Deadly Communion

discovered the body, sir.’

Wilfing pressed his palms down on the table: rising seemed to require the strength of his arms as well as his legs. He was probably in his early sixties and appeared surprisingly frail for a gardener.

‘It was a terrible shock — let me tell you.’

Rheinhardt addressed the constable: ‘Has my assistant arrived yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then who’s up there?’ The inspector gestured towards the rear window. ‘I saw torches.’

‘A colleague from Hainburgerstrasse, sir. Constable Kiesl. With the body, sir.’

Rheinhardt nodded and turned again to the gardener.

‘Yes, it must have been a terrible shock. I am sorry; however, I am afraid I must ask you a few questions. I hope you will not find them too upsetting. Tell me, Herr Wilfing, at what time did you make your discovery?’

‘About three-thirty. No, later.’

‘May I ask what you were doing in the gardens at that time?’

‘Collecting these.’ Wilfing picked up a bucket from under the table. It was full of snails and slugs. One of the snails had climbed onto the rim, its tentative horns extended. ‘Nocturnal creatures, sir, and at this time of year dreadful bad for the seedlings.’

‘Do you always commence work so early?’

‘No. But these last few weeks have been exceptional.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The Lord Chamberlain.’

‘I’m sorry. What has Prince Liechtenstein got to do with it?’

‘He’s having a function, at eleven, in the Goldkabinett.’

‘What? Today?’

‘Yes. Today. If his guests step out into the garden and all the beds have been ruined by these fellows,’ he flicked the snail on the rim back into the bucket, ‘well, that wouldn’t do, would it?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘They say that Prince Eugene was a keen gardener. He had rare shrubs and trees brought to the Belvedere from all over the world. You have to take care of a legacy like that. These gluttons,’ Wilfing shook the bucket, ‘will eat anything!’

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘However, if we could perhaps return now to the more pressing matter of your discovery?’

‘Oh, yes. I was crossing one of the sunken lawns — and I very nearly trod on her. What’s this? I said to myself. And there she was — just lying there … a pretty thing as well. Dead. But not a mark on her. She must have just keeled over. It happens, I suppose. The heart.’ Wilfing tapped his chest authoritatively. ‘What was she doing there, eh? That’s what I’d like to know — out in the gardens after dark.’

‘Did you touch the body?’

‘You must be joking. It’s bad luck to touch the dead.’ The gardener shivered and lowered the bucket to the floor. ‘I went straight to the stables. I woke up one of the lads and sent him off to Hainburgerstrasse — told him to go as quick as his legs would carry him.’ Wilfing’s expression became anxious. He took a watch from his pocket and, glancing at its face, added: ‘Can I get back to work now? If the beds get ruined and the prince’s guests are displeased there’ll be hell to pay!’

‘Herr Wilfing, I suspect the prince’s guests will be even more displeased if the body hasn’t been removed by eleven o’ clock. I am afraid I must ask you to wait here until my assistant arrives. You must make a statement. When this is done you can proceed with your duties.’

Rheinhardt left the gatehouse and walked up the path, heading towards the torches. He could see very little, but as he made his ascent his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he became aware of the Upper Palace as an elevated penumbra situated at the other end of the gardens. The distinctive line of the roof — suggesting a desert kingdom of tents and pavilions — was made just visible by the dull glow of the sleeping city beyond. Aiming for the feverish incandescence of the torches, Rheinhardt entered a mazelike arrangement of hedges. They enclosed a sunken lawn, in the middle of which was the conspicuous form of a supine female body. Next to her stood an anxious-looking constable, his hand gripping the hilt of his sabre, his tense posture communicating his readiness to use it.

‘It’s all right, Kiesl. Inspector Rheinhardt — security office.’

The constable let go of his weapon.

‘Sir.’

Rheinhardt approached the body.

‘Anything to report?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Where did you get these torches from?’

‘Herr Wilfing — the head gardener. You’ve spoken to him?’

‘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 Brugel 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.