Mortal Mischief

'What shall I do?'

The ensuing silence was not disturbed by divine intervention but by a dull, echoing thud from the back of the nave. It sounded as though a prayer book had been knocked or dropped to the floor.

Uberhorst raised his head and looked back over his shoulder, squinting into the shadowy vastness. There was no longer any squeaking – and no floating light. The sacristan had gone.

Uberhorst placed his hands together again and continued his prayer, only to be disturbed by another sound: a single footstep.

He was not alone.

47

THE DOOR FLEW open and a hatchet-faced man, pursued by a porter, came marching into Professsor Gruner's room.

'I'm sorry, sir,' said the porter. 'I couldn't stop him.'

The man brushed the porter aside and strode up to Gruner's desk.

'What is the meaning of this!' Gruner demanded, rising from his chair.

The man's eyes were hollow and a thin moustache hugged his upper lip. His hair was black and oily, combed back from his forehead and over the crown in a single wave.

'Aah . . .' said Gruner, his voice softening with recognition. 'Signor Locatelli. Please sit down, I am so very sorry—'

'Where is she?' The Italian diplomat's voice was hoarse.

'Please, I understand how distressing this must be for you.'

'Where is she?' the diplomat repeated.

'Sir?' The porter looked towards Gruner.

'Wait outside,' replied Gruner. 'I know this gentleman.' The porter looked at Gruner in disbelief. Gruner nodded once and the porter reluctantly left the room.

The diplomat leaned across Gruner's desk.

'I want to see my wife.' His voice was more resonant, and for the first time Gruner detected an accent.

'If you wish to visit the mortuary,' Gruner replied, 'then of course this can be arranged. However, might I suggest that first you sit and compose yourself.' The Italian turned and looked at the empty chair, a single finger lingering on the desktop as he withdrew. Gruner walked to the window.

'Please accept my condolences. I had hoped to inform you of this tragedy in person. You must have been travelling all night.'

'I left Venice as soon as I received your telegram,' said the diplomat, sitting down. 'The train didn't get into Westbahnhof until seven.'

Gruner placed his hands behind his back and stepped forward a pace.

'Signor Locatelli, I would like you to know that we did everything in our power to help your wife. She received the very best treatment, I can assure you. There are few hospitals in Europe better equipped to treat hysteria.' He paused and gestured towards a tower of battery cases. 'Indeed, some would argue that we occupy the pre-eminent position. Be that as it may, some patients, inevitably, are beyond help. By the time they come to our attention their nervous systems have been so weakened that they cannot benefit from our ministrations. This, sadly, was the fate of your wife. She was suffering from a progressive loss of nerve strength that could be neither arrested nor repaired through the administration of electrotherapy. Although her hysterical paralysis had begun to respond – as I predicted – any such therapeutic gains were nullified by deteriorating levels of mood disturbance. In the end, her melancholia was so severe that her faculty of reason was compromised and she became the architect of her own demise.'

Locatelli had been staring blankly at Gruner. When the professor had finished speaking, Locatelli seemed to become more aware of his surroundings, and his attention was captured by the gruesome contents of Gruner's specimen jars. His face creased in disgust.

Without turning to look at Gruner, he said quietly and clearly: 'You murdered her.'

Gruner cleared his throat.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said, Professor: you murdered her.'

The Italian fixed Gruner with a cold accusatory stare.

'Signor Locatelli,' said Gruner, spreading his hands in a placatory gesture. 'You are clearly in a state of shock. Please permit me to prescribe a sedative. I will arrange for you to be accompanied home by a junior doctor who will make sure that you take the correct dosage. Tomorrow, when you are properly rested, you will feel better and we can continue our conversation.'

Ignoring Gruner, the Italian reached into his pocket and produced a sheet of paper. It was covered on both sides in an inky scrawl.

'This letter was the last I received from Julietta, my wife. Let me translate it for you:

The professor does not listen to a word I say – he is only interested in his infernal machines. I have asked him about alternative treatments but he refuses to discuss the matter. I have heard that there is a new talking cure but he says that no such cure exists. I know that this is not true. The electrotherapy is unbearable – I feel like I am being punished. I cannot go on like this. Please come back soon. I am so unhappy.'

Locatelli folded the sheet and placed it back in his pocket.

'There is much more, Professor.'

'I'm sure there is,' said Gruner, suddenly showing signs of irritation. 'But your wife was ill – very ill. That is why you admitted her. If you are trying to suggest that your wife was mistreated while she was in my care, then you are very much mistaken. She was in the throes of a suicidal melancholia: that she should have taken a dim view of her treatment is hardly surprising, Signor.'

During the ensuing pause each torturous second registered like the creaking turn of a rack. Finally the Italian diplomat stood up.

'Concerning the propriety of her treatment, this is a matter that I will be raising, in due course, with your minister responsible for hospitals and health. Now, Professor, if you would kindly ask the porter to come back in, I wish to be escorted to the mortuary.'

48

'STEFAN, WOULD YOU cover for me? Just this morning?'

'Aren't you in enough trouble already, Max? If Gruner finds out—'

'He won't. Today's demonstration has been cancelled.'

'Really? That's unusual. Even so, why tempt fate, Max?'

'It's an emergency, I think.'

'You think?'

'Yes, I've just received this note – it's from Rheinhardt, my friend the police Inspector.' He handed it to Kanner.

'Dear Max,' Kanner read aloud, 'please come to the following address in Leopoldstadt. It is a matter of some urgency.'

'Will you cover for me? Please?' said Liebermann.

'Of course. But you must return by midday.'

Liebermann rushed out of the hospital and ran to the main road where he found a cab waiting on the corner.

'Leopoldgasse,' he called to the driver as he opened the door. 'And I'd appreciate it if you could get me there fast.' The cab driver touched his hat and whipped the horse. The carriage jolted forward and Liebermann fell back onto the black leather seat. Dodging two tram cars the driver crossed Wahringerstrasse and headed down Berggasse towards the Danube. They were over the canal in minutes and rattling down a small road that took Liebermann to his destination.

When he got out of the cab Liebermann found himself standing in front of a small row of shops. The entrance to one of them, painted in dull green paint, was made conspicuous by the two police constables standing outside. He introduced himself and they allowed him to pass. It wasn't until he stepped inside that Liebermann realised the shop belonged to a locksmith.

A worn brown curtain separated the vestibule from the workshop. Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's voice. As Liebermann was deciding whether or not to proceed, Haussmann followed him through the front door, his notebook and pencil in his hand.

'Inspector Rheinhardt is interviewing one of the neighbours,' he whispered. 'Would you be kind enough to wait in here, Herr Doctor?' Haussmann offered Liebermann a chair.

'What has happened?'

'Murdered in his sleep.'

'Who?'

'Herr Uberhorst – one of the medium's circle. An ugly business.'

Haussmann walked towards the curtain, shaking his head and looking rather pale. The brown material billowed in his wake.

Liebermann took the seat and waited. He strained to hear Rheinhardt's interview but Herr Uberhorst's neighbour was too softly spoken. He could hear questions, but no answers.

Eventually, Rheinhardt raised his voice: 'Thank you for your assistance, Herr Kaip. I am much obliged.'

'Not at all, Inspector. I only wish I could have been more helpful.'

The curtain parted and Rheinhardt ushered a bearded man in a kaftan to the door.

'Goodbye, Herr Kaip.'

'Inspector.'

Liebermann rose from his seat.

'Max,' said Rheinhardt, 'I'm so glad you could come.'

'I persuaded a colleague to do my ward round – I can only spare an hour.'

'That will be quite enough. Did Haussmann tell you what happened?' Liebermann nodded. 'Let me warn you, it's not a pleasant sight.'

Rheinhardt led Liebermann through the cluttered workshop to a staircase that spiralled up to the first floor. The landing had only two doors, one of which was ajar. As Liebermann crossed the threshold he knew that something dreadful had happened. The air was tainted with an ominous metallic fragrance.

The room itself was small and bright. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the angled slats of a battered jalousie; the blind swung backwards and forwards, rocked by a gentle breeze, sounding an irregular tattoo against the window frame. A crude rustic table stood against the wall. On it rested a large washbowl, a jug, a hand mirror and a pair of pince-nez. The room was dominated by a large four-poster bed veiled with white muslin drapes. From Liebermann's position he could see that the two visible drapes were dappled and striped with blood.

'How was he killed?' Liebermann asked.

'Bludgeoned to death, we think.'

Liebermann approached the bed and gently pulled the nearest piece of muslin aside. What he saw filled him with a deep sense of revulsion. His stomach heaved and for a moment he thought that he might be sick.

The drapes made a luminous white box, the sides and top of which were splattered with congealed blood and globs of fibrous tissue. Herr Uberhorst (or at least the person whom Liebermann presumed had been Herr Uberhorst) was still lying beneath the bed sheets, but half his face had been destroyed. His left cheek had been stoved in and the maxilla had been smashed. Liebermann could see directly into the corpse's mouth, as far back as the soft palate. Several teeth were scattered around the dead man's shoulders and some had got caught in his hair, which was matted with yet more blood and a dried crust of cerebrospinal fluid. Worse still, the upper cranium had been perforated, revealing the wrinkled grey-pink matter of his brain: it glistened wetly, a strange fruit surrounded by petals of shattered bone.

Liebermann swallowed. He let the drape fall back.

'He was discovered,' said Rheinhardt, 'at seven o'clock this morning by the maid. She'd come to change his bedding.'

'Poor girl.'

'Yes, she's speechless. The lock on the front door is intact, and there's nothing here to suggest a forced entry. Herr Kaip – the neighbour – didn't hear anything in the night. He and his family weren't disturbed.'

'There's no sign of a struggle.'

'And the bed sheets are still quite tight.'

'Indeed. So he must have killed Herr Uberhorst while he slept.'

'Why do you say "he"?'

'Oskar, a woman – even one with a heavy club – could not inflict such wounds. Look at how deep they are. This is a man's work.'

'Alternatively,' said Rheinhardt, 'he could have been killed quite suddenly. In which case, the man's presence in the bedroom did not alarm him.'

Liebermann looked at his friend quizzically.

'What I mean,' Rheinhardt continued, 'is that he may have known the assailant.'

'He was killed by a friend?'

'Perhaps.'

'Was Herr Uberhorst a homosexual?'

Rheinhardt shrugged. 'He was a sensitive man, certainly. But whether or not he was a homosexual, I have no idea.' He paused for a moment and then added: 'However, I do not think so.'

'Why?'

'The way he talked about Fräulein Löwenstein. It's unlikely.'

Liebermann looked over at the jalousie, which continued to knock loudly against the woodwork.

At that moment Haussmann entered the room. He still looked very pale.

'Sir, Herr Kaip has come back again. He says that his wife has just told him something that he thinks might be important.'

'Excuse me, Max.'

In spite of the revulsion that he had felt earlier, Liebermann felt compelled to examine the corpse again. He pulled the drape aside.

Death was revelatory. It exposed the fundamental physical nature of the human condition. He looked from the pulpy mass of Herr Uberhorst's face to the abandoned pince-nez and back again. Some obscure connection made him feel inexpressibly sad.

This is what we are, he thought.

Meat and bone. Cartilage and viscera.

'Max.' Rheinhardt appeared again at the door. 'Frau Kaip – she said that Herr Uberhorst had a visitor early yesterday evening. An odd-looking man with a drooping moustache who carried a cane.'

49

'YES,' SAID PROFESSOR SPIEGLER. 'A definite improvement. The catch is so much easier to operate.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Bruckmüller, assuming an ingratiating and somewhat insincere smile.

The professor of surgery placed the clamp on the table and then picked up a curette whose weight he gauged in his expert hand.

'This is very light.'

'A new amalgam,' Bruckmüller replied. 'The scoop is made from the same alloy.'

Spiegler exchanged the curette for the scoop, and then compared the weight of each against an equivalent instrument of the same size.

'Have you sold many?' Spiegler asked.

'Yes,' said Bruckmüller. 'We recently had a large order from Salzburg.'

'Professor Vondenhoff?'

'I think it was, sir. And we also sold several of the large curettes to Professor Surány.'

'In Pest?'

'Profesor Surány is a frequent visitor.'

'Indeed,' said Spiegler, clearly satisfied with the intelligence that he had gathered concerning the acquisitions of his academic peers.

Bruckmüller turned to the junior sales assistant.

'Eusebius, fetch the specula, there's a good chap.'

The young sales man crossed the room and began to remove a wide drawer from a large cabinet.

'No, no,' Bruckmüller called. 'Those are the hook scissors!'

'Sorry, Herr Bruckmüller,' said the assistant.

'Next cabinet along – third drawer from the top.'

'Very good, Herr Bruckmüller.'

Bruckmüller smiled at the professor and rolled his eyes.

'Just started,' he whispered.

The young man pulled the correct drawer from the adjacent cabinet and struggled back to the table. The drawer contained several rows of silver instruments with wooden handles.

Bruckmüller picked out the largest and offered it to the professor, whose face beamed with pleasure.

'Excellent. You made it!'

'Exactly to your specifications. See how much larger the bills are. We will describe it in our catalogue – with your permission – as The Spiegler.'

'Well, I'm honoured, Bruckmüller.' The professor squeezed the handles together and watched the flat metal bills open. 'It's a beauty.'

'To lock the bills, the long handle slides up and the short handle slides down,' said Bruckmüller.

The professor followed Bruckmüller's instructions and the various parts of the speculum moved, snapping into place.

'Do you know what this is for, young man?' said Spiegler to the junior assistant.

Eusebius looked towards Bruckmüller.

'It's all right, Eusebius – you can answer.'

'No, sir. I only know that it is a speculum.'

The professor laughed.

'Make a little circle with your thumb and forefinger – like so.' The professor demonstrated and the young man followed suit.

'When I wish to examine a growth in a patient's rectum, I slide this instrument into the anus.' Spiegler pushed the closed bills through the small hole created by the assistant's thumb and forefinger. 'And I prise it open.' He squeezed the handles and the metal bills drew apart, widening the simulated sphincter.

The assistant swallowed.

'Does it hurt, sir?'

'Of course it hurts!' said the professor, laughing amiably.

Bruckmüller joined in with a hearty guffaw and slapped the junior assistant hard on the shoulder. But his good humour was immediately moderated by the sudden appearance of a policeman looking through the shop's front window. Bruckmüller recognised him immediately. The young man had been at Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment.

'Excuse me, Herr Professor,' said Bruckmüller. He marched across the shop floor and opened the door. There was a blast of noise. The street outside was full of afternoon traffic. A tram rolled by, its bell clanging loudly.

'Yes?' Bruckmüller was almost shouting.

'Herr Bruckmüller,' replied Haussmann. 'I wonder if you could spare a few minutes?'

'Again?'

50

COUNT ZÁBORSZKY PRESSED the needle through the parchment-like skin of his arm and depressed the plunger of the syringe. He closed his eyes and waited for the morphine to take effect.

The police had found him taking his lunch at the Csarda restaurant. They had insisted that he accompany them to the Schottenring station where he had been questioned all afternoon. During one of the rest periods he had been allowed outside to smoke a cigarette. He had strolled towards the Danube canal. On his return, he had seen a carriage pull up outside the station. A young man had been frogmarched into the building. It looked like Otto Braun.

The police had wanted to know why he had been to see Herr Uberhorst the previous evening.

'I have enemies,' he had said, pointing at his bruised eye. 'I wanted to consult Herr Uberhorst on a matter of security.'

'You wanted him to supply a lock?'

'Yes. A good one for my front door.' The Inspector had looked at him sceptically. 'I lost some money at cards . . . to a gentleman. It is my understanding that he is anxious to get it.'

'Why did you not come to the police for protection?'

'The gentleman in question is from my homeland. We have our own way of doing things.'

And so the questions had continued – a relentless inquisition.

That irritating, fat Inspector!

As the morphine took effect a gentle warmth spread through Záborszky's body. His eyelids became heavy and a blurred impression of the world flickered for a few moments before giving way to shadow. The day faded and magical colours began to coalesce out of the infinite darkness. He saw a great house sitting on a wall of rock and heard the sound of a foaming river, rushing through a deep valley.

'Zoltan.' The voice was female and sounded distant. 'Zoltan?'

Was it his mother? One of his sisters?

He tried to open his eyes but found it difficult to do so.

'Here, let me take that.'

Slowly, his lids lifted and he saw the vague shape of a woman kneeling beside him.

His hand was still holding the depressed syringe and the needle was still in his arm. She carefully placed her thumb and forefinger on the glass body of the syringe and tugged it from his weak grip. Záborszky watched a bead of blood well up from the dermal puncture. It grew, and finally trickled along the crease of his elbow joint. He was fascinated by its brilliance – a bright scarlet.

The woman's feet appeared in his field of vision.

She was wearing a pair of small leather boots with high heels – the laces crossing between two columns of silver-edged holes. He could not see the hem of a dress or any evidence of an undergarment. She was wearing black cotton stockings, and as he raised his eyes he noticed that her legs were slim and shapely.

It wasn't his mother.

The woman's stocking tops were heavily embroidered with a complicated floral pattern, and were supported by green garters that bit into thighs of luminous white flesh.

In order to continue his examination Záborszky had to raise his head – a task that seemed to require an extraordinary amount of effort.

Struts of whalebone fanned out from a tiny waist, supporting sails of shiny red silk. Záborszky became engrossed by every detail – the dangling ribbons, the threads of green and gold, the hook-and-eye arrangement that kept the corset tightly closed. The woman's statuesque breasts were pressed together, and were powdered. For the first time Záborszky became aware of her perfume – which reminded him of night-scented stock.

With one final Herculean effort, Záborszky tilted his head back and looked up at her face.

'Well.' Her lips were moving, but there seemed to be no correspondence between the motions of her mouth and the sounds that she produced. 'Do you want some kätzchen?'

She opened her legs and sat on his lap – straddling him as though he was a horse. She pulled his face on to her breasts, and without thought he began to kiss them. The flesh was firm and remarkably cool.

Her hands were in Záborszky's hair. She pulled her fingers together and jerked his head back.

There was something about her face that made him feel uneasy. She was curiously familiar.

'What's the matter?' Her words had a shifting, liquid quality. 'You look scared.'

Those green eyes . . . those spirals of blonde hair.

'You mustn't be scared.'

How could this be?

'I've got something for you.'

'Lotte,' he whispered. 'Lotte?'

Szépasszony. Fair one. Demonic seductresss.

His hands slid up the woman's bare arms, over her smooth shoulders and settled in the hollows beneath her lower jaw.

The witch had said: She will get you.

'What are you doing?'

Záborszky's fingers closed around the woman's neck.

Those green eyes. Storms and showers of hail.

The woman tried to move but discovered that the Count's grip was resolute. His expression betrayed the kindling of a strange passion.

'Please . . . let me go,' she said.

Squeezed through the passage of a constricted windpipe, her voice was suddenly very thin.

51

COSIMA VON RATH seemed entirely out of place in Rheinhardt's office: too large and too colourful for such a functional space. She shifted her weight on the hard wooden chair, her capacious haunches spreading and bulging over its edges. Rheinhardt would have found her presence less disconcerting had she been held aloft in a palanquin, supported on the shoulders of eight Nubian slaves.

Waving a fan in front of her round face, she continued her account: 'Herr Uberhorst did behave strangely. He wanted to ask the spirit a question, and he was quite adamant that he should receive a definitive answer – a yes or a no: I recall that quite clearly.'

Rheinhardt twisted the tip of his moustache between thumb and forefinger: 'And the question he wanted to ask was?'

'Should I tell . . . them.'

' "Them" being who?'

'I have no idea, Inspector – he wouldn't say. We assured him that he was among friends and had nothing to fear, but nothing would induce Herr Uberhorst to provide us with an explanation. He said that it was a private matter.'

'Did he say anything else?'

'No.'

'Please, Fräulein, think harder – it might be important.'

Cosima stopped fanning herself and paused. Rheinhardt could see that his request had been taken seriously. Her brow became corrugated with deep lines as her lips puckered.

'Well,' she said finally. 'He said it was a private matter . . . but he also mentioned honour. Yes, that's right – he couldn't explain himself because it was a matter of honour.'

