Funeral in Blue

chapter Ten
Monk left London on the last train to Dover, so he could catch the first boat of the morning across to Calais and on through Paris to Vienna.  It was a journey which would take him three days and eight hours, assuming all went well and he at no time got lost or met with any delays or mechanical faults.  A second-class ticket cost 8. 5s. 6d.

At any other time the journey would have fascinated him.  He would have been absorbed by the countryside, the towns he passed, the architecture of the buildings, and the dress and manners of the people.  His fellow passengers would have interested him particularly, even though he did not understand their conversation and could deduce only what observation and knowledge of human nature told him.  But his mind was intent upon what he would find in Vienna, and trying to formulate the questions he should ask in order to learn some truth through the mist of heroic memory.

The journey seemed endless and he lost all sense of time and place.  He was imprisoned with strangers in a padded iron room which swayed and jolted through alternate grey daylight and intense darkness as autumn evenings closed in.  Sometimes it was clear, sometimes rain pattered against the windows, blurring the view of farmland, villages, bare forests.

He slept fitfully.  He found it difficult when there was no space to lie, and after the first night and day his muscles protested against the constant inactivity.  He could speak to no one because it seemed all the other passengers in his coach understood only French or German.

He exchanged polite nods and smiles, but it did little to break the monotony.

His mind raced over possibilities of success and failure, all the difficulties that might arise to prevent his learning anything of use, above all that he was ignorant not only of the language but of the culture of the people.

And what would success be?  That he could prove Niemann guilty?  That he could find and take back to London something at least to raise a reasonable doubt?  What, for example?  No one was going to confess, not in any form that could be used.  Sworn testimony of a quarrel, money, or revenge?  Would that be sufficient, along with the evidence that Niemann had been in London?

And was Monk taking the chance of accusing and perhaps slandering a man who was innocent?

All that turned over and over in his mind during the long days and interrupted nights as the train crossed France and made its way over the border into Germany, then on into Austria, and finally through the city outskirts into the heart of Vienna.

Monk climbed to his feet and retrieved his luggage.  His back and legs ached, his mouth was dry and his head pounded with weariness.  He longed to smell fresh air and to be able to walk more than a few swaying steps without bumping into anything and having to stand aside as someone passed him.

He alighted on to the platform amid clouds of steam and the rattle and clang of doors, shouted orders, greetings, demands for porters and assistance, little of which he could understand.  He grasped his single case and, feeling profoundly lost, he started to walk along the platform, patting his inside pocket again to assure himself his money and letters from Callandra and Pendreigh were still there.  He looked for the way out to the street, and the struggle to find a cab of some sort with a driver who would understand his request to be taken to the British Embassy.

He was crumpled and dirty, which he loathed, and tired beyond the point of thinking clearly, when at last he was deposited on the steps of Her Britannic Majesty's Embassy to the Court of the Emperor Franz Josef of Austro-Hungaria.  He paid the driver in Austrian shillings, from the startled look on his face, far more than he deserved.  He climbed up the steps, case in his hand, knowing he looked like some desperate Englishman fallen on hard times and begging for assistance.  It galled his pride.

It took Monk another hour and a half before his letters gained him audience with a senior aide to the Ambassador, who explained that His Excellency was heavily engaged in matters of state for the next two days at the least.  However, if a guide and interpretator was all Monk required, no doubt something could be done.  He looked down at Pendreigh's letter spread open on the desk in front of him, and Monk thought he saw more respect in the man's face than affection.

It did not surprise him.  Pendreigh was a formidable man, a good friend perhaps, but a bad enemy for certain.  But then no doubt the same would have been said of Monk himself.  He recognised the impatience, the ambition to assess and to judge.

"Thank you," he accepted stiffly.

"I will send someone in the morning," the aide replied.  "Where are you staying?" Monk glanced down at his suitcase and then at the man, his eyebrows raised very slightly.  The question had been intended as patronising, and they both knew it.

The aide blushed very slightly.  "The Hotel Bristol is very good.  It is not inspiring from the outside, but it is beautiful inside, especially if you like marble.  The food is excellent.  It is first in the Karntner Ring.  They speak excellent English, and will be delighted to help you."

"Thank you," Monk said graciously, relieved to have Callandra's money, and Pendreigh's, so that the charge was immaterial to him.  "I shall be obliged if whoever is good enough to assist me would present themselves there at nine o'clock at the latest, so I can begin this extremely urgent matt eras soon as possible.  You are no doubt aware of the tragic death of Mr.  Pendreigh's daughter, Elissa von Leibnitz, who was something of a heroine in this city."  He was highly satisfied to see from the man's blush that he did not.

"Of course," the aide said soberly.  "Please convey my condolences to the family."

"Of course," Monk muttered, picking up his case and going out into the distinctly chilly night air, aware of the sharp east wind like a slap on his skin.

He was up, breakfasted and was waiting in the morning, his temper already raw, when a fair-haired youth of no more than fourteen or fifteen approached him in the magnificent marble lobby of the hotel. He was slender and his face had a freshly scrubbed look, probably occasioned by the weather outside.  He looked more like a schoolboy than a servant on an errand.

"Mr.  Monk?"  he asked with a certain eagerness which instantly confirmed Monk's impression.  He had probably come from the Embassy to say that his father, or brother could assist Monk in the afternoon, or worse still, tomorrow.

Monk answered him rather curtly.  "Yes?  Have you a message for me?"

"Not exactly, sir."  His blue eyes were bright but he maintained his self-possession.  "My name is Ferdinand Gerhardt, sir.  The British Ambassador is my uncle.  I believe you would like someone to guide you around Vienna, and interpret for you on occasion.  I should be glad to offer my services."  He stood to attention, polite, eager, a curious mixture of English schoolboy and young Austrian aristocrat.  He did not quite click his heels.

