Deadly Communion (20 page)

‘Yes.’

‘His paraffin lamp didn’t give off enough light. I thought you’d be needing something better.’

‘Well done, Kiesl. Commendable foresight.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Rheinhardt gazed at the dead woman. The scene evoked memories of the opera house: a shield maiden laid out beneath a starry sky, torch-bearers and a pyre. Crouching down beside her and falling on one knee like a vassal, he studied her face. Young. Early twenties, perhaps? A beauty spot beneath her left eye; coils of blonde hair complementing strong features; her chin, a little too broad — a dimple near its apex; long white lashes. The redness of her cheeks was borrowed from the flames.

Bracing himself, Rheinhardt slipped his hand beneath her occipital bone. He felt something cold and hard projecting out above the uppermost vertebra. When he tried to move it he found that it was fixed. He did not trouble to raise the body any higher in order to examine the object. He knew exactly what it was. The decorative head of a hatpin. To be exact: the decorative head of the hatpin purchased at Frau Schuschnig’s shop by the man calling himself Griesser.

Rheinhardt positioned himself at the other extremity of the woman’s body and lifted the hem of her skirt. There was no mistaking the pungent odour and — as he had expected — she wasn’t wearing any drawers. He knew before he looked over his shoulder that the young constable’s expression would be disapproving.

‘Kiesl. I would be most grateful if you would search the area for a ladies’ hat — and a ladies undergarment.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The constable pulled one of the torches from the ground and disappeared behind a hedge.

Rheinhardt searched the dead woman’s pockets. He found some money, a set of keys, a box of slim cigars, and a silk monogrammed handkerchief showing the interlinked letters C and R. He experimented with some possible names:
Clara Raich, Charlotte Ruzicker, Christel Rebane
… He thought of the other victims: Zeiler, Babel and Wirth. How many more women would this monster take? Rheinhardt was overcome by a wave of pity and hopelessness. The investigation had not progressed at all and it was
his
fault. It was his case, his responsibility — and what had he achieved? The collection of a few worthless facts, useless
scraps
of information. Commissioner Brügel had been right to admonish him. Guilt found a niche in Rheinhardt’s gut. It settled somewhere in his lower abdomen, among the peristaltic mass of his intestines. Nausea threatened to empty his stomach. He stood up and made his way back to the path.

The broad staircase rising to the upper level of the gardens was inviting. Somehow the notion of ascent seemed to promise Rheinhardt the prospect of release from the despair that had suddenly seized him.

Higher ground, clarity, a longer view …

Rheinhardt climbed to the top, where he was confronted by one of the Belvedere’s famous sphinxes. There was just enough light to make out her crouching, winged presence. The inspector approached and halted directly in front of her. The expression that she wore was one of supreme indifference, a blend of ennui and scornful disregard. She was wearing a cuirass, the design of which emphasised the fullness of her perfectly rounded breasts. Rheinhardt sensed her sisters, out there in the darkness — infinitely patient — a pride of sphinxes, incubating secrets.

‘Give me the answer,’ he whispered.

So, it’s come to this,
Rheinhardt thought.
Begging a statue for help!

If the sphinx did possess supernatural powers, she showed no sign of willingness to employ them at Rheinhardt’s bidding. Her centuries
of disinterest and stony constitution had inured her to human misery: what could be more inconsequential than four human lives to a beast whose seasons were epochs?

‘Sir?’ Kiesl’s voice floated up from below.

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve found something … an undergarment.’

‘All right. I’m coming down.’

Rheinhardt descended the steps and negotiated the little maze of hedges. He found the constable — a torch held aloft in one hand, a pair of yellow drawers in the other — looking like a strange parody of the goddess Libertas.

‘Where did you find them?’

‘Just here — thrown over this bush.’

Rheinhardt took the item from the constable.

‘Now see if you can find her hat.’

Rheinhardt went back to the body. He patrolled the lawn, systematically searching the ground for anything that might have been dropped. While he was doing this he heard footsteps — the brisk, energetic stride of his assistant.

