Rheinhardt approached the young man and introduced himself.
The constable could barely respond. His teeth were chattering and a water droplet hung precariously from the end of his pointed, murine nose.
“You should stand inside,” said Rheinhardt with concern.
“But I've been given orders, sir.”
“No one will be wandering in off the street at this time. Come, now. If there are any questions, tell your seniors I insisted.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the constable. “You are most kind.”
The young man entered the building and guided Rheinhardt to a steep staircase. A faint light came from below.
Rheinhardt began his descent, pressing against the reassuring presence of the wall with his fingertips. His eyes had not properly adjusted to the darkness and his step was cautious. The air became redolent with a distinctive waxy perfume, and he could hear a faint, eerie susurration.
The light grew stronger, and when he reached the foot of the stairs, he discovered another constable standing next to a tall candelabra.
“Inspector Rheinhardt?”
“Yes.”
“Constable Stroop, sir.”
“Good man.”
“It… he… the body, sir.” He gestured into the shadowy distance. “Down there.” The constable's eyes shone, emphasizing his youth but also suggesting fear.
Rheinhardt nodded, and carefully lifted a candle from its clawed sconce. He proceeded to walk into the cold, whispering darkness. The sound of his boots echoed on the stone flags. He moved between two rows of hexagonal bronze caskets, vainly attempting to protect the wick of his candle with a cupped hand. The nervous flame flickered and flared, fitfully illuminating the casket decorations: grinning death's heads, floral wreaths, and ghostly coils of ivy. Rheinhardt's attention was suddenly captured by an arresting cast of a human skull, incongruously adorned with a veil and crown. The inspector glanced at the superscription and registered the name of a long-dead Habsburg monarch. He was reminded of something he had once heard concerning the royal burial rite. Traditionally, the faces of the Habsburg emperors were stoved in so that they would not appear vainglorious before the Almighty. They were also equipped with a bell and bellpull with which to sound an alarm should they find themselves buried alive. Rheinhardt imagined the interior of the casket: fragments of smashed bone beneath a dusty periwig-a skeletal hand reaching for the bellpull handle. He was surprised by an involuntary shudder. Raising his candle to press back the darkness, he continued his journey.
Rheinhardt's breath preceded him, clouding the frozen air. Through the billowy haze he detected two winking lights that grew brighter as he drew closer. The inchoate sibilance increased in volume, resolving itself into the regularities of language-one that Rheinhardt recognized.
“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine…”
Forms began to appear-penumbral outlines that might be human figures-and there was not one voice but several, each chanting a different prayer.
“Da, quaesumus Dominus, ut in hora mortis nostrae…”
At first, it seemed to Rheinhardt that he was approaching a scene that could not be real. Three hooded figures knelt between seated females in flowing gowns. Above them, apparently floating in the air, he could discern a couple-facing each other and separated by a ghostly cherub.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”
A little closer, and the mystery was revealed. Three Capuchin monks were kneeling in front of a monumental casket. The other figures were life-size bronzes-the two women leaning out from an ornate prow with the couple and cherub perched on its lid. The weak candlelight did not illuminate much beyond the casket, but Rheinhardt suspected that the canopy of darkness concealed a dome or cupola. In front of the three Capuchins was a supine body.
Rheinhardt's pace quickened.
One of the monks looked up, made the sign of the cross, and stood to greet the inspector. As he approached, he rolled back his hood. His hair had receded, but as if to compensate he had grown a large snowy beard and mustache.
Rheinhardt bowed. “I am Inspector Rheinhardt-from the security office.”
“God bless you, my son. Thank you for coming so swiftly. My name is Brother Ignaz.”
Even though the light was poor, Rheinhardt could see that the Capuchin's eyes looked raw and bloodshot. He had clearly been crying.
“I am so sorry…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off. His instinct was to console, but he wondered whether he could really offer the holy man anything that the man's spiritual convictions had not already provided. “Have any of my colleagues arrived yet?”
“No, my son-only the two constables.”
“Father, I am obliged to examine the body. And very soon there will be others here… my assistant, the photographer.”
Brother Ignaz nodded. “Of course.”
He shuffled over to the other monks, who had not broken their intense, hushed chanting, and whispered something that Rheinhardt could not hear. The two monks made the sign of the cross, rose, and, taking one of the candles, silently retreated into the shadows. Brother Ignaz beckoned to Rheinhardt.
“Have you touched the body?”
“Why, yes-does that matter?”
Rheinhardt sighed. “No-it doesn't matter.”
The dead monk's limbs had been arranged so that his feet were together and his arms crossed on his chest. Rheinhardt crouched down and brought the candle closer to the corpse's face. It was wrinkled, bearded, and the eyes were closed. The flagstones on the left side of the body were covered in blood.
Rheinhardt tugged at the loose sleeves of the man's robe and uncrossed the arms. He then traced a slow circle with the flame and observed-consistent with his expectations-that the coarse brown fabric had been slashed with a sharp blade. Between the precise straight edges of the material the man's blood had coagulated.
“Who is he?”
“Brother Francis.”
“What happened?”
“We had come to the church to pray. He had excused himself and said that he was going down to the crypt. He had been asked to recite a special prayer at the tomb of the Empress Maria Theresa, by a…” Brother Ignaz hesitated, before adding, sotto voce, “By a royal personage. It was getting late and I decided to come down to the crypt myself. Francis has been unwell-I was concerned for his health. As I came down the aisle, I saw something on the floor. At first, I thought he had simply collapsed. I ran and…” The monk shook his head.
“What is it?”
“I think-I can't be sure…”
“What?”
“I think I heard someone-somebody running up the stairs. Francis was lying facedown… and there was so much blood. I rolled him over and tried to revive him-but, of course, there was nothing I could do. In due course I returned to the church, where I found two young brothers-Casimir and Ivo. I dispatched the younger, Ivo, to the Schottenring police station. Casimir and I returned to Francis, in order to pray.” The old Capuchin shook his head. “We have been visited by an unspeakable evil. Who would do such a thing? On sacred soil, in this most holy place. It is an abomination!”
Rheinhardt lowered the candle again and inspected Francis's wizened features.
The dead man's eyelids trembled for a moment, and then-quite suddenly-flicked open. A gout of black blood oozed from his mouth as his chest convulsed.
Rheinhardt gasped, drew back, and allowed his candle to drop to the floor.
“Blessed Jesus,” cried Brother Ignaz. “He is still alive. It is a miracle.”
Suppressing an instinctive wave of horror and fear, Rheinhardt placed a hand on the old man's blood-soaked
