from the east beyond, or the losses and mistakes of the past. For three hours Monk saw the heart of Vienna, and past and future were of no importance, swallowed in the delight of the moment. He would never again hear three- quarter time without a lurch of memory and a sweetness.
He returned to his hotel long after midnight, and at ten o’clock the next morning, after an excellent cup of coffee, he set out to keep his appointment with Father Geissner.
This time he was shown in immediately, and the housekeeper left them alone.
Father Geissner was a quiet, elderly man with an ascetic face, which was almost beautiful in its inner peace.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Monk?” he asked in excellent English, inviting him with a wave of his hand to be seated.
Monk had already considered any possible advantage it might give him to approach the subject obliquely, and had discarded it as more likely to lose him the priest’s trust if he were discovered. This man spent his professional life listening to people’s secrets. Like Monk, he must have learned to tell truth from lies and to understand the reasons why people concealed their acts and often their motives. “You were recommended to me by Frau Magda Beck,” Monk answered, barely glancing around the comfortable, book-lined office where he had been received. “She told me that you knew her brother-in-law, Kristian Beck, when he lived here, especially during the uprising in ’48.”
“I did,” Geissner agreed, but his expression was guarded, even though he looked directly at Monk and his blue eyes were candid. “Why is that of interest to you?”
“Because Elissa Beck has been murdered in London, where they lived, and Kristian has been charged with the crime.” He ignored the startled look in Geissner’s face. “He is a friend of my wife, who is a nurse.” Then he added quickly, “She was in the Crimea with Miss Nightingale,” in case Geissner’s opinion of nurses was founded upon the general perception of them as domestic servants whose moral character precluded their obtaining an ordinary domestic position. “And he is also a friend of Lady Callandra Daviot, whom I have known for many years. We all feel that there is another explanation for what happened, and I have come to Vienna to see if it may lie in the past.”
A brief flash of pity crossed Geissner’s face, but there was no way to tell whether it was for Elissa because she was dead, Kristian for his present situation, or even for Monk because he had set out on a task in which he could not succeed.
“I used to be in the police force,” Monk explained, then realized instantly that that also might be little recommendation. “Now I investigate matters privately, for people who have problems beyond the police’s interest or on which they have given up.”
Geissner raised white eyebrows. “Or have an answer which they find unacceptable?”
“They might be forced to accept it,” Monk said carefully, watching Geissner’s face and seeing no reaction. “But not easily, not as long as there is any possibility at all of a different one. Those who know Dr. Beck now cannot believe he would do such a thing. He is a man of remarkable self-discipline, dedication and compassion.”
“That sounds like the man I knew,” Geissner agreed with a faint smile which looked to be more sorrow than any reluctance to feel admiration.
Monk struggled to read his emotions, and knew he failed. There was a world of knowledge behind his words, far more subtle than merely the passage of events.
“Did you know Max Niemann also?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“And Elissa von Leibnitz?”
“Naturally.” Was that a shadow in his voice or not? The priest was too used to hiding his feelings, keeping the perfect mask over his response to all manner of human passions and failings.
“And Hanna Jakob?” Monk persisted.
At last there was a change in Geissner’s eyes, in his mouth. It was slight, but an unmistakable sadness that also held regret, even guilt. Was it because she was dead, or more than that?
“How did she die?” Monk asked, expecting Geissner to tell him it could not have any connection with Elissa’s murder. But there was the slightest tightening in the muscles of his neck, a hesitation.
“It was during the uprising,” he answered. “But I imagine you know that already. Both she and Elissa were remarkably brave. I suppose Elissa was the more obvious heroine. She was the one who risked her life over and over again, first exhorting people to have the courage to fight for what they believed in, then going to the authorities quite openly, pleading for reform, for any yielding of the restrictions. Finally, when real violence erupted, she stood at the barricades like any of the men. In fact, she was frequently at the front, as if she felt no fear. She was far from being a stupid woman; she must have been aware of the dangers as well as anyone.”
He smiled, and there was a terrible sadness in him. When he spoke his voice was rough-edged, as if the pain still tore at him. “I remember once when a young man fell before the rifle fire, far out in front of the piled-up wagons, chairs and boxes that had been set across the street. It was Elissa who called out for them to climb to the top and hold the soldiers at bay while she ran out to try to save him, pull him back to where they could treat his wounds. The army were advancing towards them, about twenty hussars with rifles at the ready, even though they were reluctant to slaughter their own people.” He shrugged very slightly. “Of course, the army lived in barracks, and didn’t even know their neighbors. But it is still different from attacking foreigners who speak another language and are soldiers like yourself.”
Monk wondered for an instant, a flash there and then gone again, how many times Geissner had heard the confessions of soldiers, perhaps trying to justify to themselves the unarmed civilians they had shot, trying to live with the nightmares, make sense of duty and guilt. But he had no time to spare for that now. He needed to understand Kristian, and to know if he could have killed Elissa-or if Max Niemann could have. “Yes?” he said sharply.
Geissner smiled. “Kristian went to the top of the barricade and fired at the advancing soldiers,” he answered.
Monk was surprised, and perhaps saddened. “He didn’t try to stop Elissa from going?”
Geissner was watching him closely. “You don’t understand, Mr. Monk. It was a great cause. Austria labored under a highly repressive regime. For thirteen years before we had been effectively ruled by the aging Prince Metternich. He was conservative, reactionary, and used the vast civil service to stifle all reform. Intellectual life was suffocated by the secret police and their informers. Censorship stifled art and ideas. There was much to fight for.”
He sighed. “But as you know, the uprising was crushed, and most of our burden was left still upon us. But then we had hope. Kristian was the leader of his group. Personal feelings of love or tenderness had no place. Where is an army’s discipline if each man will make special allowances for a friend or a lover? It is dishonorable, but above all it is ineffective. How could anyone trust you, or believe that you, too, set the cause above life or safety? Kristian did as he should have done. So far as I know, he never failed to, even afterwards.” There was a catch in his voice, and again the moment of darkness in his eyes.
“Afterwards?” Monk said quickly, trying to retrieve and catch the nuance of something more.
Geissner took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “After Hanna’s death,” he said softly.
“Why do you say that? Did something change?” Monk’s voice fell into a charged silence.
“Yes.” Geissner did not look at him. “Something changed, one way or another, but. . but I can tell you little of it. They all made their confessions, as good Catholics, but some troubles were spoken of, others lay deeper than words, I think deeper than their own understanding. Knowledge of such things sometimes comes slowly, if at all.”
Monk strained to keep his manner calm and the first leap of real hope from betraying him, and perhaps breaking the priest’s train of recollection. “What things?” he said gently.
“Regret for what was not done, for perceptions too late,” Geissner replied. “For seeing something ugly in others, and realizing that perhaps it was in yourself also.”
Monk felt warning like a prickling on the skin. He must speak slowly, indirectly. This man held confidences dearer than life. Even to ask that he break one would be an insult which would slash the understanding between them as with a sword.
“How did she die?” Monk asked instead.
Geissner looked up at him. “As well as fighting on the barricades, she was the one who took messages to