Monk was furious.  They had sent him a child, as if he wished to while away a week or so seeing the sights.  It would be inexcusable to be rude, but he could not waste either time or Callandra's money in evasion.

"I am not sure what you were told," he said with as much good grace as he could manage.  "But I am not here on holiday.  A woman has been murdered in London, and I am seeking information about her past here in Vienna, and friends of hers who may be able to lead me to the truth of what happened.  If I fail, an innocent man may be hanged, and soon." The boy's eyes widened, but he did his best to maintain the sort of calm his imagination told him was dignified.  "I'm very sorry, sir.

That sounds a terrible thing.  Where would you like to begin?"

"How old are you?"  Monk said, trying to conceal his mounting anger and sense of desperation.

A couple of very pretty women walked past them, giving them a curious glance.

Ferdinand stood very straight.  "Fifteen, sir," he said softly.  "But I speak excellent English.  I can translate anything you wish.  And I know Vienna very well."  There was a definite touch of pink in his cheeks.

Monk had no memory whatever of having been fifteen.  He was embarrassed and angry, and he had no idea where to begin.  "The events I need to enquire about took place when you were two years old!"  he said between clenched teeth.  "Which is going to limit your abilities considerably, no matter how excellent your English!" Ferdinand was embarrassed also, but he did not give up easily.  He had been handed an adult job to do, and he intended to discharge it with honour.  His eyes did not waver from Monk's, even though they were distinctly challenging and unhappy.  "What year exactly, sir?"

"In 1848," Monk replied.  "I expect you learned about it in school." It was not a question, simply a rather tart observation.

"Actually not very much," Ferdinand admitted with a slight tightening of his lips.  "Everybody says something different.  I'd jolly well like to know the truth!  Or rather more of it, anyway."  He glanced around him at the marble-faced hotel lobby where a small group of well-dressed gentlemen had come in and were talking.  Two ladies seated on well-upholstered chairs exchanged a piece of entertaining gossip, bending towards each other very slightly to bridge the gap between them created by the billowing of their skirts.

"Are you going to stay in Vienna for a while?"  Ferdinand asked.  "If you are, maybe you'd be better to find rooms over in the Josefstadt, or somewhere like that.  Cheaper too.  That's where people sit around in cafes and talk about ideas and... and plan sedition.  At least so I've heard," he added quickly.

There was no better alternative offering, except wandering around alone, unable to understand more than a few words, so with as much gratitude as he could assume, Monk accepted.  He checked out of his room, settled the bill, and with his case in his hand, followed Ferdinand down the steps of the hotel and into the busy street of a strange city with very little idea of what to do or where to begin in what was looking like an increasingly hopeless task.

"You may call me Ferdi, if you don't mind, sir," the boy said, watching carefully as if Monk had been not only a stranger in the city, but one lacking in the ordinary skills of survival, such as watching for traffic before crossing the road, or paying attention so as not to become separated from his guide and thus getting lost.  Perhaps he had younger brothers or sisters and was occasionally put in charge of them.

With a considerable effort, Monk schooled himself to be amused rather than angry.

Most of the morning was taken up in finding suitable accommodation in a very small guesthouse in the less expensive quarter where it seemed students and artists lived.

"Revolutionaries," Ferdi informed Monk in a discreet manner, making sure he was not overheard.

"Are you hungry?"  Monk asked him.

"Yes, sir!"  Ferdi responded instantly, then looked uncomfortable.

Perhaps a gentleman did not so readily admit to such needs, but it was too late to take it back.  "But of course I can wait a while, if you prefer to ask questions first," he added.

"No, we'll eat," Monk said unhappily.  This whole thing was abortive.

He had made Callandra believe he could learn something of use when it was beyond his capabilities even to ask for a slice of bread or a cup of tea or as it was far more likely to be coffee!

"Very good," Ferdi said cheerfully.  "I suppose you have some money?" he added as an afterthought.  "I'm afraid I haven't much."

"Yes, I have plenty," Monk said without relish.  "I think it is perfectly fair that the least I do is offer you lunch." Ferdi duly found a small cafe, and with his mouth full of excellent steak, he asked Monk who, precisely, it was that he was looking for.

"A man named Max Niemann," Monk replied, also with his mouth full. "But I need to learn as much as possible about him before he is aware that I am looking for him."  He had decided to trust Ferdi with a reasonable portion of the truth.  He had very little to lose.  "It is possible that it was he who killed the woman in London."  Then seeing Ferdi's face he realised that he had no right whatever to endanger him, even slightly.  Perhaps his parents would prefer that he did not even know about such subjects as murder, although that consideration was rather late.  "If you are to help me, you must do exactly what I say!" he said sternly.  "If I allow any harm to come to you, I dare say the Viennese police will throw me in prison and I shall never find my way out." That would be very unfortunate," Ferdi agreed gravely.  "I gather what we are about to do is a trifle dangerous." It was completely idiotic.  Monk was foundering out of his depth and trying very hard not to let despair drown him.

Ferdi looked keen and attentive.  "What would you like me to ask someone, sir?  What is it you really need to know, other than who killed this poor lady?" There was nothing to lose.  "Say that I am an English novelist, writing a book about the uprising in '48?"  he began, the ideas forming in his head as he spoke.  "Ask for as many first-hand stories as you can find.

The names I am concerned with are Max Niemann, Kristian Beck and Elissa von Leibnitz."

"Absolutely!"  Ferdi said fervently, his eyes bright with admiration.

The rest of that day was largely a matter of asking people tentatively and being more or less dismissed.  By the time Monk went to bed in his new lodgings, saying "Thank you' in some approximation of German, he felt lost and inadequate.  He lay in the dark, acutely conscious that Hester was not beside him.  She was in London, trusting that he would bring back weapons of truth to defend Kristian.  And Kristian would be lying awake in a narrow prison cot.  Was he also trusting Monk to find some element which would be a key to make sense of tragedy?  Or did he know it already, and was trusting with just as much passion that Monk would wander pointlessly around a strange city where all speech was a jumble of noise, everybody else was rushing about business, or strolling in fashionable idleness, but belonging, understanding.

