Gretel and the Dark (11 page)

‘Won’t.’

‘Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?’

‘No.’ I push the plate away and cover my ears.

After instructing Benjamin to avoid heavy work for a few days, Josef sat and mulled over their conversation, wondering how much was being left unsaid. There could be no doubt as to how the boy had spent the previous evening. The sour smell of the
Kneipe
still clung to him. His appearance was morning-after dejected, and the unnaturally quiet way in which he closed the door behind him said a great deal about the state of his head. All the same, Benjamin had never shown himself as anything but scrupulously truthful, even in the face of Gudrun’s wrath, so there was no reason to believe he’d lied about being waylaid and beaten, and had really fallen into some drunken brawl of his own instigation.

On examining Benjamin’s back he’d found evidence of deep and widespread bruising and observed, moreover, that his assailant appeared to have known precisely where to land the kick. Such blows occasionally proved fatal. It was a chilling thought. On the face of it, the attack was no more than a crude warning not to ask questions about the Thélème club, a prosperous institution that – it was rumoured – numbered among its members an increasing number of Vienna’s elite. It was impossible to know whether Benjamin’s mention of a missing girl had also been a factor leading to the attack. If it had been, and Lilie was being sought, then they might be sailing into dark waters.

Josef glanced nervously towards the window. Could Benjamin have been followed? Violence in his home wouldn’t be
tolerated. He must ensure that every door was locked and bolted tonight.

Rising from his desk, he scanned the street, again standing well back, shielded by a fold of the thick velvet curtains. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared to be happening – maids chattered on the pavement, keeping their mistresses waiting for the packages they carried, an elderly woman hobbled past, towing her overweight and unwilling dog, a respectably clad working man paused to light a surprisingly ornate meerschaum pipe – and yet each one of these passers-by seemed to examine the house for an unduly lengthy time. He shook his head. Perhaps this paranoid peering around curtains marked the onset of querulous old age.

Josef hastily resumed his seat, half-heartedly reorganizing case notes until the elderly clock began its painful wheezing towards the hour when the fragrant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafted from the kitchen. After waiting a full five minutes it became obvious he was expected to fetch it himself. Either Gudrun was taking advantage of the precedent he’d set on those days when he needed company or she was making some new point. Old women developed an almost masculine sense of their own importance, he thought wryly. Not for nothing were witches and hags, those much-maligned anti-heroes of children’s fairy stories, banished with their brooms, cauldrons and acerbic tongues to deep, dark forests. Wise, maybe, by virtue of their years, they made for uncomfortable company bent over the kitchen stove, spitting barely disguised curses.

At least today Gudrun greeted him with civility.

‘I was just about to bring your morning coffee,
Herr Doktor
. It’s ready, but with so much extra work in the house now …’

Noting his cup had already been set before the chair he normally
chose, Josef waved away her insincere apologies. ‘No matter.’ His eyes strayed to the ingredients massed on the table.

‘I’m making a
gulyás
, proper Hungarian goulash, a recipe from Pest – I know it’s your favourite and they don’t know how to make it here – with
csipetke
, tiny little pinched dumplings, just as they should be. I grew the caraway myself. Fresh seed, not dried, straight from the plant.’ Gudrun stopped, arms akimbo. ‘Very time-consuming, of course, but it’s a taste of childhood I thought you’d enjoy.’

Josef made vague noises of appreciation, wondering what all this buttering-up was in aid of. That goulash was his favourite dish was a fiction – the only thing it conjured up was memories of unwilling visits to orthodox relatives back in Pressburg. Besides, since returning from Gmunden alone he’d been expected to eat whatever was put in front of him. Something was surely in the wind.

‘And perhaps a
rakott palacsinta
to follow? I know how fond you are of sweet pancakes. At this time of year they could be layered with fresh fruit instead of preserves.’ Gudrun continued chattering on about greengages, late-summer berries, and the exquisite flavour of the new season’s chestnut honey from Steiermark. Finally, she poured the coffee, placing a generous platter of cookies within easy reach. ‘
Herr Doktor
…’

Josef smiled behind his hand.
Here it comes
.

‘The young woman –’

‘Lilie,’ he corrected, gently.

