The Time of Murder at Mayerling

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A shocking shooting hides long-buried secrets... The Time of Murder at Mayerling is the third novel in Paul Doherty's Nicholas Segalla series. Perfect for fans of Anne Perry and C.J. Sansom. Vienna, 1889. Glittering entertainments hide a world of sinister political intrigue at the court of the Hapsburgs. But this protected bubble explodes when horrifying news comes to light that the heir to the throne, the handsome Archduke Rudolph, shot his mistress before turning the gun on himself at the imperial hunting lodge at Mayerling. Is there more to the story than meets the eye? Rumours of foul play soon began to surface as Vetsera's body is hurriedly buried in secrecy and the government suppress any inquiry. Scholar Nicholas Segalla is forced to risk his own life and uncover the truth behind the spectacular cover-up as he attempts to expose a murderer with a very surprising connection to the doomed prince. What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: ' Riveting story' 'Paul Doherty's books are a joy to read ' ' The sounds and smells of the period seem to waft from the pages of [Paul Doherty's] books'

Release date: June 11, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 176

Sample

Mayerling, Near Vienna—January 1889

The lights of Mayerling hunting lodge glowed like beacons through the darkness. The men outside its gates pulled up their fur-covered collars against the biting wind. They thrust gloved hands into pockets and concentrated on the light rather than on the dark, sinister forest which surrounded the lodge or the wind which shook the trees like some earthbound soul not knowing where it should go. Now and again, as the wind fell, some bird would cry, sharp and raucous; the men would catch their breath, stare sheepishly at each other, stamp their feet, and quietly curse the court comptroller, who was keeping them waiting. They did not want to speak: it was too dangerous. At the end of January 1889, Vienna and its court had the air of a mausoleum, yet beneath the official mourning, rumours crackled and spread. Prince Rudolph, the emperor’s son, heir to the Hapsburg Empire, and Maria Vetsera, his mistress, had been found dead at Mayerling. Was it true, people whispered, that Prince Rudolph had killed himself and, before he did, callously murdered his seventeen-year-old mistress? The court had desperately tried to stifle such rumours, yet the more it did, the worse they became. Even the Vienna newspapers, carefully controlled by the imperial police, were beginning to ask embarrassing questions. “Where was the woman’s corpse?” “When would she be buried?” “Would there be a postmortem?” “Would the official papers be released?” Two of the men standing in the freezing cold would have liked answers to such questions, and soon. One of them was about to protest at being kept waiting so long when the door to the lodge opened, and a figure beckoned them into the warmth.

Inside, the lodge smelt sweetly of pine logs, faint cooking smells, the whiff of a rich cigar, the good things of life. However, beneath this fragrant perfume was a sharper, acrid smell, more reminiscent of a Viennese hospital than an imperial hunting lodge. The group of men tramped down the passageway through a billiard room, where a weak fire flickered in the canopied hearth, and down a dark, bleak corridor. They stopped before a door at the end. The comptroller ripped off the purple imperial seals, inserted a key, and pushed the door open. Inside was cold and musty. The men walked gingerly forward. The comptroller cursed as he fumbled to light the lamp. When he held it up, the small lumber room was bathed in an eerie glow of light. At the far end was a table with a heap of old clothes piled high on it. One of the men gasped as he glimpsed the elegant, laced-up boot peeping out from underneath. The comptroller, sensing his companions’ anxieties, walked briskly across. He put the lantern down, and removed the heap of clothes with one sweep of his arm. The men gathered round and stared at the young woman’s corpse.

“She was beautiful,” one of them whispered, pointing to the lustrous auburn locks which cascaded down to the young woman’s slender waist. Her face was chalk white. Her eyes, so beautiful and vivacious in life, stared sightlessly up at them. The smooth evenness of her temples had been marred by the ugly bullet wound, and the blood which caked her head looked like some ghastly red cap. The physician in the group clutched the girl’s hand; her fingers were very stiff.

“It’s forty hours,” the comptroller explained. “God rest the poor woman, but she’s been dead forty hours.”

The physician struggled to uncurl her fingers. He carefully plucked out the faded rose still grasped there, as well as the damp, lacy handkerchief rolled up in a ball between her fingers: Maria Vetsera’s last act before she had died.

“Do you think he killed her?” One of the group asked.

“He?” The comptroller asked. “You mean His Imperial Excellency Prince Rudolph?”

The man’s eyes fell away as he mumbled an apology.