Damn them!  He would seek out the past!  He would find it, whether it meant anything or not.  If nothing else, Max Niemann would be able to tell him about Kristian as he had been then.  But before he approached him, he would hear the same stories from other people, so he could judge the truth of Niemann's account.  What he needed was another member of that group from thirteen years ago, from Kristian's list.

He finally drifted off to sleep with a firmer plan in mind, and did not waken until it was broad daylight, and he was extremely hungry.

With much nodding and smiling his hostess gave him an excellent breakfast with rather more rich, sweet pastry than he cared for, but the best coffee he had ever tasted.  With repetition of "Danke schon" over and over, he smiled back, and then set out with a freshly scrubbed and very eager Ferdi, who had spent all evening and a good part of the night reading accounts of the '48 rising.  He was full of a jumble of facts and stories that had gathered the patina and exaggeration of legend already.  He relayed them with great enthusiasm as he and Monk walked along the street side by side towards the magnificence of the Parliament and the gardens beyond, now bare.

"It actually sort of began in the middle of March," Ferdi told him.

"There was an uprising in Hungary already, and it spread here.  Of course, Hungary is vast, you know?  About six or seven times as big as Austria!  All the nobles and senior clergy were due to meet in the Landhaus.  That's on the Herrengasse," he pointed ahead of them, 'over there.  I can take you if you want?  Anyway, it seems they were asking for all sorts of reforms, particularly freedom of the press, and to get rid of Prince Metternich.  Students, artisans, and workers mostly, forced their way into the building.  About one o'clock a whole lot of Italian grenadiers shot into the crowd and killed thirty or more ordinary people.  I mean, they weren't criminals or the very poor, or lunatics like the French Revolutionaries were in '89, last century." He stared at Monk as they came to the Auerstrasse and were obliged to wait several moments for a break in the traffic to cross.

"That was the really big one," he went on.  "Ours was over within the year."  He smiled almost apologetically.  "Pretty much everything is back as it was.  Of course, Prince Metternich is gone, but he was seventy-four anyway, and he's been around since before Waterloo!"  His voice rose in incredulity as if he could barely grasp anyone having been alive so long.

Monk hid a smile.

"Then the barricades went up all over the city," Ferdi went on, matching his stride to Monk's.  "But it was killing the people that really drove them to send Metternich into exile."  A flash of pity lit his young face.  "I suppose that's a bit hard, when you're that old.

Anyway," he resumed, 'in May they drove the whole court out of Vienna Emperor Ferdinand and everyone.  They all went to Innsbruck.  Actually, you know, there was trouble just about everywhere that year."  He checked to make sure Monk was listening.  "In Milan and Venice too, which gave us a lot of bother.  They are ours as well, even though they're Italian.  Did you know that?"

"Yes," Monk answered, remembering his own trip to Venice, and how the proud Venetians had hated the Austrian yoke on their shoulders.  "Yes, I did know."

"We've sort of got the German Empire to the north-west, and the Russian Empire to the north-east, and us in the middle," Ferdi went on, increasing his pace to keep up with Monk's longer legs.  "Anyway, in May they formed a Committee of Public Safety sounds just like the French, doesn't it?  But we didn't have a guillotine, and we didn't kill many people at all." Monk was not certain if that was pride, or slight sense of anticlimax.

"You must have killed some!"  he responded.

Ferdi nodded.  "Oh, we did!  We made rather a good job of it, actually, in October.  They hanged the War Minister, Count Baillat de Latour from a lamppost!  The mob did!  Then they forced the Government and the Parliament to go to Olmutz, which is in Moravia that's north of here, in Hungary."  He heaved a great sigh.  "But it all came to nothing. The aristocracy and the middle classes which is us, I suppose supported Field Marshal Prince Windsichgratz, and the uprising was all put down.

I expect that was when your friends were very brave, and did whatever it was you need to find out about."

"Yes," Monk agreed, looking about him at the busy, prosperous streets with their magnificent architecture, and trying to imagine Kristian here, and Elissa, battling for reform of such a vast, seemingly untouchable force of government.  He had seen in every direction the superb facades of the state and government buildings, the mansions and theatres, museums, opera houses and galleries.  What fire of reform had burned inside them that they dared attempt to overthrow such power?

They must have cared passionately, more than most people care about anything.  Where would you ever begin to shake the foundations of such monolithic control?

He could see in Ferdi's young face that something of it had caught him also.

"I need to find the people on my list," he said aloud, 'the people who were there then, and knew my friends."

"Right oh!"  Ferdi answered, blushing with happiness and enthusiasm, striding out even more rapidly so Monk was now obliged to lengthen his own step to keep up.  "Have you got money for a carriage?" That afternoon they saw streets where the barricades had been, even chips out of stone walls where bullets had struck and ricocheted.  They had supper in one of the cafes in which young men and women had sat huddled over the same table, by candlelight, planning revolution, a new world of liberty on the horizon, or mourned the loss of friends, perhaps in silence but for the rain on the windows and the occasional tramp of passing feet on the pavement outside.

Monk and Ferdi ate soup and bread in silence, each lost in thoughts which might have been surprisingly similar.  Monk wondered about the bond between people who shared the hope and the sacrifice of such times.  Could anything that came in the pedestrian life afterwards break such a bonding?  Could anyone who had not been in that danger and hope enter into the circle or be anything but an onlooker?

In the flickering candlelight, with the murmur of conversation at the little tables around them, it could have been thirteen years ago.

