by Frank Tallis
'What?'
'Didn't you ever notice?'
'Notice what?' Hölderlin asked irritably.
Juno blinked at her husband.
'The way Herr Uberhorst used to look at Fräulein Löwenstein. The way he would hang on her every word.'
Hölderlin shook his shiny head and continued reading.
'He was like a schoolboy,' Juno continued. 'Mind, he wasn't the only one, of course. She seemed to have, how can one put it, an influence over men. Wouldn't you say? If you ask me, the Count was besotted too – as was that young fellow Braun. There's no denying her gift, of course. She was very talented. Blessed, one might say. Strange, isn't it? That such a – would it be fair to say this, I don't know – that such a vain woman who was so very particular in matters of appearance should possess such a gift. Still, who am I to question the Lord's will? Such a gift is God-given – of that I'm sure.'
When she had finished speaking, the silence was crushing.
'Heinrich?'
Her husband said nothing.
Juno allowed her coffee cup to drop loudly into its saucer.
'Heinrich?' she said again, somewhat louder. 'You're not listening, are you?'
Behind the protective cover of his newspaper, Heinrich Hölderlin was sitting with eyes wide, staring blankly at an advert for Kalodont toothpaste: Indispensable. He had heard every word, and his mouth had gone wholly dry – as though packed with sawdust. Hölderlin swallowed to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but to no effect.
9
HER HAIR WAS pulled back tightly from her face and the cast of her features, set in a permanent half-frown, suggested habitual seriousness. Although young, there was nothing about her that suggested naivety or insouciance.
Beyond the confines of the examination room, Liebermann could hear a man screaming. He was accustomed to such sounds in the hospital; however, he was concerned that these anguished cries – suggesting the practice of some medieval torture – would upset his new patient.
The woman raised her left hand to stifle a repetitive cough. Her right hand remained conspicuously still – the palm and fingers curled upwards on her lap like the petals of a dying flower.
The screaming stopped.
'If I may,' said Liebermann, 'I would like to examine your arm, Miss Lydgate.'
'Of course.' Her voice was soft, but serrated with a certain huskiness: a consequence, no doubt, of her incessant coughing.
Liebermann rolled up the right sleeve of her gown. Her arm was slender, almost emaciated, and beneath the crêpe-paper transparency of her skin a network of branching veins was clearly visible.
'Could you close your eyes, please? Now, tell me if you feel anything.'
Liebermann tapped the woman's palm, wrist and forearm with his pencil, to none of which was there any response. When he reached a point close to her shoulder, she suddenly flinched, saying: 'Yes, I feel something there.' By continuous tapping in this region, Liebermann was able to establish that the woman's paralysis had begun quite suddenly. It was as though an amulet encircled her upper arm, below which the sensory apparatus was no longer functioning. Such a decisive boundary did not correspond with the underlying continuities of the nervous system. The phenomenon was a physical impossibility and a cardinal symptom of hysteria.
'Thank you, Miss Lydgate, you can open your eyes now. When did you first notice the paralysis?'
'Last week.'
'Had you ever had problems of this kind before?'
'No.'
'Did the paralysis develop suddenly or gradually?'
'Suddenly. When I woke up, I could no longer move my arm.'
'Not even the fingers?'
'No.'
'Is the paralysis continuous, or do you get the feeling back sometimes?'
'It is continuous.'
Liebermann let Miss Lydgate's sleeve down and somewhat pedantically positioned the fringe of her cuff along the crease-lines of her wrist.
'Did the cough begin at the same time?'
'Yes.'
'Did anything significant happen – last week?'
'No. Not really.'
'Do you suffer from any other problems?'
She paused and took a deep breath.
'Amenorrhoea.'
'I see,' said Liebermann, attempting to gloss over her embarrassment with workaday efficiency. 'And when was the last time you menstruated?'
Miss Lydgate's cheeks coloured as though they'd been sprinkled with a pinch of ochre.
'Three months ago.'
'I imagine your appetite hasn't been very good lately.'
