The Redbreast(151)

bedside table and bed in the hospital. Furthermore,

he had the motive . . .’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, they loved each other, Gudbrand and

Helena. But she was to be Christopher’s.’

‘They were engaged?’

‘No, no. But Christopher was crazy about Helena.

Everyone knew that. Helena was from a rich

family that had been ruined after her father had

ended up in prison, and a marriage into the

Brockhard family was her and her mother’s way of

getting back on their feet. And you know how it is

– a young woman has certain obligations to her

family. At least, she did, at that time.’

‘Do you know where Helena Lang is today?’

‘But you haven’t touched the strudel, my dear,’

the widow exclaimed.

Harry took a big bite, chewed and nodded in

approval to Frau Mayer.

‘No,’ she said. ‘That I don’t know. When it

became known that she had been with Johansen on

the night of the murder, she was investigated, but

they didn’t find anything. She stopped working at

the Rudolf II Hospital and moved to Vienna. She

started up her own sewing business. Yes, she was

a strong, enterprising woman. I occasionally saw

her walking in the streets here. But in the mid-

fifties she sold up and after that I didn’t hear any

more. Someone said she had gone abroad. But I

know who you can ask – if she’s alive, mind you.

Beatrice Hoffmann, she worked as the house help

for the Lang family. After the murder the family

could no longer afford her and she worked for a

time at the Rudolf II.’

Fritz was already on the telephone again.

A fly buzzed desperately around the window. It

was following its own microscopic logic and kept

banging into the glass without understanding quite

why. Harry stood up.

‘Strudel . . . ?’

‘Next time, Frau Mayer. Right now we don’t have

the time.’

‘Why’s that?’ she asked. ‘This happened more

than half a century ago. It isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Well . . .’ Harry said, watching the black fly

under the lace curtains in the sun.

Fritz received a call on his mobile on the way to

the police station and did a highly improper U-turn

which made the motorists behind them jump on

their horns.

‘Beatrice Hoffmann is alive,’ he said accelerating

through the lights. ‘She’s at an old people’s home

in Mauerbachstraße. That’s up in the Vienna

Woods.’

The BMW turbo squealed with glee. The blocks

of flats gave way to half-timbered houses,

vineyards and finally the green deciduous forest,

with the afternoon sun playing on the leaves and

creating a magical atmosphere as they sped along

avenues lined with beech and chestnut trees.

A nurse led them out into the large garden.

Beatrice was sitting on a bench in the shade of an

enormous, gnarled oak tree. A straw hat dominated

the tiny, wrinkled face. Fritz spoke with her in

German and explained why they had come. The old

woman inclined her head with a smile.

‘I’m ninety years old,’ she said in a shaky voice.

‘And tears still come to my eyes when I think about

Fräulein Helena.’

‘Is she still alive?’ Harry asked in his schoolboy

German. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘What’s that he says?’ she asked with her hand

behind her ear. Fritz explained.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know where Helena is.

She’s sitting up there.’ She pointed up into the

treetops.

There you go, Harry thought. Senile. But the old lady hadn’t finished speaking.

‘With St Peter. Good Catholics, the Langs, but

Helena was the angel in the family. As I said, it

always brings tears to my eyes thinking about it.’

‘Do you remember Gudbrand Johansen?’ Harry

asked.

‘Uriah,’ Beatrice said. ‘I only met him once. A

handsome, charming young man, but sick

unfortunately. Who would have believed that such

a nice, polite boy would have been able to kill?

Their emotions ran away with them, yes, with

Helena too. She never got over him, the poor thing.

The police never found him and although Helena

was never accused of anything, André Brockhard

saw to it that she was thrown out of the hospital.

She moved into town and did voluntary work for

the Archbishop until the family was in such dire

financial straits that she was forced to find paid

work. So she started a sewing business. Within

two years she had fourteen women sewing for her

full-time. Her father was released but couldn’t find

work after the Jewish banker scandal. Frau Lang

took the family’s fall from grace worst. She died