A Matter of Breeding (3 page)

As a youth growing up in the country house at Hohelände, Werthen had been very aware of such things: the passing of the seasons, the phases of the moon. Having lived in cities for so many years now, however, it was only the seasonal changes such as Fall that registered.

He did not bother with the reception desk, but took the elevator to the third floor, which was actually the fifth, but in order to avoid building regulations many of the builders in Vienna used an arcane scattering of intermediate floors to avoid the reality of their actual count of stories. Thus, the Bristol, for example, had a ground floor for its lobby, and a mezzanine floor above that. The first floor then actually began on what should have been the third. Stoker’s suite on the third floor was in reality the fifth.

A red-haired man of over six foot – about Werthen’s height – answered his knock. He was heavily built with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands; his tweeds fit him loosely as if he had long worn them and had allowed them to bag.

‘You must be the famous Advokat Werthen,’ he said as he grabbed for Werthen’s hand and pummeled it in an aggressive handshake.

His German was passable, about as good as Werthen’s English, so the lawyer decided on German as he replied, ‘And you, I assume, are our famous literary guest, Herr Stoker.’

‘Hardly famous,’ Stoker said. Like many large men, Werthen noticed, Stoker spoke in a strangely high voice. ‘In some quarters infamous, perhaps. But do come in.’

Still shaking his hand, Stoker all but dragged him into the opulent suite. Werthen was struck first and foremost with the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows giving onto the Kärntnerstrasse side of the building: he had a fine bird’s-eye glimpse of the Court Opera.

Werthen barely had a chance to take in the elegant carpets, the Empire furniture, and crystal chandelier before Stoker said breathlessly, ‘You have seen the evening papers, of course. Vampires at work. My lord what an opportunity for me. There were those who doubted my
Dracula.
Now I shall show them. It’s off to Styria for us, Advokat Werthen.’

Gross was livid. He sat amid a scatter of papers from Graz and Vienna. There were even ones from Berlin and Milan. He didn’t have to be proficient in Italian to know that ‘VAMPIRO!’ in the headline of
Corriere della Sera
was referring to the murders in Styria.

It had to be that young gendarme from yesterday, Gross figured. He had overheard Thielman’s silly comment about vampires, and his loose mouth with some local journalist had managed to spread the tale of vampire murders across half of Europe. And, Gross thought, had managed to bring half the journalists of the continent to Graz by the looks of the crowded dining room of the Hotel Daniel. With the arrival of each train at the nearby station, the number of these scriveners seemed to grow exponentially. No matter that the two punctures on the unfortunate young woman’s neck appeared to be made by a very sharp and regular tool, perhaps an ice pick, rather than irregular teeth that would tear a bit, leaving feathering. There was no such sign of feathering. However, these ghouls had come for vampires, and vampires there would be. They would come resurrecting tales from the eighteenth century when the supposed prevalence of vampires in Styria had prompted the Empress Maria Theresa to send vampire hunting troops to the region along with her court physician, Gerard van Swieten. A product of the Enlightenment, van Swieten proved that the outbreak of vampires was a mixture of superstition and ignorance: the unusual states of some corpses in their graves was due not to their rising to drink blood at night, but rather to lack of oxygen in the caskets which prevented decomposition. But obviously it took more than science to put such beliefs to rest.

And for those still crying blood libel, the supposed exsanguination of the victim was another fairy tale. Yes, there was only a puddle of blood left under the corpse of Ursula Klein, but on closer examination Gross discovered that her clothing was soaked in it. She had, in fact, bled out into the clothing. He imagined the same would be the case for the other victims, but he had only begun to study evidence from the other two crime scenes last night.

As the breakfast room continued to fill, Gross decided to set off for the local gendarmerie to further investigate the crime-scene remnants firsthand. There were indeed a number of interesting and telling facets to the reports. Then, as he waved to the serving girl for his check, he was astounded to see a familiar face enter the room.

‘Werthen!’ he cried out. ‘How good to see you.’

Some of the journalists familiar with the detective pair turned their heads at this outburst and then quickly exchanged comments with one another.