'And what do you make of that?'

Cosima closed her fan and tapped it against her protrusive lips.

'I imagine he supposed that if we learned who he intended to communicate with then it would reflect badly on Fräulein Löwenstein. I suppose he was trying to protect her reputation. Which suggests that he was in some way implicated in her scheme.'

'Scheme?'

'To subjugate a higher power. Given Herr Uberhorst's fate, I am now even more convinced that this was the case.'

'So, you think that Herr Uberhorst too was killed by a supernatural entity?'

Cosima dropped her fan and clutched the ankh that hung around her neck.

'Yes, I do.'

'Would that be Seth – again?'

Cosima's eyes widened and her knuckles paled as she clutched the talisman.

'He is a great god, and a mischievous god . . . Yes, it is possible.'

Rheinhardt made some notes. As his pen scratched across the paper he said: 'I owe you an apology, Fräulein von Rath. I am sorry I did not respond more promptly to your letter. Unfortunately, I have been rather busy.'

'I feared that you would dismiss my discovery,' said Cosima.

'No, not at all,' said Rheinhardt. 'In actual fact, I was in the process of planning a similar investigation myself.'

Cosima opened her fan again and fluttered it close to her neck.

'A seance?'

Rheinhardt placed his pen on the table.

'Fräulein, have you heard of Madame de Rougemont?'

'No,' said Cosima, her voice dropping in pitch. 'I don't think I have.'

'She is a French medium employed by the Sûreté in Paris. She is reputed to possess an extraordinary gift. It is my understanding that she has solved numerous crimes and mysteries.'

'Really?' Cosima's eyes glinted with interest. 'I've never heard of her.'

'Few people know of Madame de Rougemont's existence,' said Rheinhardt. 'The Sûreté guard her jealously.'

'Fascinating,' said Cosima, shifting her bulk forward.

'I had already telegraphed Inspector Laurent in Paris, requesting Madame de Rougemont's assistance, when I received your letter.'

'And?'

'The request was granted.'

'She has agreed to visit Vienna?'

'Madame de Rougemont will be here on Wednesday.'

Cosima seemed agitated with excitement, her wide mealy face becoming speckled with little red blotches.

'It may be that Madame de Rougemont will confirm your findings,' continued Rheinhardt. 'She may also help us to solve the mystery of Herr Uberhorst's tragic demise. To this end, she has proposed that we arrange another seance – to be attended by all the members of Fräulein Löwenstein's circle. I was wondering, would you be willing to assist with the arrangements?'

'Of course . . .' Cosima looked flushed and breathless.

Rheinhardt scribbled something in his notebook.

'Madame de Rougemont will be staying at this address,' he tore the sheet out. 'It's near the Peterskirche. I would like everyone to be there at eight o'clock on Thursday.'

Cosima took the sheet of paper. Her hand was shaking with excitement.

'I will send invitations immediately – to everyone – except for Herr Braun, of course.'

'No, include Herr Braun too.'

'You've found him?'

'He returned to Vienna last week. He had been called to the bedside of an ailing aunt in Salzburg – apparently.'

Rheinhardt's delivery was as dry as tinder.

52

'WHEN SIGNOR Locatelli was taken to the mortuary he was horrified to discover that his wife's legs had been badly burned. This of course confirmed what she had already written – that Professor Gruner had been subjecting her to an over-zealous regimen of electrotherapy. Locatelli spoke to some of his friends in the parliament building and a few days later a government inspector arrived. There's obviously some sort of inquiry under way – we're all going to be interviewed.'

'And what of Gruner?' asked Professor Freud.

'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'I haven't seen him since he threatened to dismiss me.'

'It would seem, then, that you have been favoured by the god of healing.' Freud tapped the head of a small bronze figure seated on a primitive square throne. 'You will be able to continue your work with the English governess after all.'

'Well, for a few more weeks, perhaps. Until Gruner returns.'

'If he returns,' said Freud, exhaling a voluminous cloud of cigar smoke and smiling wickedly.

'I'm sure Professor Gruner has some very influential friends too,' said Liebermann.

Freud shrugged his shoulders and continued to toy with the bronze figure on his desk. It was a new acquisition and, typically, he seemed unable to leave it alone.

'Imhotep,' said Freud, suddenly aware of Liebermann observing him.

Liebermann's blank expression invited an explanation.

'He was identified during classical times with the Greek god of healing – Asklepios.'

'Ahh,' said Liebermann.

Freud pushed the bronze figure back into its space among the ancient statuettes and suddenly picked up the thread of their original conversation.

'The case you describe is extremely interesting, Max. But I have some reservations concerning your technique and interpretation.'

Liebermann raised his eyebrows.

'As you know,' continued Freud, 'I have abandoned hypnosis in favour of free association – encouraging the patient to say whatever comes to mind, without censorship. The analyst listens, and learns not only from what is said but also from its character and form: the silences, the hesitations, the changes of volume and direction. Hypnosis is fraught with problems . . . for example, not all patients are susceptible to the trance state. I remember, when I visited Nancy a few years ago, that Liébeault was perfectly happy to acknowledge this. Bernheim had greater success but, from my experience, true somnambulism is achievable in far fewer cases than Bernheim's reports would lead us to expect. Be that as it may, in my estimation the most significant problem associated with hypnosis is that one can never be entirely sure whether or not the phenomena under observation are genuine. The hypnotic trance renders the patient uniquely suggestible . . . I think it no coincidence that conditions such as multiple personality emerge more frequently in those clinics where hypnosis is practised.' Liebermann's disappointment was clearly evident, and the older man was moved to soften the blow of his critique with a modest qualification. 'Naturally, I cannot comment on the clinical authenticity of your governess – but it is something to bear in mind, Max.'

'Of course,' said Liebermann respectfully. Then, steeling himself for more disapprobation, he added tentatively, 'And you also had some reservations about my . . . interpretation?'

Freud stubbed out his cigar and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and linking his hands.

'You assume that your governess's symptoms are the direct result of traumata – the ostensibly offensive sexual overtures of her relative. But what if . . . what if your governess is ambivalent? What if she is attracted, albeit unconsciously, to this man? Perhaps her symptoms are not a defence as such against him, but a defence against her own powerful desire to reciprocate.'

Liebermann's brow was creased by a pronounced frown line.

'Ahh . . .' said Freud. 'I can see that you do not find such an explanation plausible – but you should not underestimate the significance of erotic life in the etiology of hysterical symptoms. I had a similar case a few years ago – an eighteen-year-old woman with tussis nervosa and aphonia. She too had been importuned by a family friend; however, it transpired that her symptoms were the result not of his transgressions but rather of the repression of her own libido. The entire case history is somewhat complicated and the conclusion unsatisfactory. But I wrote up my notes last year and the article was accepted for publication in the Monatsschrift für Psychiatrie und Neurologie by one of the editors – a chap called Ziehen.'

'Well, I look forward to reading it,' said Liebermann. Nonetheless, he was a little troubled by the professor's customary insistence on the importance of repressed sexual desire. Freud had a reputation for being dogmatic in this respect, and Liebermann could not believe that Amelia Lydgate harboured a secret wish to be intimate with a man like Herr Schelling.

Freud offered Liebermann another cigar.

Liebermann hesitated.

'Go on,' said Freud. 'These are far too good to pass over.'

As Liebermann took a cigar from the box, Freud asked: 'Do you know Stekel?'

'Wilhelm Stekel?'

'Yes.'

'Not personally.'

'He's a general practitioner, but he's extremely interested in my work. He wrote a very enthusiastic review of my dream book for the

Neues Wiener Tagblatt.'

'Yes, I remember reading it.'

'Well, we met in The Imperial a few days ago, and he made a splendid suggestion. He proposed that we should hold a meeting – about once a week – to discuss cases and ideas. Perhaps we could start in the autumn. There are a few other people interested: Kahane, Reitler, and you must know Adler. How would Wednesday evenings suit you?'

'Wednesday . . .' Although Liebermann greatly respected Freud, the younger man was not sure whether he was ready to become a fully fledged disciple.

'Is there a problem?'

'I currently have a fencing lesson on Wednesdays – with Signor Barbasetti – but . . .' Liebermann decided that it would be ungraceful not to accept Freud's invitation. 'I'm sure I can change that.'

'Good,' said Freud. 'I'll keep you informed.'

The two men lit their cigars, and wreaths of blue smoke thickened the already dense atmosphere.

'How is your book on jokes progressing, Herr Professor?' asked Liebermann – struggling to get an even burn on his cigar's tip.

Freud sat back in his chair, taking Liebermann's enquiry as an opportunity to perform: 'The matchmaker goes to discuss the bride, and he's brought his assistant to support his suit. She's built like a fir tree, says the matchmaker.

Like a fir tree, the assistant repeats. And what eyes she has – you've got to see them!

Oh and what eyes, says the assistant. Beautiful.

And as for education, there's no one like her. No one like her! comes the echo. But there is one thing, the matchmaker concedes: she does have a hump. But such a hump!'

Against his better judgement, Liebermann found himself laughing.

Part Four

The Last Seance

53

'SO, WHAT DO YOU think Uberhorst meant?' asked Rheinhardt.

A street-cleaning wagon with a man on top swinging a hose indiscriminately came towards the two men. They both had to step back to avoid the splashes.

'He meant to inform the police that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant,' Liebermann replied.

'Yes – that's what I thought, too. Fräulein von Rath had a very different opinion, of course.'

'Oh?'

'She believed that Uberhorst was aiding Fräulein Löwenstein in her ambition to enslave a demonic power – and that he had wanted to know whether he should seek guidance from a cabal of black magicians.'

Liebermann shook his head: 'You are still quite certain that Uberhorst could not have been Charlotte Löwenstein's lover?'

'Absolutely.'

'In which case Fräulein Löwenstein simply confided in him – I wonder why?'

'Well, given her predicament, she could hardly expect sympathy from Braun.'

A lacquered black carriage, its curtains drawn, sped past.

'The pregnancy has still not been reported in the newspapers.'

'No – and as far as we know Braun hasn't spoken to any journalists.'

'So, none of the others are aware that she was pregnant.'

'That's correct. Only Braun.'

Two Ursuline nuns, with heads bowed, crossed their path.

'Did you notice the odd collection of equipment in Uberhorst's workshop?' said Liebermann. 'The syringe, the magnets . . . I strongly suspect that he was trying to work out how the illusion of the locked door was accomplished. He was an obsessional and I imagine that he would have succeeded, given time. Who else, apart from Záborszky, had visited Uberhorst's shop?'

'Herr Hölderlin had been there to collect a book on Friday afternoon.'

'What kind of book?'

'Something by Madame Blavatsky. Fräu Hölderlin had lent it to the locksmith a month or so earlier.'

'So both Hölderlin and Záborszky might have reached a similar conclusion. What about Braun?'

'He says that he's never been to Uberhorst's shop.'

'Where was he on Friday night?'

'He says he was alone in his room – having drunk too much.'

Three cavalry officers turned along the road ahead of them. Their spurs jangled like the strumming of a distant guitar.

'How can you be sure that Braun will be there this evening?' asked Liebermann.

'Haussmann has been with him all day,' said Rheinhardt, 'and will escort Herr Braun to Madame de Rougemont's should he demur.'

'That was a very sensible precaution, Oskar.'

'Indeed. He didn't want to come tonight. He didn't want to see any of them again. Not because he was feeling any remorse but because he thought we might have told them about his trickery – he was worried about them confronting him and asking him for their money back.'

'Did you tell Cosima von Rath that they'd all been duped?' asked Liebermann.

'No.'

'What does she know about Braun's suspicious disappearance?'

'I told Fräulein von Rath that he had been called to Salzburg in order to attend an ailing aunt. Braun knows what to say, should anyone ask any difficult questions. I dare say they'll learn the truth in due course.'

The two men followed the fenestrated cliff face of the Hoffburg Palace towards Josefplatz. As the light failed, a lamplighter went about his business on the other side of the road.

'You know, Max, I was quite surprised that you agreed to accompany me this evening.'

'Why?'

'Because you think seances are ridiculous.'

'They are.'

'Then why were you so eager to attend this one?'

'Isn't it obvious?'

'Not really.'

'This will probably be the last time Fräulein Löwenstein's circle meet. I'll never get another opportunity like this – it'll be extremely interesting to see them all together.'

They walked past an equestrian statue of the second Emperor Josef, set in the middle of an imposing square of white baroque façades.

'Aren't you even a little curious about Madame de Rougemont?' asked Rheinhardt, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

'No.'

'She's supposed to be genuine.'

'Oskar, there's no such thing as a genuine medium.'

'She's helped the Sûreté on many occasions.'

'Who told you that?'

'Inspector Laurent – he sent me a complete record of her accomplishments.'

'Well – the man must be . . .'

'What?'

'Credulous.'

Liebermann examined his friend. He was wearing a hard bowler hat, a fine English suit, and the ends of his moustache had been waxed and precisely tapered. He looked curiously stiff and uncomfortable.

'Max – I admit that my decision to seek Madame de Rougemont's assistance in this matter is indeed irregular. However, on Monday morning I had to face Commissioner Brügel again. Needless to say, the discovery of Herr Uberhorst's corpse has made him no less impatient.'

They entered a long tunnel-like archway that spanned the road.

'But to consult a medium, Oskar?' Liebermann's voice sounded glum.

'Are you familiar with Shakespeare, Max?'

'Reasonably.'

'Then you will recall Hamlet: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio—"'

'"Than are dreamt of in your philosophy",' Liebermann cut in. 'Well, Oskar, I will endeavour to keep an open mind – but I very much doubt that I shall be converted to spiritualism by this evening's—' He paused before adding, 'Entertainment.'

Exiting the tunnel, they veered off in a north-easterly direction, eventually crossing the Graben and entering a narrower street leading to the Peterskirche. Its large green dome and two towers dominated the view. Outside the church several fiacres were parked, waiting for fares. Beyond the Peterskirche they found Madame de Rougemont's address – a ground-floor apartment in a well-maintained block.

They were received by a male servant who took their coats and led them to a large reception room. Most of Charlotte Löwenstein's circle were already present: Záborszky, the Hölderlins, Heck and, most notably, Braun. Seated next to Záborszky was a small woman dressed in black satin. She stood and offered her hand.

'Gentlemen,' said the Count. 'Madame Yvette de Rougemont.'

Rheinhardt took Yvette de Rougemont's hand, which was covered in a fingerless glove of black lace, bowed, and raised it to his lips.

'Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,' said the Count to Madame de Rougemont. Záborszky seemed to have taken it upon himself to chaperone the medium; however, the eager light in his eyes suggested rather more than mere innocent gallantry.

'I am honoured,' said Rheinhardt, straightening up and gesturing towards his friend. 'And may I introduce my colleague, Doctor Max Liebermann.'

The medium turned to face Liebermann, obliging the young doctor to repeat Rheinhardt's formal greeting.

'Inspector,' said Madame de Rougemont, her German softened by a sweet French accent. 'It has been my privilege to place my gift at the disposal of the police on many occasions. I sincerely hope that I will not disappoint you.'

'We would be most grateful for any assistance,' said Rheinhardt.

'Of course,' continued the Frenchwoman, allowing a cautionary tone to enter her voice, 'I can promise nothing. I am merely a servant – a vessel. Perhaps the higher powers will allow us to make some discoveries this evening – or perhaps they will deny us. Who can say? All that I can do is humbly beseech them to be merciful, and pray that they will judge us kindly.'

She spoke with a certain breathless urgency, gesticulating and punctuating her speech with exaggerated facial expressions.

Liebermann was about to deliver a sceptical response when the double doors swung open to reveal Hans Bruckmüller and Cosima von Rath.

'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said Madame de Rougemont. She offered Záborszky her arm and they glided across the floor to greet the new arrivals. The smaller woman almost disappeared in the larger one's ample embrace.

Liebermann had expected Cosima von Rath's entrance to be a colourful affair, but he was still taken aback by her appearance. She was wearing a hat, the design of which was clearly inspired by the headdress of some Egyptian deity, and a loose, billowy blue gown made from material that shimmered and glittered as she moved. A thick yellow cord followed the equator of her stomach, and a large golden ankh dangled over the precipice of an overwhelming bosom. Cosima von Rath's neck was concealed by several folds of puffy pink flesh that hung from a receding chin and her eyes were like raisins pressed into marzipan. The effect was almost hallucinatory. She looked like a prize pig that had been bedecked for some obscure rustic festival.

For a moment, Cosima von Rath commanded everyone's attention. The other members of Löwenstein's circle, who had been quietly talking amongst themselves, fell silent. Braun, however, seemed less overwhelmed than the others, and even winked at the seamstress – whose fan immediately rose up to hide a collusive smile.

Conversation in the room began again, slowly regaining its former volume.

'Well, Herr Doctor,' whispered Rheinhardt, 'you might consider closing your mouth now.'

54

THE COMPANY ASSEMBLED around a large circular table, their faces lit by a solitary fitful candle. Its uncertain light made shadows leap from wall to wall – a flapping cloak of darkness.

Madame de Rougemont had asked them all to join hands for the duration of a lengthy invocation, which took the form of an appeal to the higher spiritual powers. Her antiquated style of delivery suggested a medieval source – some ancient rite of ceremonial magic.

'I invoke and conjure thee, O Spirit Morax, and fortified with the power of the Supreme Majesty I strongly command thee by Baralamensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachie, Apoloresedes and the most potent princes, Genio, Liachide, Ministers of the Tartarean Seat, chief princes of the seat of Apologia in the ninth region; I exorcise and command thee, O Spirit Morax, by him who spake and it was done, by the most glorious names Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohe, Zebaoth, Elion, Escherce, Jah, Tetragrammaton, Sadai . . .'

While Yvette de Rougemont droned on, Liebermann studied his companions: the languid Count, the ludicrous heiress, and the businessman. He turned to examine the remainder: the stolid bank manager and his wife, the conman, and the seamstress. What a motley collection of people! How strange that their different paths had crossed in Charlotte Löwenstein's apartment. One of them – in all probability – was guilty of murder. But which? Looking at their ill-assorted, perplexed faces, he could detect no obvious clue.

The room had filled with a rich redolence, like the heady fumes of a church censer. But these fragrant emanations had no visible source – no dragging cassock or swinging chain emerged from the room's obscure recesses. Liebermann looked over at Rheinhardt, who returned a puzzled stare.

Although Rheinhardt did not say a word, his expression clearly asked: Where's it coming from?

Liebermann shook his head.

'Do thou forthwith appear and show thyself unto me,' the Frenchwoman continued her invocation, 'here before this circle, in a fair and human shape, without any deformity or horror; do thou come forthwith, from whatever part of the world, and make rational answers to my questions; come presently, come visit, come affably, manifest that which I desire, being conjured by the Name of the Eternal, Living and True God, Heliorem.'

Madame de Rougemont paused, and the ensuing silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of a coin falling to the floor and spiralling around to a tremulous halt.

'An apport,' said Cosima von Rath.

Frau Hölderlin nodded vigorously in agreement.

'I conjure thee,' Yvette de Rougemont continued, 'also by the particular and true Name of thy God to whom thou owest thine obedience; by the name of the King who rules over thee, do thou come without tarrying; come, fulfil my desires; persist unto the end, according to mine intentions.'

There was a strange skittering. Something like tiny claws on hardwood. Only Liebermann and Rheinhardt turned, peering into the blackest and furthest corner of the room. Frau Hölderlin leaned a little closer to Liebermann and whispered a curt admonishment: 'No, Herr Doctor. Do not look into the darkness.'

Liebermann wanted to ask Why not?

But recognising his anomalous position as an interloper, he smiled politely instead and returned his attention to Madame de Rougemont. In the poor light the medium's black satin dress was almost invisible, making her head look unattached to her body. Her serene face floated in space like a bubble of ectoplasm.

'I conjure thee by Him to Whom all creatures are obedient, by this ineffable Name, Tetragrammaton Jehovah, by which the elements are overthrown, the air is shaken, the sea turns back, fire is generated.' The candle suddenly sputtered and Liebermann felt Natalie Heck grip his hand more tightly. 'The Earth moves and all the hosts of things celestial, of things terrestrial, of things infernal, do tremble and are confounded together; speak unto me!'

