Vienna Secrets by Frank Tallis Page A

lowered his arm, and the nurse passed through. As he did so, he maintained eye contact with the priest.
    “Herr Doctor,” said the priest, “how do you think the baron’s family will react when they hear that their son was denied absolution at the time of his death?”
    Liebermann sighed. “Once again, I must remind you that my responsibilities differ from yours. I am sorry that you have had a wasted journey. Edlinger will escort you to the foyer.”
    Liebermann could hear the nurse’s footsteps returning—and knew immediately that the baron was dead.
    The priest was an intelligent man. He too recognized the significance of her swift return. Turning, he took his cape from the stand and said, “I can see myself out, thank you.”
    For a moment he stopped in the doorway.
    “Liebermann… That is your name?”
    “Yes.”
    The priest nodded and left, his flapping cape creating a gust of chill air that lifted some of the loose papers on the table.

8
    T HE GOLDEN HORNED SPHERE on top of the plague column was struck by sunlight, and a flare of white radiance ignited beneath the Virgin’s feet. Two stone figures, casually perched on the Maria Treue Kirche façade, legs dangling into space, looked curiously unimpressed by the spectacle. Their raised hands directed the eye toward the ornate clock face instead of the Virgin, suggesting that the passage of time was a matter of much greater significance than divine pyrotechnics.
    Rheinhardt circumnavigated the plague column and placed himself just inside one of the two doorways that flanked the central and much larger entrance to the church.
    A woman, with a small child in tow, crossed the concourse and laid a wreath by the lamppost beneath which the mutilated remains of Brother Stanislav had been discovered. Others had already paid their respects. The ground was covered with floral tributes that formed a makeshift garden, the colors of which blazed in the brilliant light. The woman urged her son to say a prayer, but he was too young to understand the purpose of his mother’s manipulations—the joining of his hands, the closing of his eyes, and the guiding of his tiny fingers to the four points of the cross. His mother let him go, and he walked back to the plague column, where he peered through the railings at the assembly of saints, angels, knights, and cherubs. A carriage came rattling down the road, and the boy turned, emitting a gurgle of pleasure at the sight of two piebald horses.
    His mother bowed her head, closed her eyes, and her lips moved silently as she recited a Hail Mary. The central door of the church opened and two monks emerged from the darkness. They were both middle-aged but differed greatly in build: the first was tall, pale, and emaciated, while the second was short, ruddy, and plump.
    The woman opened her eyes. They were bright with tears.
    The two monks halted.
    “Romy, come over here—at once.” The little boy ran to his mother, but on arrival hid behind her skirts, clutching the coarse material in his hands. “Don’t be shy, Romy. Say good morning to the holy fathers.”
    The boy peeped out from his hiding place, but said nothing. The short monk rested his hands on the projecting shelf of his stomach and smiled indulgently.
    “I brought a wreath,” said the woman.
    “Thank you,” said the short monk.
    “He was so kind, so caring. I don’t know what I would have done without his help. After my husband died, I had no one.” She wiped the tears from her face as soon as they appeared. “He was a saint.”
    “Pray for him,” said the short monk.
    “Yes, pray for him,” repeated his lean companion. “It is what Brother Stanislav would have wanted, and it is all that we poor sinners can do now.”
    The woman reached for her son’s hand and began walking back to the road. When she was out of earshot, the short monk exclaimed, “A saint!”
    “Indeed!” said the tall monk, raising his gaze irreverently to the heavens.
    They stepped over