The Holy Lance Chapter 3

Finishing her hot chocolate, Elena paid the bill and left the old world charm of Demel and, stepping through the doors, moved 200 years forward in time. One of the oldest coffee shops in Vienna, Demel had a good claim to have invented the famous Sachertorte. Whether or not they had, they remained the best place in the city to enjoy a drink and cake, which seemed to come in every colour imaginable, all carefully arrayed behind the glass, wood and bronze display cases. Family owned, little, in front of the scenes anyway, had changed since the Victorian era, guaranteeing the coffee house a place on most tourist itineraries and a devoted following amongst Vienna’s haute bourgeoisie.

It was not just the cold which made her gasp as she walked along Kohlmarkt, it was the change in atmosphere. Seconds before, she could have been in early nineteen hundreds Vienna, a city of art, culture, civilisation and possibly decadence. She could imagine writers, philospohers, composers talking and arguing over steaming cups of chocolate and piles of cake, their silk waistcoats glistening in the candlelight ,eyes sparkling in the omnipresent mirrors. She could even picture the failed artist in the corner, his small mustache coated with cream as he railed against his enemies to any who would listen.

Such illusions were no longer possible, she sighed as she dodged tourists, buskers and anonymous “businesspeople” as she made her way up the street. Whereas previously, each shop would have been family owned, the product lovingly crafted with artisanal skill, they had slowly been replaced with the lowest common denominator of the global retail experience, the stores one could find in every city in every country of the world. Her only satisfaction came from knowing that Starbucks had been refused permission to open. Who needed Starbucks when one had Demel?

Turning right, she moved on to Shauflerg, the baroque splendour of the Hofburg to her left. Although the Habsburgs’ summer palace at Schonbrun was arguably better know, its bright yellow classicism and majestic gardens establishing it as central Europe’s Versaille, she had always preferred the city palace, built on a curve, its grey stone columns towering upwards, topped by the stately green of the copper cupola.

Sadly, she was not going to the palace, but the somewhat more austere buildings across the road from it. Towering walls interspersed with leaded windows and massive oak doors studded with iron knobs lined her side of the street, and through the judas gate in one of them she stepped to be greeted by a concierge, an elderly woman who looked almost as old as the building itself. A lick of paint would have been in order, but the building was not run-down, more shabby chic, in the way that only certain countries, Italy being another ,have been able to pull off. The cracks in the paintwork and occasional missing stair rail paled into insignificance given the overall magnificance of the architecture.

The elderly lady was in obvious distress, being comforted by a uniformed police-woman, snuffling into a tissue. She had seen a lot, the old lady, all Viennese of her age had, and Elena was confident, if not entirely charitable, in assuming that she would soon head off to her favourite coffee shop to regale her cronies about her macabre discovery that morning.

Taking the stairs up to the third floor, the staircase sweeping round in a long, lazy arc, Elena was greeted by more policemen, and a swarm of white suited technicians, combing every inch of the threadbare carpet. Through the solid oak door ahead on the left, a camera flashed. Showing her badge, Elena stepped through into a sumptuously furnished apartment.

Originally built to house the veritable army of servants needed to keep the Habsburg monarchy in the style to which it had become accustomed, the building and its neighbours had, in these more democratic times, be turned into grace and favour apartments for high functionaries of the Austrian State. Given the low rent charged, Elena had heard that it had not increased since the 1970’s, they were a highly sought-after perk for those who had dedicated their lives to serving their country.

The high ceilings, with ornate rococco borders, towered over duck egg blue wall paper with a subtle fleur de lis pattern. One wall was dominated by a scene of the crucifiction, doubtless by one of the more junior old masters, its heavy brass frame sparkling where the spotlights installed metres above hit it. The other side of the room was home to a large display cabinet, dedicated, as far as Elena could tell, to Japanese netsuke, small figurines designed to keep bags closed and attached to their owners in mediaeval Japan, a time before pockets had been invented.

Whoever lived here was obviously someone of impeccable taste, probably quite fastidious, certainly used to the better things in life. And certainly dead. For on the floor, between the two leather Chesterfield sofas, next to the Biedermeyer side table, lay the corpse of Dr Fleicher, his silk dressing gown gaping open, leaving little to the imagination.