'No, that's right. It hasn't.'
Liebermann opened his notebook and began scribbling.
'Your German is remarkably good, Miss Lydgate.'
A smile began to flicker into existence, but failed to ignite: the half-frown quickly reasserted itself.
'Well, it isn't so remarkable. My grandfather was German – and my mother spoke to me in German when I was a child.'
Liebermann turned to a fresh page and proceeded to ask Miss Lydgate several questions about her circumstances. He discovered that she lived with distant relatives: Herr Schelling (a Christian-Social parliamentary minister), Frau Schelling, and their two children Edward and Adele. Herr Schelling had agreed to provide Miss Lydgate with a room and a monthly stipend, contingent upon her performing the duties of a governess; however, in reality her only significant task was to provide Edward and Adele with instruction in written and spoken English.
'How long do you intend to stay in Vienna?' asked Liebermann.
'For some time,' replied Miss Lydgate. 'Years, perhaps.'
'The Schellings have agreed to this?'
'That isn't necessary,' she replied. 'I do not wish to retain my position as the Schellings' governess.'
'No?'
She shook her head, and continued: 'No. I want to study medicine.'
'Here?' asked Liebermann, raising his eyebrows. 'In Vienna?'
'Yes,' replied Miss Lydgate. 'The university department has recently started accepting female students.'
'Indeed,' said Liebermann. 'But why here? Surely, if you wish to study medicine it would be more convenient for you to study in London?'
'I came to Vienna because of Doctor Landsteiner. You see, I am interested . . .' She paused before beginning her sentence again: 'I am interested in blood.'
Her eyes were an unusual colour, neither blue nor grey but something in between: a blend that reminded Liebermann of pewter. They had an arresting depth, enhanced by a subtle darkening at the edges of each iris. She could see that Liebermann required further explanation.
'My grandfather was a physician, and wrote extensively on diseases of the blood. He was also greatly fascinated by the virtuosi of the British Enlightenment – particularly those who had experimented with transfusion. I became interested in the subject after reading my grandfather's journal, which contains a detailed record of his thoughts and observations. By mixing blood samples and examining them under the microscope, he established that blood is not a singular substance but one that can be classified according to type – and he subsequently proposed that incompatibility of bloods was the principal reason why early and subsequent attempts at transfusion have failed. Thus, my grandfather seems to have anticipated Landsteiner's recent discovery by over half a century. I corresponded with Doctor Landsteiner when I was still living in England, and when I arrived in Vienna he invited me to attend some meetings at the Pathological Institute.'
'To discuss your grandfather's work?'
'Yes, and . . .' She paused again before continuing: 'And to review some ideas of my own. Doctor Landsteiner has since promised that if I am accepted by the university I can also work in his laboratory.'
'He must have been very impressed.'
She looked down at her feet, discomfited by Liebermann's compliment.
Liebermann encouraged Miss Lydgate to talk in greater detail about her grandfather and his journal. Although his patient was
a little reticent at first, she was soon speaking with considerable fluency and enthusiasm. Doctor Ludwig Buchbinder had moved to England at the request of none other than Prince Albert. He was appointed Physician-in-Ordinary by Queen Victoria, but his duties extended well beyond the practice of medicine. He was the Prince Consort's confidant and played a significant role in the planning and organisation of the Great Exhibition. He was also one of a relatively small group of doctors who championed the use of the stethoscope (an instrument viewed with considerable suspicion by most British physicians on account of its Continental provenance). Although there were considerable demands on his time, Buchbinder still managed to indulge his passion for medical history and in due course came across several accounts of transfusion experiments conducted in the seventeenth century under the aegis of the Royal Society. Buchbinder settled in London – marrying late. He and his wife produced two daughters, the youngest of whom was Greta (Miss Lydgate's mother). In later life Buchbinder continued to speculate on many practical issues, including the analgesic properties of plants. Among his list of candidates was Salix Alba – the white willow tree (a derivative of which had been introduced into medical practice as aspirin by Hoffmann only three years earlier).
