but there was still plenty of light to make out faces.”

  “Which direction did he come from?”

  “From the Freyung. His palace is right down the street from here.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “No. He nodded at me, and then hurried toward the Am Hof.”

  “Was there anyone else in the street?” Benda asked. “Did you see or hear anything else?”

  “No, sir. No one else was about. I was unlocking the shop when I heard voices coming from around the corner, in the Am Hof.”

  “How many voices?”

  “Two. Two men shouting.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “No, sir. Their voices sounded angry, as though they were arguing. But I couldn’t make out what they were saying. A moment later, I heard footsteps—a man running. I turned to look. A man ran out of the Am Hof, toward the corner right here.”

  “The general?”

  “No, another man, younger. He stopped for a moment and saw me, then ran down the street toward the Freyung.”

  “Did you get a good look at him? Could you describe him?” Benda’s voice was eager. “Was he tall? Heavy? What color hair did he have? What was he wearing?”

  The baker held up his hand to stop Benda. “I can tell you more than all that, sir. You see, I recognized him. It was that protester—the young ragged one who is always standing on that crate yelling about the war.”

  “Did you hear any screams?” Benda asked.

  Vetter shook his head. “No, sir, just the argument. As soon as the protester ran off, I came inside and went downstairs to check on my leaven. I was down there the rest of the night, doing my baking. I was shocked when I heard from my customers that afternoon that the general had died.”

  He peered at Benda. “Why are you asking me these questions, sir? I heard the general had a seizure, at home in bed. What is going on?”

  “None of your concern,” Benda said.

  We thanked the man and left.

  “Let’s look at the spot where the general was found,” Benda said. We walked around the corner to the Am Hof. The largest square in the city, the plaza was busy as fruit sellers and bake stands were discounting their wares at the end of the morning. We made our way to the center of the plaza, to the Marian Column, a monument dedicated to the Virgin Mary, who legend says aided the Viennese in resisting invasion by Sweden a hundred years ago. The lady stood atop a tall bronze pillar that rose from a large stone plinth. The entire structure was surrounded by a low balustrade wall, below which sat three short, shallow stone steps. At all four corners of the plinth, pudgy bronze cherubs, clad in armor, trampled upon creatures that represented the four scourges of humanity—war, heresy, famine, and plague.

  “The general was found lying here.” Benda pointed to the right-hand corner of the monument. “His body was draped across the steps, his right arm propped against the wall here. His left arm was limp against his side.”

  I leaned in to examine the wall. Although the light-colored stone had been scrubbed, faint specks of blood remained. “Alois’s body was in the same position,” I murmured. I looked up at the cherub who guarded this corner of the statue. He held a sword in his right arm, and his body was twisted, ready to deal the death blow to the large serpent under his foot. He stared down at me with scornful eyes. I moved to the right a bit to avoid his gaze.

  “We have to find that protester,” Benda was saying. “If he’s not our killer, he might have seen something the baker did not.”

  “He’s often over in the Graben or the Stephansplatz,” I said as I stepped away from the monument. The back of my neck tingled as the cherub’s contemptuous eyes followed me.

  “I’ll send a message to Troger,” Benda said. “He should be able to find the man’s name and address.” He drew his watch from his coat pocket. “I have an appointment at the chancery,” he said. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning, Da Ponte? Come by Christiane’s house around ten. I stay there when I am in town. Her steward saw the general leave the house early Wednesday morning. I’ve questioned him, but maybe another telling of his story might elicit new details. Do you know the house?”

  “The Palais Albrechts?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s in the Freyung, the second to last palace on the left, right across from the Scottish Church. You cannot miss it.”

  We said our good-byes and Benda hurried through the arch on the northeast side of the square, toward the Bohemian Chancery. I started toward the other end of the plaza. After I had taken a few steps, I looked back at the site of the general’s murder. The cherub gazed down at me with disdain. I shuddered. He seemed almost alive.

  I turned and hastened out of the square toward the Kohlmarkt.

  Five

  I picked at my dinner in a catering shop in the Graben, and spent a few hours in my office preparing libretto booklets for upcoming performances at the theater. As theater poet, I was responsible for editing and printing all of the librettos. This part of my job was tedious, yet had its pecuniary rewards, for I collected a percentage of each booklet sold. And today, the detailed work brought with it an extra blessing—it distracted my thoughts from my meeting this morning with Pergen, Troger, and Benda.

  I finished corre
cting errors in La modesta raggiratrice, a libretto by Lorenzi, which would premiere next week. I went out to the small cupboard in the hallway to check that there were still copies of my own work, Axur, and of Petrosellini’s Il barbiere di Siviglia to last the rest of the month. I frowned. A large black scythe, which was carried by the figure of Death in my opera Axur, had joined the other props in the narrow hallway. I must speak to Thorwart. His workmen could not continue leaving the props here.

  Back in the office, I drew the notes I had been making for the Don Giovanni burlesque scene from my satchel. As I stared at my scratchings, my respite from the horror of Alois’s murder came to an end. I could not prevent the vision of the gash in his throat and the surprised expression on his face from filling my eyes. I wished that Pergen had not told me that my friend’s body had been mutilated in such a grotesque manner.

  A knock on the door stirred me from my dark thoughts.

  “Come in,” I called.

  Felix Urbanek, the priest from the Stephansdom, entered. “Ah, Da Ponte, I’ve finally found you. This place has more hallways and crannies than the cathedral!”

  I stood to greet him and motioned him to the chair I keep for visitors.

  “I am here to offer my condolences on the death of Father Bayer,” Urbanek said. “I know that you and he were close friends.”

  “He was like a father to me,” I said.

  “The body has been taken to the cemetery in St. Marx. The burial will be tomorrow. I told the mortuary director that I thought Father Bayer would want a simple, modern burial—in the common grave without any coffin or marker.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I agree with you. He was a humble man, but modern in his outlook. I’m sure that is what he would have chosen.”

  “I am organizing a memorial service for him,” the priest continued. “Father Krause has agreed to lead it. We have a slight problem, though.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “It seems we don’t know all that much about Father Bayer, even though he spent most of his life at the cathedral. He came here before we instituted the new system of recordkeeping. Would you know if he has any family?”