A Matter of Breeding (7 page)

‘Kind words,’ she said, and then added, ‘your Highness.’

‘Archduke is sufficient and will you do me the good service of meeting with me?’

‘Of course. When?’

‘Time is of the essence in this matter. Could you possibly come now? I can send an automobile for you at your flat.’

She did not give it a second thought. ‘Yes. Now is fine.’

Setting the receiver back in its cradle, Berthe felt a sudden sense of pride to be summoned by the Archduke. She thought she was above such feelings regarding royalty. They put their breeches on one foot at a time just like other men. But now she saw that she was not so different from the rest of the mass of humanity, awed by the power of royalty.

Berthe turned to her cook. ‘I need to go out again, Frau Blatschky. Perhaps I should call my in-laws at their hotel.’

The cook made a sour face at the suggestion, but otherwise did not resist the suggestion. Frieda could be a handful, and Frau Blatschky needed to get on with dinner preparations.

Karl’s parents had decided to stay in Vienna for a few days while Berthe looked into the Lipizzaner matter. They were lodged in their usual rooms at the nearby Hotel zur Josefstadt and Berthe was able to reach them and ask them to come over now instead of later for dinner.

The car for the Lower Belvedere arrived before the von Werthens did.

Franz Ferdinand received her in his study at the Lower Belvedere Palace. Though Karl had often talked of his meetings with the Archduke, for Berthe this was a new and rather exciting experience. She began to feel disgusted with herself for being so in awe of all this majesty as she was led down a long corridor, its walls covered on one side with a Gobelins tapestry depicting what appeared to be American natives hunting a striped horse, as well as a rhinoceros. A zebra? she thought. In the Americas?

It took only this odd juxtaposition to snap Berthe’s mind out of its sense of wonderment and into a more critical mode. Thus, when she finally reached the Archduke she no longer wondered about curtsying or the proper forms of address. She merely reached her hand out to Franz Ferdinand and he happily shook it.

‘A great pleasure to finally meet you, Frau Meisner,’ he said. Berthe was happy that her husband had obviously appraised Franz Ferdinand of the fact that she had retained her family name. He was no stranger to the vagaries of marriage, forced into a morganatic alliance with his own wife, Sophie von Chotek, who was thought to lack the right amount of royal blood to marry a Habsburg. A picture of her, holding their baby girl, also named Sophie, born just last July, sat in pride of place on his simple desk. Parenthood made Berthe feel an instant kinship with him.

‘I am very pleased, as well,’ she said. ‘And want to offer my thanks personally for your assistance in the von Suttner affair.’

He nodded at this, waving her to take one of the brocade chairs in an intimate seating arrangement by an ornately carved marble fireplace surmounted by an Ormolu clock, matching candlesticks, and mirror, which revealed to Berthe that a strand of hair had come out of her bun on the trip to the palace. The Archduke’s plain desk and leather chair took up a distant corner of the immense space.

‘I appreciate your indulging my whim,’ Franz Ferdinand said once they were both seated. ‘Well, rather more than that,’ he added, ‘but at such short notice. And with a child to look after …’

‘Her grandparents are visiting,’ Berthe said. ‘They love to spoil her. She loves to be spoiled.’

He smiled warmly at this remark. ‘Yes, family,’ he said. ‘One of life’s great joys. I feel I can be honest with you, Frau Meisner. Family seems more important to me than all the power a throne can bring, don’t you think so?’

‘For me, that is an academic question, Archduke. I do not have the burden or the honor of being in line for succession.’

‘Burden is exactly the word,’ he said. ‘Do I shock you?’

‘Not at all. Karl has often told me you have your own mind. An “original”, I think is the way he described you.’

‘Original,’ he repeated the term as if tasting wine. ‘I like that. I am quite different from the way my many critics see me.’

‘To be sure, otherwise why would you help to protect Frau von Suttner?’

Another nod of his head. ‘I was a brash young man, of course. Bellicose and liking nothing better than to slaughter game animals at hunting parties. That set my reputation, I am afraid. But my Sophie has been a wonderful influence. I see things so differently now.’

He looked off into the distance wistfully; Berthe was almost embarrassed for his confession.