Ferdi's young face, flushed and lit golden by the candle in an upturned wine-bottle, could have been one of theirs.  The smell of coffee and pastry and wet clothes from the rain outside would be the same, the water streaking the windows, wavering the reflecting streetlamps and, as the door opened and closed, the splash of water, the brief hiss of carriage wheels.  Except that the dreams were gone, the air was no longer one of excitement, danger and sacrifice, it was comfortable, rigidly set prosperity and law in the old way, with the old rules and the old exclusions.  The powerful were still powerful, and the poor were still voiceless.

In spite of the defeat of the revolution, Monk envied Kristian and Max their pasts.  He had no memory of belonging, of being part of a great drive for his own people, any cause fought for, or even believed in. He had no idea if he had ever cared about an issue passionately enough to fight for it, die for it, enough to bond him to others in that friendship that is the deepest trust, and goes through life and death in a unity greater than common birth and blood, education or ambition, and makes you one of a whole that outlasts all its parts.

The closest he had ever come to that was fighting a cause for justice, with Hester, and then with Oliver Rathbone, and Callandra.  That was the same feeling, the will to succeed because it mattered beyond individual pain or cost, exhaustion or pride.  It was a kind of love that enlarged them all.

How could it possibly be that Kristian or Max Niemann could have murdered Elissa, no matter how she had changed in the years since?

He pushed his empty cup away and stood up.  "Tomorrow we must find people who fought in May, and October," he said as Ferdi stood up too.

"The ones on my list.  I can't wait any longer.  Begin asking.  Say it is for anything you like, but find them." The first successful conversation was stilted because it was translated with great enthusiasm by Ferdi, but of necessity went backwards and forwards far more slowly than it would have had Monk understood a word of German.

"What days!"  the old man said, sipping appreciatively at the wine Monk had bought for them, though he insisted on water for Ferdi, to his disgust.  "Yes, of course I remember them.  Wasn't so long ago, although it seems like it now.  Except for the dead, you'd think those times had never happened!"

"Did you know many of the people?"  Ferdi asked eagerly.  He had no need to pretend his ardour.  It shone in his eyes and quivered in the edge to his voice.

"Of course I did!  Knew lots of them.  Saw the best those that lived through it and those that didn't."  He reeled off half a dozen names.

"Max Niemann, Kristian Beck, Hanna Jakob, Ernst Stifter, Elissa von Leibnitz.  Never forget her.  Most beautiful woman in Vienna, she was.

Like a dream, a flame in the darkness of those days.  As much courage as any man... more!" Ferdi's eyes shone.  He was leaning forward, lips parted.

Monk tried to look sceptical, but he had seen Allardyce's painting of her, and he knew what the old man meant.  It was not a perfection of form, nor even a delicacy of feature, it was the passion inside her, the force of her vision which made her unique.  She had had the power to carry others into her dreams.

The old man was frowning at him.  He spoke to Ferdi, and Ferdi smiled at Monk.  "He says I'm to tell you that if you don't believe him, you should go and ask others.  Shall I tell him you'd like to do that?"

"Yes," Monk agreed quickly.  "Ask him about Niemann and Beck, but don't sound too keen."  He must find something relevant to the personal passions and envies, more than a history lesson, however ardent.

Ferdi ignored the warning with great dignity.  He turned to the old man, and Monk was obliged to listen to a quarter of an hour of animated conversation, mostly from the old man, but with Ferdi putting in increasingly excited questions.  Ferdi kept glancing at Monk, willing him not to interrupt.

As soon as they were outside in the rain again and the shifting pattern of gas lamps the wind sharp-edged and cold in their faces, Ferdi began.

"Max Niemann was one of the heroes," he said excitedly.  "He came out for the reforms straight away, not like some people who waited to see the chances of success, or what their friends or family would think of them!" They came to the corner of the street and a carriage swished by, spraying mud and water.  Monk leaped backwards but Ferdi was too absorbed in his story to notice.  He was wet up to the knees, and oblivious of it.  As soon as it was clear, he set out across the roadway and Monk hastened to keep up with him.

"He was brave as well," Ferdi went on.  "He was right out there on the barricades when the real fighting began.  So was Elissa von Leibnitz.

He told me one story of how when the fighting was really awful in October, after they'd hanged the minister and the army just charged in, several young men were shot and fell in the street.  Frau von Leibnitz took a gun herself and went out, shouting and waving, firing at the soldiers.  She knew how to and she wasn't scared.  All by herself she drove them back until others could crawl out and get the wounded men back behind the barricades."

"Where was Kristian?"  Monk asked.  "Or Max?"

"Max was one of the ones hurt," Ferdi replied, glancing sideways to make sure Monk was keeping up with him in the dark.  "Kristian was trying to stop a man bleeding to death from a terrible wound.  He had one hand holding a pad on the man's shoulder, and he was shouting to Elissa to stop, or someone to help her, and waving his other arm."

"But Elissa wasn't hurt?"

"Apparently not.  There was one woman called Hanna who was with them.

She went right out in front too.  She was one of those who dragged the wounded men back.  And she used to carry messages too, right through where the army had taken the city back, to where their own revolutionaries were cut off at the far side.  And carry messages to their allies in the Government as well."

"Can we speak to her?"  Monk asked eagerly.  It would be a first-hand account from another person who knew them well.  She might have noticed more of relationships, the undercurrents of envy or passion between Kristian and Max.

"I asked," Ferdi agreed, his face suddenly very sober.  "But he thinks she was one of those killed in the uprising.  He told me roughly where Max Niemann still lives, though.  He's very respectable now.  The Government hasn't forgotten which side he was on when it mattered, and they just can't afford to punish everybody, or it would all get out of hand again.  Too many people think highly of Herr Niemann."  Ferdi waved his hands excitedly.  "But that's not all.  It seems that your friend Herr Beck was a pretty good hero too, a real fighter.  Not only brave, but pretty clever a sort of natural leader.  He had the courage to face the enemy down.  Could read people rather well, and knew when to call a bluff, and just how far to go.  He was tougher than Niemann, and prepared to take the risks."