‘Ah, there you are, Haussmann.’

‘I came as fast as I could.’

‘Indeed.’

Rheinhardt gestured toward the dead woman.

‘Her initials are CR.’

‘Cäcilie Roster,’ said Haussmann.

‘What?’

‘That’s her name. Cäcilie Roster. I recognise her. She’s an entertainer. She does variety shows. I’ve seen her singing comic songs at Ronacher’s.’

I
N DUE COURSE
I worked for several undertakers; however, it wasn’t until I secured a position at the Erste Wiener Leichenbestattungs-Anstalt Enterprise des Pompes Funèbres that I was permitted to assist Doctor Traugott Stohl — the embalmer. I had always been interested in embalming and considered myself fortunate to have this opportunity to study the procedures involved. Of course, I had seen embalmers at work before but, as you will appreciate, embalming is not common and observations conducted at a distance are no substitute for participation. I have no idea why embalming isn’t more popular in Vienna, a city which has always appreciated the beauty of a corpse in eternal repose. The aristocracy are fond of laying out their dead — as are certain members of the bourgeoisie, such as composers and politicians. But other than among these elements of society, embalming is largely restricted to instances in which the deceased must be transported over a long distance to a final resting place. Indeed, in such cases where the transfer will take a week or longer, embalming is compulsory, as decreed by the Minister of the Interior on the third of May 1875. You see? My enthusiasm knows no bounds. Even the legislation surrounding death has a peculiar fascination for me. But again, I digress.

Herr Doctor Stohl — God rest his soul — was a remarkable man. He died some five years ago from a brain disease and is buried in
the Zentralfriedhof. I often visit his grave — a modest peaked slab engraved with his name, dates, and a quotation from the Bible.

Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night: that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth.

Amos, 5:8

Before he died, the good doctor was very insistent that this quotation — and no other — should be his epitaph. To this day, I am not entirely sure of its meaning.

Doctor Stohl must have been in his sixties when we met. He was a sagacious old fellow who never troubled to open his mouth unless he had something to say. Private, guarded, and occasionally brusque, but never rude or uncivil, it was his habit to quote Ecclesiasticus:
Let thy speech be short, comprehending much in few words; be as one that knoweth and yet holdeth his tongue.
He earned my respect immediately and I flatter myself that he recognised something of his own character in me. Doctor Stohl was dedicated to the advancement of his discipline, which he approached with the earnest disposition of a scholar. He had studied the preservative methods employed by the Egyptians and knew much about the procedures favoured in the medieval world. (The Crusades, you see. The bodies of the Christian Knights had to be embalmed before they were carried home.) He once showed me a preservative ‘recipe’ consisting of honey, red wine, and a mixture of rare herbs that he had found in a book written by a thirteenth-century monk and subsequently sent me out to purchase a hare from the butcher’s shop in order to test the formula’s efficacy. It worked rather well.

In passing, you might be interested to learn that the dye I use on
my hair — a mixture of lead oxide and slaked lime — was first used in ancient Egypt. I discovered the method of preparation in one of the good doctor’s books.

Stohl had a small laboratory in one of the outbuildings, where he experimented with various substances in order to discover a chemical compound capable of suspending the disintegration of human flesh indefinitely. The notion of
perfect preservation
had acquired for him some of the glamour that past generations have afforded the Philosopher’s Stone or the Sangrail.

Herr Doctor Stohl was not a man whom one could get close to. He was always distant, monastic. Yet I know that we shared a certain affinity, a common bond. He had very particular views concerning education.
If you have a question,
he would say,
do not ask me. Just watch
—
and learn.
He taught by example, eschewing words in favour of demonstrations and surprisingly eloquent lacunae.

