As the last notes of the Requiem mass rattled in the throats of the pipe organ at the front of the church, Untercommandant Heinrich Darmstaedter slipped from his pew and left by a side door. Although the winter of 1868-69 had not been a particularly harsh one in the small Moravian town of Brno, he was warmly dressed in a fine cloth coat with astrakhan collar that reached high above his ears.

After turning the corner, he took up a semi-concealed position under a slight overhang where he had a good view of the church steps and the main doors through which the mourners would be leaving in a few moments. The death of Abbot Napp that winter had not been unanticipated or unexpected, so St. Peter and St. Paul's church had been filled to capacity for this final, memorial service.

Along all the side streets a fine collection of carriages, broughams, britzkas, Berlins and one magnificent Grand Duc, awaited their owners who were now beginning to trickle out of the church. First came some of the local town's people, many of whom had at one time of another benefited from Abbot Napp's generosity. Many hurried away on foot to their houses and places of business, but many more lingered on the church steps to watch the gentry exit and leave.

Next came the monks of St. Thomas monastery all respectably attired in clerical garb, but with heavy greatcoats over their shoulders. They moved into a crooked line down the steps and spoke a few words with each of the guests as they left to look for their carriages.

"A fine service, don't you think?" said a voice behind him, and the man in charge of state security of the local Staat Polizei could not help a slight jump of surprise. He turned to see a man of middle size with a receding hair line and wispy eyebrows staring at him from dark brown eyes of particular intensity.

"Monsignor, I did not hear you", Darmstaedter confessed, "a fine service indeed. It seems that Napp had a great many friends and admirers. I have not seen such a crowded church since the bones of St. Hugh were transferred here a few years ago". He looked at the Vicar General, "and the Bishop was particularly kind in his eulogy, considering that he hardly had a good word to say about the Abbot when he was alive".

"That is not true," murmured his companion, lowering his eyes, "the Bishop has nothing but respect for the fine work the Abbot did, when he was alive". As the closest confident of Bishop Schaffgotsche, Josef Schrattenbach should have known his master's feelings better than anyone, and had chosen his reply with care.

Darmstaedter noted the fact that the Bishop, and the Vicar General, praised the Abbot for his work, but not for his attitude or beliefs, and then moved on.
"Yes, the man will be missed. He is not going to be easy to replace. Few can fill his shoes".

"I'm not sure that will be the case," Schrattenbach begged to differ, "and perhaps this would be a good time to return the monastery at St. Thomas to a more pastoral, and less political, role in the community. The next Abbot will certainly not enjoy the favored position Napp held in the Diet and the other local associations".

"So he will be easier to control", Darmstaedter smiled.

"Control, is perhaps too strong a wrong word," Schrattenbach said, "Advise, might be a better one".
He shrugged, "but which ever word is correct, the Bishop hopes that he will have a more positive working relationship with the next Abbot, and fewer areas of friction".

"And you might find it easier to squeeze all the money you are owed by the monastery out of the next Abbot," laughed the Untercommandant, well aware of the long running feud between the monastery and the Palace over the matter of church dues.

But before the Vicar general could reply, a stir swept through the crowd in front of the church, and the Grand Duc with its coat of arms on the door, liveried staff at the reins and matched horses in the shafts pulled out of the line and up to the church steps. From the doorway of the church a woman wrapped heavily in fine furs slowly made her way down the stone stairs, stopping to shake the hand and say a word to each of the monks. The Countess Walpurga Truchsess-Zeil might be almost 90 years old, but she could still walk unaided and had lost none of her patrician charm or sense of duty.

At the base of the stairs, and just before entering her carriage, the Countess turned to one of the dignitaries and beckoned him over so they could talk. Herr Otto Grundewald responded at once, bowing his head several times as he approached the lady and swiftly removing his warm, fur hat.

The Countess and the bareheaded cloth manufacturer spoke but few words, however the message was clearly transferred to the satisfaction of both, since the Countess entered her carriage by resting her arm on that of the burger, and even gave him a friendly wave as the fine bay chestnuts carried her away.

Grunewald placed his hat back on his head and looked around the crowd on the steps, clearly searching for someone.

"What do you think that was all about?" Darmstaedter asked his companion.

"There is only one thing on the mind of the Countess right now," Schrattenbach replied, "the up coming marriage of her great grand-daughter in the Spring. From what I have heard it is to be a magnificent affair. The girl is marrying a direct relative of the Emperor himself so no expense is being spared and the arrangements are being supervised by the Countess herself. Nothing is being left to chance".

"But why Grunewald?" Darmstaedter could not help asking again. "He is rich enough and prominent enough a citizen to be invited to the wedding, but why would the Countess show him such favor on a day such as this?"

Schrattenbach shrugged again. "With all your resources, I'm surprised you do not already know," he said, referring to the fact that in matters of state security the Untercommandant made it his business to know everything important. His army of informers kept a steady stream of gossip and facts coming across his desk on a daily basis, and anything that might concern one of the more important noble families in the area would surely have been reported to him a long time ago.

Darmstaedter hated to admit ignorance, so he did not reply, but made a mental note to himself to research the answer before the day was out. Grunewald, he knew, had recently invested a lot of money on a new manufactory of fine cloth that was located just outside of town, near the river. When it had opened, the better connected people in town had been invited to take a tour, guided by Otto Grunewald himself. Darmstaedter remembered being very impressed at all the latest, modern weaving looms and other fancy machinery imported from England, including a huge steam engine that provided the power to drive them all.

"It is said that Grunewald wants to be the next Generaldirektor of the Webereimitarbeiter and is doing his best to get elected to that position this summer, when the old Direktor retires," Darmstaedter said after some thought. "Perhaps he is looking for the support of the Countess".

As President of the Weavers Association, Otto Grunewald would advance several steps in the local social hierarchy and possibly get himself a seat in the Diet. For an ambitious businessman such as Grunewald, this would be the logical next step and well worth kissing the hand of the Countess to get it.

Once again the crowd parted as the Bishop swept out of the doors of the church, down the steps and then had to wait awkwardly for his carriage; a shiny brougham with a mitered crest on its side.

"I must go," Schrattenbach said, pulling his ecclesiastical garb more firmly around him, "my master awaits. But I must call on you again soon, we have a lot to talk about".

"Indeed?" asked Darmstaedter, "about what?"

"I would like to introduce you to the next Abbot of St. Thomas monastery," Schrattenbach told him with a smile. "I think you will like him, he is very much to your taste".

"Perhaps I misunderstood the process," Darmstaedter replied, "but I thought that the next Abbot of the monastery had to be elected by his fellow monks, and that the first vote would not be for several weeks - after a suitable period of mourning. How do you know who they will pick?"

"That," said the Vicar General, "is what I want to talk to you about".