Deadly Communion (3 page)

A cheerless house, then. Blighted. Cold. Gloomy. Long silences — the clock ticking. That is the atmosphere in which I grew up.

There was a photograph of my mother on the mantelpiece. I still see it if I close my eyes — vivid — shining in the darkness: the repeated curlicue motif that flowed around the edges of the silver frame, the posy of little alpine flowers, the candle that was sometimes lit (but was mostly unlit). My father was in the habit of referring to my mother as an angel, and so it was that I came to think of her as possessing wings.

When I was alone in the house I would creep into the sitting room, take the photograph from the mantelpiece and study her face. My mother was a very beautiful woman: golden hair, big eyes, and
delicate features. There was something in the background of the photograph which I mistook to be white feathers, folded neatly behind her back. Communing with my mother’s image was a private activity. It had to be, because my father disapproved. He discovered me once and snatched the frame out of my hands. He was furious and said that I should be careful with such a precious object. If I dropped it the glass would break. It was irreplaceable and I should show more respect. I remember that he had a strange look in his eyes. I was frightened and thought that he was going to punish me. Recalling the incident now, I would say that my father’s strange look was a jealous one — possessive.

The women of the village took pity on me. They brought me soup and shared their special dishes on feast days. I was always being invited to play with their children. And while I played with Hans or Gudrun or Dierk or Gerda, the women would watch and laugh. But I would sometimes catch sight of them as they exchanged glances and I would see tears of sympathy. Just before my departure, they would stuff my pockets with gingerbread, kiss me, and hold me close. All of these women had the same distinctive smell — a salty but sweet fragrance — a smell that combined perspiration with confectionery. I loved being enfolded in their plump red arms. But it was never enough. They could never replace my mother — they did not possess wings.

I enjoyed school. The other children hated it, but for me it was a welcome release from home and my father’s black moods. I was fond of our little classroom: the whitewashed walls, the blackboard, the potbellied stove. My favourite subject was history, largely due to the lively instruction provided by our teacher, Herr Griesser: avuncular, bald but for two comic tufts that sprouted out from above his ears, spectacles, and prone to illustrate points with wild gesticulations. With the tip of his finger, he could trace an exotic horizon — pyramids, ziggurats — and transport us to Giza or Elam. Greek legends were
brought to life with vivid descriptions of their heroism. Theseus was as real to me as the baker.

In addition to being an excellent teacher, Herr Griesser was also a keen amateur archaeologist. He once found a prehistoric axe-head in the Wachau and gave it to the Natural History Museum. They put it on display in a cabinet and it can still be seen today in the room dedicated to Bronze Age artefacts.

It was Herr Griesser who first told me about mummies. I was absolutely fascinated. And when he told me that there were mummies in Vienna —
real
mummies — I was eager to see them. I pleaded with my father, begged him to take me but, predictably, he refused.

My interest in mummies was curiously practical for a boy. I became preoccupied with the mechanics of preservation, how it was accomplished. The Egyptian method of embalming is actually described by Herodotus. It is a crude but effective process. After the entrails and brain are removed, the body is scoured with palm wine and purified with spices. It is then soaked in a saline solution for seventy days, bathed, and wrapped in strips of linen. Finally, the body is placed in a wooden case.

The Egyptians also took great care with respect to the appearance of corpses, particularly those of women. The bust was preserved with stuffing and nipples were refashioned using copper buttons; wigs were worn; the body was painted in yellow ochre and the nails were tinted with henna.

Ingenious.

But I digress.

Such facts are of little interest to you. You want to know more about me.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ATHIAS STOOD AT
the foot of the autopsy table looking down at the body. He was an elderly gentleman with a tired, kindly face. His grey hair was uncombed and his general appearance was rather dishevelled. He was tying his apron strings behind his back while humming notes that never quite amounted to a melody. His dirge became even more tuneless as it sank to the bottom of his vocal range, where the professor was only capable of producing a sustained, rhythmic growling. In due course, he relinquished music in favour of speech: ‘So, you think she was ravished?’

