Mortal Mischief (26 page)

'In which case, you will excuse me.'

She stepped backwards and closed the doors.

'Forgive me, Minister,' said Liebermann, 'but I was hoping to speak with Frau Schelling.'

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' said Schelling in a peremptory fashion. 'My wife has found this business most upsetting. I must insist that she be spared any further distress.'

'Of course,' said Liebermann.

'I knew that you would understand. Please, do sit down.'

The room was large and well furnished. In the centre was a circular table over which a tablecloth with tasselled edges had been draped. The impressive display of flowers that it supported consisted of blooms that were out of season and Liebermann suspected they were synthetic: probably expensive silk copies. On an ornate chest of drawers, a glass cabinet was crowded with a collection of objets d'art, and on either side of this stood two electric lamps with green shades. Numerous family photographs in silver frames had been arranged on a small corner table. Liebermann noticed that none of them showed Herr Schelling and his wife together.

'Minister,' Liebermann began. 'I understand that you are related to Miss Lydgate?'

'Indeed. Her mother is a distant cousin – our families have always corresponded. When Amelia completed the English equivalent of the
Gymnasium
she expressed a keen desire to study here in Vienna with Herr Doctor Landsteiner. I take it the girl has told you about her grandfather's journal?'

'Yes, she has.'

'I suggested to Greta – Amelia's mother – that Amelia should live here. It's a big house and I thought the children might benefit. I was happy to support Amelia if, in return, she was willing to provide Edward and Adele with English lessons.'

'Were the children fond of their governess?'

'Yes, they were. It was a very satisfactory arrangement.'

Schelling leaned back in the well-upholstered chair and rested his hands on his stomach.

'When did you first realise that Miss Lydgate was unwell?'

'Doctor Liebermann,' said Schelling, creating a steeple with his fingers. 'May I be perfectly frank?'

'That would be most helpful.'

'I have always harboured doubts about the poor girl's mental health, right from the very beginning.'

'Oh?'

'She is of such an odd disposition. And her interests – blood, disease – is it not irregular for a woman, particularly a young woman, to be preoccupied with such morbid subjects? I am no psychologist, Herr Doctor, but I am inclined to believe that there is something in Miss Lydgate's character that can only be described as unnatural. She takes no pleasure in those activities that one ordinarily associates with her sex. She would rather attend a lecture at a museum than a ball – or search out a dusty volume in Wieblinger Strasse than go to Habig for a new hat. To tell the truth, within weeks of her arrival I had the most grave concerns.'

Liebermann noticed that, in spite of his age, Schelling's hair and moustache were totally black. He assumed that the man must use some kind of dying agent to achieve the effect.

'My wife reached the same conclusion,' Schelling continued. 'Beatrice – sweet soul that she is – encouraged Amelia to be more outgoing. She even tried to lift her spirits by introducing her to a circle of close friends – they meet here on Wednesday afternoons to play taroc. It was obvious that the girl did not enjoy participating, nor did she appear to derive any pleasure from the conversation of her female peers. Indeed, I gather that she persistently excused herself early, preferring the company of her books and her grandfather's journal to that of people. It cannot be right for a young woman to shut herself away in this manner. Although I am not qualified to comment on such matters, I would guess that too many hours spent in retreat from the world cannot be healthy. Is that not so, Doctor Liebermann?'

'I suppose that rather depends on the individual.'

'Perhaps, but it is my opinion – for what it may be worth – that the isolated mind loses its purchase on reality all too easily and becomes prone to fantasy.'

Schelling looked directly into Liebermann's eyes and held his gaze. He seemed to be expecting the young doctor to say something. Liebermann remained silent and did nothing, apart from noticing the appearance of a pulse at Schelling's temple.

'Is that not so, Herr Doctor?' Schelling insisted. On the mantelpiece the mechanism of a carriage clock whirred and a delicate chime sounded the hour. Schelling turned to look at the clock face and Liebermann noticed that he moved his whole body. The wicker of his chair creaked as he shifted position.

'When did Miss Lydgate's symptoms develop?' asked Liebermann.

Schelling considered the question before answering.

'My wife noticed that she had lost her appetite some time ago. The cough, and that business with her arm . . .'

'The paralysis.'

'Yes, the cough and paralysis came on suddenly. About three weeks ago now.'

'Did anything significant occur,' asked Liebermann, 'around the time when the paralysis first appeared? Let us say, the night before?'

'Significant? What do you mean, significant?'

'Well, did anything happen that might have caused Miss Lydgate distress?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Can you tell me what happened? How you learned of the paralysis?'

'There isn't a great deal to tell. Amelia didn't rise at her usual time and said that she was feeling sick. This in itself wasn't unusual: she often complained of sickness. Weak constitution. She wouldn't open the door, and Beatrice became quite desperate. Eventually, Beatrice demanded that Amelia open the door and was shocked when she entered. The room was in disarray, and the girl was in a dreadful state. Dishevelled, tearful – and coughing. Beatrice suspected that Amelia might have tried to harm herself – there was blood on her scissors.'

'You weren't present?'

'No, I had already left the house. The family doctor was called and he advised that Amelia should be attended by a specialist. Beatrice thought that it would be better for all concerned if Miss Lydgate was treated in hospital. She found Miss Lydgate's appearance very distressing, and she was also worried about the children. She did not want them to see her looking so . . . unwell.'

'Have Miss Lydgate's parents been informed?'