‘Yes. She seems much improved today. I have, as you suggested, found her more becoming clothes, not that she seemed grateful, or even interested, but never mind, it was done in accordance with your wishes, not hers. They were in the attic,
cast-off garments – Margarethe’s, if my memory serves me correctly – girl’s clothes really, the young woman being so small.’

‘Lilie,’ insisted Josef. ‘Her name’s Lilie.’

‘Yes. I also provided her with a headscarf, one of my own as it happens, my second best, only a loan, to cover her shorn hair, though it’s growing fast, thanks to me and my special oil, my own recipe –’

‘And Lilie?’ prompted Josef, taking advantage of her pause to draw breath.

‘She seems better today, much stronger.’ Gudrun hesitated. ‘In my opinion, the girl would now benefit from being occupied. Whatever happened, she needs activity to keep her from simply sitting and brooding. It’s understandable that no young woman would wish to be seen in public looking like she does, but I do feel an outing –’

‘As I’ve said, Gudrun, we’re keeping her presence here secret. It must remain that way until we know more about who else is involved.’

‘Yes, yes, but surely she doesn’t need to stay a prisoner in that little room? It’s not right. Besides –’ She broke off to lift a pan on to the table, groaning a little at the weight. ‘Perhaps you don’t realize,
Herr Doktor
, how difficult it is to run this big house single-handed. Some light household duties would both help me and give the … give
Lilie
purpose. “
Arbeit macht frei
,” the old saying goes, and it’s right. Work would ease her mind – stop her from dwelling on things she can’t change.’

‘What sort of work did you have in mind?’ Josef asked cautiously. He pushed his cup forward for Gudrun to refill. She looked away.

‘The flowers. Cleaning the silver. Dusting … that kind of
thing … perhaps a little light weeding in the afternoons to get her out into the sunshine.’

‘So nothing strenuous or unpleasant?’

Gudrun’s eyes narrowed. Her colour rose. ‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’ she demanded, back to her usual waspish tone. ‘Whatever I think of her – or about her part in what happened – she’s still convalescent. There’ll be time enough later for hard work.’

‘I’ll give it some thought, Gudrun. Bear in mind that she may never have helped with household chores before.’

‘Then it’s about time she started!’ cried Gudrun. ‘A woman can’t live on her looks for ever.’ She ran her thumb along the blade of the knife and grimaced. ‘Look at this. All the knives need sharpening and that good-for-nothing idler, Benjamin, has disappeared.’

‘He’s a little unwell this morning –’

‘Self-inflicted,’ insisted Gudrun.

‘He was set upon last night. Some nasty bruises –’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said testily. ‘I’ve seen them. Nothing time and a few applications of
Fallkraut
won’t heal. There was no reason to bother you with it.’

A silence fell, during which they both waited to see if Josef would comment on the use of her much-vaunted magical plant. But he held his tongue. Over the years he’d fought long and hard with Gudrun over the use of folk remedies, some of which were downright peculiar but had undoubtedly continued to be used on the children behind his back. Question the use of arnica –
Fallkraut,
leopard’s bane, or whatever name fashion was currently saddling the insignificant flower with – and she’d triumphantly produce Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
his full name rolled out like a red carpet, who had credited the plant with reducing a persistent fever, thereby saving his life.

‘I’ll talk to Lilie later this morning,’ said Josef. ‘Has she taken breakfast?’

‘Not a thing. She ate nothing last night either. Her ladyship looks down her nose at everything I put before her.’

He coughed gently. ‘I hope you wouldn’t hold lack of a hearty appetite against her. She’s delicately built.’

‘Scrawny, you mean?’ Her hands unconsciously smoothed her formidable front. ‘Anyone would be skinny living on fresh air.’

‘Well,’ Josef was conscious of choosing his words very carefully, ‘slender, I would have said. But you think she’s stronger today?’

‘Strong enough to come downstairs to your consulting room without any of yesterday’s carry-on. No call for us to go pandering to her whims.’

‘With so much of your own work, there’s really no need to involve yourself in this at all,’ Josef said mildly, picking up the emphasis on ‘us’. ‘It’s been my practice to receive unaccompanied women as patients for many years.’

‘I consider it my duty,
Herr Doktor
.’ Gudrun examined her hands. ‘One never knows what goes on in these girls’ minds – I’m sure you understand me – and I would never forgive myself if
Frau
Doktor
Breuer were distressed by even a hint of scandal.’

