The Memorist

Chapter 44

Tuesday, April 29^th-9:49 a.m.

The monk remained on the street, watching the procession of ambulance and police cars disappear. He hardly noticed the man in the ordinary gray suit, until he came right up to him. “Excuse me, Brother,” he said in German as he held out a badge and identification card.

The monk glanced down at the silver shield that identified the man as a member of the state police, and nodded.

“I’d like to discuss what just happened here.”

“I’ve already talked to the police,” Brother Francis said in a bewildered tone, confused by how many officials were involved in the small emergency.

“Yes, I know that, and I’m sorry but I’m from the Department of Antiquities and I also need to make a report since this is a national site.”

With resignation the monk repeated what he’d seen. “A man had what seemed to be a heart attack in the chapel.”

“What were they doing in the church before it opened?”

“Like everyone else, they came to visit with God and to see the crypt.”

“I’d like to look around the crypt if you don’t mind.”

“It was a medical emergency. There was no altercation, no accident, nothing to do with the chapel.”

“I’m sure it was. Now, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could you show me where this happened? And please keep the tourists out until I’m finished. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

Reluctantly, but not sure he had any choice, the monk led the policeman through the main church across the nave, into the Loreto Chapel, over to the disconcerting skeleton barring the way to the entrance, and then into the inner chamber.

Like many natives of Vienna, including members of the state police who he was impersonating, Paul Pertzler didn’t know as much as he should about the tourist destinations in his native city and didn’t know why this chapel was important.

“Could you explain what I’m looking at? And as you do, please point out anything out of place or missing. Take your time, Brother.”

“This vault belonged to the Imperial Family. These are their remains.” Pausing, the monk walked up to one of the shelves, focused on a specific urn, reached out, moved it slightly to the left and back a half an inch.

“Their ashes are in those urns?”

“No, their hearts.”

“Hearts?” Pertzler repeated, staring at the small silver urns. “How long have they been putting their hearts here?”

“Since the early seventeenth century.”

“And when was the last heart buried here? Is it even buried? What do you call it?”

“The last heart was placed here in 1878.”

“How many are there?”

“Fifty-four hearts.”

Pertzler made a note. Then he remembered something. “Is Beethoven’s heart here?”

The monk looked startled but answered confidently. “No. Only members of the Imperial Family.”

“But something about my question struck you. What is it?”

“It’s funny you would ask about Beethoven. One of the members of Mr. Logan’s party asked about him too.”

“Who? Which member of the party? What did he ask?”

“The man from America asked if there was a record of Beethoven having anything to do with this church.”

“And is there?”

“Yes,” the monk said proudly. “The connection comes through one of Beethoven’s closest friends-his student and his principal benefactor, the Archduke Rudolf, youngest son of the Austro-Hungarian Emperor Leopold II. He gave Beethoven rooms in the royal palace to rehearse and perform. What not many remember is that the Archduke was also a priest, and as this church is part of the Hofburg, it was one of the places of worship where he held mass. Because of that connection, Beethoven, who spent a lot of time at the palace, performed sections of his ‘Missa Solemnis’ here two years before he’d completed it. When he did finally finish the piece in 1823 he dedicated it to Rudolf and inscribed the manuscript with the words, ‘From my heart-to your heart.’”

“Yet more hearts.”

“Many hearts,” repeated the monk, smiling a little.

“Now back to this room and the urns. Are you sure you don’t notice anything missing or out of place?”

“Nothing missing. Nothing out of place, no.”

“Why did you move that one when we came in?” He pointed.

“It was off its mark by an inch.”

“Is it possible a member of the Logan party touched it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could you check? Could you look inside?”

The monk frowned. “The mummified hearts are considered holy.”

“I understand. But I’d like you to look inside.”

The monk hesitated.

“It’s necessary, Brother.”

Crossing himself first, the monk walked back up to the shelf and lifted the lid of the ninth chalice and peered inside.

Pertzler came up behind him and looked over his shoulder at the dark brown mass: a rotted heart nesting in its silver casket. What were Logan and his daughter doing here in the Heart Vault? What was he missing?