Mortal Mischief (50 page)

Miss Lydgate rose from her seat, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit a gas lamp.

'But what are your own feelings, Miss Lydgate? Concerning Frau Schelling? Her death is a terrible tragedy – but this –' Liebermann raised the letter '– is also a dreadful admission.'

The young woman sat down and stared directly at Liebermann. In the gaslight her metallic-hued eyes had turned a pellucid shade of blue.

'I pity her, Doctor Liebermann. By keeping silent, she undoubtedly colluded with her husband – but what else could she do? Had Frau Schelling petitioned for divorce, she would have encountered terrible disapproval. The Catholic church is not renowned for its liberal attitude to the dissolution of the marriage bond. Edward and Adele would have been stigmatised and Herr Schelling's political career might have suffered, which in turn would have affected the children's financial security. Even worse, Frau Schelling's complaints and grievances might have been misconstrued as abnormal symptoms. I dare say that during the ensuing conflict her voice might have become raised, her speech more excited, her passions more violent, and then what?' Amelia Lydgate smiled sadly. 'There are many, particularly in your profession, Herr Doctor, who would associate such unfeminine behaviour with mental illness. Frau Schelling might have found herself incarcerated in the General Hospital or even at Am Steinhof. Herr Schelling's behaviour was despicable, but I am not naive, Doctor Liebermann. Men like Herr Schelling are not so unusual in this city, or in any other European capital – nor is the silent suffering of the women whom they subjugate.'

'You pity her because you identify with her.'

'Of course. All women know what it is like to be caught on the horns of an impossible dilemma, and all women share a precarious fate. We tread an acrobat's wire, delicately weighing and balancing our own needs and desires against the needs and desires of men. And if we deviate from this narrow wire – we fall.'

Liebermann felt disturbed by her speech – even accused.

'Please excuse me, Herr Doctor,' Miss Lydgate continued, detecting his discomfort. 'You did not ask me for so forthright an opinion. And I may have caused you some offence.'

'No, not at all . . .' he replied. 'I . . . I have much sympathy with your view. Women are ill served by our society, and by medicine. There are some doctors in Vienna who still believe women are uniquely vulnerable to hysteria on account of their having a wandering womb. There is much to be achieved.'

Liebermann handed the letter back to Amelia Lydgate who folded it in two and placed it on the table.

'Perhaps,' said the young governess, 'when there are more women doctors, such risible ideas will attract the scorn they deserve.'

'I hope so,' said Liebermann with evident sincerity.

Their conversation progressed naturally to the subject of women's suffrage – a cause which seemed to have attracted more vociferous advocates in London than in Vienna. Liebermann acknowledged that his countrymen, particularly those who sympathised with the Pan-German movement, were violently against women's involvement in politics or public life. As far as the Pan-Germans were concerned, the education of females should serve only one purpose: preparation for motherhood. Although the university had opened its doors to female medical students, the principle had been opposed by the entire faculty. It was only when old Franz Josef himself had insisted that the Muslim women of Bosnia must have female physicians that the concession had been made. Moreover, it was still impossible for a woman to study law and there seemed to be little prospect of change.

When the opportunity arose, Amelia Lydgate excused herself and returned with a pot of tea. Liebermann was conscious of a certain irony. After expressing such militant views concerning women's rights, the young Englishwoman was curiously compliant with respect to one particular gender convention. She would not permit Liebermann to pour his own tea.

Miss Lydgate tilted the pot and the hot liquid bubbled and steamed into his teacup. 'Oh, incidentally,' she said casually. 'I have given the matter of your murder inquiry some more thought.'

'Really?' said Liebermann, sitting up in his chair. 'And have you reached any conclusions?'

'Yes,' said the young woman. 'I have.'

Liebermann craned forward.

'Would you like some milk, Doctor Liebermann?'

'No, thank you, Miss Lydgate.'

'Are you sure? I always find that a splash of dairy improves the flavour of Earl Gray immeasurably.'

'I really am quite happy to forgo the pleasure – but thank you, nevertheless.'

Miss Lydgate's expression became earnest as she tipped the milk jug, allowing a carefully calculated quantity to spill out into her own cup.

'You were saying . . .' said Liebermann.

'Oh yes, forgive me, Herr Doctor. The murder . . .'

She placed the jug back on the tea tray.

'With regard to the autopsy results and that mysterious bullet wound . . . It seems to me that such an effect could be achieved in two ways. Firstly, by using an ice projectile. Ordinary water, frozen in a bullet-shaped mould, could be inserted into the chamber of a revolver and employed as conventional ammunition. The bullet would – of course – melt away. However, there are some obvious problems with this method. Although a frozen-water bullet might feasibly produce a wound identical to that inflicted by a metal counterpart, it might not be very . . . reliable. A frozen bullet could easily shatter in the chamber. And then there is the problem of refrigeration. I take it there was no means of refrigeration close by? There was no ice store? It had not been snowing?'

'No.'

'Well, then, it is most unlikely the murderer used this method.'

'You said there was another way?'

'Yes – a second, much simpler way. It is more reliable and does not require refrigeration.'

She picked up her teacup and took a sip.

'Miss Lydgate.' Liebermann clasped his hands together, his knuckles whitening. 'I would be most grateful if—'

'Indeed, I am being dilatory and you are impatient to hear my conclusion.'

What she said next was so extraordinary, so compelling, that Liebermann could barely suppress his excitement. Moreover, he now knew who it was who had killed Fräulein Löwenstein
.