‘Yes,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Her underwear had been removed. We found the garment discarded, not far from her body. Haussmann?’

His assistant produced the dead woman’s red cotton drawers from a bag. Mathias took them and held them up to the electric light.

‘No rips or tears. If they had been forcefully removed I would have expected to see some indications of violence. Perhaps she consented?’

‘Or perhaps she was forced to undress at knifepoint.’

Mathias buried his face in the red cotton, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

‘Professor,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘What are you doing, exactly?’

The old man sighed and answered wearily: ‘I am employing my nose — a somewhat underestimated organ — to detect …’ He paused before adding, ‘Masculine
traces.’
The professor raised the drawers
again and waved them under his flaring nostrils like a wine expert sampling the bouquet of a fragrant Bordeaux.

‘Well?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied the professor. ‘A hint of ammonia, perhaps, but nothing else.’

He dropped the undergarment on a trolley and turned his attention to the corpse.

‘I was told she was found in the Volksgarten?’

‘By the Theseus Temple — behind a row of bushes.’

‘No papers?’

‘None.’

Mathias brushed his knuckles against the woman’s cheek.

‘Death, you horror of nature, Ever-moving runs your clock:
The
scythe, when
swung, glistens,
And grass and blade and flower fall.
Well, Rheinhardt? Do you recognise it?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘To
Death,’
said Haussmann, doubtfully. ‘By Christian Schubart.’

Rheinhardt looked at Haussmann and then to Professor Mathias for confirmation.

‘Yes,’ said Professor Mathias. ‘Your assistant is correct.’

‘Well done, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt.

The young man smiled.

Professor Mathias continued in a declamatory fashion:
‘Mow not on without distinction, here this little flower just abloom, There that rose, just half red. Oh, be merciful, oh, death!’
He shook his head. ‘So young … and there is something rather aristocratic about her expression, don’t you think?’

Rheinhardt remained silent. He did not really share Mathias’s opinion.

The professor rearranged a lock of the dead woman’s hair and addressed her directly: ‘You will excuse me, madam.’ Shuffling back
to the foot of the autopsy table, Mathias removed her boots and stockings. The woman had painted her toenails purple and Mathias drew this to Rheinhardt’s attention. Then he raised her dress, folding the cloth back onto her abdomen and thus revealing a delta of chestnut curls. He extended his right hand, parted the labia majora — employing his fingers like the blades of a speculum — and peered into her vagina. He then began to feel the dress material that lay directly beneath the woman’s perineum. He dragged more material out from beneath her buttocks, and hunched over the table to examine it more closely. Subsequently, he picked up a pair of scissors from his trolley and cut out a small square of material which he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger before waving it under his nose.

Rheinhardt found the spectacle of the gnomish old pathologist engaged in such intimate study quite obscene.

‘Well,’ said Mathias. ‘She certainly
received
a man. But I don’t see any signs of ravishment. The dress isn’t torn — no contusions, no signs of chafing or bleeding. Would you and your assistant be so kind as to remove her coat, inspector?’

Rheinhardt and Haussmann pulled the coat off the woman’s shoulders and tugged it downwards. Once her arms were free it was relatively easy to complete the task. Mathias returned with an extra-large pair of scissors and cut a straight line up the front of her dress, from hem to collar. Using a sharp hunting knife, he then slashed through the laces of the woman’s corset. The heavy canvas fell away, releasing her breasts.

‘Gentlemen — your assistance again, please. Would you raise her slightly?’ Mathias removed the clothing and put it on the trolley along with the red cotton drawers.

The three men stared at the naked body in silence. They did not look at each other, fearing that they might betray their thoughts. The woman was perfectly proportioned: delicate ankles, shapely
calves, and hips that converged on a slim waist. Beneath the harsh electric light, the vivid contours of her body were strangely alluring. Rheinhardt closed his eyes and felt his cheeks become radiant with shame. The twist of her lip, he fancied, was no longer cruel but judgemental.

‘May I smoke, professor?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘Yes, inspector, of course.’

