The Holy Lance - Chapter 6

Finally released after a further hour of questioning, Simon headed for the nearest taxi stand and made his way back to the hotel. Reviewing the recent events in his mind, he congratulated himself on having spent so much time and money only to become part of a police investigation of the murder of a man he had never met. Warned to stay in the city for another 24 hours, Vienna seemed far more threatening than the chocolate box fantasy he had imagined.

Ascending the six floors to his room, some vaguely identifiable yet maddeningly unfamiliar melody tinkling in his ear, he decided on a shower before heading to the nearest affordable restaurant. His key-card rejected three times, he finally collapsed into the room and sat on the bed. An orange light blinking on its console drew his eyes to the telephone. A message, but no-one knew he was here. Must be that bloody policewoman. Women in uniforms had never been Simon’s thing, and after today, they had slipped even further down his list.

He dialled reception and was intrigued to learn that there was a letter waiting for him. With typical efficiency, a knock on his door three minutes later signalled its arrival. Addressed to him in beautiful copper-plate hand, the pure white envelope obviously came from the desk of a rich man. Opening it, Simon extracted a thick card, the type commonly known as a “stiffy”, with the motto “Viennese Friends of Wadham” embossed on the top, along with the college crest.

The sender, a Herr Schmidt, apologised for the intrusion but also for his ignorance of the presence in his city of so esteemed a guest as the Wadham Fellow in Ancient History. The only possible way to make amends was to invite Simon to dinner that evening at 7pm at the Drei Husaren. Jacket and tie recommended.

Given that it was now 6pm, Simon did not have much time for debate. Deciding that a free meal and company was better than paying for his own, on his own, he headed for the shower, praying that his one decent shirt had survived his packing reasonably intact.

Looking as presentable as an academic should, Simon shortly found himself in another taxi, heading for the restaurant. He suspected the Warden was up to something, asking some Austrian old boy to look after him during his compassionate leave. Very kind, but not really necessary, and he hoped he would not have to put up with an evening of reminiscences about undergraduate japes in the 1950’s.

Drawing up outside what looked like a shop in the middle of a narrow lane in the centre of town, Simon headed down a long passageway, the left hand wall full of glass display cabinets for local jewellers. Wondering if the restaurant was a popular place for proposals, he approached the dark wooden desk and asked for Herr Schmidt.

“And you are?” asked the receptionist, although his bearing rather precluded the use of such a vulgar term.

“Simon Pelham. Dr Simon Pelham” he replied, using the only potential weapon of intimidation in his armory, hoping that Austrians shared their German cousins’ predeliction for titles.

“Ah Dr Pelham. Yes, Herr Schmidt is indeed expecting you. Please sir, follow me.” A slight bow. Either the man was unreasonably impressed by academic credentials, or Herr Schmidt was an important, and regular, guest. Led into the main dining room, Simon’s eyes adjusted to the gentle light, designed, no doubt, with ladies of a certain age in mind. Tables were discretely separated, and tones hushed, giving the immediate impression that this was a restaurant for the powerful. The whole room, from its subtle carpets to its maroon armchairs, cried out good taste. Simon was already beginning to feel uncomfortable.