"Are you sure?"  It did not sound like the man Monk had seen.  Surely Ferdi had it the wrong way around.  "Beck is a doctor."

"Well, he could have it wrong, I suppose, but he seemed absolutely sure!" Monk did not argue.  His feet ached and he was exhausted.  He felt cold through to the bone, and it was still more than a mile back to his rooms in the Josefstadt.  Before he could even think of that he must make certain he found a carriage to take Ferdi safely home.  This was his city, but Monk still felt responsible for him.

"We'll start again tomorrow," he said decisively, 'speak to some more of the people on the list."

"Right!"  Ferdi agreed.  "We're not finding anything very helpful... are we?"  He looked anxiously at Monk.

Monk had his own feelings.  "Not yet.  But we will do.  Perhaps tomorrow?" Ferdi was prompt in the morning and with renewed zeal had planned where to continue their search.  This time they found a charming woman who must have been in her twenties thirteen years ago, and now was comfortably plump and prosperous.

"Of course I knew Kristian," she said with a smile as she admitted them to her sitting room and offered them a choice of three kinds of coffee, and melting, delicious cake, even though it was barely half-past ten in the morning.  "And Max.  What a lovely man!"

"Kristian?"  Monk asked quickly, by now catching from Ferdi a large part of the sense of the conversation.  "Is she speaking of Kristian?" But apparently it was Max she considered lovely.

"Not Kristian?"  Monk persisted.

Little by little Ferdi drew from her a picture of Max as quieter than Kristian, with a wry sense of humour and an intense loyalty.  Yes, of course he was in love with Elissa, anyone could see that!  But she fell in love with Kristian, and that was the end of the matter.

Was there jealousy?  The woman shrugged her shoulders and smiled across at Monk with a little laugh, sad and rueful.  Of course there was, but only a fool fights the inevitable.  Kristian was the leader, the man with the courage of his dreams and the nerve to take the decisions, and pay the price.  But it was all a long time ago now.  She was married with four children.  Kristian and Elissa had gone to England.  Max lived very well, somewhere in the Neubau district she thought.  Was Monk staying long in Vienna?  Did he know that Herr Strauss the younger had been appointed Keppelmeister to the National Guard during the uprising?  No?  Well, he had.  Mr.  Monk could not visit Vienna and not listen to Herr Strauss.  It would be like being a fish and not swimming.  It was to deny nature and insult the good God who created happiness.

Monk promised that he would, thanked her for her hospitality, and urged Ferdi to leave.

They saw two more people on Kristian's list and they confirmed all that Monk and Ferdi had heard so far.  According to these two Viennese, the revolutionaries had worked largely in groups, and that of which Kristian Beck had been the leader consisted of seven or eight people.

Max Niemann, Elissa and Hanna Jakob had been with them from the beginning.  Another half-dozen or so had come and gone.  Four had been killed, two at the barricades, one in prison, and Hanna Jakob tortured and shot in one of the backstreets when she would not betray her fellows.

Monk felt sick, forced to listen to a shocked and white-faced Ferdi recounting it in the comfortable surroundings of the guesthouse where they had returned, hands frozen from a hard wind out of a clear sky smelling like snow.

They sat in front of the fire with the remains of cakes and beer on the table between them and the last of the fading sunlight high in the windows as the early evening closed in.  Monk tried to imagine how Kristian had felt when he heard of Hanna's death sharp with the shock of immediacy thirteen years ago.  Hanna had been one of them, alive only hours ago, her pain barely over, her life precious and urgent as their own.  Had he sat in a quiet room somewhere, about this time of year with the wind cold outside, and thought of Hanna dying in an alley among enemies, silent to save the rest of them?  What guilt did he feel simply because he was alive?  What had they done to try to rescue her?

Or had they known nothing about it until it was too late?

"It seems Dr.  Beck was a real firebrand," Ferdi said, blinking hard and swallowing.  "They respected him like mad, because he never told anybody else to do things he wasn't prepared to do himself.  And he saw several steps ahead, thinking what his decisions would do, what they might cost."  He looked down at the table, his voice soft.  "He really hated the commander of one of the divisions of police, Count von Waldmuller.  There was sort of ... a feud between them, because this Count von Waldmuller was a great believer in military discipline, and certain people being fit to rule, and others not.  He was pretty rigid, and he and Dr.  Beck got across each other, and every new thing made it worse."

"What happened to him?"  Monk asked.

"He got shot during the fighting in October," Ferdi replied with satisfaction.  "In the streets, actually.  He led the army against the barricades and Dr.  Beck led the resistance."  He pulled a rueful face.

"The revolutionaries lost, of course, but at least they got Count von Waldmuller.  I'd love to have been there to see that!  It was one of the Count's lieutenants that found out where that group were all going to be, and brought the troops up behind them."  He shivered and reached for another cake.  "But he did it too late.  Elissa von Leibnitz had taken a message to one of the other groups, and reinforcements came.

Dr.  Beck led them out to fight, and they were so brave and acted as if they knew they'd win that Count von Waldmuller fell back, and got shot.

Lost his leg, apparently."  He grinned suddenly.  "Has a wooden one now.  They said it was Dr.  Beck who shot him!  I know where Max Niemann lives!  Shall we go to see tomorrow?"

"Not yet," Monk said thoughtfully.  He was aware of Ferdi's acute disappointment, and also rather surprised that his father had not curtailed his time spent assisting someone of whom they had no personal knowledge whatever.  Were Pendreigh and Callandra's letters really of such force as to allay all anxieties?

