Aria to Death Read online

  ALSO BY NUPUR TUSTIN

  NOVELS

  A Minor Deception: A Joseph Haydn Mystery, #1

  Aria to Death: A Joseph Haydn Mystery, #2

  SHORT STORIES

  A Whiff of Murder: A FREE Joseph Haydn Mystery

  The Evidence Never Lies

  Mrs. Sutton’s Project: A California Cozy

  ANTHOLOGIES & MAGAZINES

  The Baker’s Boy: A Young Haydn Mystery

  In Day of the Dark, Edited by Kaye George

  The Christmas Stalker

  In Heater Magazine, Vol. 4, #11

  ARIA TO DEATH

  A Joseph Haydn Mystery — Book 2

  NUPUR TUSTIN

  FOILED PLOTS PRESS

  First Digital Edition, November 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9982430-2-3

  For more information, visit ntustin.com

  Copyright © Nupur Tustin, 2017

  Cover Design by Karen Phillips

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Aria to Death is the second book in the Joseph Haydn Mystery Series

  Preoccupied with preparations for the opera season at Eszterháza, Kapellmeister Joseph Haydn receives a curious request from a friend in Vienna. Kaspar, an impoverished violinist with an ailing wife, wishes Haydn to evaluate a collection of scores reputed to be the lost operas of Monteverdi.

  Haydn is intrigued until Her Majesty, Empress Maria Theresa, summons him with a similar request. Skeptical of the value of Kaspar’s bequest, Haydn nevertheless offers to help. But before he can examine the works, Kaspar is murdered—beaten and left to die in front of a wine tavern.

  The police are quick to dismiss the death as a robbery gone wrong. But Haydn is not so sure. Kaspar’s keys were stolen and his house broken into. Could his bequest be genuine after all? And can Haydn find the true operas—and the man willing to kill for them?

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  YOUR BONUS STORY: WHIFF OF MURDER

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dusk was fast turning to night by the time Wilhelm Kaspar finally emerged from his uncle’s doorway. He paused at the threshold, a bearded, slightly stooped figure silhouetted in the fading Vienna light, and peered into the evening gloom.

  The carriage his colleague Albrecht had sent for waited in readiness on the street outside; the coachman springing down from his seat to hold open the door.

  “Do you climb in and take your seat first, Albrecht.” Wilhelm Kaspar turned toward the tall young man who had come up behind him. As he spoke, his brown eyes fell on the heavy wooden chest the young man carried in his arms.

  The creases etched on Wilhelm Kaspar’s forehead and running down his cheeks deepened. God in heaven! Could the old f—He pursed his lips with an imperceptible shake of the head.

  “Here, let me take that from you.” With a ponderous sigh, he grasped the ornate brass handles on either side of the chest. Onkel Dietrich had meant well, no doubt, but of what good was a set of dusty old scores to a man in need? The casket itself with its walnut wood and ivory inlay would, undoubtedly, fetch a larger sum than the music it contained.

  “Take heart, Kaspar.” Albrecht, seated within the carriage now, reached for the chest. “The music must be of some value. Why else would the good merchant bequeath them to you?” He regarded the older man with a sympathetic smile.

  “Why else, indeed?” Wilhelm Kaspar attempted a smile as well but could manage no more than a feeble stretching of his lips. He would count himself fortunate if one of the many booksellers in town could be persuaded to give up a few kreutzers in exchange for the scores he had just inherited.

  “Herr Anwalt seems convinced of their worth,” Albrecht persisted. “Is that not so, Herr Anwalt?” The young violinist raised his voice to address the middle-aged lawyer who appeared in the doorway.

  The lawyer, a broad-shouldered man slightly above the medium in stature, came forward at the sound of his name. “Not carping at your bequest, are you, Kaspar?” he enquired as he approached the carriage.

  “Never fear”—he clapped a hearty hand on Wilhelm Kaspar’s stooped shoulders—“your uncle would not saddle you with a parcel of useless scores. Why, old Wilhelm Dietrich would have it they were worth as much or more than the rest of his estate! I have no doubt of it.

  “But I question the wisdom of your traveling alone at this hour, Kaspar.” The lawyer surveyed the near-empty street lined with tall buildings, his forehead puckering. “What with the robberies we have had of late.”

  “He is hardly alone,” Albrecht called from within the carriage.

  “Unprotected, then,” Herr Anwalt accepted the correction easily. “I’ll warrant neither one of you wields anything more dangerous than the bow of a violin.” He turned to Wilhelm Kaspar. “Your uncle would never forgive me if anything were to befall those works”—he pointed to the small casket resting at Albrecht’s side on the front seat—“I had best accompany you.”

  “I scarcely think it necessary, Herr Anwalt. But if you wish it—” Wilhelm Kaspar gave a slight shrug and proceeded to climb into the rear seat opposite Albrecht. He slid down to the far end to make room for the lawyer.