‘You must excuse me. I did not invite you here to listen to my prattling. You have heard, of course, of the tragedy at the Stallburg this morning.’

So that was it, Berthe thought. Are our missions once again aligned?

‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘In fact, I have undertaken a commission that may well be connected to that death.’

Franz Ferdinand’s interest was instantly piqued, and Berthe recounted her own interest in the affair.

The Archduke took this all in, not once interrupting her as she spoke, though it quickly became apparent that he too was aware of a possible scandal regarding the Lipizzaner breeding lines.

When she finished, he smiled at her. ‘How fortunate for me, then, that you are already investigating this matter. Captain Putter left a note, you see.’

She felt her pulse quicken. ‘What did he say?’

‘That death was the only way out for him, the only way to avoid shame. He was not more specific.’

‘But there must be a connection,’ she said.

‘It would seem so,’ the Archduke replied. ‘And that is why I summoned you—’

‘Karl, actually,’ she quickly corrected.

He shook his head. ‘I like the way your mind works, Frau Meisner. Would you be prepared to accept my commission?’

‘To do what?’

‘To get to the bottom of this affair. The breeding scandal … the death of Putter. I fear it may cast a pall on this great land.’

‘There may be a conflict of interest, Archduke.’

‘I do not see that, Frau Meisner. We both want to get to the truth. It sounds as if your father-in-law has been taken advantage of. If that is the case, then the truth can only help, not hurt him.’

She said nothing for a moment.

‘So, will you?’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘Will you be my eyes and ears in this matter? It all goes to Piber,’ he added. ‘I am convinced of that.’

Piber, in Styria, was, Berthe knew, home to a major stud farm for the cavalry of the Austro-Hungarian Army. It was also, if she remembered correctly, headquarters of Premium Breeds.

‘I wonder …’ Gross suddenly said mid-bite of his breakfast
kipferl
.

Werthen and Stoker exchanged glances. They had been speaking of inconsequential matters: the state of the weather (rather mild for this late in the year) and the level of culinary delights to be found at the Hotel Daniel (subterranean). But Gross’s non sequitur interjection ended such mundane pursuits, for it was patently obvious that the great criminalist was wondering about the case at hand and not about the quality of today’s
kipferl
.

‘Do share, Gross,’ Werthen prompted.

‘I had a loathsome sleep last night,’ Gross said. ‘Or rather non-sleep. I just kept going over and over in my head who I might have wronged that they should attempt such barbarous revenge.’

Gross rubbed his large hand over his face. Werthen thought that he indeed did look the worse for wear this morning: grey smudged the bags under his eyes.

‘It may be some totally different motive, Gross—’ Werthen began, but his former mentor cut him off.

‘Of course it may. You don’t think I know that? Nonetheless, I was plagued all last night with a rogue’s gallery of faces that might have some reason to want to destroy my good name. Criminals, lawyers, and other supine forms of low life who may have been defeated by me in the past.’

‘I thank you for that,’ said Werthen, a former defense attorney himself and, as such, often routed by Gross.

But Gross was, as usual, beyond paying attention to other mortals.

‘Why, Inspector Thielman himself might very well have laid all this on for me, tired of being the man Gross trained. Not a resonant legacy for a proud ex-military man. He has always been simply competent in his job, never a standout. Could he be harboring feelings of jealousy all these years? Who better to have left the trail of clues from my own writing at the scenes of these crimes than Thielman? He was the very man to request my assistance.’

‘Thielman?’ Werthen said with a degree of incredulity, but Gross charged on.

‘And so I wonder about others. And it just struck me that Herr Doktor Reininger of the Munich courts sent me a most unpleasant letter following publication of my
Criminal Investigations.
The fellow had the temerity to accuse me of pilfering his footprint analysis technique for my book. Footprints!’

He nearly shouted this last word, which brought the muffle of voices and clacking of cutlery against china to an abrupt halt in the busy dining room. All eyes were suddenly on their table, and Werthen, as so many times in the past, felt compelled to somehow apologize or at least indirectly offer an explanation for Gross’s odd behavior.

‘Well, footprints do serve as the groundwork of investigation,’ he said rather more loudly than he usually spoke in public spaces. The pun brougtht a slight chuckle from Stoker, but was met by a contemptuous look from Gross.

