In my historical mystery novel “The Murder of Figaro,” the English Soprano Nancy Storace (1765-1817), who created the role of Susanna in “Le Nozze di Figaro,” gets her full due as an intelligent, confident artist; she is one of the few characters who actually realizes what Mozart is.

However, in my tale she, like everybody else, has an agenda of her own– to wrench the composer away from his wife and spirit him off to England and have him all to herself, artistically and otherwise. There were rumors that Storace and Mozart had a fling, and I wouldn’t blame her for at least trying. I would have.

Her real story is a bit more textured than a comic murder mystery generally permits, and I will now make it up to la Storace by telling you some of it.

The soprano made her debut in England at age twelve, moved to Italy and started a career there until she was recruited to join the Italian company in Vienna. Her singer colleagues Michael Kelly and Francesco Benucci were always generous in their praise of her singing and her comedic gifts. Mozart, Haydn and Salieri all adored her and composed wonderful music for her. They came to her rescue when in 1785 she suffered a severe vocal crisis (she could neither sing nor talk for several months (In the book this catastrophe has been assigned to another soprano). Mozart created new material for her diminished powers and adapted existing material to make her feel more comfortable .

When Storace brags about her perfect technique in my book, the author is lying. It’s true that in her earlier, wilder days in Italy, she challenged a colleague– an older celebrated castrato soprano named Marchesi– to a vocal duel, won it, possibly straining her voice; and was promptly fired by the management.

In my novel, Storace is chaperoned by her brother Stephen, but in real life she was  married and had recently given birth to a child who did not survive infancy. Storace, like many other female singers of that era, continued to perform onstage until late into pregnancy. She appeared in Paisiello’s mega-hit “The Barber of Seville” (not that one, the other one) until her confinement, at which point the much-maligned (by me) Luisa Laschi stepped in for her.

Her husband, John Fisher, was horrible to her. It was rumored that he beat her. Emperor Joseph II, who kept a micro-manager’s eye on his troupe, had Fisher deported for spousal abuse.  Inspired by this sordid tale, I decided that the Emperor would have a bit of a crush on Storace, and Storace would have a super-sized crush on Mozart.

Storace returned to England in 1787 and continued her singing career. She wanted to return to Vienna in 1788, but the Emperor’s new-found pleasure in making war exceeded the thrill of producing opera; he was not interested in paying her in spite of her celebrity. Storace never saw Mozart again. There was a man in her life, and a love child, who survived to adulthood; but she shied away from a second marriage, being nobody’s fool. She died suddenly in 1817.

Having sung the magnificent concert aria (“Ch’io mi scordi di te?/ Non temer amato bene”) that Mozart wrote for orchestra, Storace and for himself at the keyboard, I believe that the music reveals the deep bond between these two artists, and their sadness at parting from one another. In my book Mozart uses the aria, or the promise of the aria, as a bald-face bribe to persuade Storace to help him solve the mystery and to stop pestering him for sex.  Shame on me. He would never ever do that.

For my new historical/comic mystery “The Murder of Figaro,” I created a character loosely based on a historical opera singer, Luisa Laschi, who created the role of the Countess under Mozart’s direction.  I opted to give her a messy personal life, a serious case of self-involvement, or to put it more charitably, a strong instinct for self-preservation.

I needed to put a cliché horrible diva into my cast of characters, for the amusement of my readers; I picked Laschi for this role because she seemed to be so alone at the time: no stage mother, no husband, no protective brother who accompanied her from theater to theater, guarding her vulnerable virtue.  I have no idea how she comported herself in her real life, but I can tell you she was a trouper, she worked all the time, in Italy and in Austria, and she was adored.

I have a strong urge to apologize to, and set the record straight about, Signora Laschi; who, from her début in 1770 at ten years of age, was praised for her clear true lyric soprano, her  endless creamy legato singing, and her beautiful figure.  Laschi arrived in Vienna in 1784 when she was invited to join the Imperial Court’s Italian opera troupe.

By the time she appeared in “Figaro” in 1786, she was probably engaged to the famous tenor  Domenico Mombelli. Emperor Joseph II gave the couple permission to be married, but could not officiate at the wedding. He made a semi-icky joke in a letter to his Chancellor of Spectacles Count Rosenberg, whom he deputized to solemnize the marriage: “and I cede to you the Droit de Seigneur.” An obvious reference to “Figaro.”

Mombelli was invited into the troupe in August of 1786, making a third husband/wife singing team, along with the Mandinis and Bussanis.  The couple had two children who died in early infancy.  Laschi herself died in 1790 at the age of thirty.

Knowing operatic sopranos as intimately as I do, I can only say that the cliché of the demon diva is largely false. God knows performers are neurotic, insecure, melodramatic and occasionally, and necessarily, self-absorbed, but they also are kind, helpful, empathetic and willing to submit themselves to the wishes of composers, directors, conductors, impresarios, agents and patrons. They usually are able to suppress their own agendas to forward any performance they happen to be in. So, Signora, I apologize for using you so badly. You had a brief, incandescent career, knew Mozart, and gave life to his music;  and that is how we should remember you.