Werthen was just as amazed to see Gross, who should have been in Czernowitz where he was the chair of the department of criminology at the Franz Josef University.

‘I had no idea you were involved in all this,’ Werthen said as he and Stoker came to Gross’s table.

‘Thielman, you’ll remember him,’ Gross said. ‘It was he who asked for my assistance on a pair of murders. I arrived only yesterday, just in time for the discovery of a third victim.’

Indeed, Werthen did remember the fleshy Thielman whom Gross had so painstakingly trained as his assistant. Years ago now, it seemed, when Werthen had practiced criminal law in Graz before moving to Vienna.

Gross directed his remarks at Werthen, but his inquiring eyes finally locked on Stoker.

Werthen made quick introductions which hardly seemed to satisfy Gross, but Werthen did not feel like going into particulars at the moment.

‘Might I say what an honor it is to meet you, Doktor Gross. I am a keen follower of your work.’

As opposed to ‘fan’, Werthen thought.

Gross made a noncommittal grunt at this compliment, then said abruptly, ‘Let us leave this circus. As long as you are here, Werthen, I could use your help.’

He stormed out of the breakfast room without further explanation, and Werthen followed, Stoker close behind. The Irishman made no protests, even though he had been looking forward to a second breakfast. The brioche and coffee they had on the early-morning train from Vienna was hardly enough for the burly writer.

Werthen caught up with Gross as he was going through the front door of the hotel.

‘Where are we going, Gross?’

‘The local gendarmerie, of course.’

Werthen turned to Stoker. ‘Perhaps you should see to that breakfast you wanted,’ he told the Irishman. ‘I will be back before noon.’

‘I would much rather accompany you chaps.’

‘I must steal your companion away for a few hours, Herr Stoker,’ Gross said. ‘I am sure you will understand. And there are all these journalists about who would, I am sure, be most eager to speak with the famous author of
Dracula.
’

Werthen had not mentioned Stoker’s authorship of that novel, but of course Gross would know. The man seemed to know everything.

Stoker’s eyes lit up in sudden inspiration. ‘Yes, that might be interesting.’

They left him to his self-promotion and made their way on foot to police headquarters. En route they discussed their mutual cases.

‘I thought you had sworn off such work,’ Gross said, once Werthen explained his commission.

‘Schnitzler made a rather fervent argument, all for the good of the Empire.’

‘You were bored,’ Gross said.

‘I was in need of diversion, yes, I admit. But now I begin to wonder about the wisdom of accepting this case. Stoker complains of unsettling communications, yet he can produce none of these. Not a single letter or telegram. No description of whomever he thinks is following him around.’

‘More self-promotion?’ Gross said.

Werthen shrugged. ‘Perhaps. If so, then the handsome fee from the Concordia will be easy enough to earn. But let us speak of more intriguing matters. What have you learned of these murders? Surely no vampires or Jewish ritual sacrifices, I hope.’

Gross informed him of his discoveries on that score and then added, ‘More likely the work of a psychopath, or someone who wishes to make it appear so.’

Werthen said nothing, peering at Gross with a curious expression.

‘By which I mean,’ the criminalist said, ‘that the murders have a staged appearance to them. Mutilations, fake clues like the puncture wounds on the last victim, signs left at the crime scenes.’

‘What sort of signs?’

‘The sort I have documented in
Criminal Investigations.
At the first crime scene, Thielman found poisonous datura seeds, the sign that gypsies have committed a crime. The gendarme who found these took them for rabbit droppings initially and was about to brush them off the victim before Thielman was able to still his hand. At the second crime scene, the young woman’s clothes were scattered about, and some taken away, which clearly indicates, as I have written, psychopathic superstition. And at the third I discovered human excrement kept warm by the victim’s bonnet. In northern Germany murderers believe that leaving excrement at the scene of the crime will prevent them from being discovered. And the crime itself will not be discovered so long as the excrement is kept warm.’

‘Thus the bonnet,’ Werthen said. ‘Not to conceal it but to keep it warm.’

‘Right,’ Gross said. ‘All three of these were mentioned in my handbook for inspecting magistrates.’

‘You believe these signs were left on purpose to arouse your attention?’

‘No belief about it. I know it to be so.’

