Mortal Mischief (37 page)

'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

L
IEBERMANN'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

'T
HERE 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

C
OMMISSIONER
B
RÜGEL
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.'