1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (26 page)

Their mutual journey ended at a flight of wooden steps up the outside of a building. Fraulein Metzger turned to face him once again.

“I remember Margarethe Hoch. A sweet girl.” She paused for a moment. “Those were good times. Give her my greetings, please.”

“I will,” Gotthilf said. “May I help you in any way?” he continued, as she set foot on the first stair tread.

“No,” Fraulein Metzger responded. “There is nothing you can do to help.” She looked back over her shoulder with a smile. “But thank you for asking.”

And with that, she began her slow ascent up the stairs, one tread at a time, using her cane and the railing to pull herself up over the obstacle that her right leg presented. Gotthilf waited at the bottom, watching, until she had attained the landing outside her door. She pulled a key from a pocket in her jacket, unlocked the door, and entered in without looking at him.

After the door closed, he heaved a sigh, and stood staring at nothing in particular for a long moment. That last smile—that was the face of the girl he had seen before the sack. That was the face of the woman who might have been, before her body was wrecked by God-knows-what horrible accident. It was the face of a woman that he was beginning to find very interesting, God help him.

He looked up to see a
Polizei
patrolman walking down the block toward him. He stepped away from the stairs and beckoned to the man. It was one of the older hands, so they recognized each other.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Hoch,” the patrolman said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Do you know the people who live up these stairs, Phillip?”

“Aye. That would be Hans Metzger, a warehouse worker and sometime fighter in the contests held out at the old bear-baiting pit; his sister Ursula, the cripple; and some boy that seems to have moved in with them recently.”

“The boy would be Simon Bayer, and no, I don’t know if he is really from Bavaria.”

“Is there something you need from them, Sergeant?”

“Yes, uh, no. Not from them. What I want is for you and your mates to keep an eye on Fraulein Metzger. See to it that no one bothers her.”

“Right. Keep a protective watch on the Fraulein. I will pass the word to Bastian and Johann. They usually walk the other shifts on this patrol. Anything else?”

Gotthilf hesitated for a moment, then said, “Also keep an eye on her brother. If you notice anyone spending a lot of time with him, I want to know about it. If he has any unusual visitors, I want to know about it. If he disappears for any period of time, I want to know about it.”

“Right, sir. Will do.”

“That’s all, Phillip. Send word to the main station if anything comes up I need to hear about.”

The watchman touched the brim of his hat in salute, and moved on down the street. Gotthilf looked up at the door into the Metzger apartment, feeling as if he had perhaps betrayed a friend.

Part Three

February 1636

Let me write the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws.

—Dónal Ó Conaill

Chapter 31

Magdeburg

Right in the middle of the big Act III duet between Guinevere and Arthur, Marla started coughing. It was more than a small cough. It bordered on a paroxysm; cough followed cough followed cough. The rehearsal ground to a halt around her, and after a moment, Amber Higham picked up a bottle and brought it to her.

Marla finally got whatever it was in her throat cleared out, and took a breath. She felt light-headed after all that, and she must have looked pale, because Dieter Fischer—not the radio preacher, the other one, the singer—who was singing the role of Arthur took her by the arm and led her back to her stool. Amber handed her the bottle of purified water, and she sipped at it, then held the cool ceramic of the bottle against her forehead.

“Better now?” Amber asked.

She took another sip of water, then nodded.

“Yeah. I don’t know what caused that, but it’s over.”

Amber studied her with practiced eyes, and evidently came to a decision, because she announced, “That’s all for today, folks. We’ll pick back up tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. And Dieter,” she pointed a finger at the baritone, “don’t forget your music again.”

“Yes, Frau Amber,” he muttered against the laughter of the other singers in the room.

“You don’t need to do that, Amber,” Marla protested. “I’m okay now, we can keep going.”

“Nope,” Amber said. “The care and feeding of performers—especially you temperamental singers—is part of my job description. You’re starting to droop, but you’re not the only one. We’ll call it a day, and pick it up from there tomorrow. Now go home and drink some tea or coffee or a hot toddy or whatever to rest your voice. Git!”

