Frank Tallis: Vienna Secrets

“Couldn’t the murderers have closed his eyes after the head was removed?”

“Well, they could. But it would be a strange thing to do, don’t you think? Closing the eyes of the dead is usually a sign of respect.”

The door of the church was unlatched, and an elderly monk appeared. He saw Rheinhardt and made his way over.

“Father?” said Rheinhardt.

“My son, the children…” He looked exasperated. “Brother Stanislav’s remains must be removed before the school opens. I’m afraid I cannot allow-”

“Our work is almost done,” Rheinhardt interrupted. “It won’t be long now, I promise you.” He turned to Liebermann. “Excuse us.” He then signed for the photographer to continue and steered the old monk back toward the church.

In spite of the presence of so many men it was remarkably quiet. The police team spoke in hushed, reverential tones.

On the other side of the road, facing the church, were some mansion blocks. Liebermann’s view was partially obscured by a monument-a pillar of stone rising out of the concourse and surmounted by a statue of the Virgin Mary. It was as high as an Egyptian obelisk. He went to take a closer look.

At the base of the column were three large figures. The first of these held an open book and possessed an unusually compassionate face: head tilted forward, melancholy eyes, and creases suggesting depth of feeling. The figure wore robes of stone that had been masterfully sculpted into sensuous layers and folds. He or she-for the gender was ambiguous-wore a generous hood, beneath which hair flowed back in delicate waves. Liebermann admired the artistry that had gone into the figure’s hands, which were delicate and beautifully poised. He noticed-with some regret-that one of the fingers had been broken.

Liebermann walked around the column and paused to consider the second figure. It too was hooded, but the hood enveloped a face invested with less sentiment: a long curly beard, staring eyes, and a somewhat vacant expression. Two birds, possibly doves, sat on a featureless slab held in the saint’s left hand.

The third figure, a bearded man with no hood, was more interesting than the second. His gown billowed out, as if caught in a breeze. One of his arms was extended, and his posture suggested that he intended the passerby to look toward something from which he had averted his gaze. He rested a hand on his heart, an attitude that evoked sympathy.

This holy triumvirate was arranged around the pedestal of the column, on which a number of other figures of varying sizes (angels, cherubs, and knights) were mounted. The column itself rose to a great height and was decorated with a spiral motif of disembodied putti; however, their chubby little faces did not look happy. Indeed, the effect was quite sinister. It was as if the stone were sucking them in like quicksand.

On top of the column was a golden globe out of which projected two sharp horns, and on this ball of metal stood the Virgin. A ring of stars circled her head, and her hands were pressed together in prayer.

Liebermann took a step backward to get a better view and trod in what he thought at first was horse manure. He grimaced as he felt his foot sink into it; however, when he looked down, he saw that the cobbles were covered with scattered earth. He had to pick his way through the clods to avoid getting more on his shoes.

Rheinhardt had finished talking to the old monk and was now issuing instructions to the men standing beneath the gas lamp. The photographer lifted the camera off its tripod and placed it on the ground. There then followed a general dispersal. The inspector’s assistant-Haussmann-ran over to the mortuary van and spoke to the driver. The van then turned a full circle in the street before mounting the pavement and rumbling onto the concourse. Some of the constables had to look lively to get out of its way.

“Well,” Rheinhardt called as he approached, “what do you think?”

Liebermann grasped his chin, and tapped his pursed lips with his index finger.

“An anticlerical group?”

“Who?”

Liebermann shrugged.

“Or some former pupils, originally educated by Brother Stanislav, who returned to settle a score? A payback for some cruelty, some violation, perpetrated when they were powerless to retaliate.”

“He was a priest!” said Rheinhardt, balking a little.

Liebermann threw his friend a look of wry amusement. He did not believe that an outward show of piety automatically merited respect.

“One should never underestimate the murderous rage of children. It is fierce, and unfettered by civilizing influences. I can well imagine some cherished infantile fantasy of revenge, shared by a close group of friends, festering, incubating in the unconscious, generating tension over many years-the release of which could then only ever be achieved by the performance of a brutal, cathartic murder. Ritualistic acts often focus and channel the energies of a community. They provide a means of safe discharge. Think, for example, of our funeral services and ceremonies. Appalling and otherwise unmanageable grief is contained by the time-honored practice of vigils, processing, and rites. There is certainly something ritualistic about decapitation. I wonder whether it served some similar purpose.” Liebermann turned and faced the column. “What is this?”

“A plague monument, like the one on the Graben.”

“And who are these figures?”

They began to walk around the pedestal.

“This, I believe, is Saint Anna,” said Rheinhardt, pointing to the androgynous figure with the compassionate face. “Mother of the Virgin. I don’t know who the fellow with the two birds is supposed to be, but this one here”-Rheinhardt nodded at the final statue-“is almost certainly Saint Joseph, husband of the Virgin. Do you want me to find out who the fellow with the birds is?”

Before Liebermann could answer, he slipped on the cobbles. Rheinhardt caught his arm.

“Have you noticed all this mud?” exclaimed the young doctor. “It couldn’t have been carried on people’s shoes. There’s too much of it. Is there a garden close by?”

“Not that I know of.” Rheinhardt squatted down. “They might have arrived in a carriage…” The inspector squeezed some of the mud between his thumb and forefinger. “It could have been stuck to the wheels.”

“In which case there should be wheel tracks. Can you see any?”

Rheinhardt studied the ground.

“Then perhaps it is inconsequential. Someone was carrying pots here earlier-and dropped them.”

Liebermann scraped his feet on the iron railings surrounding the pedestal. The mud was sticky and not easily displaced.

“I can’t attend a ward round with dirty shoes.”

“No,” said Rheinhardt. “That would be a catastrophe, I’m sure.”

Liebermann ignored the inspector’s pointed remark. Dirty shoes might not seem very important to Rheinhardt, especially when set against murder; however, in Vienna, a doctor indifferent to sartorial etiquette might just as well give up medicine. Liebermann took out a handkerchief, bent over, and started to polish.

Rheinhardt raised his gaze to the sky.

“What are you doing? There’s a shoeblack who sets up a stall just outside the theatre. He’ll be there in a few minutes!”

Liebermann was not prepared to wait.

Mendel Liebermann had not been very attentive during Professor Freud’s lecture. The first part-a history of the scientific study of dreams-had been quite interesting, but the second part, which had dealt mainly with the professor’s recent discoveries, seemed impenetrable. It wasn’t the first time that Mendel had heard Freud talk at the B’nai B’rith lodge. Freud had addressed the brethren many times before, and when he wasn’t talking about his psychological theories, Mendel found him perfectly intelligible, even entertaining. His talks on “The Goals and Purposes of the B’nai B’rith Order” and “The Role of Women in Our Union” were perceptive and thought-provoking; however, when Freud spoke about psychoanalysis, Mendel became utterly lost.