Cemetery of the Nameless Read online

  “You mean this man who was murdered was like Mr. Popularity or something?” I asked.

  Ertmann looked puzzled and Roderick added a few words in German. “Ah, yes! I see. Rudolph von Heislinger was thought very highly of, this is true. You must understand that since the Great War, it is technically illegal to use any of the old titles, but many still do. It was like that with the von Heislingers. Many people called Rudolph by his rightful title of Baron.”

  “That explains the response on Austrian television,” Roderick said. “They’re screaming for Tory’s head on a platter.”

  “How can they be so irresponsible?” I spluttered. “The police haven’t even spoken to her!”

  “Herr Lukesh,” Ertmann explained, “to be truthful, Von Heislinger’s is not the first death for which the Austrian public blames your wife.”

  I winced. Ertmann was referring to Franz Zimmermann’s death. He had been Tory’s mentor during her stint as concertmaster with the Potomac Symphony in Washington—and a very good friend. When it came time for Tory to do her special concert as winner of the Holbine Competition in London, she’d naturally asked Franz to conduct. Problem was, someone was also out to kill her and decided that the concert was a good opportunity.

  Franz had died during that now infamous concert by stepping in front of Tory and deliberately taking the bullet meant for her. He was a much-beloved native son back home and when the whole story of what had happened at the concert got out, Tory had been told it would not be wise for her to attend Franz’s funeral in Salzburg. The Austrians still blamed Tory for what had happened, feeling that she could have refused to do the concert, knowing the danger. Tory still blamed herself for that matter.

  The ambassador said, “The concern my government wishes me to convey to your government, Herr Ertmann, is with regards to how the investigation is being conducted. As well, your media seem to be reporting this incident with, ah, rather too much, ah, hyperbole. Americans often make easy targets these days. We want to make certain that Miss Morgan is dealt with fairly and with observance of due process.”

  Ertmann was silent for a moment. “No doubt Fräulein Morgan is a well-recognized musician who enjoys a world-wide celebrity. We are very aware that we must be seen to be applying an even hand in this matter. Many of the Austrian people distrust what part fame can play in court decisions. Look what has happened in your own country with that sports star.”

  “To be perfectly frank, Mr. Lukesh,” the ambassador stated baldly, “what Herr Ertmann is trying to say politely is that the Austrian people—not the government I am certain” (she cast an eye at Ertmann) “—seem to be expecting high-priced American lawyers to move in and your wife will get off scot-free.”

  “I understand,” I answered, “but that’s assuming Tory will be charged for this murder.”

  Ertmann looked at me sadly. “I am afraid that there is no doubt about that.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “Very well, but I do it hesitatingly. Being Fräulein Morgan’s husband, the story will not be...good for you to hear.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “As you probably already know, the body was found in your wife’s room, in her bed, as a matter of fact. It has been established that the death was caused by two knife wounds, either of which would have proved fatal—and it had occurred in the bed. We are quite certain your wife was in the room at the time. We also surmise that she and von Heislinger must have argued about something and that argument turned violent. We know there was tension between—”

  “That’s ridiculous! Tory wouldn’t murder someone because of an argument.”

  Like most redheads, Tory had a temper that could burn incandescently, but only briefly, sort of like a dozen flashbulbs. Pop, pop, pop! She’d go off, vent her anger and that was that. She didn’t hold grudges, either. Ten minutes after, Tory would have forgotten she’d even been angry. None of what I was being told made any sense. If Tory had gotten mad enough at this Austrian gigolo, she would probably have slugged him, then locked herself in the bathroom. She’d done it enough times to me. Well, not the slugging part. And knives scared Tory silly.

  “It has not been announced to the press, but her fingerprints were found on the weapon of murder which was stuck in the Bar...in the deceased’s chest,” Ertmann added.“His, ah, throat was slashed, as well.”

  I shuddered involuntarily at the mental image Ertmann’s words created. “Where would Tory have gotten hold of a knife?”