Yvette de Rougemont's injunction was swallowed by a hungry silence. A chair creaked, and Liebermann detected a slight asthmatic whistle in Frau Hölderlin's lungs.

The moment of anticipation unfurled like a roll of cloth, and with each revolution the suspense intensified. Finally, a beneficent smile lifted Madame de Rougemont's anxious features.

'I see him . . .' she murmured, her voice shaking with suppressed excitement. 'He is here. Oh welcome, Spirit. Welcome, Morax.'

Liebermann felt a movement of air, the slightest draught, as though a door had been slammed in another, distant room. The candle flame twisted and flared – a wisp of blue smoke ascended. Madame de Rougemont's spirit guide had apparently arrived.

'Welcome,' whispered the others. Frau Hölderlin and Natalie Heck released Liebermann's hands.

'Morax,' began the Frenchwoman, 'we – who live in ignorance – beg you to help us. We wish to contact our sister Charlotte who recently passed from this world to the next, from darkness to light.'

In the agitated lambency of the flickering candle, Yvette de Rougemont's face suddenly took on a different cast: her brow furrowed and her jaw projected forward. Her eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing nothing but the glistening whites of her eyes. Speaking in a convincing masculine voice that was completely free of any Gallic inflections, she said: 'She is here, Madame.' Several among the company gasped, and Liebermann noticed that the Count had placed a hand over his heart. 'I see a young woman, with golden hair and a smile of such radiance . . . but she cannot rest. Her soul is deeply troubled. What ails thee, maid? Why can you not avail yourself of eternal peace? Ahh . . . I was murdered, says she, and I cannot rest until this wicked creature is brought to book . . .' The medium's voice reverted back to its usual soprano register and her eyelids closed. 'Then her soul was not taken by a demon?' 'No, Madame,' came her own tenor reply – the whites of her eyes showing again. 'She was killed by a mortal, with nothing more than mortal means . . . and this wicked creature sits among you – this very night.'

Natalie Heck let out a small cry, which was followed by an outburst of prayers and protests. Frau Hölderlin crossed herself, and Cosima von Rath produced a large handkerchief which she dabbed against her forehead. 'Oh Madame,' she whispered, 'oh Madame . . .' Záborszky muttered, 'Jesu, Jesu.' Bruckmüller stared impassively at the candle, and Hölderlin placed an arm around his wife's shoulders. Liebermann caught Braun's eye. The young man smiled cynically, shrugged his shoulders and looked away.

'Is there one among you whose name is Natalie?' asked Madame de Rougemont in the ponderous voice of Morax.

Even in the half-light it was possible to see that the seamstress had gone quite pale. She shook her head violently. 'No,' she whispered, 'it wasn't me, I swear.'

'Natalie,' Morax declaimed. 'The maiden has a message for you.'

The general agitation subsided – and the room became utterly silent. The candle spat, and a droplet of hot wax fell like a plumb line, leaving an exiguous thread in its wake.

'Natalie?'

Liebermann felt the little seamstress sitting beside him flinch.

'Yes,' she said warily. 'I am here'

'How you loved my butterfly brooch.'

'I did, I did . . .'

'I want you to have it. How pretty you will look, with my brooch pinned to your white summer dress.'

Natalie Heck clapped a hand to her mouth, then looking around at the others cried: 'I did love that brooch, I do have a white summer dress.' Then, suddenly becoming subdued, she whispered: 'It is her . . .'

Morax continued: 'Is there one among you called Otto?'

'Yes,' said Braun, sitting up straight. 'My name is Otto.'

The medium tilted her head to one side as though listening carefully. Then, still in the person of her spirit guide, she said: 'Otto, how foolish you have been. You have chosen a headlong path that will end in despair. What is meat to the body is sometimes poison to the soul.' The young man seemed mildly perplexed, but nothing more. Then, after a slight pause, Yvette de Rougemont added: 'Remember the Danube. Remember Baden . . . and the poor widow. There is no sin so small that it can escape the notice of the divine auditor – no punishment is overlooked. Repent!' The voice of Morax became louder. 'Behold, ye have sinned against the Lord: and be sure your sin will find you out.'

Braun's expression changed. He was no longer superior, indifferent and contemptuous. Now he looked confused. Heck threw him a sharp glance.

'But how . . .' He looked anxiously at Madame de Rougemont. She did not respond but sat perfectly still, the candlelight glittering in the nacreous sockets of her skull.

'Count Zoltán Záborszky,' Morax proclaimed. 'How sad you are. I feel your sadness. It is like a canker, eating away at your heart. I see a great and noble house betrayed. A family in despair.'

The Count crossed himself, bowed his head, and pressed his jewel-encrusted fingers together in the attitude of prayer.

'Heinrich? Is there one present called Heinrich?'

Liebermann was sitting directly opposite Hölderlin. He could see the sheen of perspiration on the man's forehead.

'Heinrich,' Morax proclaimed. 'I have something important to tell you . . .'

Frau Hölderlin looked at her husband – her face showed suspicion and concern.

'No!' cried Hölderlin. He stood up abruptly and banged his fist on the table. The candle jumped and the shadows chased each other out of corners and across the ceiling. 'No, this cannot go on. It is unnatural – I am sorry, but I must insist that we bring this meeting to an end.'

'Morax?' Yvette de Rougemont's voice had returned to normal, and her eyelids had closed; however, her intonation was now weak and dreamy. 'Morax – where are you?'

'Herr Hölderlin, you must sit down!' shouted Záborszky. 'Madame de Rougemont is still in contact with the spirit world! You are placing her in great danger.'

'No, I will not sit down!' shouted Hölderlin. 'We have no right to be doing this. It is sacrilege. Blasphemy. Fräulein Löwenstein meddled with things beyond her understanding – and look what happened! Enough is enough! I will not be party to this any more!'

Without warning, Yvette de Rougemont's eyes suddenly opened. For a few moments, her expression was vacant. Then the contours of her face shifted to produce a fixed mask of fear. Her lips began to tremble. Opening her mouth wide, she released a chilling, sustained wail. Its rapid rise in pitch and volume was followed by a prolonged and steady descent – which left her clutching at her throat. Choking sounds were followed by a liquid rattle. Then she slumped forwards onto the table, flinging her arms out, knocking over the candle – and plunging the room into total darkness.

55

LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT entered the dim ante-room of the Café Central and passed through a narrow corridor smelling of coffee – and of ammonia from the urinals. Climbing a small flight of stairs they entered the arcade court: a pillared vaultlike arena that hummed with conversation and clicked with the brittle collision of billiard balls. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke provided a low canopy beneath which a milling crowd seemed to have gathered. The tables were well spaced, but most were surrounded by audiences of onlookers, openly criticising the moves in a chess game or praising a taroc player for increasing his stake.

The two men squeezed past the press of bodies and found somewhere to sit at the back.

Rheinhardt touched the arm of a passing waiter.

'A türkische for me and a schwarzer for my friend.'

The waiter bowed.

'Oh – and some Dobostorte. Max?'

'Nothing for me, thank you.'

The waiter vanished behind the nearest pillar.

'Well,' said Rheinhardt, puffing out his cheeks. 'Quite extraordinary, don't you think?'

'She is a fraud.'

'Come now, Max, you're being churlish. I thought you said you'd be coming with an open mind.'

'I did – and she's a fraud. That absurd fainting fit at the end – I've seen more convincing swoons at the opera. Her pulse was perfectly normal.'

'If you say so . . .' said Rheinhardt. 'But I can't help feeling that there was something more to those messages. More than trickery, I mean. Did you see Braun's face? He looked utterly flabbergasted when she mentioned the Danube, Baden, and the widow. He clearly wasn't expecting that . . . And what about Fräulein Heck? How on Earth did Madame de Rougemont know about a specific brooch that Heck coveted? And Heck's white summer dress! How could she know?'

'Every woman I've ever known owns a white summer dress, Oskar.'

'All right, but what about the brooch?'

Liebermann sighed.

'I don't know – I don't know how she managed to get that right. But I imagine she found out all she needed to know by talking to the members of Löwenstein's circle before our arrival. She is clearly a very skilled observer, able to read even the most minute reactions. In fact, she must possess skills very similar to those of a psychoanalyst. Professor Freud says that human beings are incapable of keeping secrets – we are always confessing something or other with fidgeting fingers and slips of the tongue. He once told me that betrayal forces itself through every pore. Madame de Rougemont is simply a consummate observer of human behaviour.'

Rheinhardt still looked troubled.

'That voice, though – Morax. It was unnerving.'

'Oskar, I've seen similar phenomena in the clinic. Morax was a kind of sub-personality, something created and cultivated by repeated use of self-hypnosis.' The waiter arrived with the coffee and Rheinhardt's cake. 'Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Quite sure.'

Liebermann scooped the froth off his coffee with a teaspoon, while Rheinhardt plunged his fork through several layers of sponge and chocolate cream.

'Mmm . . .' Rheinhardt closed his eyes. 'Delicious.'

Liebermann reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled letter and a pen.

'Here . . .' he said.

'What? You want me to read it?'

'No, I want you to draw something on it. Something simple. But don't let me see.'

Liebermann looked away, while Rheinhardt, puzzled, produced a small sketch.

'Have you finished?'

'Yes.'

'Turn the paper over so that your drawing is underneath.'

'I've done that.'

'Good.'

Liebermann then turned around and said: 'Hand me the letter.'

Rheinhardt handed the letter back to his friend, who promptly popped it into his pocket without attempting to look at the underside.

'You drew the Habsburg coat of arms – the double-headed eagle,' said Liebermann.

'God in heaven!' exclaimed Rheinhardt. 'How on Earth did you do that?'

'I read your mind, of course,' said Liebermann coldly.

Rheinhardt burst out laughing.

'All right, all right . . . you've made your point. Now tell me how you did it.'

'I glanced into my coffee cup as I took the letter. I could see your drawing reflected on the surface of my schwarzer.'

'Very good,' said Rheinhardt, impressed. 'I'll try that one on Else – she'll be mystified.' He picked up his fork again and continued to attack the Dobostorte. 'So what did you make of Hölderlin's outburst?'

'He was clearly very uncomfortable—'

Rheinhardt leaned forward, raising a hand to his ear.

'Speak up, Max, I can't hear you.'

The clattering cups, the babble of conversation and the sound of laughter had combined to create a sudden swell of sound.

'He was clearly very uncomfortable,' Liebermann repeated, 'and wanted to bring the seance to a swift end. He was obviously concerned – worried that something incriminating was about to be revealed. And did you notice how he looked at his wife?'

'No.'

'He seemed excessively attentive.'

'Which makes you think what?'

Liebermann gazed into his coffee: 'Löwenstein was pregnant. And I must admit, I'm inclined to believe Braun when he says he wasn't the father.'

'But Hölderlin! Really, Max . . .'

'He's middle-aged, respectable, a man with responsibilities. Trusted. Just the kind of man I'd expect to become embroiled with a young woman.' Rheinhardt shook his head and laughed. 'His sanctimonious speech had precious little to do with genuine spiritual conviction. I found it very unconvincing.'

'And what about that . . . that woman!' said Rheinhardt. 'What a character! It is not for me to speculate on medical matters, Herr Doctor, but surely . . .' Rheinhardt rotated a finger close to his temple.

'Indeed,' said Liebermann, picking up his coffee and taking a small sip. 'The rumours about Bruckmüller's political ambitions must be true: why else would he want to marry Cosima von Rath? And there was something about his behaviour, too . . .' Liebermann sank into a silent reverie.

'What?'

'He was so controlled. He didn't startle or jump at any point – just stared at the candle. He was overcompensating. People who have something to hide often present a conspicuously opaque exterior to the world.'

'Could he have done it, do you think?'

'The murder?' Liebermann shrugged.

Through wreaths of cigarette smoke they both watched a man removing the piano cover and propping up its lid.

'You've never identified the Count as a suspect,' said Liebermann bluntly. 'Why's that?'

'Well,' Rheinhardt replied, 'on the night of Charlotte Löwenstein's murder he was playing backgammon in his club. He stayed there until morning.'

'And you have witnesses?'

'Yes.'

'Reliable witnesses?'

'I think so,' said Rheinhardt, heaping sugar into his türkische coffee.

'Could he have bribed them?'

'Some of them, I suppose, but not all. There were simply too many people there.'

'As far as you know . . .'

The man at the piano sat down in readiness to play. But before he could begin, another man leaped up from a nearby card table and engaged him in conversation. A few people started to cheer and clap.

The pianist stood and took a volume of music out of the piano stool. One of the card-players brought a chair over to the piano, and the two men – evidently both musicians – sat down and cracked their knuckles.

'I think that's Epstein, the concert pianist,' said Liebermann.

A moment later the air was alive with sound – a musical detonation like the starburst of a firework. The hubbub subsided as the pianists ripped through a very fast four-hand arrangement of a gypsy dance tune.

'That's rather wonderful,' said Rheinhardt, leaning towards his friend and raising his voice. 'What is it?'

A ravishing melody in the lower register was immediately answered by a shower of descending notes – a crystalline flurry.

'Brahms,' replied Liebermann. 'One of his Hungarian dances.'

Before long Liebermann was leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, totally absorbed by Epstein's virtuosity. When the first piece ended and the applause began, he turned to face Rheinhardt. He could barely believe what he saw – and jumped as though in the presence of an apparition. There, standing next to his friend, was Madame de Rougemont.

'Max,' said Rheinhardt, grinning broadly. 'May I introduce Isolde Sedlmair? A very talented actress, I'm sure you'll agree.'

'I can see you are a great admirer of Brahms, Doctor Liebermann,' said the woman in black, her German perfect and unaccented.

56

HEINRICH HÖLDERLIN, wrapped in a large Turkish dressing gown, had been sitting in his study, smoking, for the entire evening. It was a medium-sized room, soberly decorated and illuminated by two electric lamps. On his desk a pile of papers, letters and forms awaited his attention.

Hölderlin stubbed out his fourth cigar and stared vacantly at the green-striped wallpaper. Resting his elbows on the ink blotter, he supported his chin on clenched fists.

What a fool!

The self-accusation reverberated in his head like a Russian bell. Its relentless tolling had given him a pulsing headache.

Hölderlin picked up a bundle of correspondence. He should have replied earlier in the day, while at work, but he had been unable to concentrate.

Dear Herr Hölderlin – further to my recent enquiry . . .

The first few lines made sense, but then each sentence became increasingly incomprehensible, eventually fragmenting into a string of meaningless words and phrases.

She was genuine, Madame de Rougemont. Her spirit guide was undoubtedly conversing with Charlotte Löwenstein. Those messages – particularly the one given to the seamstress . . .

Hölderlin tried to focus his attention on the letter.

. . . Business account . . . intend to arrive in Pest next week . . . securing interests . . . Herr Balázs . . . at your earliest convenience.

Hölderlin groaned, pushed the letter away, and rubbed his chin. It was rough with stubble. He usually shaved before the evening meal, but as he'd had no intention of joining his wife for dinner his toilette had been neglected.

What else could I have done? She had to be stopped . . . there was no other way – the risk was too great . . .

A faint knock roused him from his malaise. A timid, muted double heartbeat.

Hölderlin did not respond.

'Heinrich?'

It was his wife.

'Heinrich?'

The door opened, and she entered.

'Why didn't you answer? What are you doing, Heinrich?'

'My correspondence.'

He could see that his wife was not fooled.

'Heinrich, I want to talk to you about what happened last night.'

'I have nothing more to say, Juno.'

'But . . .' She closed the door and walked up to the desk. 'I still don't understand why.'

'Juno,' Hölderlin cut in. 'I acted on principle.'

'I'm sure you did, dear. But what principle?'

'That is quite enough. Please leave . . . there is much to do here.' He gestured towards his pile of papers.

Juno did not move. Although small-boned, her intransigence endowed her with a certain resolute quality. Her husband noticed that she was no longer squinting.

'Surely, Heinrich, you must appreciate how your behaviour appeared to everybody else?'

'Juno, I do not care what the others thought. I acted in good faith – according to principle. Now, if you would be so kind as to let me attend to these pressing—'

'Heinrich!' Juno's voice was shockingly shrill and loud, lifting Hölderlin's headache to a much higher register of throbbing pain. It was the first time that he had heard his wife raise her voice in nearly thirty years.

'You may not care what the others thought – but I do. I care very much indeed. And I am particularly mindful of what that police inspector thought. Dear God, I have been expecting him to arrive at the door with a squad of constables all day!'

'Dearest, please.' Hölderlin raised a finger to his lips. 'The neighbours, the servants . . .'

Juno Hölderlin became even more incensed.

'Why did you do it, Heinrich? Do you think I am an idiot?'

Hölderlin looked down at his papers.

'I . . .' He lifted the pen out of the inkwell. 'I must attend to my correspondence.'

He did not look up again. But when he did his wife had gone – and the sound of the slammed door was still inflaming his raw nerves.

57

LIEBERMANN'S FINGERS HESITATED over the keys. Instead of playing the opening bars of Brahms's Nachtigall, he closed the lid of the Bösendorfer and looked up at his friend.

'You know, I still can't believe that you didn't tell me.'

'How could I, Max? It would have biased your perception of the evening. I wanted an objective opinion.'

Liebermann picked some lint from his sleeve.

'How did you know I would accompany you?'

'I didn't. But I knew that, as a student of human nature, you would be curious to observe the suspects on such an occasion.'

'Ha!' said Liebermann, opening the piano lid again. He played a four-octave ascending scale of C sharp minor.

'Perhaps I am mistaken,' said Rheinhardt tentatively. 'But it is my feeling that the happiness you felt on discovering that your old comrade hadn't succumbed to superstition exceeded the irritation you felt at being duped!'

Liebermann smiled: 'Yes – that is true. Insofar as you did not sink so low as to employ the real Madame de Rougemont, you have retained my respect and high esteem . . .' Liebermann's intonation suggested an interrupted train of speech.

'But?'

'I still cannot believe that you didn't tell me!'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'Come now, Max, shall we see if we can do some justice to this Brahms song?' The Inspector tapped the score like a music master.

Liebermann let his fingers find the mysterious opening notes, but before he had completed the introduction he stopped abruptly.

'Though I have to admit, Oskar – it was a magnificent idea.' Liebermann began to laugh softly and, still chuckling, started Nachtigal for the second time.

Rheinhardt, delighted that his friend had finally forgiven him, rested a companionable hand on the young doctor's shoulder and filled the room with his mellifluous baritone.

58

'THERE WAS A flash of lightning, and the impression of his presence was confirmed. I saw him standing close – very close.'

In her hypnotised sleep, the English governess was reliving her trauma.

'The mattress tilted as he crawled onto the bed. Amelia, Amelia. I was unable to move. I felt the weight of his body on mine, and his lips on my face. I could not breathe – I could not breathe . . . I was choking, and started to—'

As she began to cough, Liebermann cried, 'Stop, don't go on.' Then, more gently, he whispered: 'I want you to hold that moment in your memory.'

Miss Lydgate nodded.

'Tell me, how do you feel?'

'Distressed.'

'Do you not feel any anger?'

Amelia Lydgate's face was expressionless, but the forefinger of her right hand began to twitch – signalling the approach of Katherine.

'I feel distressed,' said Miss Lydgate again – denying the more primitive emotional forces in her psyche.

Liebermann wanted the traumatic narrative to move forward, like frames of film being passed slowly through a cinematic projector.

'Herr Schelling's face is rough,' he said, confining the young woman's awareness to the focal point of a single sensory memory.

'Yes – it hurts.'

'His moustache scratches,' Liebermann continued.

'Yes . . . it does.'

Amelia Lydgate's anger was rising and simultaneously displacing into the surfacing sub-personality. Liebermann imagined it, rising from the unconscious, becoming more powerful, gradually taking control of her right arm – gradually flexing its fingers into the corporeal glove of Miss Lydgate's hand. Taking over.

'Amelia . . .' whispered Liebermann. 'Look into yourself. What do you see?'

'Nothing . . .'

