Mortal Mischief (47 page)

'Inspector Rheinhardt would not object to our visiting the apartment, I'm sure we could—'

'No, Doctor Liebermann,' the young woman said firmly. 'That won't be necessary. But I'd be most grateful if you would bring me both keys – the key to the sitting-room door and the key to the Japanese box. I would like to examine them.'

Her face was impassive and, in a way that resisted analysis, tempered by a subtle beauty.

76

B
EATRICE
S
CHELLING TIPTOED
up the stairs, past the hissing gas lamps, ascending into the upper region of the house where light gave way to shadow. She fumbled in her dressing gown for a candle and, having lit it with a match, continued her journey. The sound came again – indistinct but undoubtedly real. Beatrice held her breath so that she could hear better, but found that her heart was thumping in her ears.

Creeping across the landing, she came to the last flight of stairs. They were uncarpeted and she had to negotiate them with even greater care. Stepping out of her slippers, she grasped the banister and pulled herself upward. The wood protested, groaning under her weight. Beatrice froze, paused, and gingerly placed the ball of her foot on the next step.

On reaching the attic area she heard the susurration again. It sounded like sobbing. Beatrice approached the door ahead and pressed her ear against one of its panels. She imagined the girl on the other side, sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up against her chest, abundant tears soaking her cheap nightdress. The new maid had recently arrived in Vienna from the country. She was slight, with curly brown hair – little more than a child.

The whimpering increased in volume.

Beatrice's instinct was to turn the door handle and enter the room – to place her arm around the poor girl's shoulder and console her.

You miss your mother and father, of course you do. But you will see them again in the autumn. Don't fret, my dear.

She had done the same when the previous maid had been tearful, and the maid before her – a beautiful creature from Croatia with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes. But Beatrice could no longer play her part. She was weary of the role, and knew that her lines would be delivered without conviction. Moreover, she was perfectly well aware that the ponderous step that had descended the attic stairs some thirty minutes earlier had belonged to her husband. Far below, in the entrance hall, a clock struck the second hour of the morning.

The whimpering subsided, to be replaced by a pathetic sniffling.

A drop of hot candle wax fell on to Beatrice's foot. She did not flinch but remained still, allowing the burning sensation to increase briefly in intensity. She found it perversely satisfying. The pain was in some obscure way redeeming. It seemed to purify her soul.

Behind the door the girl seemed to be drifting into a fitful sleep. All that Beatrice could hear now was a continuous
sotto voce
grizzling.

Beatrice straightened her back and walked – perhaps less cautiously now – to the edge of the landing. She paused for a moment, sighed, and blew out the candle.

When she reached her husband's study, she switched on the lamp. From his desk she took a sheet of creamy paper. Staring at its blankness, she began composing a letter. It began:
Dear Amelia . . .

77

N
URSE
R
UPIUS AND
Stefan Kanner approached each other from opposite directions. Both were wearing their outdoor coats.

'Good evening, Sabina.'

'Herr Doctor . . .'

They turned along the main corridor and continued walking side by side.

'Please call me Stefan.' He made a show of looking at his pocket watch. 'We are no longer at work.'

Nurse Rupius's cheeks coloured a little at his familiarity.

'Do you have far to go?'

'Josefstadt.'

'Not very far, then.'

'No.'

Kanner was desperate to keep the conversation going, but could not think of anything else to say. Sabina Rupius came to his assistance.

'And you, Herr Doc—' she broke off. 'Stefan?'

'Oh, Mariahilf.'

'Have you lived there long?'

'No. I moved from Döbling in January.'

'I have fond memories of Mariahilf. My father used to take me to see
The Magic Flute
there – every Christmas, or so it seemed.'

'The Am der Wien?'

'Yes.'

'A lovely old theatre. It's just been done up, you know.'

'Has it?'

'I go quite often. Do you still go to the theatre?'

'Not as much as I should, or would like to.'

She turned her head. Her eyes glistened.

Is she expecting me to ask?

It certainly looks that way.

Kanner swallowed nervously; however, as he prepared to speak, the opportunity that had presented itself was suddenly lost. Ahead, he noticed the approach of Brunnhilde Grützner – the surliest of hospital matrons. He watched as Nurse Rupius's expression changed from anticipation through dismay to disappointment.

Matron Grützner greeted them from a distance: 'Good evening, Herr Doctor.' Then, looking at Sabina with undisguised disapproval, she added curtly: 'Nurse Rupius.'

'Good evening, Matron,' they replied in unison while unconsciously moving apart. It was common knowledge that the Matron took a very dim view of young nurses socialising with doctors. The woman seemed to possess an almost preternatural gift for detecting nascent romance.

Kanner waited for Matron Grützner's footsteps to fade before attempting to pick up the threads of their broken conversation.

'Did you know,' said Kanner, 'the very first performance of
The Magic Flute
took place in that theatre.'

'Yes,' said Sabina Rupius, thinking that it might have been more advantageous to feign ignorance. 'Yes, I did know that.'

They both managed to smile but neither could ignore the undercurrent of shared embarrassment. Fortunately, they were rescued from this conversational quagmire by the unexpected appearance of several men outside Professor Gruner's room: porters, dressed in brown aprons and carrying large boxes towards the staircase.

'Is he going?' whispered Rupius.

'It looks like he's gone,' said Kanner, glancing into Gruner's room.