At the heart of Lilie’s hysteria lay, of course, the monster. Josef reproached himself for having considered hers in such simplistic terms as childhood’s prancing, horned imp. He briefly considered the word’s derivation from the Latin
monstrum
, a portent or unnatural event, a divine omen of misfortune yet to
come, before dismissing that as irrelevant. In modern parlance the word could imply physical defect or deformity, even grotesque abnormality. It might also denote gross deviation from normal size. However, while Nature’s random rolls of the dice produced creatures infinitely various in form, those monsters who possessed normal human appearance were probably the most dangerous, and it was more likely this man inspired horror, disgust and fear by his behaviour or character. He recalled that Renwick Williams, a mild-looking man dubbed the Monster, once prowled the streets of London with a double-edged blade, wounding respectable women and slashing their clothes. And, in London again, what of the Whitechapel murderer – Leather Apron – a veritable monster who’d now been at large for ten years committing a series of horrific visceral murders?

In spite of the injuries to her throat, Josef doubted there could be any connection with the attack on Lilie, but he was certainly aware of several interesting parallels between Vienna and London in these final months of the century. Like Austria, England was experiencing an influx of impoverished immigrants. Those who had moved into the East End of London, already a poor area comparable with Leopoldstadt, were mostly Irish, but there were also plenty of Jewish refugees from all over Eastern Europe. Racism flourished in the resulting overcrowding and poverty, carried on the incomers’ backs with their meagre belongings like the boggart from a folk tale.

Josef was still wondering how long it would take for such racism to settle into its usual well-worn track when, after a perfunctory knock, Gudrun flung open the door and all but shoved Lilie into the room. He rose to receive them. The older woman’s actions suggested unwillingness, but the girl showed
no sign of resistance: on the contrary, she took a few steps forward and stood quite still, as if awaiting instructions. Today she wore a saxe-blue skirt, a little too long so that it pooled around her feet, emphasizing her slim form and bringing to Josef’s mind an image of Aphrodite rising from the waves. The foamy lace of a high-necked blouse concealed the marks on her neck. With his physician’s eye, Josef saw that her skin tone had improved and her eyes – the irises really were almost turquoise – looked brighter, more alert. But it was as a man that his gaze lingered on Lilie’s beauty, mysteriously so much more than the sum total of its parts, and he was seized by a compulsion to speak of these things, to pass a compliment that might be rewarded with a shy smile. The small grumbles of age that came from Gudrun as she shifted a chair into the full light afforded by the window prompted him to content himself with: ‘You’re looking well this morning, Lilie.’ And when there was no response, he indicated that she should be seated.

Lilie obeyed, moving from shadow into bright sunlight that made her short curls gleam. A golden lamb, Josef thought, and again tried to remember the painting she resembled – a modern painting, he was sure, connected to the Secession movement.

‘The silly young woman refuses to cover her head,’ said Gudrun, rummaging inside her sewing basket.

‘I am like the emperor’s mechanical nightingale,’ murmured Lilie, staring fixedly at a spot on the wall in front of her. ‘Machines have no vanity.’ Her eyes flickered, and Josef, curious to see what had attracted her attention, turned in his chair and saw that more butterflies had found their way into the house. He’d already spoken to Benjamin about them. By now the cabbages must be suffering, their leaves reduced to lacy
skeletons; if there were too many caterpillars to remove by hand it might be necessary to procure a small quantity of lead arsenate.

‘Machine?’ Gudrun gave a snort of derision. ‘I’ve never before come across a machine that needed to visit the
Wasserklosett
. You did. Twice. Did you not?’

‘Gudrun, please …’ protested Josef.

‘Huh,’ said Gudrun. ‘What goes in must come out.’ She unreeled some elastic from a card, cut a length, and without embarrassment produced a voluminous undergarment to be re-threaded at the waist.

Josef angled his chair so it faced away from this performance of base domesticity. As was his usual practice, he focused his entire attention on the patient. ‘How are you feeling today, Lilie? You slept well, I trust?’ There was no response, though he’d been encouraged by that quick retort to Gudrun’s needling. ‘Can you recall anything more today? Who attacked you? Where you came from?’ He waited. Behind her head, dust motes spiralled in the sunlight. An autumn-dozy fly lethargically climbed a windowpane. ‘Your real name, perhaps?’