'Of course – I sent a telegram immediately. They asked me whether they should come, and I assured them that this would not be necessary. I explained that, with respect to hysteria, we in Vienna boast the best specialists in the world. Isn't that so, Herr Doctor?'

Liebermann acknowledged the disingenuous compliment with a forced smile. Looking over Schelling's shoulder he pointed to a dull landscape on the wall.

'Is that a Friml, Minister?'

Schelling turned, again moving his whole torso.

'Friml? No, it's a German artist. Frauscher. I have several.'

Feigning interest, Liebermann rose and as he did so he stole a glance down at Schelling's shirt collar, where he glimpsed the edge of what appeared to be a bandage dressing.

'Do you collect, Doctor Liebermann?'

'A little,' Liebermann replied. 'Minor Secessionists, mostly.'

'Really?' said Schelling. 'I'm afraid I cannot claim to be an admirer of their work.'

'Well,' said Liebermann, 'they are an acquired taste. Thank you for your time, Minister.'

'Is that all?' said Schelling, somewhat surprised. He stood. 'I doubt this interview has helped you very much.'

'Oh, it certainly has,' said Liebermann. 'I've learned a great deal.'

The two men shook hands and Schelling escorted Liebermann to the door.

As he left the house, Liebermann was eager to get back to the Hospital. He needed to talk to Stefan Kanner. Kanner and Schelling were very different men but they shared one thing in common. It was a trivial observation, but potentially very significant. In order to test how significant, Liebermann would need Kanner's cooperation with an experiment.

38

L
IEBERMANN AND
R
HEINHARDT
had finished their musical evening with a near-faultless performance of Schumann's
Dichterliebe.
After the brandy had been decanted and the freshly cut cigars lit, the two men spoke little and, as was frequently the case, stared silently into the fire. The jaunty melody of the third song in Schumann's cycle lingered in Liebermann's imagination – and particularly the words
Ich liebe alleine . . .

I love only her – she who is small, exquisite, chaste, unique.

Why had that phrase stuck in his mind?

It was, in effect, a description of Clara. Yet there was something unsettling about its persistence.

I love only her.

The music continued to resonate in Liebermann's head, acquiring with each repetition an ironic quality. Gradually the ghostly concert faded beneath the crackle of burning logs and the sound of his manservant Ernst tidying up song books and closing the piano stool.

'Oskar?'

Rheinhardt turned to look at his friend. Unusually, the young doctor was looking somewhat perplexed.

'Oskar, I would like to ask you a personal question, if I may?'

'Of course.'

'I was wondering . . . have you ever . . .' Liebermann paused and winced. 'What I mean to ask is . . . after announcing your engagement, were you entirely sure that you were doing the right thing? In getting married, that is.'

Rheinhardt's expression immediately softened. 'My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.'

Liebermann blew out a cloud of smoke and the tension eased from his shoulders.

'How many weeks has it been now?' Rheinhardt continued. 'Since your proposal?'

'About three weeks. Although it feels much longer.'

'Well, now that the initial excitement has passed it's inevitable that the happier emotions should give way to a more thoughtful frame of mind. Doubts creep in – and rightly so. After all, a man who did not give proper consideration to such a momentous decision would be correctly identified as a fool, wouldn't he?'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, 'I suppose he would.'

'I cannot give you any advice, Max,' Rheinhardt continued, 'because every man must make his own way in life. But I can tell you a little of my experience – which may or may not be helpful.' The Inspector's tired eyes became oddly bright. 'Had I taken heed of those doubts, I don't know what would have become of me! What a sorry existence I would have led. Gentlemen's clubs, trips to Baden, a little shooting, perhaps, and the occasional company of a shop girl . . . I tell you, Max, there isn't a single day that passes when I am not forced to count myself among the most fortunate of men. My life would have been empty and cheerless without the love of my dear Else and the endless diversion and amusement afforded me by my beautiful daughters.'

Liebermann found his friend's words deeply reassuring.

Rheinhardt continued to talk in glowing terms about his wife and family, and Liebermann reciprocated, describing Clara and something of her background. He felt slightly uncomfortable: it seemed as though he was aping his father, talking of the long association between the Liebermann and Weiss families. However, he also felt curiously relieved, as though he had embarked on a process of bridge-building, linking the various parts of his life together – making the entirety more coherent and secure.

In due course the subject of their conversation changed, and by degrees they returned reluctantly to the dreadful experience that they had shared at the Institute.

'You know,' said Rheinhardt, 'I haven't been able to clear my mind of it. The mental picture of those poor . . .' He paused before adding: 'Babies.'

'Indeed,' Liebermann replied. 'It was a pathetic sight.' He lit another cigar and added: 'It hasn't been reported in the newspapers?'

'No.'

'Because of Commissioner Brügel?'

'Of course.' Rheinhardt frowned at the mention of his superior. 'He says that such a discovery will only make matters worse – make the murder appear even more sensational.'

'Have there been any more developments?'

Rheinhardt began describing the interview that he had conducted with Roche. Occasionally Liebermann asked him to elaborate some detail, but on the whole the young doctor was content to listen. The cigar in his hand burned slowly – turning inch by inch into a length of wilting ash.

'I'd put that cigar out if I were you,' said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann turned lazily and flicked his thumb. The ash fell into the tray producing a small, dusty cloud.

'What's his first name, this Roche character?' asked Liebermann.