Marla got, along with the others. Amber in full director mode was not to be gainsaid. And in truth, she was tired. Fatigued would be a better word, actually. But it was a good feeling.

Ever since the night she sang The Song (as she thought of it) at the Green Horse, she had felt different—more…something. Assured wasn’t the word, and neither was peaceful or well. Centered, now…that might be the right word. She still hurt from her loss, she still grieved at times, but she didn’t feel totally off-balance all the time, as if she was swinging from one extreme to another on an emotional bungee cord. It was like when she first met Franz, after the Ring of Fire happened and she’d lost her parents and her brother. She’d been more than a bit moody then as well, and he had given her a center to rest on. Now, in a very strange way, that performance had done the same thing for her.

Or maybe she was just a bit dotty, to use a phrase her Aunt Susan would say, and it was just that enough time had passed for her to turn the corner, or crest the hill, or pass through the valley of the shadow of death, or whatever metaphor was most appropriate. Either way, she was thankful for the change.

By now her musings had carried her through the front door of the Royal Academy of Music, where they had been rehearsing. She finished buttoning her coat, and shifted her load of books to her left arm.

She looked up as Klaus and Reuel stirred from where they leaned against the front of the building. “Ah, there you are, my faithful shadows.” The two men grinned at her, but didn’t speak. She pointed across the small plaza. “To the opera house, to find my husband. The orchestra is rehearsing today, and we got done early.”

* * *

“Yo, Karl,” Byron called out. Gotthilf tagged along with his partner as Detective Honister changed directions and came their way. “I hear the final report on the fire investigation was turned in yesterday. Did Dan say it was arson?”

Karl Honister shook his head. “No, he stopped just short of that. He listed it as the most likely possibility, but he also said that it might have been an accident due to carelessness. The oil can that we found was one that belonged to Schiffer, after all.”

Gotthilf snorted. “That is analogous to saying God is at fault because He created all things; therefore He created the wood, the oil, fire, and the idiot that brought them all together.”

Byron laughed out loud. “Good one, partner.” Gotthilf grinned in reply.

Honister smiled. “Indeed. Myself, I think the candle stub we found is probable proof of intent.”

“Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “I have trouble believing that that particular piece of evidence was there simply by random chance or negative serendipity.”

The other two men nodded in agreement.

“I think Captain Reilly agrees,” Honister added. “He told me to do more digging into this, see if I can find a suspect either way.” He looked at Magdeburg’s two best detectives. “Any advice for me on this one? I do not mind admitting it is somewhat outside of my experience.”

“Just one thing,” Byron said. He looked to his partner.

“You should know this one,” Gotthilf picked up the cue. “I learned it at my father’s knee, and you should have learned it at yours—follow the money.”

* * *

“Arson?” Andreas Schardius pinched the bridge of his nose. “They think that someone set the wood stock on fire
on purpose
?” He lowered his hand and stared at Georg Kühlewein and Johann Westvol. His stomach began to roil; not an uncommon occurrence when he was in the presence of these two.

“Not necessarily,” Kühlewein said. “They did say that it could have simply been an accident on the part of one of Schiffer’s employees.”

Schardius’ mouth twisted in reaction to that thought, but he didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Do you know who is doing the investigation?”

The other two men looked at each other, then Kühlewein said, “Someone named Honister, I believe.”

“Ah, Phillip Honister’s boy,” Schardius said. “He’s of good stock; he’ll do it right. At least it’s not Chieske and Hoch.”

He’d had contact with those two during the investigation of Paulus Bünemann’s death last year. Bünemann was a fellow corn factor, and the two detectives had had the temerity to consider him a suspect in the crime. Not respectful; especially since he hadn’t been involved in it at all. Not that he hadn’t thought about it occasionally, but he’d decided a long time ago that thoughts didn’t count, except in Sunday sermons.