'There is someone coming out of the darkness.'

Miss Lydgate's eyelids tightened.

'What do you see, Amelia?'

'A young girl.'

'What does she look like?'

'She has long red hair – like mine . . . and a white dress – like a nightgown.'

'Do you know who she is?'

'Her name is . . . I think her name is Katherine.'

'How do you know her name?'

'I read about her in a story book – when I was very young. It was a book about a naughty girl with red hair. The picture in the book looked just like me. She did things that I would never do – she was disobedient, and had tantrums.'

'She spoke to you, that night . . . when Herr Schelling came into your room. Do you remember?'

'No – I can't remember hearing anything.'

Liebermann rested his fingers on Amelia Lydgate's temples and began to press.

'Feel the pressure. Feel it increasing – as the pressure increases, your recollection becomes clearer . . .'

'I can't remember.'

'Katherine's voice – in your head. What did she say?'

Suddenly Miss Lydgate gasped, as though experiencing a sharp pain.

'Kill him – that's what she said. She wanted me to kill him. It was a terrible thing to suggest.'

Liebermann released the pressure.

'And what did Katherine do?'

'She picked up the scissors – she picked up the scissors and stabbed him.'

'And if Katherine had not done this, what would Herr Schelling have done to you?'

'He would have – he would have . . .' The young governess's head rocked from side to side. 'I don't know.'

'But you do, Amelia. What would Herr Schelling have done to you?'

Miss Lydgate's breathing began to quicken.

'He would have overpowered me – he would have –' her voice rose '– violated me.'

'An unconscionable, heinous crime.'

'He betrayed me.'

'And the trust of your mother and father. What do you feel towards Herr Schelling – at this moment?'

'Anger.'

'Yes, Amelia – your anger. Not Katherine's anger. Your anger.'

A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and her chest heaved as she began to sob.

'It is wrong – to want to kill someone. Barbaric.'

'But you were being abused. His hands were on your body – you could smell his cologne. Remember the roughness of his face – the grabbing, grabbing, grabbing . . .'

Miss Lydgate's face became contorted and a pulse appeared on the side of her neck.

'I hate him, hate him.'

'The roughness, like pumice stone.'

'Hate him.'

'The grabbing.'

The young woman's right arm suddenly reached for the invisible scissors. Fully aware now of her murderous wishes, she screamed and lunged forward. When the movement was complete, she remained perfectly still. She seemed frozen in time, her arm fully extended. The room was silent but for her rasping breath.

Amelia Lydgate's eyes opened – and blinked.

She turned to look at Liebermann.

'It's all right, Miss Lydgate,' he said softly. 'It's over now.'

She lowered her right arm, and a ripple of movement animated each finger in turn. The faintest of smiles crept across her hitherto tearful face.

59

COMMISSIONER BRÜGEL sat behind his desk, looking through the notes and papers that had spilled out of four stationery boxes

'It seems to me that you haven't got very far, Rheinhardt.'

His voice was grave.

Rheinhardt began what promised to be a weaselly sentence: 'Well . . .'

'And you've neglected some of the paperwork,' the Commissioner butted in.

'Have I?'

'You know you have, Rheinhardt.'

'So many forms . . .'

'All essential, I think you'll find.'

'Of course, sir.'

Inwardly, Rheinhardt groaned at the prospect of wading through more red tape. He was a policeman, not an auditor.

'This won't do, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel sternly. 'This won't do at all.'

Rheinhardt was about to say something in his defence but Brügel's hand came down heavily on the desktop. It was not a loud report, but it constituted sufficient warning to silence the beleaguered Inspector.

'From the outset of this investigation, I made it plain to you that I considered the resolution of this case to be a matter of utmost importance.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I trusted you.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But the longer this investigation goes on, the more I fear that my trust was misplaced.'

Brügel thrust his head out from his collar and allowed a cruel silence to play on Rheinhardt's nerves. Then he spoke once more: 'There's a lot at stake here, Rheinhardt – more than you realise.' The Commissioner grunted and shook his head. He looked like an ox worried by flies. 'Very unsatisfactory,' he muttered under his breath. 'Very unsatisfactory indeed.'

Rheinhardt was puzzled. He wanted to ask the Commissioner what he meant exactly? However, Rheinhardt recognised that it would be in his interests to hold his tongue. Brügel had always been an impatient man but on this occasion he seemed particularly irascible.

'Fräulein Löwenstein.' The Commissioner barked the name like a challenge. 'The door, the bullet – any progress?'

'I'm afraid not, sir,' said Rheinhardt meekly.

'But you still think we're dealing with an illusionist – I hope. Hence your initial interest in Roche and Braun.'

'That's correct, sir. Although they're not the only ones with a theatrical background. The count – Záborszky – he's been involved with theatre people too, although only as an investor. We received an anonymous note detailing his dubious history.'

Rheinhardt leaned forward and scanned the desktop anxiously.

'It should be there, sir.'

Brügel rifled through a pile of disordered papers but was unable to find the note.

'What did it say?'

'It contained some fairly wild accusations, about Záborszky emptying the family coffers – leaving his mother and sisters destitute in Hungary. I used the information to unsettle him in the sham seance.'

'Do you have any idea who sent it?'

'No – but Záborszky has many enemies.'

'I understand the Count had an alibi for the night when Charlotte Löwenstein was murdered?'

'That's correct, sir.'

'But he was seen leaving Uberhorst's shop the night before the locksmith's body was discovered?'

'Yes, sir. Záborszky said he had been to see Herr Uberhorst to discuss purchasing a lock for his front door – which is not, on reflection, implausible. The Count was recently assaulted.'

'Who by?'

'One of his gambling associates. The Count has significant debts.'

'How did he react when you told him that Uberhorst had been killed?'

'I wasn't present when the Count was found on the Prater. But I'm told that he insisted that he be permitted to finish his lunch.'

'I see,' said the Commissioner.

'Sir, Herr Hölderlin – the banker – he too had visited Herr Uberhorst on the same day.'

'The fellow who disrupted your sham seance?'

'That's right. He had been to collect a book and might also have observed Herr Uberhorst's experiments.'

'What experiments?'

'We believe that he might have been trying to discover how the illusion of the locked door was achieved. If Fräulein Löwenstein's murderer knew about his efforts . . .'

Brügel drummed his fingers, a five-beat roll that he repeated between lengthy pauses. It sounded to Rheinhardt like a funeral march. Finally, abandoning percussion in favour of speech, Brügel said:

'How do you know the two murders are connected?'

'I don't.'

'The methods employed were so very different that one can scarcely believe they share a common perpetrator.'

'Yes, sir. It is possible that we are looking for two murderers rather than one. But . . .'

'Yes, spit it out, man.'

'I think it improbable.'

Brügel flicked through some more papers and began reading. After a few moments he said: 'Having spent quite some time with that medical fellow establishing that Charlotte Löwenstein was pregnant . . .'

'Doctor Liebermann.'

'Yes, Liebermann: how has this information furthered your understanding of the case?'

Rheinhardt realised that it was probably better to accept defeat.

'It hasn't been very helpful, sir.'

'No,' said the Commissioner, scratching his chin between the silver-grey strands of his whiskers. 'It hasn't been very helpful – especially now that this same information has found its way into the newspapers.'

'That must have been Braun, sir. I expect he sold the story to a journalist at the Zeitung for the price of a bottle of vodka.'

'Which is splendid for Braun, but very inconvenient for us. Very, very, very inconvenient.'

Rheinhardt thought it politic to remain silent.

'Rheinhardt,' the Commissioner continued, 'there's something you should know.' The sentence sounded ominous. 'A Commissioner's duties are many and varied and I am often obliged to attend social functions, with other dignitaries – from parliament, the town hall, the Hoffburg – and one hears things. Gossip, for the most part – but not always. Now, as luck would have it, I chanced upon a rumour, a rumour that I cannot afford to ignore. It was suggested to me that a very high-ranking member of the royal family took an interest in the Löwenstein case when it was first reported in the newspapers. This elevated person was assured by a senior civil servant that the mystery would be solved by the security office soon enough. Fortunately, the said royal forgot about the case – presumably distracted by other more pressing matters of state and court. The recent article announcing that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant at the time of her murder is very embarrassing because it has once again brought the case to the aforesaid gentleman's attention.'

Commissioner Brügel paused and let his eyes roll upwards. Rheinhardt followed the movement, raising his head until the massive portrait of the Emperor completely filled his vision.

'Surely not,' said Rheinhardt.

'I'm afraid so,' said the Commissioner. 'And my source is very reliable.'

Rheinhardt took a deep breath, and hissed it out slowly between his teeth.

Brügel nodded and tidied some of the papers on his desk.

Now, at last, Rheinhardt understood why his superior was so agitated.

'I must be blunt, Rheinhardt,' said the Commissioner. 'Given the circumstances, it is essential that this case be solved as soon as possible. To that end, I think we need some new blood, someone to take a fresh look at all this.' He swept his hand over the papers. Brügel observed the flicker of disappointment that crossed the Inspector's face. 'Look,' he continued, his tone warming slightly. 'I'm not going to take you off the case, Rheinhardt, but I think you could do with some help.'

'Help, sir?'

'Yes. I've invited Detective Inspector von Bulow to examine the evidence.'

'Very good, sir,' said Rheinhardt. He had managed to preserve a façade of calm, professional resignation, but the mere mention of von Bulow's name had already induced a feeling like that of nausea.

'As you know, he's studying with Professor Gross at the moment in Czernowitz, but he has kindly agreed to return to Vienna for about a month. You've worked with von Bulow before, haven't you, Rheinhardt?'

'Yes, sir,' Rheinhardt replied. 'A very talented policeman.'

'My sentiment exactly,' said Brügel. 'I'm glad you appreciate my thinking.'

60

A WOMAN WEARING a large feathered hat was complaining about the quality of her Esterházytorte, and threatening to change her allegiance from The Imperial to the Hotel Sacher or The Bristol. She had attracted the attention of the head waiter and a flock of concerned inferiors who were mobbing her table like crows. Their avian appearance was emphasised by frequent bowing, which made them look as though they were pecking the air. Nearby, a large party, clearly from the Court Opera, was generating an extraordinary amount of noise, laughing loudly and toasting the ceiling with raised champagne flutes. Meanwhile, the pianist was pounding out Chopin's Grande Valse Brilliante at almost twice the usual speed, showing remarkable dexterity by executing faultlessly the repeated notes of the melody. Liebermann was very impressed.

'Things still aren't right yet with the Bohemian factories,' Mendel grumbled on. 'There's still a lot of bad feeling – these Czech and German nationalists! They've made it impossible to run a business there. I don't think things will pick up for another few years at least. Profits and investments have virtually collapsed. I don't suppose you know the Bauers . . . Well, the problems they've had. When Badeni resigned he left a complete mess. Are you listening, Max?'

'Yes – you were saying that after Badeni resigned . . .'

Mendel looked at him suspiciously.

'And as for our kind.' Mendel raised his hands and shook his head. 'What a situation!'

Our kind?

Liebermann felt distinctly uncomfortable with his father's over-inclusive vocabulary.

'We were never welcomed by the Germans in the north-west, and yet the Czechs treat us as allies of the Germans. How can you win?'

Mendel paused and stirred his Pharisäer.

'An old friend from the lodge – Rubenstein – he died last month: weak heart.' Mendel patted his own chest. 'Lost most of his assets there – what with the riots and the political uncertainty. He didn't have any children, which was probably just as well. His wife has a small income from investments, but not a lot. Which reminds me, I must visit her with your mother . . . it must be difficult, all alone in that big house – all those memories.'

A party by the door got up to leave, just as another arrived. Waiters swooped to clear the empty table and the humming, bustling confusion became louder and more intense.

'Where is it?'

'The house?'

'Yes.'

'Alsergrund.'

'And what's she like, Frau Rubenstein?'

Mendel was surprised by his son's sudden interest.

'You want to know what Mimi Rubenstein is like?'

'Yes – is she a pleasant woman?'

'Pleasant enough, but shy – and bookish. I always found her a little difficult to talk to . . . I'm not a great reader, as you know. Why on Earth are you so interested in Mimi Rubenstein?'

'Does she have a female companion?'

'I don't know.'

'Would she like one?'

Mendel tasted his Esterházytorte and gave an approving nod. 'Tastes all right to me.' Then, with his mouth still full, he asked: 'Why? Do you have someone in mind?'

'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'An English governess who's looking for a new position – she'd be very suitable, I think. I wonder whether Frau Rubenstein would like to meet her?'

'I could always ask. Where did you meet her, this governess?'

Liebermann took a deep breath and began a lengthy but carefully doctored explanation.

61

RHEINHARDT WAS SITTING in an armchair and had not heard his wife's quiet approach. Looking up, he smiled and touched her hand. She did not respond and withdrew a little.

'Are the girls asleep?'

'Yes.'

'I was impatient with Mitzi earlier – I'm sorry.'

'It was nothing,' said Else, moving away and pulling a chair from beneath the parlour table. 'She was being difficult.'

Rheinhardt sighed and closed the police journal that he had been attempting, somewhat unsuccessfully, to read.

'What's the matter?' Else asked. 'I know that something's on your mind – you've been on the same page all evening.'

'You're an uncommonly observant woman, Else,' said Rheinhardt. 'Sometimes I think you'd make a much better Detective Inspector than me.'

He leaned back in his chair.

'Well?' said Else. 'What is it?'

Rheinhardt did not want to burden his wife with his troubles; however, he recognised that if he chose to be evasive she would become inexhaustibly inquisitive.

'I was summoned to the Commissioner's office today. He doesn't think we've made sufficient progress with the Löwenstein case.'

'Herr Brügel is never satisfied.'

'Indeed. However, this time he does have a point – and he's invited a colleague to assist with the investigation, a man called von Bulow.' He paused before adding, 'And if there's one man I detest above all others, it's von Bulow.'

Else sat down.

'He is insufferably arrogant,' continued Rheinhardt. 'Something to do with his background, I believe. He considers himself a cut above the rest of us, superior by virtue of his birth. His family were ennobled because an ancestor – God knows how many generations back – distinguished himself in a military campaign.'

'But is he a good policeman?'

'He's clever, certainly. Sharp. But rather too fond of protocol and procedure for my liking. Needless to say, he's a great favourite of the Commissioner.'

Else left the table and returned a few moments later with a glass of brandy.

Rheinhardt kissed her hand and held it against his cheek.

'Thank you.'

Again, she pulled away. Had he not been so preoccupied, her coolness would almost certainly have aroused his suspicion.

Rheinhardt sipped the lucent, warming liquid and his spirits rallied a little – partly because of the alcohol and partly because of the presence of his wife.

'Oskar?' Else's voice was quiet but determined.

'Yes, my darling?'

'It isn't work that's been on your mind, is it?'

Rheinhardt looked at his wife. Outwardly she seemed composed, but there was something about her manner that suggested tension. Her lips were pressed together, forming a severe line.

'Whatever do you mean?' Rheinhardt asked.

'You're unhappy – aren't you?'

'Else?'

'With our marriage.' The words were so unexpected that Rheinhardt coughed on his brandy.

'My darling – what . . . what in God's name are you talking about? Whatever has possessed you to suggest such a thing?'

Else straightened her back and said: 'I saw you on the Prater – dining with a woman.' The accusation tumbled out, brittle and pointed.

Rheinhardt's mouth fell open.

'She was being very . . . familiar,' Else added.

For a moment, Rheinhardt appeared to be completely dumbfounded. Then, slowly, a flame of recognition ignited behind his eyes. His large chest heaved and he released a storm of laughter.

'My darling, my darling . . . my dear wife, do come here.'

Else hesitated before going to her husband. When she was close enough, Rheinhardt pulled her down onto his lap. She looked into his eyes, still uncertain.

'Please,' said Else. 'Do not try to persuade me that you were engaged in police work.'

Rheinhardt kissed her fingers.

'Ahh . . . but it was police work, my dear! Her name is Isolde Sedlmair – and she's an actress!' Else's eyes narrowed. 'No,' added Rheinhardt. 'That didn't sound quite as I had intended.'

Rheinhardt pulled Else closer and pressed his face against her dress. He could feel the stiff struts of her corset underneath.

'I can explain everything,' he said. 'And after, when you are fully satisfied, I propose that we should retire early.'

Von Bulow was no longer on his mind.

62

LIEBERMANN WAS WAITING in the drawing room of Frau Rubenstein's house. He had decided that it would probably be best if the widow interviewed Miss Lydgate alone; however, he had excused himself over an hour before, and was becoming slightly concerned. He could not hear their voices.

She's not mad, is she?

Mendel had taken some persuading, and perhaps Liebermann had underplayed the severity of Miss Lydgate's symptoms. Now, left to reflect on the propriety of his behaviour, he began to experience a creeping sense of self-doubt.

No, of course she's not mad, father.

Had he been right to make such an assertion?

If he had told Mendel about 'Katherine', then the old man would never have agreed. A whole treatise on the subtleties of psychiatric diagnosis would have failed to persuade Mendel that a woman who had once exhibited two personalities could ever be considered sane. He had furnished his father with a thoroughly sanitised account of Miss Lydgate's hysteria and treatment. Moreover, he had been particularly manipulative by appealing to Mendel's charitable instincts, portraying the governess as a poor, vulnerable stranger. Liebermann knew that his father was generally sympathetic to the dispossessed – a class of individual likely to evoke memories of his own father.

Liebermann examined the face of his wristwatch.

One hour and twelve minutes.

He got up from his seat and walked to the door. Opening it a little, he tilted his head to one side and listened.

Nothing.

Stepping into the long, dimly lit hall, he resolved to find out what was going on. However, just as he had reached this decision, the door of the sitting room opened, and Miss Lydgate appeared. She was obviously surprised to see him there – but she did not flinch.

'Oh – Doctor Liebermann.'

'Miss Lydgate.' Now that he saw her again – looking sober-minded and composed – he felt rather foolish. His worries vanished. 'I was just coming to find out . . .' Liebermann was unable to finish his sentence. The redundancy of his anxiety was self-evident and he smiled with relief.

'Frau Rubenstein would like to see you.'

As Amelia Lydgate held the door open for him, he could not tell whether the interview had been successful – the young woman's features showed no emotion. Liebermann executed a modest bow before entering the large, musty sitting room.

Frau Rubenstein, dressed entirely in black, was seated in an armchair by the large bay window. She was a small woman, shrunk, perhaps, not only by age but by recent grief. Yet, when she looked up, her expression was bright, and her eyes sparkled. At her feet were several books that had not been there when Liebermann had left the room. Clearly, the two women had been discussing or reading them.

'Herr Doctor,' said the widow in a soft but clear voice, 'I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. I was showing Amelia these volumes from my collection – and I quite forgot you were there.'

Liebermann stood in the centre of the room, uncertain of how to respond. He glanced at Miss Lydgate who for the first time produced a fleeting smile.

'Amelia and I have come to an arrangement concerning her position,' continued Frau Rubenstein. 'Would you be so kind, Herr Doctor, as to show her the rooms situated on the top floor? It is a steep climb, and my legs are not as strong as they once were.'

'Of course,' said Liebermann.

Amelia Lydgate, usually reserved, rushed across the room and took Frau Rubenstein's hand.

'Thank you,' she whispered.

The old woman shook her head and said: 'I hope you will be happy here.'

Liebermann and Miss Lydgate left the room and began to ascend the first of several wide staircases.

'Frau Rubenstein is delightful,' said Miss Lydgate, lifting her dress a little and carefully stepping over a loose carpet rail. 'And she is so interested in matters of literature and science.'

'I knew that she was well read,' said Liebermann. 'But I had no idea that she was such an enthusiast.'

'She was even interested in my grandfather's journal.'

'Was she?'

'Yes – when Frau Rubenstein was a little girl she lived in the country, and her grandmother taught her much about the use of medicinal herbs. She is extremely knowledgeable.'

'Well, you will make an ideal companion.'

'I will do my best, Doctor Liebermann.'

