Mortal Mischief (39 page)

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

L
IEBERMANN 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

V
ICTOR VON
B
ULOW 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.