'Fascinating,' said Liebermann. 'He sounds like a truly remarkable man.'
'Indeed,' replied Miss Lydgate. 'Doctor Landsteiner believes that my grandfather's journal should be edited for publication.'
'Would you be willing to undertake such a task?'
'When I am better, yes.'
'And what of the rest of your family?'
Miss Lydgate progressed from the topic of her illustrious grandfather to her mother, whom she described with great affection. She then spoke of her father, Samuel Lydgate, a science master and a gentleman with distinctly progressive sympathies. He believed that modern women should have the same opportunities and rights as men, and had treated his daughter accordingly. Miss Lydgate was an only child, and Liebermann wondered whether her upbringing would have been different had Greta Lydgate provided her husband with more than one child on whom to practise his pedagogic theories. Liebermann could see that Miss Lydgate was the beneficiary – or victim – of a singularly taxing education.
The Lydgates lived a few miles north of the capital. Liebermann had visited London many times but had never heard of Highgate. Miss Lydgate's description called to mind a kind of English Grinzing: a village built on a natural eminence, from which at night an observer could enjoy the glittering spectacle of the city lights below.
After Liebermann had gained enough background information he drew a line under his notes and looked up. He was again surprised by the intensity of his patient's expression: the way her pewter eyes glowed beneath her troubled forehead, the tightness with which her hair had been pulled back. Liebermann smiled, inviting her to reciprocate – but Miss Lydgate simply tilted her head to one side (almost as though she was puzzled by his behaviour). Then, unexpectedly, she said: 'Is that a battery, Doctor Liebermann?'
Liebermann turned and looked across the room. In the corner a large wooden box sat on the top shelf of a hospital trolley.
'Yes, it is.'
'Will my course of electrotherapy begin today?'
She spoke these words evenly, without emotion.
'No,' replied Liebermann.
'Tomorrow, then?' She stifled a nervous cough.
'Perhaps.'
'I was told by Professor Gruner that—'
'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann interrupted. 'For the moment, I think we should just talk.'
'What about?'
Liebermann formed a steeple with his fingers.
'About you. And your symptoms, of course.'
'But what good will that do?'
Before he could answer there was a knock on the door.
Stefan Kanner entered. He glanced briefly at Miss Lydgate and then spoke quietly to Liebermann.
'I'm sorry, Max, but I think you walked off with the keys to the storeroom.'
Liebermann stood up and pulled three bunches of keys from his pocket: his apartment keys, the hospital keys and, finally, the keys to the storeroom.
'Ah yes, how foolish of me.'
Before Kanner could take them, both men were distracted by Miss Lydgate. She had begun to cough with considerable violence – an ugly, rasping bark. Without warning she bent forward and started to retch. The vertebrae of her spine and the sharp edges of her shoulder blades showed clearly through the hospital gown. It looked as if some strange marine creature, with massive gills and a long segmented tail had attached itself to her body – and was in the process of shaking her to death.
Kanner was nearest to the sink, under which stood an old tin pail. He acted swiftly, picking it up and placing it on the floor in front of the woman's chair. As he did so, he laid a comforting hand on her back.
What happened next also happened very quickly but it left a lasting impression on Liebermann.
The young woman's body twisted – as though Kanner had pressed a white-hot branding iron between her shoulder blades. She squirmed at his touch, her spine warping sinuously to escape his fingers.
Miss Lydgate had undergone an extraordinary transformation. The softly spoken Englishwoman had been possessed by something demonic, and her expression had become hateful and venomous. Her bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets and a thick blue vein had risen on her forehead – a livid weal against the paleness of her skin. She was sneering, scowling, animated by an inhuman anger. Kanner could not move – he stood, watching, in a state of utter shock. But it was not Miss Lydgate's fiendish expression that had caught Liebermann's attention. Something far more significant was happening: her hitherto dead hand had come to life, and was twitching furiously.