  Through the window he saw the coachman raise his whip and heard its stinging crack as it landed across the horses’ backs. He held onto the sill, bracing himself as the horses jolted into motion, their momentum pulling the carriage wheels forward across the cobblestone square.

  The carriage sped away from the Carinthian Gate, but to Wilhelm Kaspar’s despondent eyes, all twenty feet of it still loomed over the city. As relentless as the debts that dogged him, he thought, now that his hopes had come to naught.

  A few gulden would have gone a long way. But what tradesman would accept a quantity of yellowing paper as payment for his goods? At what apothecary could he hope to procure medicaments for Amelie?

  His expectations w
ere, perhaps, greater than they should have been. But it was Onkel Dietrich himself who had raised them so high.

  “Never fear, Kaspar!” the childless old man had wheezed, his wrinkled, old fingers grasping at Wilhelm Kaspar’s wrist. “It will all be yours after I am gone. My life’s treasure. All yours. You and your Amelie will lack for nothing, my boy. Your old uncle has seen to it.”

  Kaspar’s fingers tightened on the windowsill. God in heaven, what would become of him? It was on the strength of this avuncular promise that he had thus far kept his debtors at bay. But now—

  A sudden streak of light flared briefly in the darkness and a jolt as of lightning ran through his gaunt frame. Good God, what was that? Rough voices could be heard outside as the carriage came to an abrupt halt, the horses neighing loudly.

  The carriage door burst open. A man in a black mask thrust his head in.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Herr Anwalt’s voice rang out in loud outrage. “Who are you? What—”

  “Quiet, you old fool!” the masked robber cut him off. He turned toward Albrecht, his dagger pressing into the young violinist’s arm. “The chest. Hand it over, my good man. Now!” he barked when Albrecht hesitated. A thin streak of blood slid onto the edge of the blade where it dug into the young man’s arm.

  Albrecht grimaced. “If it is money you want…” He attempted to reach for the purse fastened to his waist.

  “Not so fast!” the masked man snapped, slicing so deep into the wound, Albrecht yelped out in pain, simultaneously clasping his arm to stem the blood that spurted forth from the gash.

  The suddenness of the attack had stupefied Wilhelm Kaspar, but the sight of the blood gushing freely from his young friend’s arm galvanized him. “Oh, give the man what he wants. It is pointless to resist,” he cried, lunging forward to grasp the chest. “Take it, then! And much good may it do you.”

  He was about to push the heavy case toward the coach door when an explosive sound assailed his ears. Through the gray smoke he saw the bandit clutch his arm and fall back, cursing vociferously. He had barely grasped the situation when he felt the lawyer’s hand thrusting him back into his seat.

  Herr Anwalt drew forth a second pistol and surveyed the men outside. “Unhand the coachman or the next shot will be directed at your head.” He opened his coat to reveal three more pistols in his belt. “And think not to persist in your dastardly act. I have lead aplenty for each of you.”

  Growled imprecations greeted the threat, but the ruffians fell back at once. Satisfied that they were gone, the lawyer resumed his seat.

  “It is just as well I thought to accompany you,” he continued once they were underway again.

  “Indeed, it was.” Wilhelm Kaspar was attempting in vain to staunch the blood still spurting from Albrecht’s wound. “Who would have thought a parcel of old music would bring such trouble upon our heads?” He frowned down at the wound. “And it is your bowing arm, too, Albrecht.”

  “It is but a flesh wound, nothing more.” Herr Anwalt’s tone was reassuring. “This should help.” He pulled the silk scarf off his neck and proceeded to knot the length of fabric above the wound on Albrecht’s arm before attaching the loose ends to the barrel of his discharged pistol.

  “The attack is not to be wondered at, Kaspar,” he went on, applying the tourniquet as he spoke. “News of wealth such as you have inherited takes not long to reach the ears of those fiendish brigands.”

  “It seems to have taken no time at all,” Albrecht murmured. “Why, it was only today that the will was read.”

  The lawyer nodded. “And until we searched the hiding place Wilhelm Dietrich indicated, even I had no idea what it was he had left you, Kaspar. God be thanked, those villains were not well armed. The fools!”

  “Then…” Wilhelm Kaspar gazed first at his companions and then at the chest. Could the old man have been as good as his word? “I should not have doubted him,” he murmured. He glanced up at the lawyer. “B-but, I know nothing of Italian music, Herr Anwalt. Did my uncle say nothing of what these pieces are valued at?”

  The lawyer shook his head. “Not a precise amount, no.” He applied the finishing touches to the tourniquet with a, “There. That will do for now,” before turning toward Wilhelm Kaspar. “But what of it? You know just the person to evaluate the music.”

  Albrecht, nursing his injury, looked from Herr Anwalt to Wilhelm Kaspar, a bewildered expression on his face. “Who—” he began only to be interrupted by the older musician.

  “But he is no longer in Vienna, Herr Anwalt.” Wilhelm Kaspar’s brow had furrowed. “And I cannot hope His Serene Highness will give him leave to come here to attend to my paltry affairs. Still, I suppose it can do no harm to write to him.”