“Common rumour says differently.” Alexander Baltazzi, Vetsera’s swarthy-faced uncle, spoke up. “They say poor Maria shot the Prince before herself. She was only a child.” He continued, his face drawn and bitter. “But she was not a member of the Imperial Family. Noblesse oblige, I am sure she will take the blame.”

“So, you recognise the corpse?” The comptroller asked sharply. “You identify it as your niece?”

“Yes,” Baltazzi replied. “She is Maria Alexandra Vetsera.”

“Then you must leave,” the comptroller replied. “Our good physician here will carry out a postmortem. Afterwards you can reclaim the body for burial.”

Baltazzi was about to object. The comptroller drew a small square of paper from his waistcoat pocket. He undid it slowly and showed Baltazzi the imperial seal.

“That is what His Excellency the emperor wishes.” The comptroller whispered, “He, too, has lost a son. It is his wish, and the direct order of Prime Minister Count Taaffe, that it be so.”

Baltazzi and his companions left. Outside Loschek, personal valet of the late Prince Rudolph, led them back into the billiard room. The servant, his face wet with tears, built up the fire and silently served them small glasses of cognac and rather lukewarm cups of coffee. Baltazzi would have loved to have questioned him but the comptroller’s orders had been quite explicit. If he wished his niece’s body to be released for Christian burial, Baltazzi would have to follow the very strict protocol laid down by the imperial court. No questions were to be asked of any official; the autotopsy was to be carried out in private, then Maria Alexandra Vetsera was to be buried as soon as possible. Loschek moved like a ghost round the room. Baltazzi lit a cigar and watched him carefully. He was certain that, even if he was not under orders, Loschek would still say nothing: he was Rudolph’s creature. Baltazzi drew deep on his cigar, trying to control the fury seething within him. He, Maria’s mother the Countess, and their entire family had been given sharp, rude treatment by the imperial court.

“You see, my dear chap,” Prime Minister Taaffe had murmured, “the real tragedy is the death of the prince.”

The prime minister had been lounging in a chair in his offices at the Hofburg. He had agreed to give Baltazzi no more than ten minutes. Most infuriatingly, Taaffe had spent most of that time indulging in the niceties of etiquette: Would Baltazzi want coffee? A cigar? Was the room warm enough? Baltazzi had almost screamed at the prime minister to come to the point. Taaffe, his saturnine face a mask of surprise, had finished lighting his cigar, blown a series of smoke rings, and then repeated himself.

“You do see, my dear chap, the real tragedy is the death of His Imperial Excellency, Prince Rudolph. Your niece”—again the long pull of the cigar, then Taaffe forced a sympathetic smile—“your niece is, how shall I say, an embarrassment.”

“She’s a corpse,” Baltazzi tartly replied. “Last time I saw her she was a young, vivacious woman with all her life before her. Now she’s dead, shot by that same Imperial Excellency, Prince Rudolph.”

“No one asked her to be his lover,” Taaffe replied, sitting back in his chair. “No one asked her to go to Mayerling.”

“My sister, the girl’s mother, came to you anxious that something might happen.”

“My dear sir.” Taaffe leaned on the arm of the chair, flicking the ash From his trousers. “What danger was there? Prince Rudolph was known for, how can I say, his love of any pretty face—”

“But this was different,” Baltazzi broke in.

Taaffe’s face became serious. “In what way, sir? Did you know the prince was going to kill himself?”

Baltazzi drew back from the trap. Taaffe sighed loudly as if he realised Baltazzi dared go no further.

“So, what are you here for?”

“Release of my niece’s corpse.”

Taaffe stared up at the ceiling.

“For the love of God!” Baltazzi pleaded. “It’s over a day since she was killed!”

“Took her own life,” Taaffe corrected sharply. “It’s over a day since Maria Alexandra Vetsera, your niece, took her own life. Whatever.” Taaffe waved his hand airily. “You and one other may go to Mayerling tonight. The body will be examined and dressed For burial. By this time tomorrow the corpse of Maria Vetsera must be buried in the priory of Hieiligenkreuz.”

“So soon?” Baltazzi sprang to his Feet.

Taaffe rose with him. The prime minister’s face was now hard. He walked over and stopped only a few inches from Baltazzi.

“You have a choice, sir. You may go to Mayerling tonight and organise the burial of your niece. Or I can send others to do it for you. The decision is yours.”