10
ABOVE THE HEAD of Commissioner Manfred Brügel hung a huge picture of the Emperor, Franz Josef. It was a portrait that could be found in most homes and in virtually every public building. The imperial patriarch, seemingly eternal, was an inescapable and watchful presence. Like many senior officials, Brügel had chosen to affirm his support for the Habsburgs by growing an exact copy of the monarch's oversized mutton-chop whiskers.
Brügel examined the first of several photographs: Fräulein Löwenstein, reclining on the chaise longue, the bloodstain clearly visible over her heart.
'Pretty girl.'
'Yes, sir,' said Rheinhardt.
'Do you have any idea what happened to the bullet?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, do you have any theories?'
'None as yet, sir.'
'What about Mathias? What does he think?'
'Professor Mathias could not explain his findings.'
Brügel dropped the first photograph and picked up a second: a head-and-shoulders portrait of the victim. She looked like a sleeping Venus.
'Very pretty,' Brügel repeated. After further contemplation of Charlotte Löwenstein's image, the Commissioner raised his blockish head and fixed his subordinate with a sullen stare.
'Do you believe in the supernatural, Rheinhardt?'
The Inspector hesitated.
'Well?'
'I believe,' said Rheinhardt, selecting his words with utmost care, 'we should only consider a supernatural explanation when all other explanations have been eliminated.'
'Indeed . . . but I asked whether or not you believed in the supernatural?'
Rheinhardt changed his position to ease the discomfort of the Commissioner's scrutiny.
'It would be presumptuous to suppose that we have a complete understanding of the world in which we live. I dare say there are many phenomena that have not ceded their secrets to science. But with the greatest respect, sir . . . I'm a policeman, not a philosopher.'
Brügel smiled: an enigmatic half-smile – opaque and saline.
'This business is going to attract a lot of attention, Rheinhardt. You do realise that, don't you?'
'The facts of the case that we have gathered to date are . . . intriguing.'
&nbs
p; 'Intriguing?' The Commissioner puffed as though the word was goose down and he was trying to dislodge it from his upper lip. 'The facts are not intriguing, Rheinhardt – they are extraordinary! I imagine our friends at the Zeitung will sensationalise every detail. And do you know what that means, Rheinhardt?' The Commissioner's question was rhetorical. 'Expectations!'
Brügel picked up the third photograph: a close-up of the bullet wound. Next to the ragged crater was a metal ruler. The hand of whoever was holding the ruler appeared in the bottom right-hand corner.
'Such cases shape public opinion, Rheinhardt,' continued Brügel. 'Solve a mystery like this and the Viennese security office will be lauded from here to the furthest outposts of His Majesty's Empire.' As he said this, his thumb jerked back at the painting of Franz Josef. 'Fail, and . . .' The Commissioner paused. 'Fail . . . and we run the risk of becoming a laughing stock. I can see the headline now: Leopoldstadt Demon Foils Viennese Detectives. We don't want that, now, do we, Rheinhardt?'
'No, sir.'
Brügel pushed the photographs of Charlotte Löwenstein across the table.
'Keep me informed, Rheinhardt.'
The interview was over.
11
WHILE OSKAR RHEINHARDT turned the pages of his songbook, Liebermann amused himself by improvising a simple chord sequence on the Bösendorfer. On repeating the sequence, he realised that he had unconsciously chosen the basic harmonies of Mendelssohn's bridal march. Looking up at Rheinhardt – the happiest of husbands – he experienced a curious sense of camaraderie. Soon, he too would be joining the fraternity of married men. Liebermann was impatient to share the news of his engagement with Rheinhardt, but recognised that it would be somewhat improper to inform his friend before he had told his own family.
'Oskar? It's your wedding anniversary soon – isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'Next month.'
'The nineteenth?'
'That's right.'
'Have you bought Else a present yet?''
'I've been having clandestine meetings with Maria, her dressmaker.'
'Ah,' said Liebermann, letting his hands fall on an ominous-sounding chord at the lower end of the keyboard.