They were both a little breathless when they reached the top floor. The rooms, of which there were several, had formerly been occupied by servants; now, though, the fusty atmosphere suggested that they had been vacant for some time. Perhaps Herr Rubenstein's financial problems had had a much longer history than Mendel had realised. Amelia Lydgate systematically examined each room, her face flushed with excitement; Liebermann, however, was somewhat disappointed. The rooms were small and gloomy in the fading light. He ran a finger across a table top and examined the dust on his fingertip.

'Of course, it will need a thorough clean,' he said.

Miss Lydgate did not respond. Instead, she rushed between rooms, finally stopping on the landing.

'It's wonderful,' she said.

'Is it?'

'Oh yes.' She turned and pointed at the various doors. 'This will be my bedroom, this my library – and the smaller room at the back will be my laboratory.'

Liebermann watched her – and became acutely aware of her appearance. He had become accustomed to seeing Amelia Lydgate in a plain, shapeless, hospital gown. Now she was transformed. Although she was only wearing a simple green dress with a high collar, the effect was striking. Her bosom and the pleasing symmetry of her hips had become conspicuous. Her hair seemed like fire: a deep, burning red. She looked elegant, sophisticated.

'I will inform Doctor Landsteiner immediately,' said Miss Lydgate.

Their gaze met, and Liebermann looked away.

'Yes,' he said, loosening his necktie a little. 'Yes, you must resume your work as soon as possible.' Then, after a short pause, he added: 'Miss Lydgate, could we sit down for a few moments? There are some practical matters that I wish to discuss.'

They entered the rear room where they found a folded gateleg table and two hard chairs.

'Miss Lydgate, what are your immediate plans?'

'Is it possible to stay here – this evening?'

'Yes, of course. I can write your discharge summary when I return to the hospital.'

'I have a trunk . . .'

'Which you can collect when you are ready. Or I can arrange to have it sent on.'

Amelia Lydgate looked down at her hands and slowly locked her fingers together.

'I shall write to Herr Schelling. He will receive my letter of resignation tomorrow.'

'And your parents?'

'Yes, I will write to them too. But I will spare them such detail that is likely to cause them distress. They do not need to know everything.'

Miss Lydgate looked up, and her cool, metallic eyes caught the light.

'Well,' said Liebermann, 'I suppose I should say goodbye to Frau Rubenstein, and allow you to settle into your new home.'

They both stood – but did not move. The moment became oddly uncomfortable.

'Doctor Liebermann . . .' said Amelia Lydgate, her customary restraint perturbed by a trace of agitation. 'I cannot thank you enough.'

'Not at all,' said Liebermann, shaking his head. 'I am sure that Frau Rubenstein will thoroughly enjoy your company.'

'No, not just for this.' She swept her hand around the room. 'Frau Rubenstein . . .' She paused before adding: 'I mean, thank you for everything.'

Liebermann smiled but – as usual – the smile was not returned. The young woman's expression remained intense.

'I will of course . . .' His words petered out.

'Visit?' There was the slightest inflexion of hope in her voice.

'Yes, visit,' said Liebermann decisively. 'To see how you are.'

'I would like that very much,' came Miss Lydgate's half-whispered response.

63

VICTOR VON BULOW RAN his hands over the silver stubble on his head. It made a rough, abrasive sound. Unlike most of his contemporaries, his face was hairless but for a trim rectangle of bristle on his chin. His features were sharp. An aquiline nose separated two widely spaced eyes and his ears tapered to become slightly pointed. However, there was nothing comic about his looks. Indeed, the severity of his lineaments conveyed an impression of quick intelligence. It was in many ways a handsome face: unconventional, arresting and singular.

Rheinhardt noticed the stylish cut of von Bulow's suit, the glint and glimmer of diamond cuff links.

He looks like a court official, thought Rheinhardt. He imagined him in a remote chamber of the Hoffburg Palace, lecturing his acolytes on the arcane and Byzantine complexities of royal protocol. Imperial Vienna was a pedant's heaven – a place where the importance of a visitor could be determined by observing the angle of a coachman's whip.

Von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel shabbily dressed and overly conscious of his own modest origins. Rheinhardt pulled in his paunch and straightened his back.

'Well, Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow. 'I've looked through the files and I haven't found them very illuminating.' As he said these words he glanced up at the Commissioner. Brügel, sitting under his portrait of Emperor Franz Josef, nodded in tacit agreement. 'I couldn't find the floor plan,' he continued. 'I take it a floor plan was drawn up?'

Von Bulow's eyes were of the palest watery grey – almost entirely bleached of colour.

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'My assistant Haussman would have done it.'

'Then where is it?'

'It isn't with the principal summary?'

'No.'

'Then it must . . . it must have been . . . mislaid.'

Von Bulow shook his head: 'Or he forgot.'

Rheinhardt realised that any further attempt to protect his assistant would be futile.

'If Haussmann neglected the sketches – then that was only because he was otherwise engaged. We had an unusual number of witnesses to interview.'

'Assistants learn by example, Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow.

'Indeed, and it is my judgement that people matter more than the position of objects.'

'Well, you are entitled to that view – but it is one that goes against the climate of expert opinion.' Again, von Bulow glanced at Brügel before continuing. 'And while we are on the subject of correct procedure – I was surprised to come across the original of Fräulein Löwenstein's note . . . in an envelope.'

'Is that a problem?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Given that such a note is liable to become damaged with handling, a photographic reproduction should have been made. This could then be handled at will.'

'Had I done that,' interrupted Rheinhardt, 'Herr Doctor Liebermann would never have been able to make his interpretation of Fräulein Löwenstein's error. A photographic reproduction wouldn't—'

Von Bulow raised his hand.

'If you would kindly allow me to finish. After photographic reproductions had been made, the original should have been enclosed between two sheets of glass bound with gummed paper round the edges. It allows both sides of the document to be seen and makes it easy to examine against the light.'

'That's all very well, von Bulow, but—'

'Inspector!' Brügel silenced Rheinhardt with a minatory stare.

'I'm afraid I am completely unable to form a mental picture of Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment,' continued von Bulow.

'Aren't the photographs satisfactory?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Not without a floor plan indicating dimensions and distances.' Looking at Brügel, he continued: 'I'm afraid I'll have to visit the apartment.'

'Of course,' Brügel replied. 'Rheinhardt, perhaps you could escort Inspector von Bulow tomorrow?'

'It would be an honour,' said Rheinhardt.

Von Bulow's eyes flicked upward. He stared at Rheinhardt, attempting to decipher the other man's expression. Rheinhardt smiled, politely.

Returning to his notebook, von Bulow continued: 'I could not find a report by the medical officer . . . Doctor Liebermann?'

Rheinhardt coughed nervously.

'Doctor Liebermann is not a medical officer. That is why he hasn't filed a report.'

'Then what is he?'

'An unofficial consultant,' said Rheinhardt authoritatively.

'Even so, you might have taken the trouble to commission a report.'

'I didn't think it was necessary.'

'Well, it is. How am I to come to any conclusions concerning his findings?'

'I'm sure the good doctor would consent to an interview.'

'I'm sure he would – but that doesn't help me right now, does it, Inspector?'

For the next hour, von Bulow worked through his notes, asking questions that invariably highlighted one or other departure from 'procedure'. As he did so, Rheinhardt's head filled with a whistling emptiness. A sense that he was teetering on the edge of a deep, dark abyss. He found himself staring vacantly at the portrait of Franz Josef – and curiously fascinated by the whiteness of the general's uniform that he was wearing and the deep red sash that fell diagonally across his chest. On a table beside the Emperor was a field marshal's large black hat with a thick plume of peacock green feathers.

'Rheinhardt?'

It was Brügel's voice.

'Would you please pay attention . . .'

64

'I GOT YOUR note, mother – is everything all right?'

'Yes, yes – everything is fine. Come in.'

Liebermann entered the drawing room.

'Where's Hannah?'

'Out with her friend – she said she wanted a new hat. They've gone for a walk down Kärntner Strasse.'

Liebermann handed his coat to the servant who had followed him in from the hall.

'Do you want some tea?'

'No, thank you.'

'Then sit down, Maxim.' Addressing the servant, she added: 'That will be all, Peter.'

'Mother . . .' Liebermann hesitated. He was already beginning to suspect that he had been manipulated.

Before he could continue, Rebecca said: 'I know – I know exactly what you're thinking. Why did she say it was urgent? But if I hadn't said it was urgent would you have come? No. You would have sent me a note saying that you were too busy at the hospital. Am I wrong?'

Liebermann sat down on the sofa.

'No, mother, you are not wrong. However, the fact is . . . I am very busy at the hospital. To tell the truth—' He thought of telling his mother about Gruner and his pending dismissal but quickly changed his mind: 'Oh, it doesn't matter.'

'What doesn't matter?'

Liebermann sighed. 'Why did you want to see me today?'

Rebecca sat down on the sofa beside her son and took his hand in hers. She looked at him and her eyes creased with affection. Yet her gaze was also investigative, probing. Liebermann found her close attention a little unnerving.

'Maxim, I wanted to talk to you – alone.'

'What about?'

'Clara.'

'Very well, mother. What is it that you wanted to say?'

'She's a beautiful girl. So very pretty. And the Weisses – such a good family. You know, her father and yours—'

'They go back a long way,' interrupted Liebermann. 'They went to school together in Leopoldstadt, and grandfather Weiss helped grandfather Liebermann start his first business.' He placed a hand over his mouth and enacted a theatrical yawn.

'Yes, yes,' said Rebecca. 'You've heard it all before, I know.' She rubbed his hand with her thumb.

'What is it, mother?'

'Are you—' She smiled nervously. 'Are you sure that she is the one? Are you sure that she will make you happy?'

Strangely, the sentence that Liebermann had been composing for the benefit of Professor Gruner came into his mind: Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

An odd coldness seemed to spread through his chest. Liebermann dismissed the thought, irritated at its intrusion.

'Yes,' he said, rather tentatively. 'Yes – I think we shall be happy together.'

'And you love her? Really love her?'

'Of course,' he said, laughing. 'I wouldn't have proposed if I didn't love her.' Yet, as he said these words, they seemed curiously light and airy, lacking in emotional substance. He did not feel the weight of affection compressing his heart. 'Mother – I'm not absolutely certain, how can I be?' He remembered the uxorious Rheinhardt:

My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.

'I . . . I don't know what sort of a life we shall have together – I don't have a crystal ball. But I am very fond of Clara and when we're together she does make me happy. And she is very pretty.'

'That doesn't last, let me tell you,' said Rebecca sharply. 'They used to say that I was beautiful once.' She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her son's ear – as though he was still an infant. Liebermann frowned and pulled away.

'You're sure, then?' asked Rebecca, smiling.

'I'm as sure as I can be, mother.'

With that, Rebecca got up and went over to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. She came back and, sitting down, handed her son a small black box.

'Take it,' she said.

Liebermann took the box and opened it. Inside, on a bed of silk, was an engagement ring. A cluster of little diamonds flashed around a deep blue sapphire.

'It was my grandmother's – your great-grandmother's. God knows how they came by it. I suppose you've been too busy to go out and buy a new one.'

65

THE ROOM WAS lit by candles, most of which had burned down to flickering stubs of wax. A line of abandoned hookahs obscured Záborszky's view; however, the grotesquely distorted images of two unconscious gentlemen could be seen through the glass cylinders. As Záborszky moved his head, his oblivious companions seemed to expand and shrink.

'My dear Count.'

Záborszky turned. A soberly dressed middle-aged woman was standing close by.

'Frau Matejka . . .' Záborszky sneered as he said her name.

'There is a matter that I wish to discuss with you.' Záborszky remained inert. 'In private.' Záborszky stood up, swaying slightly. 'Careful now, you don't want to fall.'

'I would never be so undignified.'

The madam led him down a dark passage into a dilapidated room that smelled of damp. The floorboards were bare and the wallpaper had begun to peel near the ceiling; streaks of black mildew dribbled down either side of the shuttered window; a paraffin lamp stood on a scratched and battered writing bureau in front of which were two rustic chairs.

'Please, do sit down.'

Záborszky pulled a chair across the floorboards, making a scraping noise so loud that it pained his sensitive ears. He collapsed on the chair, slumping and letting his arms dangle.

'Well,' he said, 'what is it?'

'As you know,' said Frau Matejka, 'you are a much-valued patron of our little business . . .'

'I've paid – I paid Olga for everything last week.'

'Yes, of course. I wasn't suggesting—'

'Then what is it? Get to the point.'

Frau Matejka looked like a provincial schoolteacher. She was not wearing make-up and her greying hair was tied back in a loose bun from which several unruly strands had escaped. The silver crucifix that hung from her neck reinforced a general impression of spinsterish propriety.

She smiled patiently.

'I like to think of our regular patrons as friends. Gentlemen I can talk to.'

'You can't have any more money, Frau Matejka. I don't have any.'

'It isn't a financial matter that I wish to discuss. It is a matter of conduct.'

Záborszky laughed – a slow, mechanical cackle.

'Conduct? But this is a brothel!'

The madam reached for the paraffin lamp and increased the length of the wick. The effect was not flattering. The sagging skin under her eyes looked bruised and the vertical creases that scored her upper lip were thrown into sharp relief.

'The girls are my responsibility – you do appreciate that, don't you? I'm like a mother to them. They come to me when they're worried – when they've something on their minds.'

'What has this got to do with me?'

'There have been some complaints.'

'Complaints?'

'Yes.'

'What complaints?'

'Roughness. It won't do, dear Count – you're frightening the girls.'

Záborszky rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

'Nonsense.'

'Amalie showed me her neck. She thought you were going to strangle her.'

'Heat of the moment . . .' mumbled Záborszky.

'You know,' Frau Matejka leaned forward, 'there are some who are willing to indulge gentlemen of irregular habit. Specialists. If you wanted, I could make some enquiries. Although, naturally, it would cost a little more. Let's say four – possibly five krone.'

'I'm going . . .'

Záborszky got up and left the room. He was feeling steadier, and marched briskly down the corridor and through the vestibule where his companions were still sleeping. In a small antechamber he collected his coat and cane.

Outside, he paused and allowed the cold night air to clear his head. The door had opened directly – and discreetly – onto a narrow and poorly illuminated alleyway. Bare bricks peeped through gaps in a decaying poultice of plaster. He set off immediately, noticing a figure coming towards him from the other end. The man advanced, a featureless silhouette against the diffuse yellow glow of the street lights.

There was not enough room in the alley for them to pass comfortably, and neither of them gave way when they met. As a result their shoulders banged together with considerable force.

Still fuming from his encounter with Frau Matejka, Záborszky wheeled around: 'Watch where you're going!'

The other man stopped and turned. Now that it was lit by the street lights Záborszky could see his face.

'Braun. What are you doing here?'

'The same as you, I imagine.' The younger man took a step forward. 'Not a very spiritually enriching place – Frau Matajka's house.'

Záborszky said nothing.

'You know,' continued Braun, 'I'd always suspected that your interest in our circle was superficial.'

'What do you mean?'

'You were never really interested in communicating with the dead – were you?'

'You're drunk, Braun. Good night.'

Záborszky turned and started to walk away. Then he felt Braun's hand come down heavily on his shoulder.

'No, dear Count. I think you should stay and talk a while.'

Záborszky remained absolutely still.

'It was all trickery you know – she wasn't genuine . . .' continued Braun. 'And I think you knew that.'

'Remove your hand.'

'So why did you keep on coming, week after week. Was it you?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Did you have her – did you?'

'Remove your hand,' Záborszky repeated.

'She was always impressed by foppery and promises.'

'I will not ask you again.'

'Were they your children? The ones she was carrying? Were they?'

Záborszky pulled on the gold jaguar-head of his cane. There was a rasping sound and the glint of light on metal. Braun jumped back, clutching his hand and nursing the deep cut that was already bleeding profusely.

'Test my patience again, boy, and I will slit your throat, not just your hand.'

Záborszky dropped the slim-bladed sword back into its unconventional scabbard and pressed down. Braun heard a gentle click – the locking of a mechanism. Without looking round to face Braun, Záborszky began walking again. When he reached the end of the alley, it seemed to Braun that the Count did not turn left or right but simply dissolved into the night.

Part Five

The Pocket Kozy

66

HAUSSMANN WAS GETTING breathless. Von Bulow seemed to walk faster than most other people ran.

'What did you think when you first entered the room?'

'I thought it was a suicide, sir. What with the note on the table.'

'Yes, the note. I was reading Rheinhardt's report. He consulted that doctor – what's his name?'

'Liebermann, sir.' Their precipitate departure from the security office was still making Haussmann feel uneasy. 'Do you think we should have waited a little longer for Inspector Rheinhardt, sir?'

'No, he was late.'

'He is usually very punctual, sir.'

'Well, he wasn't on time today, Haussmann. If Inspector Rheinhardt has chosen to indulge in a leisurely toilette this morning, that's his business. I have work to do. Jewish, is he?'

'I'm sorry, sir?'

'Liebermann – is he a Jew?'

'I presume so.'

'Can't you tell?'

'Well, I . . .'

'Never mind. He – Liebermann – he worked out that she was pregnant from a mistake in the note. What did you think of that, Haussmann?'

'Very clever.'

'Or lucky?'

'He was right, sir.'

'Do you know him?'

'Not very well – but he has assisted Inspector Rheinhardt on a number of occasions.'

'What's he like?'

'Agreeable . . . intelligent.'

'Trustworthy?'

'As far as I know.'

An omnibus rattled by and von Bulow raised his voice: 'He's a follower of Sigmund Freud, I believe.'

'Who?'

'A Jewish professor. I'm not sure that his principles, his psychology, can be readily applied to the general population.'

'Very good, sir,' said Haussmann, without turning to make eye contact. Von Bulow quickened his pace even more.

'The door was locked from the inside.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And there were no hiding places – places where a man could have concealed himself while you were in the apartment?'

'No, sir.'

'Did you check?'

'Not at the time. But in due course I did, sir – and none were found.'

'How thorough was the search?'

'The floorboards were all secure. There were no compartments behind the shelves. Not enough room up the chimney.'

'And you were present when the examination took place?'

'Yes, sir. With Inspector Rheinhardt and constables Wundt, Raff and Wengraf. Besides, sir—'

'What?'

'The Japanese box. No one could have locked the Japanese box from the inside.'

'So, it was a demon, was it?'

For the first time, Haussmann allowed himself to smile.

'No, sir. But given our failure to come up with an alternative explanation it might as well have been.'

'Indeed.'

'Sir?' Haussmann pointed across the street. 'Café Zilbergeld. The maid, Rosa Sucher – that's where she went before going to Grosse Sperlgasse.'

Von Bulow nodded.

When they reached Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment building, von Bulow stopped and surveyed the square.

Market tables had been left out, and loose canvas awnings flapped in the light breeze. The surrounding buildings were relatively large, some of them up to six storeys high, and painted in bright colours – orange, yellow, lime and pink. However, the overall impression was not one of gaiety but of dilapidation. The buildings had lost their festive sheen beneath a coating of grime.

Von Bulow shook his head in apparent disgust, pushed the door open and entered the dingy ground-floor hallway.

'The courtyard is down there, sir,' said Haussmann, pointing ahead.

'Does the room where she was found overlook the courtyard?'

'No, sir – a backstreet.'

'Then I'll take a look at it later. Let's see the apartment first.'

'This way, sir.'

They began climbing the narrow spiralling staircase.

'Who else lives here?'

'The first- and second-floor apartments are empty – the landlord is having them redecorated. The ground floor is occupied by the Zucker family.'

'I didn't read anything about them in the paperwork.'

'Herr Zucker is blind. His wife works as a correspondence clerk in a shop.'

'Even so, Rheinhardt should have recorded their details.'

They came to the top of the stairs and Haussmann stopped abruptly. There were two items propped up against Charlotte Löwenstein's door. The first was a desiccated bunch of dead flowers. The second was a small parcel. Haussmann advanced slowly, and on reaching the door hunkered down. He prised the tangled brown stems apart – a shrivelled head of dry petals fell and rolled across the chipped tiles.

'There's no card,' he said softly. Then, picking up the parcel, he handed it to von Bulow. 'It's addressed to Fräulein Löwenstein.'