"But you know everything about him!"  Ferdi urged, leaning forward and demanding Monk's attention.  "What else can I find out?  Dr.  Beck lives in England now.  He and Elissa von Leibnitz fell in love and married."  His face was bleak for a moment.  "The others are dead.

What's wrong, Mr.  Monk?  Isn't it what you needed?"

"I don't know.  It certainly isn't what I expected."  It had given him nothing to indicate that Max Niemann had gone to London seeking to rebuild an old love affair, and when rejected had lost control of himself and murdered two women.  Every one of the stories Ferdi had told him only emphasised the bonds of loyalty between them all, and it seemed very clear that Elissa had chosen Kristian from the beginning, and married him before they left Vienna.  If Niemann had come imagining a change in love or loyalty, then Monk would have to find irrefutable proof of it before it would be of any use to Pendreigh in court.

"What about Beck's friends who weren't revolutionary?"  he asked.  "He must have known other people.  What about his family?" Ferdi sat up.  "I'll find them!  That should be very easy.  I know just where to ask.  My mother's brother knows everyone, or if he doesn't, he can find out.  He is in the Government." Monk winced, but he had already been away from London for over a week.

He could not afford the luxury of being careful.  He accepted.

It took another exhausting, precious two days to engineer the meeting, and since they apparently spoke excellent English, to his chagrin, Ferdi was not required.  Monk promised to report to him anything that was of interest, wording it carefully so that it allowed him to exclude at his own judgement, and saw Ferdi's face light up with belief.  Then he felt a sharp and totally unexpected stab of guilt.  Ferdi was not listening to his precisely chosen words, but to the honest intent he believed in.  Monk realised with surprise that he would fulfill the expectation.  Ferdi's opinion mattered to him more than the guarding of the case, or the trouble it would take him to explain to anybody...

except Hester.  She had earned that right, and it was also comfortable and often very productive to share his thoughts with her, even half formed or mistaken.  It clarified his own mind and she frequently added to his perception.  He realised with sudden misery how much he missed her now.

Fifteen-year-old Ferdi, whom he barely knew, was a totally different matter.  Nevertheless he would do it.

Kristian's elder brother and his wife lived in Margareten, a discreet but obviously well-to-do residential area to the south of the city.

Monk had the address, and by now had picked up enough German from experience with Ferdi to acquire a cab and arrive there at five o'clock in the darkening afternoon, as had been arranged.

He was admitted by a footman, much as he might have been in England, and then to a beautiful, rather ornate withdrawing room, although he hesitated to think of it by that term.  It was far too formal to give the feeling of a place where one withdrew for comfort and privacy after a meal, to talk to guests or one's family, and relax at the end of the day.

Within minutes he was joined by Josef and Magda Beck.  Monk was intrigued by how like Kristian his brother was.  He had the same build, the average height, slender but strong body, good breadth of chest, neat, well-manicured hands which he moved very slightly when he spoke.

His hair was also very dark, and good, but his eyes had not the extraordinary, luminous beauty of Kristian's.  Nor had his features the passion or the sensuality of the mouth.

His wife, Magda, was fairer, although her skin still had an olive warmth to it and her eyes were golden brown.  She was not so much pretty as pleasing.

"How do you do, Mr.  Monk?"  Josef said stiffly.  "I understand from your letter that you have some serious news about my brother."  He did not sound startled or afraid, but perhaps those were private emotions he would not have betrayed in front of a stranger.  If Magda felt differently within herself, she was too dutiful not to follow his example.

Monk had already decided that directness, up to a point, was the tactic most likely to be productive, and therefore to help Kristian, if that were possible.  His hope for that was dwindling day by day.

"Yes," he said gravely.  "I am not sure if you are aware that his wife was killed about three weeks ago..."  He saw from the horror in their faces that they were not.  "I'm sorry to have to tell you such tragic news." Magda was clearly distressed.  "That's terrible."  Her voice was charged with emotion.  "How is Kristian?  I know he loved her very deeply." He searched her face to read what her own emotions were.  How well had she known Elissa?  Was her sorrow for Kristian, or for her sister-in-law as well?  He decided to keep back the rest of the story until he was more certain of their reactions.  "He is very shocked, of course," he replied.  "It was sudden and profoundly distressing."

"I'm sorry," Josef said rather formally.  "I must write to him.  It is good of you to have told us."  He made no remark of surprise that Kristian had not told them himself.  The omission gave Monk a feeling of unease.  In his mind's eye he saw Hester's turmoil of distress over Charles's pain, and it gave him a sharp sense of loneliness for Hester.

He thought of his own sister, Beth, in Northumberland, and how seldom he wrote to her.  He was the one who had broken the bond, first by leaving the north, then by answering her letters only perfunctorily, giving nothing of himself but bare facts, no feelings, no sharing of laughter or pain, none of the details that make a picture of life.  He had done it for so long that Beth wrote only at Christmas and birthdays now, like someone who has had the door closed in their face too often.

The conversation seemed to have died.  They assumed he had called merely to inform them of Elissa's death.  In a moment they would politely wish him goodbye.  He must say more, just to jolt them into reaction.  "It is not so simple as that," he said a trifle abruptly.

"Mrs.  Beck was murdered, and the police have arrested Kristian." That certainly provoked all the emotional reaction he could have wished.  Magda buckled at the knees and sank on to the sofa behind her, gasping for breath.  Josef went absolutely white and swayed on his feet, ignoring his wife.

"God in heaven!"  he said sharply.  "This is terrible!"

"Poor Kristian," Magda whispered, pressing her hands up to her face.

"Do you know what happened?"