‘I realize you are well-known in the world of crime, Gross, but really—’

‘It is not about ego, Werthen.’ He dug a slip of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Werthen.

‘Someone slipped it under the door of my hotel room this morning,’ Gross explained.

Werthen read the message written in what looked to be a schoolboy’s hand:

Let’s see how you deal with this investigation, Herr Criminalist
.

Berthe Meisner sat in front of the easel in her life drawing class. Try as she might, she just could not get the limbs correct. They were bent and straggly where they should be strong. Likewise the two orbs dangling so delicately on the model: in her painting they appeared to be glass Christmas ornaments not living, organic objects.

She wondered again at the wisdom of taking these art classes, but her good friend Rosa Mayreder highly recommended the Vienna Art School for Women and Girls and its principal and main teacher, the painter Tina Blau. Berthe badly needed the distraction, needed to focus on other things than her own feelings of loss.

Perhaps, however, she would be better off devoting more time to her daughter, Frieda, or volunteering to work again at the settlement house in Ottakring which helped to educate the disadvantaged youths of the city. Or even by returning to her early love for journalism.

The last two she had neglected of late, too involved in family and in working with her husband, Karl Werthen, on his private inquiries. She felt a twinge of jealousy that Karl was off now in Styria with the Irish author without her.

‘That is a rather interesting interpretation.’

The voice startled her. Tina Blau was looking over her shoulder at her canvas.

‘I’m not sure I am cut out to be an artist.’

‘Nonsense, Frau Meisner. Art is not merely about representation, but also about feeling. There is feeling in this.’

They both looked at the model and then back to Berthe’s painting. The model in this case was not a human, but a small, potted, espalier apple tree with two apples in the middle. Blau was noted for her atmospheric impressionistic landscapes; for her, the tree was one of the noble forms of life.

‘You have made from this a crucifixion, if you look closely,’ Blau said. ‘Trust your heart.’

Berthe could see now what the painter saw. But still she was little pleased with the result. She was hoping to find diversion in art, not further, albeit unconscious, reflection on her sadness.

Berthe detested self-pity; she was rapidly becoming disgusted with herself.

This must end, she resolved. You have a beautiful daughter, a wonderful husband. Most women would give anything to trade lives with you, she told herself.

Look at Tina Blau, she thought. There were no complaints from her, even though her work did not receive the attention it deserved, for the almighty critics felt it was the mere daubing of a woman and a Jew in a market dominated by the likes of Gustav Klimt and Carl Moll.

Berthe knew the rough outlines of the woman’s life from Mayreder, who was a partner with Blau in the Vienna Art School for Women and Girls. Though Blau had been exhibiting since the 1870s, the only work of hers to gain renown was her
Springtime in the Prater,
from 1882. Blau had happily left Vienna to escape the dominance of the landscape painter Emil Jakob Schindler, her lover, but who was most often mistakenly described as her teacher, though he was three years her junior. Schindler, of course, subsequently became quite well known, and died young of a ruptured appendix. His daughter, Alma, was now being courted by the composer Gustav Mahler, while Schindler’s widow was remarried to the painter Moll.

Vienna is an incestuous town, Berthe decided.

Blau, on the other hand, converted to Christianity in 1883 in order to marry the German painter Heinrich Lang, who specialized in paintings of horses and military campaigns, and the couple had happily lived in Munich. The happiness was short-lived, though, for Lang died in 1891. After a number of years of traveling and painting in Holland and Italy, Blau finally returned to Vienna in 1897 and opened the landscape section of the art school in her own studio, which was part of the huge Prater Rotunde, originally built for the Vienna World Fair of 1873. Thus, instead of being able to make her living as a professional painter, Blau taught painting to others.

But Berthe had never heard the older woman complain.

‘Stay with it, Frau Meisner. You are finding your line.’

Berthe took a fiaker home from the lesson, and began to feel better about herself and her resolution to let the past go. She was eager to reach the flat in the Josefstädterstrasse and give her daughter a big hug. She wondered what Frau Blatschky, their housekeeper and cook, had decided on for lunch, but whatever it was, Berthe suddenly had an appetite.