'Your friend will be pleased.'

Stefan laughed: 'Yes, he will. Gruner and Max never got on – it has to be said.'

'I wonder what happened?'

'The inquiry – he must have been dismissed.'

'Or he could have resigned.'

'Extraordinary.'

'Will we have a new professor?'

'Indeed– let's hope the new one is an improvement on the old one.'

Nodding to some porters at the head of the stairs, they made their way to the ground floor. Although they did not speak, the silence was no longer uncomfortable.

When they reached the foyer, Kanner felt a curious sense of urgency. They would step outside and go their separate ways – she to Josefstadt, he to Mariahilf. He must do something, say something.

The evening was pleasantly warm and they both paused on the hospital steps. Sabina Rupius looked up at her companion – the look of expectation had returned.

'Sabina . . .' said Kanner. 'Would you like to go to the theatre? Tomorrow evening? Of course, I would understand if—'

'I would be delighted, Stefan,' said Nurse Rupius, her face glowing.

'Well . . . that's excellent. Excellent,' said Kanner.

They stood looking at each other for a few moments before Sabina Rupius said: 'I must go.'

She glanced quickly around the courtyard and, seeing that it was empty, offered Kanner her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers.

Nurse Rupius smiled, turned and walked away – her hips swaying with each unhurried step.

78

A
MELIA
L
YDGATE STOOD
by her newly acquired laboratory bench. An umbilical pipe of red rubber dropped from a gaslight fitting to a battered Bunsen burner, and a conspicuously large microscope stood next to a row of empty test tubes. The surface of the bench was heavily scored, suggesting to Liebermann that Miss Lydgate had purchased this bulky piece of furniture from one of the junk shops near the hospital.

The curtains were open and the attic room was filled with light. The young governess's hair was pinned back but its colours were particularly vibrant – streaks of ochre, rust and gold. As usual, she was dressed plainly but effectively: a simple white blouse and a long grey skirt. She looked slender and willowy, in possession of a disarmingly fragile hauteur.

'I have the keys,' said Liebermann.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out two envelopes and handed them to Miss Lydgate. She opened both and tipped the keys onto her work bench.

'The larger is the key to the sitting room,' continued Liebermann. 'The smaller is the one for Fräulein Löwenstein's Japanese box.'

Amelia Lydgate picked up the larger key and seemed to be judging its weight in her right hand. She then raised it above her head and turned it in the sunlight. Her expression was particularly intense.

'What are you looking for?' asked Liebermann.

Miss Lydgate did not reply. She was completely absorbed in her task. Carefully placing the larger key on the laboratory bench, she picked up the smaller one and repeated the weighing and inspection procedures.

Liebermann could not prevent himself from admiring her figure. Anorexia had narrowed her frame, but now, as her recovery progressed, she was becoming more shapely. Her small bosom and the curvature of her hips was more pronounced. As his gaze wandered over her body, he felt a frisson of arousal, which immediately curdled with guilt. He remembered Katherine – the clinging hospital gown – the suggestion of her sex straining against constricting fibres – her naked feet and the ivory-white skin of her ankles . . .

'Very interesting,' said Amelia Lydgate.

'What is?' asked Liebermann, his voice humbled by a prickling sense of shame.

Again the young woman did not reply. But Liebermann was not offended. She was obviously lost in thought. Moreover, he was satisfied, at that moment, not to become the focus of interest for those enquiring eyes.

Miss Lydgate pulled a high stool from under the bench and, standing on tiptoe, managed to push herself up to sit on the elevated wooden seat. She then reached for the microscope – a beautiful instrument made from lacquered brass and black enamelled iron. It was obviously heavy, and she held her breath as she moved it. Placing the larger key on the silver viewing plate, she leaned over the eyepiece and turned the revolving turret of lenses. While adjusting the coarse- and fine-adjustment wheels, she tilted the mirror to get more light. Her movements had a certain fluency – an ease that indicated many hours spent in scientific study. It was unusual to see a woman so comfortable with a piece of optical technology.

She removed the larger key and replaced it with the smaller one.

'Doctor Liebermann? Are you carrying any keys?'

'Yes.'

'May I see them, please?'

Liebermann handed her two bunches.

'These are my apartment keys – and these are from the hospital.'

'Thank you.'

Amelia Lydgate systematically examined each key, occasionally changing the lens to increase or reduce levels of magnification. While she was still looking into the microscope, she said: 'Doctor Liebermann, would you be so kind as to fetch the key from my bedroom door – the second on the right as you leave this room.'

'Of course.'

Liebermann left the room and opened the second door, as instructed. The curtains were drawn and the room was filled with a dusky half-light. His gaze lingered on the bed, the cover of which was half off. The sheets were rumpled in a pattern of concentric loops – like sand on a beach at low tide. The mattress was depressed slightly, retaining in its tired springs the impression of her body. He removed the key from the lock and closed the door softly behind him.

When he entered the 'laboratory' Miss Lydgate was still bent over the microscope, her fingers deftly exchanging keys and rotating lenses. Hearing Liebermann approach, she extended her open palm. He placed the key in her hand.

'Thank you,' she said, without looking up. Her fingers closed around the key, which she immediately placed under the microscope.

'Yes,' she said. 'Just as I thought.'

Then, raising her head, she beckoned Liebermann closer.