"No," Monk replied with less than the truth.  "I think the beginning of it, and perhaps even the end, may be here in Vienna." Josef jerked up his head.  "Here?  But Elissa was English, and they both lived there since '49.  Why should it be here?  That makes no sense at all." Magda looked at Monk.  "But Kristian didn't do it, did he!"  It was an exclamation, almost a challenge.  "I know he is very passionate about things, but fighting at the barricades, even killing people -strangers... for the cause of greater freedom is quite different from murdering someone you know.  I can't say we ever understood Kristian.  He was always..."  She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders.  "I'm not sure how to explain it without giving a false impression.  He made quick decisions, he knew his own mind, he was a natural leader and other men looked to him because he never, never showed his fear."

"He was hot-headed," Josef said simply, looking at Monk, not at Magda.

"He didn't always listen to reason, and he had no patience.  But what my wife is trying to say is that he was a good man.  The things he did which were violent were for ideals, not out of anger or desire for himself.  If he killed Elissa, then there was a cause for it, one which would surely act as mitigation.  I assume that is what you are looking for, although I doubt it is actually here in Vienna.  It is all too long ago.  Whatever occurred here is long since resolved, or forgotten."  He was looking at Monk and did not notice the shadow pass across Magda's face.

"Did you know a man named Max Niemann?"  Monk asked them both.

"I've heard of him, of course," Josef replied.  "He was very active in the uprisings, but I believe he has made a good life for himself since then.  There were reprisals, naturally, but not long drawn out. Niemann survived quite well.  It was wise of Kristian to have left Austria, and certainly for his wife to have.  She became..."  he hesitated, 'quite famous among a certain group.  But all the same, I don't find it easy to imagine that someone held on to a hunger for revenge for her part in the uprisings all those years, and went all the way to England to kill her."  He frowned.  "I wish I could be of assistance to you, but I assure you, that really is too unlikely to waste your time with."  He made a slight gesture with his hands.  "But of course we will do anything we can.  Do you have names, anyone you wish to meet, or to make enquiries about?  I know several people in government and in the police who would assist, if I asked them.  It might be wiser not to mention that Kristian himself is suspected."

"It would be helpful to hear other stories of his part in the uprising," Monk said, trying to keep the confusion and disappointment out of his voice.  "Even other opinions of Kristian himself."

"You want witnesses for his character?"  Magda asked quickly.  She glanced up at Josef, then back at Monk.  "I'm sure Father Geissner would be willing to do that, even to travel to London, if that would help."

"Father Geissner?"  For a moment Monk was lost.

"Our priest," she explained.  "He is very highly regarded, even though he supported the uprisings, and actually ministered to the wounded at the barricades.  He would be the best advocate I can think of, and ' "Absolutely!"  Josef agreed instantly and with enthusiasm.  "Well done, my dear.  I don't know why I didn't think of him.  I shall introduce you tomorrow if you wish?"

"Thank you."  Monk grasped the unlikely chance immediately.  Perhaps the priest would give him a clearer picture of Niemann.  He might have observed subtler emotions than the rather colourful stories that had grown up in the thirteen intervening years, mostly of the acts of courage and loyalty or betrayal, death and the closing in of the old oppressions again.  The human jealousies or wounds were lost in the political needs.

"We must see him anyway, to have a Mass said for Elissa's soul," Magda added, making the sign of the cross.

Josef hastily did the same, and bowed his head for a moment.

Monk was taken by surprise.  He had not realised that Kristian was Catholic.  It was another dimension he had not considered.  For that matter he did not know what his own religious background was!  What had his parents believed?  He had no memory whatever of having gone to church as a child.  But then he had only the barest snatches of anything at all from that part of his life.  It was all gone as if dreamed long ago.  Surely if faith was worth anything it should inform a person's entire life?  It should be the rock upon which everything was built, guide all moral decision, and in time of distress give the comfort to sustain, to heal, to give meaning to conflict and make tragedy bearable?

He looked again at Magda Beck's round, serious face and saw a flicker of some inner certainty in it, or at least the knowledge where to reach for it.

When he got home he must make sure that Kristian had a priest to visit him as often as he wished, and it was allowed.

"Thank you very much," he said with more confidence.  "I should like very much to speak with Father Geissner."

"Of course," Josef looked happier.  He had been able to do something to help.

Monk was about to ask where and when they should meet, and then take his leave, when the footman came to announce the arrival of Herr and Frau von Arpels, and Josef told him to show them in.

Von Arpels was slender with wispy fair hair and a lean, rather sharp face.  His wife was plain, but when she spoke her voice was surprisingly attractive, very low and a little husky.

Introductions were made, and Josef immediately told them of Elissa's death, although not the cause of it.  Suitable distress was expressed, and both of them offered to pray for her soul, and to attend Mass for her.

Von Arpels turned to Monk.  "Are you staying in Vienna long, Herr Monk? There are many sights for you to see.  Have you been to the Opera yet? Or the concert hall?  There is an excellent season of Beethoven and Mozart.  Or a cruise on the river, perhaps?  Although it is a little late for that.  Too cold by far.  The wind comes from the east and can be rather biting at this time of year." Frau von Arpels smiled at him.  "Perhaps you prefer something a little lighter?  Cafe society?  We can tell you all the best and most fashionable places to go ... or even some of those which are less fashionable, but rather more fun?  Do you dance, Herr Monk?"  Her voice lifted with enthusiasm.  "You must waltz!  You cannot be in Vienna and not waltz!  Herr Strauss has made us the waltz capital of the world! Until you have heard him conduct... and danced till you drop, you have been only half alive!"

"Helga, please!"  von Arpels said quickly.  "Herr Monk may find that too frivolous!" Monk thought it sounded wonderful.  His imagination raced far ahead of anything of which his feet were capable.  But he remembered from Venice that, surprisingly, he could dance... rather well!

"I should love to," he said honestly.  "But I know no one, and unfortunately I have to return to London as soon as my business here is completed."

"Oh, I can introduce you to someone," Helga von Arpels offered easily.