  * * *

  The warm April sun streamed into the Rehearsal Room of the Esterházy Palace in Eisenstadt, creating a dappled pattern on the blue-and-gold marble floor. But for the balmy weather the small Hungarian town enjoyed, Haydn could have wished himself in Vienna.

  Although, as matters stood at present, he thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, even a cold Vienna day was preferable to being in close proximity with the impossible Elisabeth Dichtler.

  “That was not a trill, Frau Dichtler. I assure you, it was not.” Haydn forced himself to smile at the soprano, who stood looking indignantly down at him from her position to the left of the harpsichord. “Merely a set of sixteenth notes, some of them alternating between the A and the G, but quite assuredly not a trill.”

  “Ah!” The singer’s scarlet lips withdrew from the petulant pout into which they had been thrust and curved into a mollified smile. She cast a languid glance around at the orchestra before returning her gaze to Haydn. “I thought for a moment, Herr Kapellmeister, that you had—”

  “Forgotten your aversion to ornamentation?” Haydn’s eyes briefly flickered toward his Konzertmeister, Luigi Tomasini, who responded with a sympathetic shrug of his shoulder. “The Prince made your objections so clear to me when he first introduced us, I am unlikely to forget them even in my dotage, Frau Dichtler.”

  His Serene Highness, Prince Nikolaus Esterházy, had also made it quite clear that he would brook no objections to hiring Elisabeth Dichtler, even though her singing skills left much to be desired. Why, the woman could barely sing a note without the support of an instrument.

  “Elisabeth, Herr Kapellmeister. Do call me Elisabeth,” she murmured, coming closer to the harpsichord. “There is just one other thing.” She bent low over the instrument, her bare bosom almost exploding out of her low-cut bodice to thrust itself provocatively out at the Kapellmeister.

  Haydn drew back hastily, but the soprano seemed quite oblivious to both his reaction and the chuckles it had elicited from the orchestra.

  “Can you not play forte? I can barely hear the notes at present?” She leaned a little closer to the Kapellmeister, who slid so far down the bench he was in danger of falling off it. But Frau Dichtler was not to be deterred. She sat promptly down beside him and played a few notes on the lower keyboard before turning to gaze reproachfully at him.

  “Oh! The manuals aren’t coupled, Herr Kapellmeister! Now if only the upper manual were joined to the lower”—before Haydn could prevent her, the singer reached up to adjust one of the stops on the instrument—“we would have a much bigger sound.” She sat down, played a few more notes, then turned toward Haydn with a brilliant smile. “There! What do you think?”

  Haydn eyed the wretched woman for a space, too put out to trust himself to be courteous. “It is so loud, Madam,” he said finally, “I fear I shall be at peril of drowning out both the orchestra and the beauty of your voice.”

  Frau Dichtler frowned, head tilted to one side as she contemplated the Kapellmeister’s words. Haydn gazed steadily at her. Would to God, she would accept his explanation.

  The orchestra could in truth have played over the harpsichord even with both keyboards playing together. And as for Frau Dichtler, what her voice lacked in skill, it more
than made up for in volume.

  The selfsame objections must have occurred to the singer herself. “I don’t see why—” she was beginning to say when there was a fortunate intercession from the Konzertmeister.

  “The Kapellmeister is quite right, Frau Dichtler.” Luigi approached the fortepiano, his limpid gaze resting steadfastly on the singer’s pouting face. “The comely Grilletta would never roar out her lines in a lusty fortissimo. It is entirely out of character.”

  “Ye-es, I suppose it is!” Frau Dichtler appeared none too happy at having this irrefutable aspect of the matter pointed out to her. “Well, the fortepiano, then! Can we not use that?” She turned toward Haydn with a determined air.

  “The fortepiano?” Haydn chewed on his lower lip.

  Luigi must have been aware of his hesitation, for he said rather quickly: “Now that may not be such a bad plan, Joseph.” The Konzertmeister’s handsome features crinkled into a smile. “We would have fewer interruptions in our practice if Frau Dichtler could but hear her part clearly enough to sing it correctly.”

  Haydn continued to hesitate, unsure of the wisdom of calling attention to Frau Dichtler’s singing deficiencies in so pronounced a manner. The softer harpsichord might leave some room for doubt. But even the most casual listener would hear the doubling of the vocal part on the fortepiano.

  “And Grilletta has but two arias,” the Konzertmeister pressed his point.

  “Very well.” Haydn rose from his seat to ring for a footman. But his Schantz fortepiano had barely been dragged from its usual place in the Music Room into the Rehearsal Room when a sound at the window claimed Frau Dichtler’s attention.

  “Oh, it is the mail coach!” she cried. “There will be letters for me from Vienna, I am sure.” She turned toward Haydn with a pout. “Oh, you cannot expect me to stay on and rehearse that dull old aria yet again, Herr Kapellmeister! Do let me go. There is always tomorrow.”