Technically speaking, it was neither the best nor the worst plot in the Zentralfriedhof, the Central Cemetery of Vienna. Fraulein Metzinger had used family relations to secure a plot belonging to the descendants of a great-aunt. This lady had been a great supporter of hers, a champion of her attending university. Of course, for the burial to be allowed in this section of the cemetery, Fraulein Metzinger had to invent the fiction of Herr Heidrich von Beer, legal assistant. Otherwise the child would have ended up in a pauper’s grave.
Fraulein Metzinger, all in black, stood at the head of the coffin, her cheeks reddened by the chill air. She was flanked by the boy’s father, who had somehow managed to find a black suit for the occasion, and by the Portier, Frau Ignatz, and her brother, Oskar, from the Habsburgergasse. Rosa Mayreder was also in attendance, bundled in a black fur coat. Werthen had remembered at the last minute amid yesterday’s chaotic events to order the funeral wreath; it now lay atop the coffin, its hothouse lilies beginning to shrivel in the extreme cold.
Heidl had not, as it turned out, been baptized. Thus, Fraulein Metzinger, a Protestant, had asked her minister to conduct the brief funeral ceremony. The man was surprisingly young and went without the benefit of a hat on this cold day.
The minister began promptly at eleven, as scheduled, reciting the Twenty-third Psalm.
‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ he intoned in a pleasantly calming voice. Werthen found himself lulled by the familiar words, comforted almost.
‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters.’
Taking succor from these ancient words, Werthen suddenly wondered at his and Berthe’s obstinate refusal to let the von Werthens schedule a baptism for Frieda or to allow Herr Meisner even to have a naming ceremony for his grandchild. What did it matter, anyway? Frieda would be her own person; she would be the one to decide personal matters such as whether or not to follow a religion and if so, which one. Meanwhile, it would give pleasure to the grandparents. And now perhaps Herr Meisner would never have the opportunity to perform the naming ceremony of his own granddaughter.
‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever,’ the minister concluded and the subsequent moment of silence brought Werthen out of his thoughts.
The minister began again. ‘My friends, we are brought together on this day for the passing of a brother, Heidrich Beer, a young boy whose life was cut tragically short.’
Werthen was relieved that the fiction of Heidrich’s name did not have to be continued in the service.
‘This young man, who had experienced so many adversities in his short life, was on the cusp of momentous changes. But the good Lord had other plans for him, and brought him home to His eternal favor and bliss.’
At this point, both Fraulein Metzinger and Herr Beer began crying. The entire scene — shabby little coffin, mound of earth ready to spread, shriveling lilies, the few shivering mourners gathered at graveside — was incredibly tragic. Yet suddenly Werthen had the irrepressible desire to laugh. He had never reacted so to sadness, but the laughter welled up inside of him, a hiccough that could not be repressed. He quickly pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit and pretended to be blowing his nose; all the while laughing uncontrollably into the cotton as if sobbing. Finally he had to remove himself from the proceedings to walk up and down rows of graves before returning as the minister was delivering the final prayer.
‘Grant, O Lord, rest to your servant Heidrich Beer in a place where there is neither sorrow nor sighing nor pain.’
Both Fraulein Metzinger and the boy’s father had recovered their composure, watching closely as the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave. Once the ropes were removed, Fraulein Metzinger was the first to throw a fistful of dirt. It landed with a hollow plonking sound on the top of the wooden coffin.
Only now did Werthen notice other spectators watching the proceedings from a distance. Two of these were Ludwig Wittgenstein and his sister Hermine. Seeing him looking his way, Ludwig waved, but then allowed himself to be dragged off by his sister without exchanging a word.
The other observer was Kulowski, bodyguard to Mayor Lueger. He stood his ground as Werthen approached.
‘What brings you here, Herr Kulowski?’
‘Same as everybody,’ the man responded. ‘Death.’
‘I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with young Heidl Beer. Or is this a subtle form of threat, perhaps? If so, I warn you-’
‘You’re a suspicious sort, aren’t you,’ Kulowski interrupted, his voice a low growl like a gravel machine.
They stared at one another for a moment.
‘The mayor sent me,’ Kulowski said. ‘He wanted to thank you for the story in the Arbeiter Zeitung. Said it was good you kept your end of the bargain.’
‘I assume he did, as well?’
Kulowski nodded. ‘Can’t say as I am sorry about it.’ He stepped closer to Werthen and spoke confidingly. ‘Between you and me, I like the Vienna Woods just the way it is. After all, what’s Vienna without its woods?’
‘A loyal Viennese at heart.’ Werthen said it with a twist of irony.
Kulowski understood. ‘Nothing funny about that, is there? I suppose you’re not from Vienna at all?’
‘No, not originally.’
‘Then why bother?’ Kulowski asked. ‘I mean why risk anything trying to stop the sale? Mayor Lueger is not a man you want as an enemy, I can tell you that for a certainty.’
‘It’s a matter of honor, actually. Two men gave their lives to stop the sale. And you can tell the mayor that his thug beat a harmless old man. That attack has only served to make me more committed than ever to seeking justice.’
Kulowski appeared honestly confused. ‘Look, I’ve got no idea what you mean about this thug, but I assume the two lives you’re talking about are the councilman and that journalist?’
‘Yes.’
Kulowski blew dry air through his lips. ‘Steinwitz. Now that was a surprise to the mayor. We were there when he shot himself. Well, not there, but coming down the stairs. Poor bastard. That’s a thing I can never understand, killing yourself. And with her there, too.’
Werthen wanted to leave the man’s company; he’d often found it the case that former enemies became unfortunately loquacious after a crisis such as they had had yesterday.
‘Well, Herr Kulowski, it was good of you to bring the message. .’ Then something registered in his brain.
‘What was it you just said?’
‘About Steinwitz killing himself? Suicide’s not my game.’
‘No. After that. With her there. Who was there?’
‘The wife, of course. Don’t know that others noticed her. They were too busy taking cover once they heard the shot. But when we got closer to the office, I saw her just going off down the stairway. Must have been on her way to see him just when he killed himself. Horrible thing for the woman. Of course, I don’t think she saw her husband. That builder fellow, Wagner, he was at the door of the office. Say, where you off to in such a hurry?’
But Werthen did not bother to answer. He had to meet Gross. This changed everything.
Gross knocked on the door. There was no answer.
He was at the Zeltgasse apartment building where Henricus Praetor had lived, attempting to discover anything he could from the watchful Frau Czerny, the old woman who had seen Werthen the night of Praetor’s death. Perhaps she had seen something else, heard something else that could aid in their investigations, something that she had not told the police. Gross was sure he could ferret it out of her if that were the case.
He knocked again, but still there was no response.
He would try to speak with other occupants and perhaps also find out whether young Praetor had a cleaning lady who might shed some light on the dead journalist’s freshly cleaned apartment and the possible location of the missing notebooks. Not that such notebooks mattered now, but Gross liked to tie up loose ends in such matters.