"I am sure I can even get you an introduction to Herr Strauss himself, if you like?"

"Helga!  For heaven's sake!"  von Arpels was brisk to the point of rudeness.  "Herr Monk will not wish to meet Strauss socially.  The man's an excellent musician, but he's a Jew!  I've warned you before about making unfortunate friendships.  One must be civil, but one must also be careful not to be misunderstood as to one's loyalties and one's identity.  Look what happened to Irma Brandt!  She had only herself to blame." The air in the room seemed suddenly brighter and colder.  A dozen questions poured into Monk's mind, but these were not the people to ask.  Helga von Arpels looked angry.  She had been embarrassed in front of her friends, and a stranger, but there was nothing she could do about it.  She had strayed into forbidden territory, and apparently it was so by mutual agreement.  Monk was sorry for her, and angry on her behalf, but also totally helpless.

"Thank you for your generosity, Frau von Arpels," he said to her.  "I shall endeavour to hear Herr Strauss conduct, even if I am alone and cannot dance.  Then my imagination can store the memory." She made an effort to smile, and there was a flicker of light in her eyes, and recognition of his feeling.

Monk thanked Josef and Magda again, getting from them the address of the priest, Father Geissner, and Magda accompanied him to the door. Out in the hall she dismissed the maid and went to the step with him herself.

"Mr.  Monk, is there anything else we can do to help Kristian?" Was that really what she wanted to say that she had followed him to speak privately?  There would only be a few moments before Josef would miss her.

"Yes," he decided without hesitation.  "Tell me what you know of the feelings between Kristian and Elissa, and Max Niemann.  He has visited London at least three times this year, and seen Elissa secretly, and not Kristian at all." She looked only slightly surprised.  "He was always in love with her," she answered very quietly.  "But as far as I know, she never looked at anyone but Kristian."

"She was really in love with Kristian?"  Monk wanted it to be true, even if it did not help.

"Oh yes," she said vehemently.  A tiny, sad smile linked her lips. "She was jealous of that Jewish girl, Hanna Jakob, because she was brave as well, and full of character.  And she was in love with Kristian too.  I saw it in her face... and her voice.  Max was too easy for Elissa.  She had no work to win his love."  She gave a tiny shrug.  "Very often we don't want what we are given without an effort. If you don't pay, perhaps it isn't worth a lot.  At least that is what we think." There was a noise of doors opening and closing.

"Thank you for coming to tell us personally, Mr.  Monk," she said quickly.  "It was most courteous of you.  Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Frau Beck," he answered, stepping outside into the wind and walking away, new thoughts filling his mind.

Ferdi was not the person for Monk to ask about the sudden ugliness he had seen in the Beck house, and it was almost entirely irrelevant to Kristian and Elissa, and to Max Niemann.  However, Ferdi was burning with curiosity as to everything that Monk had learned, and where it might fit in to form a clearer picture of the people who were already heroes to him.  He asked question after question about Josef and Magda as he and Monk sat over hot chocolate and watched the lights come on as the streets grew darker and the cafes filled with chattering people.

Without intending to, Monk let slip von Arpels' comment about Strauss.

He saw no discernible reaction in Ferdi's young face.

"Do many people feel like that about Jews?"  Monk asked.

"Yes, of course.  Don't they in England?"  Ferdi looked puzzled.  Monk had to think about it a moment.  He had not moved in any area of society where he would have experienced such a thing He realised with a jolt of surprise how few people he knew in a way of friendship rather than professionally.  There was really only Rathbone, Callandra and, of course, Kristian.  Those relationships were intense, built in extraordinary circumstances, the kind of trust most people are never called upon to exercise.  But the lighter sides of friendship, the shared trivia, were missing.

"I haven't come across it," he said evasively.  He did not want Ferdi to know that his life lacked such ordinary solidity.  He did not really want him even to know that he had been a policeman.  He might regard it as having an exciting friend, but it was a role unquestionably socially inferior.  One called the police when they were required, one did not invite them to dinner.  One certainly did not allow one's daughter to marry them.

Ferdi was puzzled.  "Don't you have Jews in England?"

"Yes, of course we do."  Monk struggled for an acceptable answer.  "One of our leading politicians is a Jew Benjamin Disraeli.  I'm just not sure that I know any myself."

"We don't either," Ferdi agreed.  "But I've seen them, of course."

"How do you know?"  Monk said quickly.

"What?"

"How do you know they were Jews?" Ferdi was perplexed.  "Well, people do know, don't they?"

"I don't." Ferdi blushed.  "Don't you?  My parents do.  I mean, you have to be polite, but there are certain things you don't do."

"For example?"

"Well..."  Ferdi was a little unhappy and he looked down at the remains of his coffee.  "You'd do business, of course lots of bankers are Jews but you wouldn't have them in your house, or at your club, or anything like that."

"Why not?"

"Why not?  Well..  . we're Christians!  They don't believe in Christ.

They crucified Him."

"Eighteen hundred years ago," Monk pointed out.  "Nobody who's alive today, Jew or otherwise."  He knew he was being unkind as he said it.

Ferdi was only repeating what he had been taught.  He was not equipped to find reasons for it, even to know where to look in the history of society, or the need for belief and justification to rationalise such a thing.  He felt a stab of shame, and yet he continued: "Do a lot of people feel like that?"

"Everybody does that I know," Ferdi replied, screwing up his face.  "Or they say they do.  I suppose it's the same thing... isn't it?" Monk had no answer, and it probably had nothing to do with Elissa Beck's death anyway.  This attitude of society was just another facet of Kristian's past he had not expected, and could not fit in with the man he had known, or thought he had.  Maybe Kristian didn't share Josef's viewpoint, anyway.

Monk ordered coffee for himself and Ferdi, forgetting it was chocolate they had had before.

Ferdi smiled, but said nothing.