The Inspector broke the string and unfolded the stiff paper, exposing a flat cardboard box. He opened it carefully. Inside was a stack of photographs. The first showed a very attractive woman seated at a café table. She was wearing a turban-style hat decorated with a cluster of flowers and a stylish white dress. A middle-aged man sat opposite her – he was leaning forward and held her hand in his.

Von Bulow shuffled through the stack.

All the photographs were of the same scene – and the pictures were not of the highest quality; one was particularly blurred. It showed the man raising the woman's hand to his lips. Her moving forearm had left a vaporous trail – like the loose sleeve of a semi-transparent gown.

Haussmann stood up and von Bulow handed him the photographs.

'I know who the woman is, of course,' said von Bulow. 'But who is the man? Do you recognise him?'

'Yes,' said Haussmann. 'Yes, I do.'

67

IT WAS BY ACCIDENT rather than design that Liebermann found himself walking down Wieblinger Strasse. Professor Freud had been quite correct. This was clearly the place to come if one wished to purchase antiques. Liebermann examined the various window displays and tried to muster some enthusiasm for the exhibits. But he remained unmoved. It was difficult to discriminate between true antiquities and worthless rubble – between Biedermeier and junk. The bronze, china, filigree and flock made him long for simple lines and restrained geometry, the clear, polished spaces of a modern interior.

The window through which he was looking had not been washed for a while – and at eye level a wrinkled Neue Freie Presse article had been stuck to the other side. The print was faded and the yellow paper cracked. Even so, Liebermann could still make out the content: a report on the findings of a British archaeological expedition to the Aegean island of Crete.

Among the tarnished silver, cracked vases and copper bowls – cloudy with verdigris – his attention was drawn to two small Egyptian statuettes, one a vulture, the other a human body with the head of a falcon. The second reminded him a little of the Seth figure found in Fräulein Löwenstein's Japanese box.

Why not? he thought.

What harm would it do to make a few enquiries?

Liebermann opened the door. He was not, however, greeted by the proprietor but by the screeching and agitated fluttering of a mynah bird. Hanging from the raised arm of a weather-beaten Aphrodite was a bamboo cage, the night-black occupant of which squawked in a shrill falsetto: 'Pretty things, pretty things.' Next to the bird was a large canopied wicker chair, within which a wizened old man was ensconced, as snug as a whelk in its shell. He was wearing a Moroccan fez, and a heavy tartan blanket covered his legs. Tufts of grizzled hair sprouted out above his ears, and his long, peppery beard was streaked with remnants of colour – biscuit and beige. He was fast asleep, and neither bell nor bird could wake him. Liebermann noticed that the old man's pipe had fallen to the ground. He tiptoed across the cluttered floor space, picked it up, and placed it gently on the old man's lap.

It was insufferably hot and stuffy. Behind the Aphrodite a large stove was radiating heat.

Liebermann looked around. The shop was a strange emporium – a haphazard collection of lumber and ancient treasure. Among the battered chairs, old curtains, picture frames and silverware were items that appeared to be bona fide antiquities. Liebermann bent down to examine a terracotta Greek amphora decorated with a crude winged figure. A label attached to its neck and written in brown ink read Classical period, 20 krone. Next to it sat a sphinx. Its features were almost worn smooth, but its posture was resolute – sitting solidly on its haunches and staring ahead. The label declared that it was of Italian origin. There was no price.

Liebermann picked up the sphinx and was reminded of her giant cousins in the Belvedere gardens.

'Pretty things . . . pretty things.'

It was where they had always gone – the Belvedere. At first he had escorted both sisters, but eventually Clara was permitted to go with him on her own, without Rachel. Herr Weiss had voiced no objection. Why should he? They all trusted him . . . How many times had he and Clara walked through those gardens? Once she had insisted on touching the head of every sphinx.

He had always looked forward to her company – her laughter, the endless chatter, her mischievous observations. He loved the way she dressed – so fastidious, so careful with every matching colour. He was captivated by the subtle slant of her eyes, her inviting lips, her smile. She was his Clara. Yet something had changed. He didn't feel as he should . . .

'Pretty things, pretty things.'

Liebermann placed the sphinx back on the floor.

'The sphinx is worth at least eighty krone. But I'd let you have it for thirty.'

Liebermann very much hoped that he wasn't being addressed by the mynah bird – but he couldn't be absolutely sure. The words had been spoken in an equally shrill voice. He stood up and turned.

The old man's eyes were open and glimmering with unusual brightness.

'Good afternoon, sir,' said Liebermann.

The old man acknowledged the greeting by raising his pipe. Then, turning to the bird, he cried, 'Giacomo, you rogue!'

The bird squawked and preened its feathers.

Liebermann stepped forward.

'Are all of the antiquities authentic?'

'Authentic? Of course they're authentic,' stated the old man in his querulous screech. 'Roman, Etruscan, Persian, Greek, Egyptian . . . you couldn't find a better selection – not even in Paris! Not even in London!'

'I was wondering if you could help me? I'm trying to trace a particular item, one which you might have sold.'

'What kind of item?'

'An Egyptian figurine, about so big.' Liebermann indicated the size with his hands. 'A representation of the god Seth.'

The old man leaned out from beneath his wicker canopy.

'Come, come closer.' He beckoned with a gnarled finger.

Liebermann stepped forward. The old man squinted at him.

'Seth – what do you want him for, eh?'

'For a friend, a collector.'

'Word of advice,' said the old man. 'Let your friend find Seth for himself . . .'

'Why?'

'Because those who seek him usually find him.'

There was something rather chilling in the old man's delivery. A certain authority – in spite of his eccentric appearance – that made the hackles rise.

'What do you mean?' asked Liebermann.

But the old man did not reply. He smacked his lips, closed his eyes, and sank back into his chair. He seemed to have slipped back into sleep and was mumbling softly to himself: 'The mountainside . . . covered in bushes – and wild fruit trees. I'd been riding for eleven hours. They said the distance was nine farsakhs – but it was more, I tell you, much more. Beneath one of the bushes was a dead wolf. The road was almost impassable – slippery shale, a rock fall – but I reached the top: the Muk pass. I followed a stream . . . down to the Zanjiran gorge – narrow between two cliffs: a famous place for robbers . . .'

'That's enough, father – that's enough!' From behind a screen at the back of the shop came a plump middle-aged man wearing a tight suit. He immediately went over to the somnolent storyteller and straightened his blanket: 'Honestly, father, I can't leave you alone for five minutes.' He removed the old man's pipe and replaced it with a plate of sausage and sauerkraut. Looking up at Liebermann, the son said, 'I'm so sorry – I'll be with you in a moment.' Then he turned back to his father: 'How many times have I told you: when people come in, tell them to wait. They're not interested in your nonsense.' The old man opened his eyes, picked up a fork, and stabbed a slice of sausage.

'Good afternoon, sir,' said the proprietor, clicking his heels. 'My name is Herr Reitlinger, Adolph Reitlinger – how can I help you?'

'I'm trying to trace an Egyptian figure – a small effigy of the god Seth. I was wondering if you had sold it . . .' Liebermann's sentence trailed off.

Herr Reitlinger paused for a moment. 'Seth, you say?'

'The god of storms, boy – the god of chaos,' the old man called out.

'That's enough, father!' said Herr Reitlinger.

'Pretty things,' said the bird.

'No,' continued Herr Reitlinger. 'I don't think that was one of our acquisitions. But let me show you this . . .' Herr Reitlinger reached up to a shelf and offered Liebermann a small bronze figure of a walking man. 'Amon-Re – in human form. Late period – possibly 700 BC.I think you'll agree that it's a charming piece. Notice the detail.'

Liebermann turned the figure in his hands and whispered to Reitlinger.

'What was your father talking about – the mountains, the gorge . . .?'

'He travelled a great deal when he was younger.' Reitlinger made a stirring motion next to his ear. 'It all gets mixed up now.'

Liebermann handed the bronze back to Reitlinger.

'It is certainly a charming piece, but not really what I'm looking for. Good afternoon.'

The old man, his son and the bird watched in silence as Liebermann left.

68

THE HEAVY EMBOSSED wallpaper, thick red curtains and polished ebony floorboards of the Schelling parlour combined to create an oppressive atmosphere. Even the engraved silver plates, suspended on either side of an aureate Biedermeier mirror, seemed dull and patinated: large grey-green discs that absorbed rather than reflected the weak sunlight.

Beatrice Schelling was seated by a lamp stand and was embroidering Adele's name on to a quilt. Although the task should have been restful the speed with which she executed her needlework suggested urgency. Her lips were pressed together and her brow was deeply furrowed. She had been there for some time, and the fronded pattern she was working on was almost complete.

Marie – her younger sister – had taken Edward and Adele to Demel's (the imperial and royal confectioners) for a treat. She had urged Marie to keep a close eye on how much chocolate the children were consuming. The last time they had all visited Demel's, Edward had returned with a stomach-ache and had eventually been sick. He had eaten four praline busts of the Emperor.

Beatrice's mind emptied on hearing the slow, ponderous step of her husband in the hallway. The doors opened and Schelling entered. He was wearing a gold smoking jacket and a bright blue cravat. In one hand was the stub of a cigar and in the other a sheet of paper.

'Beatrice, I have received a letter from Amelia.'

'Is she well?'

'She has left the hospital.'

'She has escaped?' There was a note of shrill alarm in Beatrice's voice.

'No. She was discharged with her doctor's approval.'

'Then where is she? Are we to collect her?'

'She is not coming back.'

Beatrice's face became animated by a series of contradictory expressions – oscillating between hope and anxiety.

'She says that she's found another post,' Schelling added. He advanced slowly and, looking down, absent-mindedly observed: 'You're doing your embroidery again.'

'Yes . . .' said Beatrice. 'Where has she gone?'

'I don't know. It's an address in Alsergrund.'

'But how could she . . .?'

'I have no idea.'

'Such ingratitude.'

'Dreadful. Perfectly dreadful.'

Schelling reached for the lamp switch.

'You must have the light on, my dear. Otherwise you will strain your eyes and get a headache.'

Then, walking to the fireplace, he drew on his cigar and threw what remained of the stub on to the unlit coals.

'She has asked for her books to be sent on – and requests that special care be taken with respect to her microscope. She does not even mention her clothes.'

'I will get Vilma and Alfred to pack them.'

'Yes, of course.'

Beatrice picked nervously at her embroidery. Without looking up she said: 'What did Amelia say . . . about . . .' Her voice cracked. 'What were her reasons?'

Schelling took a step forward and offered his wife the letter. Beatrice shook her head with excessive vigour. It was as though he had offered her poison.

'She does not give any reasons,' Schelling replied. Then, folding the letter and slipping it into his jacket pocket, he added: 'I must write to her mother.'

'Yes,' said Beatrice, becoming agitated. 'This evening, otherwise she might—'

'My dear,' Schelling interrupted. 'You have overexerted yourself with the children. You are tired, do not fret.'

Beatrice had begun to breathe faster and her cheeks were glowing.

'The girl was very unwell,' continued Schelling, smoothly. 'Right from the beginning. Whatever poor Amelia says will immediately be recognised as fantasy. Delusion. It will be so distressing for Greta and Samuel . . . I pity them. I'm sure the doctors have tried their best – but inevitably . . .' Shaking his head, he began walking towards the door. 'There is only so much that they can do.'

Suddenly Beatice reached out and caught her husband's arm. It was an unexpected movement and Schelling's practised composure was momentarily disturbed. A nervous tic appeared under his right eye – the heavy rubicund flesh suddenly galvanised into life. Even though his wife's hand was shaking, her grip was surprisingly firm.

'No more now,' she said, grasping his sleeve tighter and speaking with a breathless intensity. 'This must be the last time. I cannot . . . it is . . . we must—'

Slowly, Schelling pulled his arm away. His wife's hand lingered but finally released the smoking jacket's sleeve.

'Do carry on with your embroidery,' he said softly. 'It looks very pretty. How clever you are.'

He continued on his way.

Beatrice heard the doors to the hallway opening and closing. Biting her lower lip, she returned to her needlework, her fingers working with furious dexterity.

69

THE SHOP WINDOW contained a terraced display of family portraits: husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Newly wedded lovers stared into each other's eyes, and children – in lederhosen and rustic aprons – posed against a painted canvas of rolling hills and distant mountains. The upper terrace, however, was bedecked with famous singers, a Valhalla of warrior princes and Valkyries, spear-shaking tenors and busty sopranos, who gazed beyond the limits of the picture frame at feasting gods and apocalyptic fire. And amid this heroic company was a large picture of the mayor, a dapper man wearing a white Homburg and leaning on a cane, surrounded by a coterie of admirers.

Von Bulow read the poster pinned on the door. The Camera Club was exhibiting the landscapes of Herr Heinrich Kühn (under whose name ran the informative legend 'Inventor of multiple rubber-plate printing').

'An exhibition of photographs,' said von Bulow. 'Whatever next?'

Haussmann thought it best not to express an opinion.

Von Bulow pushed the door and a bell rang.

The shop was a forest of tripods. Most were empty, but several supported cameras: large wooden boxes with extended leather concertinas. A low glass case was packed with cylindrical lenses, each labelled with mathematical figures and a price tag. The air was filled with an unpleasant odour that von Bulow found impossible to identify. It was like a blend of floor polish and cheese.

A curtain behind the counter parted and a small man in shirtsleeves emerged, drying his hands on a towel. His hair had been plastered down and his well-trimmed beard and moustache made him look like a Parisian.

'Good morning, gentlemen.' He waved the towel in the air to clear the dense cloud of smoke that had followed him. 'I do apologise – I've been experimenting with a new recipe for flash powder.'

'Herr Joly?' von Bulow asked.

'Yes.'

'Fritz Joly?'

'Yes.'

'My name is von Bulow – Inspector von Bulow – and this is my colleague, Haussmann.'

Herr Joly looked from one policeman to the other and the gap between his eyebrows narrowed.

'How can I help?'

Von Bulow placed the parcel on the counter and unfolded the paper wrapping.

'Do you recognise these?'

Joly opened the box and on seeing the first image started. Then, raising his head, he looked quizzically at his questioner. He found no comfort in von Bulow's expressionless, colourless eyes.

'Yes,' he replied tentatively.

'Your card was inside,' continued von Bulow. 'Do you know who she is – this woman?'

'Yes. Her name is Löwenstein . . .' Joly lifted the photographs out of the box and flicked through the images. A wistful smile softened his anxious expression. 'Not a face you'd forget, Inspector.'

'You took them?'

'A month ago – maybe more. Is there a problem? Has she done something wrong?'

Herr Joly placed the photographs back in the box and searched von Bulow's eyes again for a clue. The Inspector said nothing. Disconcerted by the silence, Joly added: 'She paid me in advance but never came back to collect them. My assistant cycled them over to her apartment: a Leopoldstadt address, I think.'

'They are somewhat unusual,' said von Bulow. 'Unlike the portraits in the window.'

'Indeed. I believe the gentleman is Fräulein Löwenstein's fiancé. Apparently he hates having his photograph taken. She wanted a portrait – of both of them, together – but insisted that the photograph should be taken without his knowledge. Candid, as it were.'

Von Bulow turned the box and stared at the first image. 'How could you have taken these without his knowledge? Surely he would have seen you erecting the tripod?'

Herr Joly smiled.

'Oh no, I didn't use one of those.' He pointed to one of the large wooden boxes. 'I used one of these.'

He opened a drawer under the counter and produced a small rectangular object covered in black leather.

'What is it?'

'A camera,' said Joly, his voice brightening with amusement.

Von Bulow and Haussmann were obviously not convinced.

'It's called a Pocket Kozy.'

'English?'

'No. American. They're getting remarkably good at making things – the Americans. It opens like a book – see?'

Herr Joly pulled the covers apart and, where von Bulow might have expected to see pages, red leather bellows appeared.

'Here's the meniscus lens, and the single-speed shutter is located here on the spine.' Herr Joly pointed to a small aperture. 'It's very fast, though, more or less instantaneous. This one's a few years old now, but I think they're developing even smaller models. The Kozy can take eighteen exposures on roll film, which produce three-and-a-half-inch photographs. It performs better under conditions where—'

'Yes, yes,' von Bulow interrupted loudly. 'That's all very interesting, Herr Joly. Where were they taken?'

'Outside a small café on the Prater,' Joly said, his voice now neutral. 'I forget which one. Fräulein Löwenstein told me when she and her fiancé were meeting – and I sat down at the next table after he'd arrived. You see, it looks like I'm simply reading a book . . .'

Herr Joly lifted the camera and looked into the open bellows. Then, raising his eyes, he peered over the leather covers.

'Can you remember how they greeted each other?' asked von Bulow.

Joly closed the camera and placed it on the counter with great care.

'How do you mean?'

'Did they kiss?'

'Umm – no, I don't think they did. But I can't be sure as it was some time ago now. Why is this important? Why are the police involved?'

Von Bulow fixed the birdlike photographer with a contemptuous stare.

'Do you read the papers, Herr Joly?'

'Yes. The Tagblatt, the Zeitung. . . Why?'

'Then perhaps you don't read them very thoroughly.'

The little man shrugged.

'Herr Joly, Fräulein Löwenstein did not collect these photographs in person for the simple reason that she is dead. Murdered, I imagine, by our friend here.'

Von Bulow allowed his finger to drop on the small stack of photographs. Pressing down on the gentleman's image, his lips parted to form a wide, predatory smile.

70

ALTHOUGH AMELIA LYDGATE'S rooms were still rather cheerless, signs of occupation had begun to appear. A modest fire sputtered in the grate, fresh flowers had been placed in an old blue vase, and some mezzotint prints were now hanging on the wall. The first showed the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, the second St Paul's Cathedral in the City of London, and the third cattle grazing by a circle of trees in a place called Hampstead.

Above the fire, a fortress-wall of encyclopaedias dominated the mantelpiece and miscellaneous volumes were piled and scattered across the floor. On the landing, an open trunk showed that Miss Lydgate had still not finished unpacking her library. Clearly, before embarking for Vienna she had already resolved to sacrifice her wardrobe in exchange for the companionship of several Greek and Latin authors.

While inspecting Amelia Lydgate's possessions Liebermann felt distinctly uneasy. There was nothing irregular about his presence, nothing improper. It was customary, expected even, for doctors to visit their patients once treatment had been successfully completed. However, Liebermann had chosen to make his house call not through duty but from curiosity. He wanted to know more about the erstwhile governess and was aware of his suspect motivation. She was, by conventional standards, an extremely unusual woman. Minister Schelling had been correct: Amelia Lydgate was abnormal, but her abnormality aroused in Liebermann fascination rather than repulsion.

Outside, the stairs creaked as she made her ascent, the tea things rattling on the tray. Having made a surreptitious study of the mezzotints, Liebermann guiltily returned to his seat at the table.

Miss Lydgate appeared at the door and Liebermann rose at once, intending to assist. But she demurred. He was her guest, she insisted.

While pouring the tea, Miss Lydgate talked freely about her domestic plans. She asked where she might purchase a sturdy bookcase, and pondered the feasibility of getting a laboratory bench up the stairs without causing damage to the banisters. Finally, she hoped that Frau Rubenstein would not object to her modifying the gas taps in order to fuel a Bunsen burner.

As usual, Amelia Lydgate maintained a certain English reserve. But as the evening progressed Liebermann found her formality, her upright posture, precise speech and impeccable attention to good manners less like coldness and more like the embodiment of a unique charm.

Liebermann's attention was captured by several unmarked volumes on the table. The spines were blank and the yellowing paper marked with brown maculae.

'Are these—?'

Before he could finish the question Miss Lydgate confirmed his suspicion.

'Yes, they are my grandfather's journals. Or at least some of them. Please, you are welcome to examine them.'

Liebermann felt privileged. He gestured towards the tea things.

'I couldn't possibly – I might . . .'

'Doctor Liebermann, my grandfather's journals have survived two fires, the flood waters of the Thames and abandonment in a bat-infested attic for nearly thirty years. I can assure you that they are robust enough to endure a spot of tea – should you accidentally upset your cup.'