  “Believe me, that is not difficult at Schloss von Heislinger.”

  I shook my head. “This is all too unbelievable. Maybe someone killed von Heislinger while Tory was out of the room or something.”

  Ertmann looked at me with pity. “The knife apparently came from a display in the hallway outside her room. Only Fräulein Morgan’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, and besides, one of the other guests saw the two of them go into her room shortly before one a.m. Your wife was...”

  “Was what?” I asked testily.

  “Somewhat drunk, and she appeared to be in a very amorous mood.”

  TORY

  I fought down another wave of panic, manifested this time by uncontrollable trembling in my finger as I dialled a phone number I’d fortunately memorized. It took three tries to get it punched in correctly.

  “What is it?” a sleepy voice eventually asked after an interminable amount of ringing.

  “Elen? Tory sydd ’ma,” I whispered into the receiver as if the handful of people rushing by on the sidewalk might have any interest in overhearing me.

  Elen sounded more asleep than awake as she answered back in the same language, Welsh, “Tory? Why in Heaven’s name are you phoning me at six thirty in the morning?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, screaming to myself inside my head, Stay calm! Who the hell was going to overhear me in a passing moment at a street-side pay phone in Trieste who also just happens to speak Welsh?

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get around to calling you while I was in Vienna. I meant to, but, um, something came up. Didn’t your husband tell you I called about a week ago?”

  “Dai? It, ah, must have slipped his mind, and I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy the past week. I haven’t even been out of the bloody apartment in four days. This damned research is sucking me dry.”

  “Elen...”

  “So, why are you calling me at such an ungodly hour?” Elen asked, sounding more wide awake.

  “I’m...” I stopped, took a deep breath and began again, trying hard to keep my desperation in check. “I’m in a lot of trouble, and you’re the only person I can think of who might be able to help me.”

  Elen Davies was a fine arts doctoral student I had met two years earlier at the University of Wales in Aberystwyth, where I was giving master classes and she was doing a special class on Welsh painters for a summer course. Having a lot of time on our hands during the evenings, we became “old friends” in an astonishingly short time. Lately, we’d been keeping in touch via the Internet and the odd phone call. Except for my parents, Elen was the only Welsh-speaking person I was friendly with, and that made our relationship doubly nice. Rocky would never be able to wrap his Brooklyn tongue around my family’s language. So for Welsh, it was either Mam neu Tad neu Elen or the odd Welsh-speaking fan who stopped me for a chat.

  From a phone call I’d made to her home near Bangor in North Wales when I’d arrived in Great Britain for the first leg of my aborted tour, I’d found out from her husband, Dafydd (or Dai as his friends called him) that Elen had gone to Vienna to do research for her doctoral thesis, something to do with an Austrian art movement of the mid-18th century. It was a stroke of luck and I’d planned on getting together with her on the day between my two concerts. Quite frankly, I’d forgotten all about it when “other things” had come up.

  “Did you ‘goof up’ again?” Elen playfully asked, using my euphemism for when I fell off the wagon, sexually speaking.

  “My pr
oblem is...my problem...” Wheels spun hopelessly in my brain, and nothing would come out.

  “Just tell me what you need me to do, Tory,” Elen said laughing.

  “I need a ride. I have to get to Vienna. Can you get hold of a car and come pick me up?”

  “Yes, but why don’t you just hop on a plane? Surely that would get you to Vienna faster than me driving all the way to...”

  “Trieste. I’m in Trieste.”

  “Good heavens! Why are you there?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell you now. Look, I can’t take a plane. I can’t cross any borders—at least not as Victoria Morgan. The police will be looking for me shortly if they aren’t already.”

  “The police?” Concern filled my friend’s voice, as it finally sank in that I was indeed in very serious trouble.

  “Can you come and pick me up?” I repeated. Now I did sound desperate, and I didn’t care.

  “Of course, but if the police are after you, how do you expect me to get you into Austria?”

