Frank Tallis: Deadly Communion

Kristina’s misgivings were needless. The sound of clattering hoofs preceded the arrival of an impressive coach pulled by four horses.

‘Is it her, madame?’ asked Wanda.

‘Of course it is. Now, for heaven’s sake, remember not to slouch.’

Through the net curtains they watched the driver jump down from his box and help Frau Schmollinger out of the carriage. She was in her mid-fifties, wore a wide-brimmed hat festooned with exotic plumages, and a long sable coat.

Kristina called out to the servant: ‘Karoline. Open the door. Slowly.’ Then she glanced at her secretary, removed an errant gold hair from the girl’s sleeve, and stood erect, assuming an expression of tranquil indifference.

Frau Schmollinger glided through the open door.

Kristina inclined her head and Wanda — overawed by this vision of fur and feathers — produced something closer to genuflexion than to a curtsy.

‘Frau Schmollinger,’ said Kristina, adopting a languorous, refined accent. ‘Welcome. We are honoured. This way, please.’

No introductions were necessary. It was assumed that Frau Vogl herself would receive such a distinguished client.

Kristina ushered Frau Schmollinger into the reception room, where Wanda took her hat and coat.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Kristina asked.

‘No, thank you,’ said Frau Schmollinger, looking around the room. Her expression was one of curiosity and surprise. The walls were lacquered white and decorated with mirrors, and from the ceiling lamps composed of hammered copper with glass spheres hung down on delicately wrought chains. Frau Schmollinger’s attention was captured by a smart vitrine with metal fittings. Through the tilted glass she saw jewellery displayed on a bed of blue velvet: tourmaline brooches, agate earrings and a coral bracelet made in the likeness of linked salamanders.

‘Please,’ said Kristina. ‘Do take a seat.’

Frau Schmollinger lowered herself onto a wooden chair, the high back of which was made up of rectangular ‘hoops’, the smaller being nested within the larger. The oak had been stained black and flecks of chalk had been rubbed into the grain. On the table — just a cube with a square panel on top — were catalogues and magazines: La Couturiere Parisienne, La Mode Illustree and the journal of the Secessionist art movement, Ver Sacrum. Frau Schmollinger turned her grey watery eyes to Kristina. A smile made her powdered, papery skin wrinkle.

‘You come highly recommended, Frau Vogl. I am a close friend of Countess Oberndorf.’

‘The countess is one of our most valued clients.’

‘You made an exquisite summer dress for her last year.’

‘Indeed. A white and yellow smock with lace sleeves.’

‘Yes, that’s the one! She wore it when my husband and I were guests at Schloss Oberndorf. Sensational.’

‘You are too kind.’

Frau Schmollinger raised her hand and performed an odd benediction in the air: ‘I was wondering — my husband and I will be returning to Schloss Oberndorf this summer …’

‘You would like something similar?’

‘Yes.’ She drew the syllable out. ‘Something interesting. Something new.’

Frau Schmollinger’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want something similar. She wanted something better.

‘I’m sure we will be able to find something suitable for you,’ said Kristina, ‘in this year’s summer collection.’

Frau Schmollinger smiled.

‘Excellent.’

‘Wanda,’ said Kristina. ‘Would you fetch my red book, please?’

The secretary crossed to a corner cupboard. She opened the doors, inlaid with sparkling tears of glass, and took out a big leather volume which she carried to her mistress. Kristina sat down beside Frau Schmollinger. The volume contained sketches and coloured lithographs gummed onto thick paper.

Most of the designs were loose-fitting and resembled kaftans. There were no furbelows and trimmings, but Kristina explained that the materials she used were of the highest quality — peau de soie, satins and organza. Moreover, all the patterns — some geometric, others floral — had been commissioned from artists of the Secession.

‘The raised waist,’ Kristina said, pointing to a typical example, ‘renders the corset redundant, and affords the wearer unprecedented freedom of movement. My clients frequently describe House Vogl couture as’ — she raised an attractive plucked eyebrow — ‘liberating.’

There was something slightly subversive about Frau Vogl’s vocabulary. Her choice of words sounded strangely political: freedom and liberation. At one point she even spoke of ‘equality’. The older woman listened with keen interest. And as she did so, she became acutely aware of the tightness of the whalebone cage in which her torso was imprisoned. She remembered the previous summer, her breath labouring as she walked with the countess in the gardens of Schloss Oberndorf, and the copious bright fabric of the countess’s dress billowing in the gentle breeze.

When they had finished looking at the summer catalogue, Frau Vogl invited Frau Schmollinger to view some of the designs that had already been made up. She led her into a wide corridor lined on both sides with glass cabinets. In each was a dressed mannequin. Couturiere and client were followed at a respectful distance by Wanda. It was obvious from the tone of the conversation that Frau Schmollinger intended to order several garments.

About halfway along the corridor, Frau Schmollinger halted in order to study a gown that seemed to have been woven from spun gold. It might have been taken from the wardrobe of an angel.

‘What is this?’ she asked, her voice awed.

‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ Kristina replied.

‘Made from gold?’

‘A metallic yarn called lame. It’s by the Callot sisters … in Paris.’

‘Would it be possible to have a summer dress made from …’

‘Lame? Yes, of course. It also comes in silver.’

Frau Schmollinger imagined herself stepping out onto the terrace of Schloss Oberndorf, the late sun catching the metallic weave, the men falling silent.

At the end of the corridor, double doors led into the changing room. It was a large space and included a chair — again, black, angular and simple — and a full-length adjustable mirror. The floor had been covered in grey felt so that wealthy customers could walk in comfort with their shoes off.

Above, the sound of industry could be heard: the rattle of sewing machines and the soft music of female voices. House Vogl employed a team of seamstresses and two cutters.

‘Well,’ said Kristina to Frau Schmollinger. ‘Shall we proceed?’

‘Yes,’ said Frau Schmollinger.

‘Wanda,’ said Kristina. ‘If you would get me a tape measure and my notebook?’

The secretary smiled and left the changing room. She was in a state of excitement. Frau Vogl always treated her to lunch at the Imperial when they secured a lucrative order from a new patron. Wanda was already contemplating what she would order: roast pork and dumplings followed by Topfenstrudel. Or should she have the Viennese Walnut-Apple Torte? She really couldn’t decide.

Rheinhardt looked across his desk at Arno Zeiler. Everything about him suggested deflation: lank hair, crumpled clothes and sunken cheeks. His eyes were dark and empty.

‘Cigarette?’ asked Rheinhardt.

The man turned and nodded.

Rheinhardt lit the cigarette and passed it to Zeiler, who took it awkwardly between his thumb and second finger. He drew on it once, coughed, and continued to stare blankly into space.

Zeiler had been brought to the Schottenring station directly from the Pathological Institute, where he had been taken to identify the body of his daughter, Adele.