‘Whatever is the matter with you this morning, Werthen? Has the country air quite addled your thought processes? This is no time for adolescent humor.’

The eyes were still on their table and now Gross turned to the other diners.

‘Don’t you all have something better to chew on at breakfast than gossip?’

After an awkward silence, the room once again returned to its normal hum of activity.

‘As I was saying,’ Gross continued, ‘Herr Doktor Reininger was most uncivil. I believe I saved his letter someplace.’

‘Gross,’ Werthen said, his cheeks still stinging as if Gross’s remark to him were an actual slap, ‘it is not often I remind you that you are a human. That, like it or not, you belong to human society and that there are certain codes of behavior. You speak of Herr Doktor Reininger’s incivility as if you are a foreigner to such behavior yourself.’

Gross slapped a meaty hand down on the table top. ‘That is the Advokat Werthen I know and respect. Bravo for a stirring oration. Your apology is accepted.’

Werthen was about to further complain, but finally gave it up with a disappointed shake of the head.

‘I am going to send a telegram to Munich this very instant. I want to know the whereabouts of our dear friend, Reininger.’ He rose abruptly. ‘Meanwhile, you gentlemen should finish your breakfast. We leave once I return from the telegraph office.’

Gross stuck the unfinished
kipferl
in his jacket pocket, swilled down the remainder of the coffee, and stomped out of the dining room like a man well shed of bad company.

‘Is he always like that?’ Stoker asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

‘No,’ Werthen assured him. ‘Sometimes he’s worse.’

They had booked a closed fiaker for nine thirty. It was now a quarter to ten and still no Gross. Werthen and Stoker sat in the carriage, each poring over the morning papers.

The vampire angle still prevailed in several editions, while the right-wing press opted for Jewish ritual murders. However, some enterprising reporter had spoken with Richard von Krafft-Ebing, Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Vienna and author of
Psychopathia Sexualis,
the premier handbook on sexual deviation. Werthen knew the man well, as Krafft-Ebing had assisted them on more than one of their cases, helping to build a profile of the possible perpetrator from the very nature and specifics of the crime. In the current case of these Styrian murders, Krafft-Ebing opined – as quoted in Vienna’s foremost daily,
Die Presse
– that the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes displayed symptoms of ‘inversion’. The report went on, quoting the eminent psychiatrist: ‘Such brutal killings indicate that the killer, most probably a male, has a deep-seated neurosis, sexual in nature. However, the release of such a neurosis is apparently asexual. This means that the killer is able to keep his deviancy under control, to hide it from the world. Outwardly, he may appear the most mild-mannered of men. The police have their work cut out for them in this case
.
’

Krafft-Ebing went on to note that often such individuals displayed an early proclivity to sadistic brutality toward domestic and farm animals, including mutilations, offering further quotes from
Psychopathia Sexualis
to prove his point.

This reminded Werthen very strongly of the advice Krafft-Ebing had served up in the first case he and Gross had worked on together, a series of murders in the Vienna Prater for which the painter Gustav Klimt was so wrongfully accused.

And one more thought: how had Krafft-Ebing gotten details of the killings? The local police had attempted to keep details of the mutilations from the press. But it was apparent that Krafft-Ebing knew something of the specifics of these hideous crimes.

His thoughts were interrupted by Gross’s arrival. The criminalist threw the carriage door open in an apparent huff and got in, making the fiaker rock back and forth as he took his seat.

‘So much for Reininger,’ he said, gripping his hands together on his lap.

Werthen feigned disinterest, staring blankly into his newspaper.

Gross sighed dramatically. ‘I was able to make a trunk call to Munich at the railway station.’

Still no response from Werthen or Stoker.

‘Well, don’t you want to know what I learned?’

Werthen finally put down his newspaper. ‘I am sure you will inform us.’

‘Herr Doktor Reininger, despite his incivility, is not among the suspects. He died last year. Silly man, fell off an alp. What is a forensic scientist doing traipsing about in the mountains?’

The fiaker took off with a jerk, thrusting Werthen back in his seat. Gross, seated across from him, took the newspaper out of his lap and found the article Werthen was reading.