I remember with what great care he went about his work. He took such pains to do things properly, making sure that every crevice and crease was cleaned with disinfectant — eyes, mouth, and all other orifices: the way he trimmed beards, or shaved off stubble, never leaving the tiniest nick. Did you know that eyeballs have a tendency to sink down into their sockets after death? Doctor Stohl devised invisible supports to ensure that this would not happen. He taught me to tilt the head slightly so that mourners could see more easily the face of their loved one. Under his benevolent tutelage I was even inspired to learn a little Latin and Greek.

You have been wondering about my erotic life.

Did the stillness of the bodies arouse me?

I will be honest: Yes.

And did I succumb to the obvious temptation of their proximity?

The first time it happened was not long after I started my first job. The daughter of an American financier fell down some stairs and
broke her neck. She was removed to the undertaker’s within a few hours of her death. As soon as I saw her I felt an electrical excitement that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Her body was aglow with a faint purplish light. My Angel was close by.

I was supposed to lock up the premises after the others had left and then leave myself. I locked the door, but I did not leave, choosing instead to remain with the American heiress.

What was it like?

I must remind you that I am disadvantaged by language. There are no words that can express what I have experienced — and continue to experience. How can I expect you to understand? You, for whom this world is a sealed container, for whom the horizon and the sky are an absolute boundary.

Yes, there was satisfaction. But it was a communion once removed.

How can I explain?

It was like being intimate with a woman whom one does not love but who has recently brushed against the woman with whom one is infatuated. You detect a hint of the beloved’s perfume on her skin — and it is maddening.

Are you familiar with Faust?
Get me a kerchief from her breast, A garter that her knee has pressed.

The poet’s words describe me well: a man discharging into a void while clutching a garter!

Yet I could not stop myself. When opportunities arose, I took them. Such was my desire for Her.

You cannot imagine how I suffered. The anguish and agony. Lying there upon the mortuary table: yearning, wanting, desiring. The inadequate comfort of a cold embrace — my virility reduced to a shrivelled
nothing
in a dry mouth. The fading violet of Her presence, teasing, tantalising.

It was never going to be enough. I knew that even then.

Two months ago I travelled to Paris. The western façade of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame has three portals, one of which depicts Mary as the Bride of Christ. The Virgin in Majesty is transformed from Mother to Empress.

I don’t know why I have written this …

You said that I should write down whatever came into my mind — without any attempt to censor thoughts and memories. Well, there it is. Notre Dame. What of it?

No, there is a connection. I see it now.

I was at my lowest ebb. I thought that I could not endure separation from Her a moment longer and resolved to end my suffering. It would be easy enough. A sleep followed by eternal, blissful consummation.

On returning to Vienna I prepared a lethal tincture of opium. But I did not drink it.

As I sat in my bedroom, glass in hand, I began to doubt the wisdom of my actions.
To everything there is a season
—
a time to be born and a time to die.
Perhaps I was being impatient. I might become the instrument of someone else’s fate, but I should not wrestle my own destiny from the gods. Such presumption reminded me of so many Greek heroes, whose over-reaching ambition was ill-judged. It occurred to me: I did not need to die in order to summon Her. Someone else’s death would do just as well.

R
HEINHARDT HAD ARRANGED TO
meet his assistant outside Ronacher’s variety theatre. He had given Haussmann an hour to discover Liebermann’s whereabouts. During that time, he had searched for — and found — a café, discreetly situated in a back street, where he could revive his spirits with a favourite prescription of strong Türkische coffee and a slice of poppy-seed cake. Emerging from the shadowy interior into the broad bountiful light of a crisp morning, he felt better prepared to face the day. When Haussmann finally appeared, however, it was clear from the young man’s expression and gait that his mission had been unsuccessful.

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is not at home, sir. I telephoned from the Post Office. And the hospital said he wasn’t expected until this afternoon. I even tried the little coffee house by the Anatomical Institute.’

‘And did you get something to eat while you were there?’

Haussmann’s eyes slid to the side.

‘Yes, sir. But I was only there for a few minutes.’

‘In which case, you made excellent use of your time. We have a busy day ahead of us and it is difficult to work on an empty stomach. Come now. Let us see if anyone is inside.’