The Figaro Murders by Laura Lebow

spare time I had in this snug chair, reading the beloved books I had brought with me. Perhaps the baron would even allow me to borrow some of the volumes in his collection.
    I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. My mouth was sour with exhaustion. My right temple throbbed, and my shoulder was filled with a dull pain. I felt as though I could sleep for a week. But I had better unpack and begin my task. The sooner I could bring Pergen and Troger some useful information, the sooner I could return to my own life.
    I hung my clothes in the cupboard and turned to my satchel. I carefully removed my books and set them on the table next to the reading chair, then emptied the rest of the contents onto the desk. I decided to begin my investigation with a visit to the library. Perhaps I would get some sense of the crime there. As I left the room, I looked in the keyhole for the key. There was none. A twinge of worry crossed my mind. How could I protect myself against a murderer with no lock on the door?
    The house was quiet, and I encountered no one as I went down the two flights of stairs and let myself into the library. The room was empty, still, and dark, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the late-morning sun. No fire had been lit in the grate, and I shivered as I approached the wall of windows, whether from a real chill or from uneasiness, I could not say. I had never been at the scene of a murder before, and I struggled to keep my imagination in check as I pulled the drapes open and examined the windowsill where the boy had hidden from me just yesterday. It was about a foot and a half deep, and made a comfortable alcove from which a small-bodied boy like Florian Auerstein could eavesdrop on members of the household. I leaned over and studied the cream-colored wood of the sill, but could see no evidence of a struggle: no scuffs from the boy’s shoes; no chips in the paint; and to my relief, no blood.
    I climbed up onto the sill and knelt in front of the large windows. I turned the knob that held them closed. The hinges creaked loudly as the windows slowly swung outward from the center. Cool, fresh air rushed into the room. I took a deep breath and stuck my head out of the right window, forcing myself to look down at the courtyard. My empty stomach flipped as I stared down at the dark patch on the stones directly below. Piatti had said there had been a lot of blood. My head began to swim. My eyes filled with bright stars. I could hear the boy screaming as he fell through the air.
    I quickly pulled my head back into the room. Blinded by the stars, I groped for the bottom of the window frame in an attempt to steady myself. I knelt on the sill until my head and vision cleared, then closed the windows and turned the knob.
    I hoisted my body around and tried to sit in the position in which I had found the boy yesterday. The afternoon had been warm, and the windows had been open during my visit. Florian must have sat right where I was now, cross-legged on the sill. The murderer must have been someone he had known and trusted—he would not have sat next to a wide-open window while arguing with someone he feared. Even though the boy had been small for his age, it would have taken some strength to push him out the window. The murderer would have had to lift him a bit to clear the window frame before pushing him to his death.
    I carefully pulled myself to a standing position and reached up to examine the drapery rod and the thick velvet that hung from it. I pulled on the soft drapes, first the left one, then the right, but could see no spots where the fabric had come loose from the rod, and no evidence that the boy had grabbed onto the drapes in an attempt to save himself.
    As I started to lower myself to a kneeling position, my foot twisted in the left drape. I kicked at the heavy fabric and grabbed onto the window knob to steady myself. The large windows began to groan open. I kicked again at the drape, but only tangled my foot