Liebermann smiled and picked up the first volume. It was bound in what he presumed had once been pristine black leather but which was now much faded, cracked and scuffed. In spite of Miss Lydgate's confidence in the volume's robust constitution, Liebermann felt obliged to treat the journal with the utmost care. As he opened the first page, he was aware of a subtle fragrance – an odd combination of scent and mould, as through corruption had imbued the paper with a certain sweetness. The first page was blank, but the second was inscribed with the author's name in large Gothic capitals: Buchbinder.

Each subsequent page was dense with script, and occasionally illustrated with very fine pen-and-ink line drawings. Most were illustrations of microscopic slides. The overall effect suggested the operation of a fastidious mind and a close attention to detail.

'That volume,' said Amelia Lydgate, 'contains my grandfather's writings on the transfusion experiments of the Royal Society. It also contains records of his own research into the nature of blood. It is the sixth volume of my grandfather's journal, although I think of it more simply as the "blood book".'

Liebermann asked the young governess some questions concerning the purpose of the transfusion experiments: what diseases, for example, were the transfusions supposed to cure?

'The principal interest of the virtuosi,' replied Miss Lydgate, 'was therapy for the mind rather than treatment of the body.'

'How very interesting.'

Miss Lydgate hesitated and seemed unsure whether or not to continue.

'Please, do go on,' said Liebermann, closing the journal.

'They believed that there was a relationship between blood and character – an idea, of course, that dates back to classical times. Thus, they speculated that a change of blood might cure madness.'

'And they tested this hypothesis?'

'Indeed, my grandfather details the circumstances and method of the very first experiment. The subject was a madman called Coga. Employing an apparatus constructed of pipes and quills, the physicians of the Royal Society were able to transfuse some ten ounces of sheep's blood into Coga's body.'

'Sheep's blood?'

Liebermann wanted to laugh but suppressed the urge. Amelia Lydgate's expression was entirely serious.

'Indeed. The sheep is an animal famed for its docile and timid nature. I can only assume that the virtuosi believed this would pacify the deranged Coga.'

'And was the operation successful?'

'Yes. Coga's madness was cured and thereafter he was said to be a more sober and quiet man. He also received an honorarium of one guinea. Would you care for another cup of tea, Herr Doctor?'

'No, thank you,' Liebermann replied. 'That's extraordinary. I wonder why Coga didn't suffer any ill consequences?'

'Perhaps the transfusion was not as successful as the virtuosi believed. Perhaps the quantity of sheep's blood was too small to cause any significant harm.'

'In which case the benefit was probably psychological.'

'Indeed.'

'Did the virtuosi continue these experiments?'

'Yes, with both animal and human subjects. However, my grandfather writes that they eventually stopped because of fatalities.'

'I'm not surprised.'

'Even so, Doctor Liebermann, they succeeded in their efforts as frequently as any contemporary physician. Transfusion is still extremely dangerous and only attempted by the most enterprising – some would say foolhardy – surgeons. The procedure kills as many as it saves. For many years, specialists have speculated about the inconsistency of results, and many theories have been proposed by way of an explanation. But the most convincing of these theories concern differences in blood type and their varying degree of compatibility. In the past, the greatest obstacle to progress has been identification. How does one go about identifying different blood types? The great surgeon Theodore Billroth posed this question right here in Vienna some twenty years ago.' Miss Lydgate paused and sipped her tea. 'My grandfather discovered that blood cells taken from different individuals will either mix freely, or clump together. He concluded that clotting – or its absence – might be the reason why some of the early transfusion experiments failed while others succeeded.' The young woman reached over and picked up the "blood book", opening it at exactly the right page. 'Here are examples of his microscopy.'

She turned the journal towards Liebermann. It looked at first like a work of astronomy – sketches of a planet at different times in its rotation cycle. But each 'world' was, in fact, a view of blood cells in different states of agglomeration.

'Of course, Doctor Landsteiner has progressed far beyond my grandfather's work,' continued Amelia Lydgate. 'He has found that clumping depends on the presence of two other substances that can be found on the surface of blood cells, the antigens A and B—' She suddenly stopped, blushing a little, and closed the book. 'Forgive me, Doctor Liebermann: you are already familiar with Doctor Landsteiner's publications.'

'No – not at all. Please continue.'

'I fear you are merely being courteous, Doctor Liebermann.'

'No, I'm very interested.'

But in spite of these and subsequent protestations by Liebermann, Miss Lydgate refused to be drawn any further.

Liebermann chose to walk home. He set off in a southerly direction and found himself on Währingerstrasse. When he reached the Josephinum – the old military college of surgery and medicine – he paused and looked through the high railings at an imposing representation of womanhood: a large cast of Hygieia, the goddess of healing. It was one of the few classical figures in Vienna that he actually recognised.

The goddess towered over Liebermann, her powerful hand gripping the neck of a huge snake which coiled around her arm and dropped over her shoulder in a series of diminishing involutions. She was feeding the great serpent, thus embodying the dual virtues of strength and compassion. As sunlight filtered through some low cloud, her eyes became mirrors of pewter.

71

RHEINHARDT OPENED THE door of Commissioner Brügel's room.

'Ah, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel. 'Do come in.'

Von Bulow was sitting by the Commissioner's desk. He stood and performed a perfunctory bow.

Rheinhardt did not reciprocate. He was too angry.

'Von Bulow. Where were you this morning?'

'Waiting in my office with Haussmann – as arranged,' said von Bulow.

'I arrived at five minutes to eight and you weren't there.'

'That's because we were supposed to be meeting at seven. You were late, Rheinhardt.'

'I was not. We had arranged to meet at eight!'

'Then there must have been some misunderstanding,' said von Bulow, smiling with perfidious confidence.

'Gentlemen!' Brügel said loudly. 'Please sit down.'

Rheinhardt was quite certain that there had been no misunderstanding.

'Well,' said Brügel, looking at Rheinhardt. 'I have some splendid news. It would seem that after only one day on the Löwenstein case, Inspector von Bulow has been able to make an arrest.'

'I'm sorry, sir?' Rheinhardt was flabbergasted. He shot a glance at von Bulow, whose rigid features betrayed no emotion.

'Take a look at these.'

Brügel passed his hand over a small stack of photographs and spread them out across the desktop like a card-sharp. Rheinhardt leaned forward. There was Fräulein Löwenstein, dressed in a turban-style hat and an elegant white dress – her monochrome image reiterated, with minute variations, on every one of Brügel's arc of 'cards', occupying every suit and every value. In almost all the photographs, Fräulein Löwenstein was smiling – a broad, radiant smile that occasionally became laughter. But her eyes, wide with interest and glittering with early spring sunshine, were always fixed on the same object: her companion – Heinrich Hölderlin.

Rheinhardt slid one of the photographs out of the splayed stack and examined it closely. The couple were seated in a restaurant. Although the horizon was smudgy and out of focus, it appeared to be parkland. Hölderlin was kissing Fräulein Löwenstein's fingers. The expression on his face was eager and lascivious.

'Where did you get these?' said Rheinhardt, stunned and feeling slightly light-headed.

'Perhaps you had better explain, Inspector,' said Brügel to von Bulow.

'Of course, sir,' said von Bulow, tugging at his jacket sleeve to expose a diamond cuff link. 'I found these photographs at Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment this morning. They had been delivered by a photographer's assistant a few days earlier. The photographer's card was in the package. His name is Fritz Joly – he has a shop on Bauermarkt.'

Rheinhardt was still staring at the images of Fräulein Löwenstein and Hölderlin.

'I went to the shop immediately,' von Bulow continued, 'and discovered that Fräulein Löwenstein had paid Herr Joly to take these photographs. She had claimed that Herr Hölderlin was her fiancé, and that he would not usually permit his photograph to be taken – thus, Herr Joly would have to perform his task secretly. This was easily accomplished using a new miniature camera from America, something called a Pocket Kozy. Fräulein Löwenstein did not go back to Joly's shop, and Herr Joly was unaware of her murder. When she failed to return to his premises Herr Joly instructed his assistant to deliver the photographs to Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. It is clear,' continued von Bulow authoritatively, 'that Hölderlin and Löwenstein were lovers. I suspect that, once she became pregnant, she planned to extort money from the banker using these photographs.'

'But they weren't in her possession when she was killed,' Rheinhardt objected. 'How could she have shown them to Hölderlin?'

'She didn't have to,' said von Bulow. 'As soon as she was satisfied that Herr Joly had completed his task, she could have revealed her scheme.'

'Carry on, Inspector,' said Brügel to von Bulow.

'Thank you, sir,' said von Bulow. 'Hölderlin killed Fräulein Löwenstein to escape his predicament, but became fearful of discovery. He suspected that the locksmith, Karl Uberhorst, had information that might implicate him, Hölderlin, in the murder. In your report, Rheinhardt, you mention that Uberhorst behaved strangely at Cosima von Rath's seance. He appeared to know something of value to the police. I think it is safe to assume that this concerned Fräulein Löwenstein's pregnancy. At that time, Hölderlin – like everyone else in the circle – was unaware of the results of the second autopsy. Thus, from Hölderlin's point of view, special knowledge of Löwenstein's pregnancy must have represented a significant threat, particularly if it made the police more inquisitive. Of course, he wasn't to know that even armed with such information, Rheinhardt, you would do precious little to justify his fears.'

'With respect, von Bulow,' said Rheinhardt, 'that really wasn't—'

'Rheinhardt!' said the Commissioner. 'Let von Bulow finish, then you can have your say.'

Rheinhardt folded his arms and hunched his shoulders.

'When Hölderlin visited Uberhorst's shop,' continued von Bulow, 'and found the locksmith engaged in experiments that might reveal Fräulein Löwenstein's murderer was human rather than demonic, he resolved to dispatch the troublesome fellow immediately. Remarkably, Rheinhardt, that sham seance you arranged to smoke out the killer actually succeeded. Hölderlin feared that he would be exposed and subsequently disrupted the evening's proceedings. Had I been in your position, Rheinhardt, I would not have hesitated at that juncture to make an arrest. These photographs,' said von Bulow, gesturing, 'are final confirmation of Hölderlin's guilt.'

Brügel was nodding his head approvingly.

'A compelling analysis, don't you agree, Rheinhardt?'

Rheinhardt was extremely irritated at his superior's attitude towards von Bulow. The man was an impressive detective, certainly, but on this occasion he had been plain lucky. Also, there was nothing 'compelling' about his 'analysis'. Anybody with a detailed knowledge of the case who stumbled upon such photographs might speculate in the same way. Moreover, von Bulow had made extensive use of paperwork that he had derided only the day before.

'These photographs certainly suggest,' began Rheinhardt, 'that Herr Hölderlin and Fräulein Löwenstein were lovers.'

'Suggest?' interrupted Brügel. 'Why else would a married man be kissing the hand of an attractive woman on the Prater if she were not his mistress?'

'Indeed, sir,' Rheinhardt replied, 'and Inspector von Bulow should be commended for his exceptionally clever find.' Rheinhardt's sarcasm escaped Brügel, but produced a minute tensing of von Bulow's neck muscles. 'But we are still frustrated by the main problem that has dogged this case from the very beginning. In principle, I agree that Herr Hölderlin looks to be our man – I have said as much myself in the report of the sham seance. Even so, we are left with the uncomfortable fact that Fraulein Löwenstein's murder is as inexplicable today as it was over a month ago. How can Herr Hölderlin be successfully prosecuted for a murder, the method of which cannot be explained?'

'Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow, 'your objections emphasise the difference in our respective approaches. I am sure that we shall learn how Herr Hölderlin engineered his theatrical coup in good time. The villain has been discovered – and I am confident that a lengthy period of confinement in a small, preferably windowless cell will encourage him to make a full confession. You will not have to wait very much longer for your explanation, I assure you.'

'Here, here,' the Commissioner chuckled. 'I'll wager we'll have our confession within the week!'

'I'm sorry?' said Rheinhardt, looking at von Bulow. 'You intend to extort a confession out of Hölderlin by keeping him in solitary confinement?'

'A period of isolation and hardship is sure to focus his mind.'

'Sir,' said Rheinhardt to his superior. 'I believe that there may be an alternative, more humane way of encouraging Herr Hölderlin to confess. I request that he be permitted an interview with my colleague Doctor Liebermann.'

'Out of the question!' said von Bulow.

'Why?'

'It'll spoil everything. Put the man under pressure and he'll talk.'

'Put anyone under pressure and they'll talk,' Rheinhardt retorted.

'Sir, Doctor Liebermann isn't a police medical officer,' said von Bulow, appealing to the Commissioner.

'With respect, von Bulow,' said Rheinhardt, before the Commissioner could respond. 'Your current mentor, Professor Gross, suggests that the wise investigator should make use of all talents at his disposal – official and unofficial.'

Von Bulow was surprised that Rheinhardt appeared to be conversant with the works of Hans Gross, but was stalled for only a fraction of a second. 'Indeed,' replied von Bulow. 'However, I am not altogether convinced that Doctor Liebermann is a man of talent. Nor do I agree with his methods.' He trained his bleached eyes on the Commissioner. 'Liebermann is a disciple of Sigmund Freud, sir. A man whose ideas are highly suspect, and whose psychology is peculiarly Jewish.'

'Sir,' said Rheinhardt raising his voice. 'There is nothing peculiarly Jewish about Doctor Liebermann's methods. He is an astute observer of human nature and was able to determine that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant from a single error in her death note. His talent is inestimable.'

Brügel slapped his hand on the desk. The report was as loud as a gunshot.

'Enough of this petty squabbling – both of you!'

The two Inspectors fell silent.

The Commissioner pulled at his chin, looking from Rheinhardt to von Bulow and back again.

'All right, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel. 'You can call your Doctor Liebermann. He can have one hour with Herr Hölderlin, but not a minute more. After that, Hölderlin is exclusively in the charge of Inspector von Bulow.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Rheinhardt, feeling as though he had won a small skirmish in the course of a generally doomed campaign.

72

ABOVE THE COMPANY of Tritons, sea nymphs and frolicking cherubs the roof of the Belvedere peeped over the lower cascade. The couple turned right, passing a demonic face with a large nose and long curled horns. The creature's mouth was wide open, giving the impression of laughter, but its sunken eyes seemed to have rolled back into its head. The effect was rather disturbing – it reminded Liebermann of an epileptiform seizure.

'I wore my new crêpe-de-Chine dress for the first time,' said Clara, 'and looked very sophisticated – even though I say so myself. I can't wait for you to see it. Frau Kornblüh spent months working on the lace collar – and you wouldn't believe how much it cost. One hundred florins! The bodice is tapered – very severely – and it has an old-fashioned bustle.'

They ascended the stairs and passed an irate-looking putto wearing an alpine hat that was tilted to one side. The figure was supposed to represent April, but the infant made a curiously ill-tempered-looking and oddly attired harbinger of an Arcadian summer. He looked utterly ridiculous.

'What an entrance I made,' Clara continued. 'Frau Baum came to greet me and led me through the room. Everyone was looking, but I kept my nerve. I managed to appear unperturbed – even haughty – though my heart was pounding. In fact, I felt quite dizzy . . . the stays are awfully tight . . .'

'Can't you loosen them?' asked Liebermann.

'Of course I can,' Clara responded, a hint of tetchiness creeping into her voice. 'But that would ruin the effect. The tapered bodice!'

Liebermann nodded. 'I see.'

The Belvedere had turned pink in the evening light. It looked like an enormous piece of confectionery – with icing-sugar masonry and a marzipan roof.

'Well, Frau Baum introduced me to some people – the Hardy family and the Lichtenheld girls – and we talked for a while. But Flora had to find her cousin, and I found myself standing alone. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Herr Korngold appeared.'

'Korngold?'

'A business associate of my father's – and of your father's too, I think.'

'Oh . . .'

'Well, Max, you wouldn't believe his impertinence

. "Ahh – he says – I wouldn't have recognised you, young Weiss. The caterpillar has become a butterfly." ' Clara's impersonation of a pompous roué was rather good. 'And so I had to stand there, pinned into a corner, listening to him talk rubbish while he leered at me over his champagne glass. It was interminable – and he has false teeth, I'm sure of it.'

Liebermann smiled – amused by the way Clara shivered, her shoulder trembling against his arm with disgust.

'Then who should appear but Frau Korngold. Now, I'm quite well acquainted with Frau Korngold. Mother and I are always bumping into her in town, and we always stop to talk. But she swept past – her nose in the air – without so much as a smile. "Whatever is the matter with Frau Korngold?" I asked. "Jealousy," replied Herr Korngold. "But of whom?" I asked. "You, of course," he said. And then he actually winked – can you believe it?'

'How did you get out of this difficult situation?'

'Fortunately, Frau Baum came to my rescue.'

They continued walking up the path, towards the palace. Another couple, on their way down, passed them, and everyone felt obliged to exchange modest pleasantries. The young man tipped his hat, prompting Clara to exclaim: 'Do you know, Max, I don't think I've ever seen you wearing a hat.'

'No,' Liebermann replied laconically.

'Do you have one?'

'Yes – several, in fact.'

'Then why don't you ever put them on?'

'I'm not sure, really . . .' But even as Liebermann said these words the image of the absurd vernal putto came into his mind and he smiled inwardly. Clara shrugged and, losing interest in her fiancé's indifference to hats, pressed on with her account.

'The following day we visited Frau Lehman. She lives in a very nice house – eleventh district. The dining room is entirely of wood. She very nearly cancelled, because her son – Johann – had fallen off his bicycle.'

'Was he badly hurt?'

'They were worried at first – he'd cut his hand and knee. But he made a remarkably quick recovery and Frau Lehman was happy to entertain us. Anyway, Mother and Frau Lehman were talking about the Kohlbergs—'

'Who are they?'

'Max, sometimes I wonder whether you and I live in the same city! Herr Kohlberg is a tea supplier – and a very wealthy one at that. He had been happily married to Frau Kohlberg for over a year when all of a sudden she ran away. Just like that – left the home, forsaking her husband and child. Well, naturally, Herr Kohlberg instructed his lawyers to proceed with a divorce – intending, of course, to retain custody of his son.'

'How old is he? The boy?'

'A baby – nine months, I think. Then, guess what happened? Frau Kohlberg returned and begged her husband – pleaded with him – to take her back. Said that she couldn't live without her child – and would end it all if he didn't let her return to the household. Which – believe it or not – he did. Mother said this showed remarkable strength of character – the ability to forgive. But Frau Lehman said it showed stupidity. She implied that Frau Kohlberg had taken a young lover who had promptly deserted her when he'd discovered that she had no money of her own.'

Ordinarily, Liebermann found Clara's tittle-tattle pleasantly diverting – but he was now finding it irritating and hurtful. Her rumour-mongering could sometimes be quite thoughtless, even spiteful.

'One shouldn't believe everything one hears, Clara.'

Their gazes met, and Clara produced an exaggerated pout in response to her fiancé's gentle reprimand.

Liebermann shook his head and studied the sphinxes. They crouched in pairs, facing each other on casket-like pedestals. Each was different, showing a unique expression. One member of the Belvedere's sisterhood was particularly striking. In spite of her regal appearance and ram's-horn hair braids, she looked close to tears. The subtle downturn of her lips seemed to presage the trembling that accompanies a welling-up of emotion. Liebermann wondered, fancifully, what kind of sadness might have insinuated itself into the cold, leonine heart of a mythical beast.

Clara soon tired of pouting, and cheerfully resumed talking: 'My aunt Trudi took me out on Wednesday – fetched me in a rubber-wheeled phaeton. Let me tell you, it was simply hideous. We drove to the Graben, had high tea, then hailed the smartest fiacre we could find and went on to the Prater.'

'Did you go on the Riesenrad again?'

'Yes. I never get bored of it.'

'Many people – especially young women – find it frightening.'

'I don't. I find it—' Suddenly, Clara stopped speaking.

'What?'

'I find it . . .' Her brow furrowed with concentration. 'Dreamy.'

'Dreamy? In what sense?'

'It's such an unusual experience. You know, like when you find yourself flying in a dream. Do you ever dream of flying, Max?'

'I think everybody does.'

'And what's it supposed to mean – when you fly in a dream?'