Rheinhardt took the box of cigars he had purchased on the way to the morgue from his pocket.

‘Trabuco, Haussmann?’

‘No, thank you, sir.’

His assistant’s stare was fixed on the woman’s exposed sex.

Rheinhardt lit his cigar. The familiar aroma was comforting, a timely reminder that he also had another, more agreeable life, one that awaited his return. He was already looking forward to his armchair and the sound of his eldest daughter Therese picking out the notes of a Mozart piano sonata.

Professor Mathias selected a magnifying glass and circled the table, inspecting the woman’s skin.

‘There are no rashes around the neck or abdomen, no signs of cynosis and no punctures.’ He raised his head. ‘Young man, could you help me to turn her over?’

The woman was heavier than Haussmann had expected and he grunted as he heaved her onto her side. He tried to complete the manoeuvre by rolling her forward slowly, but he lost control and her breasts made an unpleasant smack as they fell heavily onto the polished granite.

‘Now,’ said Professor Mathias, ‘let’s straighten her up.’

Haussmann released a trapped arm while Professor Mathias parted the woman’s legs. The pathologist continued to examine the woman’s skin, occasionally pausing to press and probe with his fingers. When he had finished he drew back.

‘Once again, nothing abnormal.’

‘Then how did she die?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to open her up. We can already exclude strangulation, stabbing, shooting, injection, and the ingestion of some — but not all — poisons.’

‘What about suffocation?’

‘She would have struggled.’

‘Perhaps she did.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why?’

‘Look how well manicured her fingernails are, not one of them broken. A woman thrashing around — doing her utmost to escape suffocation — wouldn’t have nails in such excellent condition, inspector.’

‘Do you think she died naturally?’

‘It is certainly a possibility and, at this early stage, quite a strong one. You look doubtful, inspector.’

Rheinhardt flicked the ash from his cigar into an empty bucket and wrinkled his nose.

‘Odd way to die, don’t you think? In such very peculiar circumstances.’

‘She looks healthy but you never can tell and she wouldn’t be the first to die in such an undignified position. As for her lover — or client, more like — perhaps a married man with children, responsibilities and reputation — such a man would be reluctant to report the matter to the police. As soon as he realised his predicament, he would have made a swift — er —
withdrawal.’
Mathias looked to Haussmann. ‘Young man, we must turn the body again.’

Haussmann reached over the table, choosing to haul the dead woman over from the opposite side. He had barely completed the movement when he suddenly pulled back, startled, and uttered a cry of disgust. The body remained face down.

‘Come now,’ said the professor. ‘Don’t be squeamish.’

Haussmann stared at the corpse, his eyes wide with alarm.

‘I felt something.’

‘What do you mean?’ said the professor, slightly irritated. ‘Felt something?’

‘I felt something hard, sticking out of the back of her head. Underneath her hair.’

Mathias put the magnifying glass down on the table and pulled the woman’s tangled tresses aside. His actions revealed a metallic object that gleamed brightly under the fierce electric light. Rheinhardt dropped his cigar in the bucket and moved closer to the table.

It was a silver acorn, nestled neatly into the arched indentation where the skull and the back of the neck joined. Professor Mathias reached out and plucked at the object.

‘It’s stuck.’

He repositioned the woman’s head and tried again. Eventually the silver acorn came away. It was attached to a needle — bent near the top — about twice the length of man’s finger. Mathias held it up. The metal was coated with a film of pinkish residue.

‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘I believe it is a hatpin,’ Mathias replied. ‘How resourceful!’

‘Resourceful?’ Rheinhardt responded. ‘How is stabbing someone in the neck with a hat pin resourceful?’

‘No, inspector — you misunderstand. This woman wasn’t stabbed in the neck. It was her brain that was stabbed.’

‘I still don’t see what’s clever about
that.’

‘Think, Rheinhardt, think!’

Mathias rapped his own head with his knuckles.

Rheinhardt frowned: ‘I would appreciate a straightforward answer, Herr professor.’

‘The brain is encased in the skull, inspector. It is the most well protected organ in the body.’