  “I’m taking care of that. It shouldn’t be a problem by the time you get here.”

  “Just what is going on?”

  “Listen to the radio on the way down. If I know the media, I’m going to be the biggest news story of the year in the next few hours.”

  “Are you going to be all right until I get there?”

  I managed a ghost of a smile. “Don’t fret. I have enough to keep me occupied. Just please hurry!”

  ***

  “I never would have gotten away if it hadn’t been for Thekla,” I told Elen as we sped along through the mountains towards the Italian/Austrian frontier. “I was so scared I could barely move, and coherent thinking was totally impossible.”

  Elen hadn’t said much since she’d arrived, given me a big hug, and then, with her hands on my shoulders, had drawn back to stare at me. “I did as you suggested on the drive down. You’re in bigger trouble, girl, than I ever could have imagined.” Her expression was grave. “You look awful. Let’s get you out of here.”

  The “here” was a back street in picturesque Trieste, all blindingly white houses overlooking the intense blue of the Mediterranean Sea. But a back street is still a back street—with all that connotes. Where else would one expect to find a person willing (and able) to provide a fake passport in a matter of hours, no questions asked? Mind you, I had to pay through the nose to get it. All the money I’d pinched from von Heislinger hadn’t been enough until I’d thrown in Rudy’s Mercedes to clinch the deal. Thekla’s “uncle” drove a hard bargain. Besides, it was too dangerous to have the car.

  Without a backward glance, Elen put my meagre effects into the back, and we piled into the bright red BMW she’d borrowed—not my idea of the best choice to get across a border without attracting attention.

  “Well, if you’d told me what had happened before I left Vienna, I might have made a wiser choice!” Elen replied crossly in Welsh. “I borrowed it from the person who is loaning me the apartment I’m staying in. It’s a nice car, and I figured I might as well enjoy the drive. Little did I know!”

  I spent the first miles of the trip trying to get my nerves under control. Elen, even though she later admitted she was burning up with curiosity, wisely kept silent. Then I began telling her in bits and pieces what had happened.

  “But why Italy when you say you need to be in Vienna to meet this person you’re telling me about?” Elen asked, perplexed. “Tory, nothing you’ve been saying makes any sense!”

  “None of this makes any sense to me!” I said unhappily. “I needed to be in Trieste for two reasons: one, Thekla has a distant relative there, on the shady side of the law, who knew someone who was able to provide me with a fake passport, and two, I needed to make it look as if I was trying to get away from Austria so they won’t look for me there.”

  “That also explains the way your hair looks.”

  I had been wondering when Elen would bring that up. Since I had used Thekla’s passport to leave Austria in case the alarm was sounded prematurely, I needed to have dark hair like hers. Before I had left, the maid, with her stock of “hopeful hairdresser” supplies, had quickly dyed my hair to match the colour of hers then cut it to look similar to her passport photo. Later, as I was waiting for Elen’s arrival, I cut my hair even shorter, so that I looked even less like the person the cops would be looking for. I’m afraid the job wasn’t up to Thekla’s level.

  “My new passport says that I’m from Abergavenny in Wales and my name is Sioned Powel. Please don’t forget that.” I’d concocted the name from my dad and the person who’d helped me out most when the bad guys were after me in Great Britain four summers earlier. “Maybe I could be a cousin who’s visiting you in Vienna or something. That’s up to you. I’m going to be asleep at the time. Make up a suitable cover story.”

  Elen’s response was to pull right off the road. “Do you realize what you’re doing? This is lunacy! You should be turning yourself over to the police and getting this whole mess straightened out, not playacting being a spy!”

  “Don’t you think I’ve spent hours thinking about doing just that? I can’t turn myself over to the police! Not now.”

  Elen took hold of my chin and turned my head, looking me in the eyes, straight to the bottom of my soul. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked in a very quiet, controlled voice. I tried to pull away, but she held tight. “Tell me you didn’t actually kill that man, Tory!”

