Sydney Jones - The Keeper of Hands

‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

It was as if he could see inside her very soul.

‘Yes,’ she said with a kind of ice-cold hatred. ‘He deserved to die. He had an affair with my little Mitzi. The only person I ever loved, and he’d wanted to take her away from me. He could not keep his hands off her. My prize. My dearest.’

She had not cried in years, not since she was five and lost her virginity to a bettgeher, a man who rented bed space in her parents’ meager flat in Ottakring. She had vowed after that incident never to cry again, never to weep but to get revenge.

But now she wept. She was not sure for whom.

When she finally regained self-control, the room was empty. The man called Schmidt had left as quietly as he had come.

The pleasant, rhythmic thwack of tennis balls filled the air. Fräulein Metzinger sat under the shade of the lone elm, refusing to join in, reminding Werthen none too gently that the vulcanized rubber used in the manufacture of these balls may have cost some African in the Belgian Congo his hand. Frau Ignatz, seated under the tree next to Fräulein Metzinger, clucked her agreement.

Other than that comment, the day had passed rather happily, Werthen thought.

Now, by the third week of July, the grass had grown nicely and Werthen was finding real satisfaction in tending it, watering the lawn by hand and mowing it with the special mower his father had given him. In fact, the last few weeks he had left town early on Friday to give himself and the family as much time as possible at the farmhouse in Laab im Walde. Werthen was also rediscovering the joy he had found as a boy in playing tennis; not the competitive part of it, but simply the joy of striking the ball well, feeling the racquet strings brush up and over the ball, and then watching the white orb spin over the net. Everything about lawn tennis was suddenly pleasing to Werthen: the greenness of the grass, the deep brown of the maple racquet, the pure whiteness of the ball.

‘That was clearly out,’ Gross said. He was acting as umpire and his wife, Adele, was assisting him on line calls. They were both taking the contest very seriously.

Werthen was teaming with Frau Juliani, the widow whom Berthe’s father, Herr Meisner, was seeing. She hardly acted the role of demure widow, though; an outspoken and energetic little woman, to Werthen’s surprise and delight she possessed a rather deft backhand. On the other side of the net, they faced the mixed-doubles team of Herr Meisner and Baroness von Suttner. Berthe had mysteriously bowed out of the game at the last minute, saying she needed a lie-down, which was quite unlike her.

‘I’m not too sure of that call, Doktor Gross,’ Herr von Werthen said from his sidelines seat. Werthen’s father and mother were also in attendance, and Emile von Werthen seemed in fine spirits today — much better than on his previous visit to the farmhouse, when it had rained the entire weekend. He had been able to go butterfly-hunting this morning, even deigning to take Frieda along with him part of the time.

‘Fine little lepidopterist she’ll make,’ he’d said upon returning, a touch of pride in his voice. Frieda now sat upon her grandfather’s lap, as he questioned Gross’s call.

Gross bristled at the suggestion that he could be wrong, but a placating touch by Adele made him resist the temptation to indulge in argument or condescension.

‘Yes, well, it was on the far side of the court. I suppose you had a better view of it over there.’

Herr von Werthen nodded.

‘Five-love,’ Gross said.

Herr Meisner served for the second time. He had earlier demurred about his athletic ability, but he soon caught on to the game and was now sending a blistering ball in the direction of his paramour, whose return landed neatly at the feet of the Baroness, who netted her ball.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said to her partner, but Herr Meisner was so overcome with competitive zeal that he simply made a harrumphing sound in reply. He had shaved off his long beard and looked at least ten years younger. Werthen was surprised at the transformation; and Berthe had been shocked when she saw him sans whiskers. He had worn a beard all the years of her life.

Clearly, love had its own demands.

‘Well played,’ Werthen’s mother called to Frau Juliani.

Looking about him, Werthen realized that everyone he cared about in the world was gathered at the farmhouse this beautiful Saturday. The soft heat of the afternoon even made him glad his parents were constructing their new residence nearby. Somehow the events of last month had mellowed him, had made him see how precious and short life is.

Berthe came out of the house, and watched the next few points as her father took his team to victory.

She came up to Werthen. ‘That was good of you.’

‘What?’

‘Letting him win like that.’

He smiled, not knowing anyone would notice.

‘I have something to tell you,’ she said.

But at that moment his father said, ‘Seems like you have visitors, son. And by the look of that automobile I would say important ones, as well.’

Werthen looked down the approach road to their farmhouse and saw the car moving along, leaving a funnel of dust in its wake. It looked very much like the vehicle they had ridden in when fetched to an audience with Archduke Franz Ferdinand. And if Werthen was not mistaken, that was the Archduke himself riding on the bench seat behind the driver, who would no doubt be Private Ferdinand Porsche. Next to the Archduke sat a beanpole of a man: Duncan, his personal bodyguard.

‘You’d better tell me later,’ Werthen said to Berthe. And then, still dressed in his tennis whites, together with Gross, attired rather more formally, went to the front of the farmhouse to greet them.

‘Ask him to join us,’ Herr von Werthen called to his son as he left. ‘I’ve never met an Archduke, especially one nobody likes.’

‘Emile,’ his wife said in a chiding tone.

The others were chatting to one another about the surprise arrival as Werthen got out of earshot.

‘What the devil do you think brings him here?’ said Gross as they strolled towards the approaching vehicle.

Werthen did not care to speculate on what things might motivate royalty. He only hoped the Archduke was not about to cast a shadow over this perfect day.

Private Porsche thoughtfully pulled his automobile to a stop at a little distance from the house, so as not to engulf them in the dust trailing behind the vehicle. He and Duncan got down from the Lohner-Porsche and came towards them.

‘Good day to you Duncan, Private Porsche.’ Werthen nodded at each in turn. They made a humorous contrasting pair: the one tall and thin as a rail, the other a good deal shorter.

Private Porsche shot them a half salute and Duncan returned their greeting. Then, ‘He wants to talk with the two of you,’ the Scot said.

‘Please, tell the Archduke that we would be more than happy to entertain him.’

Duncan shook his head. ‘Not entertainment he’s looking for, and he told me to apologize for barging in like this on your weekend, guests and all.’ He nodded to the carriages parked nearby, and the people by the tennis court. ‘Playing the game of kings, I see,’ Duncan said, a sly smile on his face.

‘We do not necessarily play it in a kingly manner,’ Werthen said, ‘but we do enjoy ourselves.’

‘What’s this about, Duncan?’ Gross finally said.

‘His Highness will tell you. He wants to meet with you at the motor vehicle.’

He said no more, and Werthen and Gross did as requested.

As they got near the automobile, Franz Ferdinand waved at them. ‘Sorry to once again plague you on a Saturday, but I was in the vicinity and thought you might want to hear some information I’ve received. Please, no long faces, gentlemen. I will not keep you long. You may recall that I have an agent in place in St Petersburg?’