'It doesn't mean anything – specifically. Its meaning will depend on the person's character and circumstances. However, such dreams probably derive from very early memories. Professor Freud says that there cannot be a single uncle who hasn't shown a child how to fly . . .'

'That's interesting.'

'What is?'

'I think Aunt Trudi used to do that with me. She used to pick me up and rush around the room. I used to scream with laughter.'

'Well, there you have it. Perhaps, when you ride on the Riesenrad, you are unconsciously recreating the happy experiences of childhood. Perhaps that is why the Riesenrad doesn't frighten you.'

Clara paused for a moment and then said, with naive wistfulness, 'She's fun – Aunt Trudi – and so generous. She bought me some perfume and two boxes of sugar candy.'

Before Clara could continue, Liebermann interrupted.

'That reminds me. I have something for you too.'

Clara broke away and faced him, her cheeks red with excitement.

'A gift?'

'Yes.'

'Where is it?'

She pressed her hands against Liebermann's coat.

'Not in there . . .'

'Show me!'

'Just wait a minute.'

Liebermann winkled the ring from the fob-pocket of his waistcoat and held it up for her to see. Clara looked at it for a moment, somewhat bemused.

'Give me your hand,' said Liebermann softly.

Clara, suddenly silenced, offered him a slim white finger.

Liebermann slid the ring over her knuckle and kissed her forehead.

She stretched out her arm and rocked her hand from side to side. The movement was gauche but endearing. The diamonds flashed and glinted around the sapphire heart-stone, making Clara laugh with innocent pleasure.

'It fits perfectly,' she gasped.

And it did.

Clara threw her arms around Liebermann's waist and pressed her face into his chest. His arms closed around her and he gazed across the gardens, beyond the brooding, melancholy sphinxes and out over the city towards the distant blue hills.

73

A SCABROUS CHIN, bloodshot eyes, and a necktie hanging from his trouser pocket all suggested that Heinrich Hölderlin had spent an uncomfortable and sleepless night in his cell. The banker's former gravitas had deserted him. He no longer appeared dignified and well groomed but shabby and irresolute. Even though Rheinhardt accepted that this pathetic figure just might be a ruthless and brutal murderer, his miserable countenance evoked only pity.

At Liebermann's request, Hölderlin had been removed from his cell and escorted to a room with a divan. This was not to von Bulow's liking but the Commissioner had overruled his objections. Hölderlin was now supine, staring at the ceiling with hollow, frantic eyes.

Liebermann had assumed his usual position, seated at the head of the divan just beyond Hölderlin's view.

'I swear to you,' said Hölderlin, 'I met with her once – and once only. I was a fool, I admit it, a stupid fool. She made an appointment at the bank – declared that she would soon be receiving a large inheritance and asked if I would be willing to give her some financial advice. She was a cunning little minx, believe me. She said things calculated to flatter my vanity. Things about my office, my position and—'

'Yes?'

'My appearance.' Hölderlin sighed. 'As if a young woman like her . . . it's ridiculous, I know. What an idiot! Yet at the time I didn't so much as pause to question her motives. When she suggested that we should meet for lunch on the Prater the following day I agreed. You must understand this was most irregular. Exceptional, in fact. I'm not like that at all. I have never had such an assignation before. But Fräulein Löwenstein . . .' He shook his head. 'When she offered me her hand, I was powerless to resist . . . I felt . . . I felt bewitched.'

He glanced at Rheinhardt.

'The other Inspector, von Bulow, he's wrong, I tell you. We weren't lovers. The babies she was carrying – they weren't mine! And before yesterday, I'd never seen those dreadful photographs. She hadn't threatened me with blackmail – I don't know what she was up to.'

'Did you see Fräulein Löwenstein again, after that meeting on the Prater?'

'No, it was the last time I saw her. Within the week she was dead.'

The banker suddenly fell silent, but his breathing was loud and wheezy.

'And anyway,' he began again. 'Even if she had threatened me – I wouldn't have killed her, for God's sake. I'm not insane.'

Liebermann crossed his legs and sat back in his chair.

'Why did you interrupt Madame de Rougemont, Herr Hölderlin?'

'Isn't it obvious?'

Liebermann remained silent.

'I didn't believe I was going to be accused of murder – if that's what you're thinking. However, I did believe it possible that Madame de Rougemont might receive a flirtatious or affectionate communication from Fräulein Löwenstein. Something that might arouse my wife's suspicion. That de Rougemont woman was uncanny . . .'

'But your relationship with the Fräulein had not become very intimate?'

'No, Herr Doctor, it hadn't. But if your conscience is ordinarily clear, then even a relatively minor transgression acquires considerable significance. Please, Herr Doctor, I beg of you, make sure that my wife hears nothing about this. She is a good woman and it would break her heart. She is beside herself already.'

Liebermann pressed a crease from his trousers and made a steeple with his fingers.

'Herr Hölderlin, how did you sleep last night?'

'Not very well – as you can imagine.'

'And did you dream?'

Hölderlin paused for a moment.

'Yes . . .' he said, slowly and uncertainly.

'What did you dream?'

Hölderlin looked towards Rheinhardt quizzically. The Inspector responded with a polite, muted smile but he stopped smiling when he noticed Liebermann frowning and shaking his head.

'Herr Hölderlin?' asked Liebermann, raising his voice slightly.

The banker rolled his head back and said: 'You want to know what I dreamt? Last night?'

'Yes.'

'I don't know – some nonsense about my mother.'

'Go on . . .'

Hölderlin sighed, too exhausted to quibble.

'I was in a nursery – on a rocking horse.'

'Were you a child in this dream?'

'Yes, I suppose I must have been.'

'Was the nursery real? Did you recognise it?'

'Yes, it was in the house where I grew up: a big house in Penzing. I was on my rocking horse – pretending to race – and I noticed a box on the floor.'

'What kind of box?'

'It belonged to my mother.'

'A jewellery box?'

'Yes. Ivory – with mother-of-pearl inlay. I remember that when it was opened it played a tune. Für Elise – or something like it.'

'What happened next?'

'I got off the horse, picked up the box and tried to open it. But the lid was stuck. Then my mother appeared and – and reprimanded me – scolded me. Are you sure you want to hear all this rubbish, Herr

Doctor?'

'Very sure.'

'Even though the box was in my hands, I protested. Which seems absurd now – but in the dream it seemed to make sense, seemed reasonable. Then I woke up.'

Liebermann paused for a moment. Then, turning to Rheinhardt, he said: 'That will be all, Inspector.' Gently touching Hölderlin's shoulder, he added: 'Thank you, Herr Hölderlin.'

The banker sat up.

'We're finished?'

'Yes.'

Hölderlin got off the divan and took a few uncertain steps into the middle of the room. He looked feeble and confused. The necktie fell out of his pocket and Liebermann picked it up for him.

'Thank you,' Hölderlin whispered, looping the tie loosely around his neck.

Rheinhardt opened the door and ushered him into the corridor, where two constables were waiting for him.

'Well?' said Rheinhardt. 'What do you think?'

'He's telling the truth.'

Rheinhardt returned to his chair and Liebermann lay down on the divan. 'How do you know that?' 'His fluency. The absence of significant hesitations. He made no slips or errors. And the dream – the dream was extremely interesting.'

'Was it?'

'Oh yes – it was entirely consistent with his story, and the unconscious never lies.'

'Perhaps you could explain?'

'With pleasure, Oskar. In order to preserve sleep, the mind must work certain transformations on the content of dreams, particularly if the dream is likely to promote anxiety. Otherwise that anxiety would constantly wake us up, which would not be very good for our general health. Thus the dream that we remember is an adulterated version of an original. Think of it as a coded message, a language of symbols in which relatively innocuous images replace those of a more challenging or disturbing nature. Herr Hölderlin found himself in a nursery – which suggests a wish to return to the world of childhood. A simple world, free from sexual intrigue. Most dreams conceal a wish of sorts . . .' As Liebermann spoke, he addressed the ceiling, punctuating his explanation with expressive hand gestures. 'But his assignation with Fräulein Löwenstein is still very much on his mind and his mental defences could not keep her out of the idyllic world of the nursery in Penzing.'

'Max, he didn't mention her once!'

'No, but she is still the principal subject of the dream. Take the rocking horse, for example . . .'

'What about it?'

'Are not horses a symbol of potency? Stallions and suchlike?' Liebermann's clenched fists closed around the imaginary reins of an equally imaginary galloping steed.

'They are, but—'

'And where do horses race in Vienna?'

'The Prater.'

'Which was where—?'

'He had his assignation.'

'Very good, Oskar.' Liebermann let his hands drop. 'And at that time, he would no doubt have been excited by the prospect of enjoying Fräulein Löwenstein's sexual favours. I hope that I don't need to spell out the obvious associations between Herr Hölderlin's expectations, connections with riding, and the motion of a nursery horse.'

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.

'He observed,' Liebermann continued, 'a jewellery box on the floor.'

'Which belonged to his mother.'

'One step at a time, Oskar. Can you think of what a jewellery box might represent?'

'I know that the term is sometimes used by uncouth individuals to mean . . .'

'Indeed. There is no need to be coy, Oskar. It is a common term, a slang word for the female reproductive organ. Now, in the dream Hölderlin is discovered attempting to gain entry into the box, which is more or less what actually transpired. He was discovered during an assignation. However, the dream tells us that his sexual exploits were frustrated. He didn't get very far. He may have propositioned Fräulein Löwenstein – in fact, he probably did – but she refused him. Thus, in the dream, the lid remains closed.'

Liebermann glanced at his friend. Observing an expression closer to horror than surprise, he added: 'Oskar, if you think this a little farfetched, you might want to take another look at those photographs. The box was ivory, with mother-of-pearl inlay. Fräulein Löwenstein was wearing a white dress and a double string of pearls. I am absolutely convinced that Hölderlin is telling the truth about his relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein. He did not make her pregnant – they were not lovers.'

Liebermann's tone was positive.

Rheinhardt grunted his assent, and the young doctor continued his analysis.

'Herr Hölderlin described himself protesting, even though he had been discovered with the box in his hands. I think it safe to assume, given his mother's reprimand, that he was doing something that was supposed to be wrong. At first sight, this seems to make little sense. How could he justify himself when he had been discovered – and I use these words knowingly – in flagrante delicto? But in dreams, meanings are conflated. He was not protesting about the assignation. His protest concerned the more significant accusation of murder. That is why the inconsistency of his position aroused no emotional conflict. His denial was experienced in the dream as acceptable. Which would suggest that, with respect to the allegation of murder at least, he is indeed innocent.'

'But why was he discovered by his mother? In reality he was discovered by von Bulow. Surely, Max, you aren't going to tell me that Hölderlin's mother represented von Bulow?'

'Professor Freud has suggested that significant dreams often reproduce scenes from infancy. It may be that the whole edifice of Hölderlin's dream is founded on a real memory of discovery involving his mother but now deeply buried in his unconscious. However, to uncover the secret of what really happened in the nursery all those years ago would necessitate many hours of psychoanalysis.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'This is all very well, Max, but I can't see Brügel being very sympathetic to your interpretation.'

'Perhaps not,' said Liebermann, sitting up and turning to look at his friend. 'But I can promise you now, Oskar, that von Bulow will not extract a confession from Hölderlin, no matter how long he keeps the wretched man locked up!'

74

'THE MAYOR'S ABSOLUTELY right,' said Councillor Schmidt, dabbing his lips with a table napkin. 'Doctors, lawyers, teachers, opera-house directors – they're everywhere. Something has to be done.'

'Indeed,' said Bruckmüller. 'People have become so complacent. I tell you, Julius, we need another Hilsner. That would get people talking.'

Cosima von Rath, who had been staring wistfully at the last of the chocolates, turned to face her fiancé.

'Does he work in the town hall too?'

Bruckmüller and Schmidt looked at each other for a moment and then laughed.

'Good heavens, no, my love. He's not one of us – he's one of them. Surely you've heard of Leopold Hilsner?'

Cosima shook her head and the pendulous rings of flesh around her neck wobbled like blancmange.

'Hans,' she cried, pursing her lips together and producing a rather ugly moue. 'You know how unworldly I am.'

'Do you never read the papers, my dear?' asked Schmidt.

'Never,' she replied.

'I've seen you read the society pages,' said Bruckmüller.

Cosima ignored him.

'I would have thought,' continued Councillor Schmidt, 'that as a connoisseur of arcane rituals and practices the Hilsner case would have interested you a great deal.'

'Oh? Why's that?'

Cosima extended her hand towards the solitary truffle, seduced by its alluring sprinkle of cocoa powder.

'Hilsner was a ritual murderer,' said Schmidt.

Cosima's hand stopped above the chocolate where it hovered like a bird of prey.

'Was he?' She turned to look at Schmidt, her piggy eyes glinting in their pink pouches.

'See?' said Schmidt to Bruckmüller. 'I knew we'd get her interested in politics one day.' He raised his glass in a mock toast and sipped his brandy.

Bruckmüller smiled and placed a patronising hand on Cosima's shoulder.

'He was a Jew, my love. A shoemaker's apprentice. He was tried for killing a girl – she was only nineteen, I believe.'

'Yes, nineteen,' Schmidt asserted.

'Her body was found near the Jewish quarter of Polna. Her throat had been cut.' Bruckmüller dragged his forefinger across his Adam's apple. 'And every drop of blood had been drained from her body.'

Cosima's hand swiftly withdrew from the chocolate and clutched her jeweled ankh.

'Oh, how dreadful,' she piped. 'But why did he do it?'

'He needed Christian blood for that bread of theirs.'

'Matzoh,' said Schmidt, with an exaggerated expression of disgust. 'Dreadful stuff.'

'They've been doing it for centuries, apparently,' said Bruckmüller, pouring himself another brandy.

'Ahh yes . . .' said Cosima, suddenly making a connection between the subject of the conversation and her pool of abstruse knowledge. 'I've read of such things. I think it used to be called the blood libel.'

Schmidt shrugged: 'I wouldn't know.'

'But I had no idea that these rituals were still being performed in the modern world,' said Cosima. 'It is quite extraordinary.'

'Indeed,' said Schmidt. 'Hilsner's behind bars now, thank the Lord. But by rights he should have swung.'

'He wasn't sentenced to death?' said Cosima, theatrically placing both hands over her mouth.

'No, my dear,' Schmidt replied. 'Thanks to the vociferous liberal minority – mostly Jews – he was tried again. The business of the ritual murder wasn't even mentioned the second time around! It was all suppressed. Even so, they didn't have it all their own way. Hilsner was found guilty again, of course. He was sentenced to life imprisonment – but he should have swung.'

Cosima tutted and looked from Schmidt to Bruckmüller. Again, her features puckered to form a disgruntled pout.

'What is it, dear?' said Bruckmüller.

'I don't understand.'

'What don't you understand?'

'Why on Earth did you say that we need another Hilsner?'

'Politics, my dear,' said Bruckmüller, tapping the side of his protuberant nose with a thick, big-knuckled finger. 'Politics.'

75

LIEBERMANN HAD COMPLETED the C-major fugue and had begun to pound out the C-minor Prelude. Playing Bach's 'forty-eight' was an exercise he performed with increasing regularity. Somehow, the purity and elegance of Bach's counterpoint helped him to think. He was so familiar with Bach's epic circumnavigation of the tonal world that his fingers arrived on the correct keys without conscious effort. For Liebermann, performing the forty-eight was like a spiritual discipline – a Western equivalent of the transcendental devotions practised in the East.

Liebermann was confident that his interpretation of Hölderlin's dream was correct. The banker was not Fräulein Löwenstein's lover – nor had he murdered her. There would be no confession.

Melodic lines chased each other at different intervals, and became entangled in dense episodes of invention.

So who, then?

His left hand began to toll the repeating tonic of the D-minor Prelude – above, the semiquaver triplets fell like lashing rain.

The god of storms!

It seemed to Liebermann that the Löwenstein case was like a labyrinth. He and Rheinhardt had been blindly stumbling through its dark corridors, occasionally grasping clues and following them for a short while, only to find themselves rudely deposited beyond the structure's walls. And at the centre of the labyrinth was the personification of an ancient evil, mocking their ineptitude.

Whoever had killed Fräulein Löwenstein – and very probably Uberhorst too – had succeeded in sustaining a prodigious disguise. As long as the mystery remained, the case would not be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. The crime might as well be imputed to Seth.

Doors locked from the inside.

A gunshot wound – but no bullet.

How did the illusion work?

As Liebermann played on, it occurred to him that Bach's keyboard works were also a species of illusion. They sounded spontaneous, improvisatory and inspired, yet every fugue was driven by a ruthless internal logic. The magic, as such, could be reduced to the diligent application of musical rules and mathematical principles. Be that as it may, although Liebermann could lift the veil of Bach's enchantment he could not penetrate the illusion of Fräulein Löwenstein's murder. The machinery of deception remained invisible – its levers and gears thoroughly concealed.

The investigation had reached a sorry impasse.

Liebermann was forced to confront an unpalatable but self-evident truth. Neither he nor Rheinhardt could determine the solution alone. They needed help. By the time he had reached the fifteenth prelude, Liebermann knew what he had to do. He did not stop playing but remained at the keyboard and completed the whole of Book One. Then, closing the lid of the Bösendorfer, he stood up and walked to the hallway where he collected his coat from the stand. He would tackle Book Two on his return.

Outside it was still quite light, and the evening was pleasantly warm. The air was fragrant with lilac. He set off briskly, crossing Wahringerstrasse and walking downhill towards the Danube. He slowed as he passed Berggasse 19 and was tempted to go in. Professor Freud would be happy to offer him an opinion on Hölderlin's dream, and might even comment on the mental state of the murderer. But Liebermann already knew that this would not be enough. The Löwenstein mystery required a different approach. He quickened his step.

When Amelia Lydgate opened the door, her eyes widened slightly with surprise.

'Herr Doctor.'

Liebermann bowed.

'Miss Lydgate. I am so sorry to disturb you – I was passing, and thought I might pay you a visit.'

'How very kind of you, Herr Doctor. Do come in.'

Before ascending the stairs, Liebermann paid his respects to Frau Rubenstein. He discovered her dozing in an armchair, a volume of poetry resting on her lap. The exchange of pleasantries did not detain him long. Liebermann accepted Miss Lydgate's offer of tea, and they were soon seated in her small reception room.

Liebermann began by asking the young woman some questions about her health. She responded in a matter-of-fact way, describing her progress with clinical detachment: her appetite had returned, she was sleeping well, her right arm remained responsive and her fingers had suffered no loss of dexterity. Liebermann felt slightly uncomfortable in assuming this outward show of concern while secretly wishing to move the conversation on to areas closer to his purpose; however, a transition was not difficult to achieve. When he invited her to talk about a recent visit to the Pathological Institute, she was soon detailing the methodology of a possible research project that she had discussed with Landsteiner: a microscopic analysis of haemophiliac blood plasma.

'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann ventured, with more timidity than was usual, 'I was wondering – could I ask for your opinion? On a technical matter?'

Amelia Lydgate registered the equivocation.

'Technical?'

'Yes. You see, it is my good fortune to be a close friend of Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the Viennese security office . . .' He briefly explained his association with Rheinhardt and then attempted to introduce the topic of murder without alarming his companion: 'Forgive me for raising such a distressing matter, but six weeks ago the body of a young woman was found in a Leopoldstadt apartment. The circumstances surrounding her discovery were extraordinary – and the results of her autopsy were unlike anything anyone has ever seen before. You are a woman possessed of remarkable analytic skills, Miss Lydgate, and I would be much interested in your view of the facts. However, if the subject of murder is one that you find distasteful then I fully understand . . .'

As Liebermann's faltering enquiry stalled, the young woman proudly stated: 'Herr Doctor – I intend to study medicine. The fact of human mortality does not disturb me. I have conducted many animal dissections under my father's guidance and I fully expect to repeat these procedures on human corpses, should I gain a place at the university.'

'Of course,' said Liebermann. 'Please accept my apology.'

'I am perfectly happy to hear more of this remarkable case. Indeed, you have already aroused my curiosity. I fear, however, that you have overestimated my knowledge and deductive powers.'