Baltazzi had curtly agreed, then spun on his heel and left the prime minister’s office for the long, cold journey to Mayerling. An imperial official had also come, bluntly informing Baltazzi and his companion what was to happen. Baltazzi had no choice. He sat back in the chair. He sipped the cognac, the cigar held listlessly between his fingers as his mind raced with possibilities. He tried to sift the truth from the gossip, rejecting the scandal and the lurid stories now circulating Vienna. According to the available evidence, Prince Rudolph, for God knows what reason, had, in the early hours of 30 January, formed a suicide pact with Maria, then killed her before committing suicide. Baltazzi stared, weary eyed, at Loschek standing in the shadows. But why hadn’t someone heard a shot?

Baltazzi moved his feet restlessly. So many questions! So many problems! Why hadn’t the imperial court kept a closer eye on Rudolph? Baltazzi sipped at his cognac. If the rumours were correct that Rudolph’s mind was unbalanced, that he was suffering from the advanced stages of syphilis, why had his father not kept him in Vienna? And Maria, so vivacious, so young, so full of life? Baltazzi remembered her at the racecourses: such a constant visitor the jockeys gave her the nickname “Turf Angel.” Why did she want to die? Was she so in love with her syphilitic prince?

“So many questions?”

Baltazzi turned and stared at the lugubrious face of his companion, Count Stockau, whom Maria’s mother had appointed as her attorney. Baltazzi had always dismissed Stockau as a fool with his luxurious muttonchop whiskers, bloodhound eyes, and ever wet lips. In the last twenty-four hours, however, Baltazzi had changed his mind. Despite his appearance, Stockau had a sharp, cunning brain, advising Baltazzi that they should keep their mouths shut and their ears open.

“This is against all Christian decency,” Baltazzi exclaimed, gesturing at the passageway leading to the chamber where Maria’s body still lay. “Why the secrecy, the lack of basic courtesy?”

Stockau sighed and leaned over the padded arm of his chair.

“A Hapsburg prince has died,” the lawyer whispered. He raised his hand as Baltazzi opened his mouth. “In your eyes, sir, a degenerate, a murderer and a suicide. Now, you are full of grief at Maria’s death. However, what happens if Rudolph was as innocent as Maria?”

Baltazzi sat up. “What on earth do you mean?” he whispered.

Stockau scratched at the tobacco stains on his white moustache.

“There are the suicide notes,” Baltazzi whispered. “They both wrote letters saying they were going to die.”

“Letters can be forged,” Stockau growled. “Rudolph and Maria, God rest them, were hysterical. They were in love with the idea of a romantic death. They might have constantly scribbled such notes. Remember,” Stockau muttered, “remember the morning the bodies were discovered—”

“Can’t we visit the room?” Baltazzi interrupted.

“No, we can’t,” Stockau retorted. “The prince’s quarters are strictly off-limits until the official commissioner has reported to His Imperial Excellency. So”—Stockau dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief—“remember, Loschek broke the door down. Count Hoyos, Prince Rudolph’s friend, viewed the corpses, then left for Vienna to inform Their Imperial Majesties that their son had been poisoned.” Stockau held up a finger. “Yet now we are told, and we have seen for ourselves, that Maria was shot through the head before the prince turned the pistol on himself.”

“And has Hoyos explained the difference?” Baltazzi asked.

“He claims he only took a superficial look: he noticed blood on their faces and thought that this was due to a haemorrhage. Certain poisons are known to cause that.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Baltazzi whispered. He peered across to where the imperial official who had accompanied them from Vienna sat half dozing in his chair before the fire. “It’s ridiculous!” Baltazzi repeated. “Some people now claim the top of the prince’s head was as loose as a pan lid. . . . So, what’s the truth?”

Stockau leaned away. “Pilate asked the same question,” he hissed. “And never got an answer. I suspect the same will happen here.”

“We are ready now!”

Baltazzi whirled round. He wondered how long the comptroller had been standing there.

“The body,” the comptroller stuttered, coming forward. “The corpse is dressed for burial.”

Baltazzi got to his feet, threw his cigar into the fire, and went back to the room. His heart missed a beat: Maria was now laid out on the table, fully dressed in coat, boa, hat, and elegant leather boots. Her eyes were closed, her headdress covering that dreadful, bloody hole. As he looked down at her, Baltazzi thought she was asleep, and nearly stretched out his hand to shake her awake: those beautiful eyes would open, that generous mouth would break into a smile, and she would get up and tell them it was all a joke, a pretence, a bad dream. He stretched out and took her hand. Even her little gloves had been put on. It was no dream. The hand was hard, lifeless. Baltazzi breathed in deeply, fighting back tears.

“Oh God!” he prayed. “Oh Lord, what will happen?”