Kühlewein and Westvol looked back at him with lowered eyebrows, obviously waiting for a reaction that they weren’t sure they wanted to experience. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“Fine. Maybe it was an accident, or carelessness, or simple stupidity. I am not sure I believe it, but let’s say it was. We cannot afford—Can Not Afford,” making sure they heard the emphasis in his voice, “to have another such event occur.”

Both the other men nodded their heads with vigor. They understood that losing big money was a Bad Idea in more than one respect.

Schardius leveled an index finger at Kühlewein. “Therefore you, Herr Mayor Kühlewein, will stress to Leonhart Kolman there must be no repeats of this event. Feel free to loose the flensing knife of your tongue and flay him in slow inches.”

Kühlewein nodded, with a hard set to his mouth and no compassion in his eyes.

“And you,” Schardius shifted the finger to Westvol, and sighted down it like a gun barrel. “You will say nothing, and do nothing, of any sort out of the ordinary.” Westvol nodded, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Schardius sighed. “Spit it out, man.”

“What about the newspapers?”

Schardius sat up straight. “Oh, do
not
tell me you have been talking to newspapermen!”

“No, no,” Westvol hastened to assure him. “One reporter tried to interview me about the
Polizei
report on the fire, but I told him I could not spare the time right then. But he will try again, I am sure.”

Westvol looked nervous at confessing this, but for once Schardius was not angry with the man; he was actually delighted with him.

“Good. Perfect, in fact. And in the future, if newspapermen contact either of you about anything dealing with this contract or project, just tell them that you have no comment and that the partners in the project will make a joint statement soon.”

He was going to leave it at that, but decided he’d best make sure they knew what he expected. “And if they do contact you, you will tell me about it immediately. Understood?”

Both men nodded. Schardius had to suppress a snort at the thought that the race to be Dee might be even again.

* * *

“So, how are rehearsals going?” Mary Simpson asked, as she passed a cup of coffee to Amber Higham. They were in Mary’s parlor again. That was her usual place for small meetings. She said the informality relaxed everyone.

Amber didn’t care. The combination of good coffee and the heat emanating from the cast iron heater in the corner made the parlor one of her favorite places in Magdeburg during the winter. February had proven to be even colder than January so far, and January had not been warm by anybody’s definition. She remembered one of the science guys back in Grantville talking about a Little Ice Age. From the sensations her toes were reporting, it wasn’t particularly little.

“Rehearsals are going well,” Amber replied, in her usual precise use of the English language. “In fact, we are actually a bit ahead of schedule in terms of learning lines and notes. I’m going to start blocking in another day or two.”

The two women sat in companionable silence for several moments, just sipping coffee and enjoying the moment.

Mary finally set her cup down. “So, give—how is Marla doing?”

Amber shrugged. “As far as I can tell, fine.”

She had been keeping strict watch on the young woman. Amber knew all about dealing with grief and stress; not from having lost a child, but from a particularly messy and tempestuous divorce after she’d caught her first husband in the costume room with the latest ingénue—again. Character assassination was the most civil of the techniques his lawyer had leveled against her, until she finally agreed to a rather less-than-equitable settlement just so she could get it over and done with. Then she’d retreated from Chicago to Grantville, where she licked her wounds for longer than she liked to admit. So, yeah, she knew something about grief.

“She’s focused, staying on task, and she’s learned—or learning, rather—in short order a part that might have challenged Beverly Sills.” Amber shrugged again. “Only problem I see is that she’s still a bit short on stamina. I have to rein her in, keep her from pushing too hard.”

“Good.” Mary seemed to relax a bit. “I hated to draft her so soon, but if we were going to have a prayer of pulling
Arthur Rex
off, we had to have her.”

Amber nodded. “Oh, yeah. Heinrich outdid himself with this one. There are parts of it that sound like Puccini and Verdi rolled into one. But that rewrite of the two lead women’s roles—killer stuff, in more ways than one.”

Mary busied herself in pouring more coffee for the two of them, and then sat for a moment, staring at her cup but not drinking. Okay, Amber thought to herself, she’s got something to tell me, and she’s either not sure how to say it or she doesn’t like what she’s about to say. Either way, that’s not good.