84

T
HE OMNIBUS HAD
made surprisingly good progress. It had already crossed the Danube Canal and was rattling up the wide thoroughfare of the Praterstrasse. Liebermann glanced at his watch and realised that he would be arriving too early. The conductor, a short, jovial man with a military moustache, shook his leather satchel and took another fare.

Liebermann's euphoria had subsided, leaving in its wake a rising sense of unease. When he had explained his scheme to Rheinhardt it had seemed faultless. But now, as he came closer to his destination, he wondered whether it was such a good idea after all. He might be wrong, in which case the consequences would be awkward and embarrassing, particularly for Rheinhardt. The Commissioner was sceptical, and his equivocation had been exacerbated by von Bulow's insistence that Hölderlin was about to make a full confession. But, on reflection, Liebermann determined that he was worried not so much about being wrong as being right. His scheme, formulated in a moment of heady excitement, was not foolproof. Things
could
go wrong.

Rheinhardt had made it quite clear that his friend should not consider himself under any obligation. He might choose to abandon his assignment at any point and would still retain the respect of Rheinhardt and his colleagues:
You're a doctor, Max, not a police officer.
But in reality Liebermann knew that it wasn't so simple. Withdrawal was no longer an option. Now that he had embarked upon his task he must complete it. Failure to do so would be dishonourable – an abnegation of duty. It was precisely because he
was
a doctor, and not a policeman, that he had to proceed.

Should I have written a letter? To mother and father, to Clara? Just in case?

He chastised himself for being morbid – yet his exhortations were hollow. The unabated sense of foreboding folded the contents of his stomach like cream in a revolving churn. He found himself thinking about Amelia Lydgate. How would she fare in his absence? Would Landsteiner continue to help her? These were questions to which there were no answers. Yet the fact that he had posed them at all exposed the depth of his attachment – a factor that compounded rather than relieved his anxiety.

The omnibus slowed down.

'Not a very pleasant evening, is it, sir?' said the conductor.

'No,' Liebermann replied, standing up and flattening his coat against his trousers.

'Still, the rain might hold off – if we're lucky.'

'Perhaps . . .'

The conductor raised his cap, turned around and called out: 'Prater. Last stop. Prater.'

The other passengers – an ill-assorted assembly of young men – followed Liebermann as he jumped off the back platform. When the vehicle was empty, the driver, exposed to the elements in his open cabin, shook the reins and the horses moved forward.

The sky was indeed overcast, for which Liebermann was quietly thankful. There would be fewer people milling around the Volksprater. He looked up and caught sight of his destination for the first time: the awesome structure of the Riesenrad. It turned, like the principal cogwheel in a universal clock, ratcheting time, bringing Liebermann's fate steadily closer.

As he made his way down the Hauptallee, he could hear the sound of a barrel organ grinding out a simple, happy march – the bass part oscillating between a low C and its octave. The inane melody was soon competing with the cries of Prater folk who were trying to attract the attention of potential customers. The air began to smell of sausages.

Liebermann wandered into the labyrinth of marquees and pavilions: past the shooting hall, a wrestler's tent and the closed puppet theatre. Then he passed the double-arched entrance of 'Venice in Vienna' – a reconstruction of the famous canals, complete with singing gondoliers. Soon after, he came across a curious wooden cabin, its exterior painted with mystical scenes, the most striking of which appeared to be a mesmeric monk levitating a woman in white robes. A large board hung beside the curtained entrance, bearing a crudely painted upturned palm in a circle. The drapes suddenly parted and a man wearing a top hat poked his head out.

'Want to know your future, sir?'

'Unfortunately, I know it only too well.'

'No man knows his own fate, sir.'

'Then I am the exception.'

'The clairvoyant is very pretty . . .'

'I'm sure she is.'

'Face like an angel.'

'Thank you, but I'm afraid I must decline.'

The man shrugged and his head vanished behind the drapes as quickly as it had appeared.

Liebermann drifted away from the attractions and found himself standing on an open concourse. To his left was the Lustspieltheater, Restaurant Prohaska, and the four towers of the water chute. To his right were the low roofs of more entertainment buildings and the Café Eisvogel. Directly ahead, viewed from this angle, the Riesenrad had become an ellipse.

A gust of wind washed the concourse with a diaphanous veil of drizzle, sending a small group of men running towards the café. Luckily, the sprinkling was brief and light. Liebermann had neglected to bring an umbrella. He cleaned the rain off his spectacles and combed his damp hair back with his fingers. Looking at his watch, he took a deep breath and marched briskly towards the colossal wheel.

There was no queue at the kiosk. The Riesenrad was not a popular attraction on a dull evening – the damp haze would obscure the view. Even so, a steady trickle of thrill-seekers paid for their tickets and entered one of the thirty red gondolas, eager to experience the juddering ascent. While the wheel was stationary, the wind plucked a strange keening from its taut steel cords. Then, like a waking giant, the girders yawned and groaned as the wheel began to turn again.

Liebermann looked at his watch.

Ten minutes late.

He had expected him to be more punctual and hoped that this small error of judgement was not symptomatic of a more profound miscalculation. The red of the gondolas suddenly reminded Liebermann of blood-caked muslin – the horror of Karl Uberhorst's ruined face and exposed cortex. His adversary was not only clever but capable of inhuman brutality.

'Herr Doctor – forgive me.' Liebermann flinched. 'There was an accident on the Schweden-brucke and I was delayed.'

He turned slowly and was obliged to shake the new arrival's hand.

85

A
N ATTENDANT CLOSED
the gondola door and the two men stood on opposite sides of its cabin-like interior.

'I must say, Herr Doctor,' said Bruckmüller in his resonant bass, 'although I appreciate that the information in your possession is sensitive, was this
really
necessary?'