“She’s dead,” the physician intoned flatly. “Killed by a bullet through the right temple which exited above the left ear.”

Baltazzi went to raise the veil. The comptroller grasped his hand. Baltazzi stared at him.

“I’m going to kiss her,” he declared. “I’m going to lift her veil and kiss her on the lips. If you don’t take your hand away, sir, I swear . . . ”

The comptroller released him. Baltazzi lifted up the veil, so fine and gauzelike, and, bending down, kissed those lips. He caught a whiff of that perfume Maria always wore, fresh and fragrant. He couldn’t stop the tears from falling. He found it hard to raise his head. Stockau’s arm was round his shoulder; the old lawyer was murmuring his own condolences. Baltazzi let the veil fall and stood up.

“Where is the coffin?” he asked.

The comptroller stared blankly back.

“The coffin?” Baltazzi repeated. “If she’s to be taken to the priory of Hieiligenkreuz, we need a coffin. Surely, man, you have seen to that?”

“There will be no coffin, no hearse!” the comptroller replied sharply.

“For pity’s sake!” Baltazzi exclaimed. “This is the Baroness Maria Vetsera, a young noblewoman, not some piece of meat on the butcher’s slab!”

The comptroller swallowed nervously and wet his prim, dry lips.

“Orders from above,” he murmured.

Baltazzi cursed foully. Stockau gripped him by the arm.

“Don’t do anything rash,” the old lawyer murmured. He looked at the comptroller, flanked by the official escort from Vienna. “Surely the emperor can’t be so hard?”

“His Imperial Highness is not being hard,” the comptroller replied. “He deeply regrets, as do I, the circumstances of this young woman’s death. However, the city is rife with gossip and rumour. If a coffin is made and a hearse has to be brought, that will only take time as well as attract attention.”

Baltazzi looked down at his niece’s corpse.

“I thought I would see you in white,” he said softly, “with a garland of roses in your hair, and we would dance on your wedding day.”

Deep in his heart Baltazzi knew it was foolish to protest. This was Austria, the heart of the Hapsburg Empire; the emperor’s word was law. He knew what would happen if he objected any further. Maria’s corpse would simply be removed by imperial officials and buried in some God-forgotten spot. At least he could be sure where Maria would be laid to rest. The priory was consecrated soil, not some pauper’s grave in the forest. Baltazzi drew in a deep breath.

“I agree,” he declared. “But how?”

“There’s a carriage waiting.”

Baltazzi gaped in horror as the full implications sunk in.

“Oh no!” he gasped. “Oh, for the love of—!”

“I have my orders,” the comptroller interjected.

Stockau gripped Baltazzi’s elbow. “It’s time we were gone.”

He helped Baltazzi lift the corpse up. Linking arms through the dead girl’s, they carried her between them, as if she were a living person, down the passageway and out of the lodge into the waiting carriage. The comptroller and the imperial flunkey followed. At the end of the path, three men stepped out of the darkness. One wore a small, English-type bowler hat, and the lower half of his face was swathed by a thick, heavy scarf. He pulled this down, smoothed his moustache, took off a leather glove, and extended his hand.

“I am Joseph Kinski.”

The eyes beneath the hat were glittering with cold, and the sallow face was pinched and pale, but there was a friendliness, a sympathy Baltazzi immediately sensed. He struggled to shake the man’s hand.

“Herr Kinski,” the comptroller declared, “is a detective. The other two are plainclothes constables. They are both armed,” he added warningly. “They will accompany you to the priory.”

Baltazzi, still holding his niece’s corpse, looked over his shoulder, his face twisted into a smile.

“And will you come?”

The comptroller shook his head and opened his mouth to reply.

“I know. I know,” Baltazzi replied. “Orders from above. Now piss off, you vermin!”

He turned back and saw the smile in Kinski’s eyes.

“I, too, am under orders,” the detective declared.

Baltazzi, fighting back a sob, just nodded.

“Yes, yes, I know.” He fought to keep his voice steady. “But there are orders and there are orders. Some people like them, others simply tolerate them: which are you, Kinski?”

“I am distressed,” Kinski replied. “I have been briefed, sir; I am sad for you.” He gestured at the dead girl still cradled between Stockau and Baltazzi. “God rest her soul.” He took a step closer and looked over Baltazzi’s shoulder as the comptroller and the officials slammed the door of the lodge shut. “Good, they have gone. May I? I have to . . .” the detective stammered.

“Yes.”

Kinski delicately lifted the veil and stared at the white, dead face of Maria Vetsera. He let the veil fall, stepped away, and cr. . .