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “I...I honestly don’t know. It’s all a blank. When I try to search inside me for how I feel about von Heislinger, this overwhelming hate boils up inside and almost makes me gag.” I finally got my chin out of Elen’s grasp and slumped back in my seat. “I don’t know what I did or didn’t do. But I’m so frightened I hardly want to try to remember.”

  “Did you kill him?” Elen repeated.

  “I don’t know!” I wailed back.

  “Dear God! Tory, this is insane! You have to go to the police.”

  “No! Absolutely not! I have to try to get that concerto back. Don’t you understand? It’s lost again, and that happened because of me! Thekla and I tried to find it. She knew the combination to his safe. She knew where he hid things. We looked. We looked as long as we dared!”

  “How does a maid know all these things?”

  “Because von Heislinger had been banging her for the past three years! He used her like he used me!” I put my hand over my mouth in shock. “Where did that come from? I suddenly remembered...”

  “Remembered what, Tory?”

  “I’m sore all over, Elen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everything aches, especially...” My eyes flickered up to my friend’s face, and I know I must have looked pretty scared—because that’s the reflection that came from her eyes.

  Elen blew out a stream of air, thick with meaning. “Do you think he...you were raped? Is that where the anger comes from?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, but he definitely did something bad to me.”

  Elen threw the car into gear and pulled back onto the road leaving a shower of gravel and some poor driver leaning equally hard on his brakes and his horn in her wake. “Let’s get you to Vienna!” she said grimly.

  “Our comrades around Europe are doing everything possible to discover her whereabouts. She is a clever and resourceful woman, but let me assure you of this: the full force of Austrian justice will be brought to bear on Victoria Morgan.”

  —Brigadier Daniel Vogler of the Austrian Staatspolizei interviewed on Canada A.M.

  Chapter 10

  TORY

  I slumped down in the seat and pulled the beret Thekla had loaned me down over my face. After giving Elen’s hand a reassuring squeeze, I turned away to lean against the door, pretending to be asleep. I wished I were. I wished I had been for the past three days. Then I might have the opportunity of waking up from this horror show. As the car slowed to a stop my heart-rate
did the opposite, the blood literally roaring in my ears.

  Elen observed nervously, “They’re definitely checking cars, but there isn’t much of a line-up, so they can’t be checking too hard.”

  “That’s probably because they think I’d be as nuts to come back to Austria as you do.”

  Elen inched the car forward. “Ihre Papiere, bitte,” a bored-sounding female voice intoned. Oh geez, I thought, not a woman! They’re ten times more snoopy than men, and you can’t bat your baby blues at them, either.

  Elen handed over her genuine passport and my hot-off-the-press phony as well as her temporary residency papers. The guard immediately switched to English but also sounded suspicious as she tapped on a computer keyboard. “You only left the country three hours ago. Where you have been?”

  “Udine. Sioned, here, is my cousin. She called me yesterday to come and get her.”

  More rustling of papers.

  “What is wrong with her?”

  Elen, in what I thought an inspired improvisation, leaned farther out the window and whispered,“Man troubles. They were travelling around together. Now it seems he’s run off with a local woman he met in a bar. You would not believe the tears! The poor thing’s exhausted. She finally fell asleep a half-hour ago.”

  The guard’s reply sounded warmer, and she also spoke much more softly. “She will be staying with you in Wien?”

  “Only for a few days while she pulls herself together. She doesn’t know how to face the family back home.” And in an even lower voice, “She told them she was going to marry the bastard.”

  “I understand,” the guard whispered. “Do you know if Fräulein Powel has anything to declare?”

  “She doesn’t have anything more than the clothes on her back. Her boyfriend took everything else when he left.”

  “Men can be such swine. To have her cousin so close by was a lucky thing.”

  Elen chuckled grimly. “And now I’m stuck with the problem for the next few days.”

  The guard responded with the three most beautiful words in the English language, “You may go.”