Vienna Secrets Read Free

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