J. Jones - The Third Place

Werthen stood a little apart from the dignitaries, near Prince Montenuovo, but not too near. Gross was on the other side of the hall. Duncan and his men were situated in the Schweizerhof below, where the carriages were kept, and some fewer church dignitaries and clergy milled about in hopes of catching a glimpse of the emperor.

Suddenly the great doors of the Ceremonial Hall opened and a line of old men was led in, taking chairs at the front of the hall, opposite the emperor. There were twelve of them; Hermann Postling was not among them.

But what of the other chairs? Werthen wondered. For there seemed to be another dozen in a line next to those the old men occupied.

Again the doors swung open, and now a line of old women was marched in, some so feeble that they had to be supported by court servants. They took their places alongside the men.

Of course. How many times had he read of the ceremony in the papers at Easter? The emperor bathed the feet of twelve men and twelve women.

But it still confused him, for he had not thought ahead to this. None of them had.

Now the emperor, flanked by the cardinal archbishop of Vienna and the papal nuncio, approached the two dozen elderly people. At this point, the cardinal archbishop was in charge, and the emperor had left his earthly realm behind. The cardinal read from the Gospel of St John in a bellowing voice that rang throughout the hall: ‘ Posuit vestimenta sua .’

Werthen’s gymnasium Latin was still good enough for the translation: ‘He laid aside his garments.’

At this, the emperor handed an attendant his hat and his sword. Werthen felt a sense of menace, just as he had in his dream. The emperor was truly now at the mercy of these elderly people.

‘ Et coepit lavare pedes disciploruum .’ Werthen further translated: ‘And he began to wash the feet of his disciples.’

A servant handed Franz Josef a silver ewer filled with perfumed water and the emperor kneeled in front of each elderly person in turn, so vulnerable, so frail.

Werthen sought out Gross’s eyes, and it was evident by his intent and fixed gaze that his colleague, too, had overlooked the fact of the women involved in the ceremony.

But what could it matter? He watched as the emperor carefully washed and then dried the feet of each, handed the person a fresh pair of stockings and stout new shoes, then moved on slowly to the next.

What could there be to fear from these old people? Werthen asked himself. We found the one that Klavan had planted.

Yet he was worried.

Outside in the courtyard, Klavan kept a watch on the balcony to see when the ceremony would finish. He tried to still his anger, for Hermann Postling was not among those arriving in the royal carriages at the Schweizerhof. He had been betrayed, but he would see to that pompous bureaucrat later. He consoled himself that all was not lost. He was pleased now for his diligence. At the time it had seemed an unnecessary nuisance; now it was his last hope.

He kept his eyes on the balcony. When would it end?

The emperor was making his way down the line of elderly to where Werthen stood. The advokat eyed the last of the elderly to have their feet washed. Thus far, the ceremony had gone without incident. Only three women were left. He examined each in turn, and as with those before, on two of these he saw nothing in their faces but a sort of joyful expectancy. To have the emperor himself bathe their feet! Such an honor.

But on the face of the last lady he thought he discerned something different. More than expectancy. Her left eye twitched. Her hands were so tightly clenched in her lap that they were white at the knuckles.

He slowly made his way forward toward the seated women. Montenuovo shot him a nasty look, but he ignored the prince. He did not know why, but he moved inexorably toward the last of the women just as in his dream this morning he had moved toward the last of the doors.

The emperor slowly rose, shuffling to this final parishioner, then kneeled in front of her, taking her gnarled white feet in hand and beginning to wash them.

She slowly unclasped her hands, moving the right one casually toward a small reticule in her lap. The age-freckled hand dug its way into the reticule and bit by bit began to withdraw again.

When Werthen saw a small rubber bulb he could no longer restrain himself. He shouted out, ‘No! Stop!’

Startled, the woman who had by now pulled the bottle of cologne out of the bag suddenly dropped it.

Werthen did not think. He took one galloping step forward and then leaped through the air, his hands held out. Time stood still as he felt himself floating in the air, and then his hands encountered the hard enamel of the bottle and folded around it as he crashed, belly first, to the parquet.

There was pandemonium as guards rushed to the side of the emperor and rough hands were put on Werthen, who managed to hang on to the deadly bottle.

‘Let him be!’ Franz Josef cried out at the guards. ‘The man has saved my life.’ The emperor, who had been appraised of the earlier threat, gazed at the cologne bottle cupped in Werthen’s hands, identical to the one Postling had been given by Klavan. ‘I believe he has saved us all.’

Klavan, like all the others gathered in the courtyard, heard the commotion from above and smiled. It is done, he thought. The old woman has achieved it. Still, he would have to kill the granddaughter. Loose ends needed to be tidied. He looked upward to the balcony hoping for some announcement, some strangled cry of doom and dismay.

Werthen lost not a moment. Once the cologne bottle was secured, he, along with Gross, questioned the old woman, Ursula Huber.

‘He’s a demon,’ she kept saying. ‘He told me he would kill my darling Gitty if I did not do as he told me.’

‘Calm yourself, please,’ Werthen said. ‘We know you were coerced into this. Tell us about this man. Did he call himself Wenno?’ God help us if he has an accomplice, Werthen thought.

‘He was no simple man,’ she spluttered. ‘He was a priest.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Gross muttered, and immediately they turned around to examine the religious congregation gathered in the hall.

Impossible, Werthen thought. There was no way an imposter could gain access to the Ceremonial Hall. Then a sudden thought.

‘Gross, the courtyard. He must be down there monitoring his deadly scheme.’

They raced to the tall windows giving off to the balcony over the Schweizerhof, threw open the doors and peered down below at the gathered priests and the drivers by their carriages ready to take the men and women back to their homes.

‘There he is,’ Werthen all but shouted, looking down at a priest who was staring back up at him with hatred showing on his face like a scar. ‘Duncan,’ he shouted out. ‘There, the priest in front.’

This shook Klavan out of his rage-induced lethargy. He knew that once again Werthen and the infernal Doktor Gross had put paid to his carefully wrought plans. He would get his revenge, but for now he needed to make his way out of the courtyard, avoiding this Duncan, whoever he was. He pulled his revolver out of its holster and shot off two quick rounds into the air, causing those in the courtyard to panic and begin running in every direction for cover. He joined in, running in the chaos, but in the direction of the arched entryway to the courtyard.

‘Stop or I’ll shoot,’ commanded a burly looking man in a suit and brandishing a Colt.

Klavan did not miss a step as he pulled off two more rounds, the second taking the top of the man’s head off.

Military or police, he thought as he leaped over the man’s body. Had to be one or the other to be so stupid not to shoot first, command later.