Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  Liebermann looked at his wristwatch and stood up.

  'I've really got to go, Stefan – and thank you.'

  'Not at all.'

  Liebermann opened the door to let Kanner out.

  'Max?' Kanner looked uncomfortable.

  'Yes.'

  'Miss Lydgate is supposed to be receiving a course of electrotherapy.'

  'Yes, I know.'

  'What are you going to say to Professor Gruner when he demands an explanation?'

  Liebermann sighed: 'I haven't really thought about it.'

  'In which case,' said Kanner, resting a solicitous hand on Liebermann's shoulder, 'I think you'd better start.'

  29

  EVERYTHING IN THE concert hall seemed to have been cast from gold: the baroque ceiling, the carved friezes, and the elegant, gilded caryatids – the housing for the pipe organ – its tympanum and entablature. The effect was dazzling. A blaze of bullion.

  Above the audience, massive crystal chandeliers sparkled with a restless light, and each starburst was answered by waves of coruscation below. Amid the sea of faces in the stalls an abundance of diamond brooches flashed and shimmered. The Grosser Saal was like an Aladdin's cave – scintillating with the tokens of bourgeois prosperity.

  'Ah, there you are.'

  Liebermann turned to see Rheinhardt negotiating – with some difficulty – the narrow aisle. 'What a rush,' he grumbled. 'I barely had time to change.' He slumped down in the seat beside Liebermann, caught his breath and, puffing a little, said, 'I've been completing my report on the second autopsy.'

  Liebermann peered over the balcony.

  'I was very lucky to get these seats, you know, particularly at such late notice. As far as I'm concerned, when Mahler's conducting it's not worth sitting anywhere else. You have to see his face – such humanity.'

  Ignoring Liebermann's unconventional and somewhat inappropriate welcome, Rheinhardt lowered his voice and leaned closer to his friend: 'You know, I had to record that the second autopsy was initiated after seeking medical advice – that is, your advice.

  However, you still haven't told me how you did it. How did you work it out?'

  A group of violinists and a few members of the woodwind section emerged from the wings and wandered onto the stage.

  'Oh, it really wasn't that difficult, Oskar,' said Liebermann, seemingly more interested in the musicians. 'Rosa Sucher had described changes in Fräulein Löwenstein's eating habits. Fräulein Löwenstein was also drinking less coffee and had started taking peppermint tea. Now, surely, as a father of two, you must appreciate the significance of these facts.'

  Rheinhardt scratched his head.

  'Cravings? Yes. When Else was carrying Mitzi I had to get up at the crack of dawn to get strawberries from the Naschmarkt. She wouldn't eat anything else for weeks! But I'm afraid the significance of the coffee and peppermint tea escapes me entirely.'

  Liebermann continued to monitor the arrival of the orchestra.

  'Most women find coffee less palatable in the early stages of pregnancy.'

  'Do they? I can't remember Else—'

  'Would you have noticed?'

  'Perhaps not.'

  'And as for peppermint tea – it's an old cure for morning sickness. Quite effective, too.'

  Rheinhardt grunted approvingly.

  'Once this information was in my possession,' continued Liebermann, 'I wondered whether Natalie Heck, being a seamstress, and therefore perhaps more observant of Fräulein Löwenstein's wardrobe, might have noticed any changes in Charlotte Löwenstein's dress. Had she, for example, purchased any new and more generously proportioned garments? Clearly, Fräulein Heck exceeded all expectations when she confessed to having altered Fräulein Löwenstein's blue silk dress herself. Subsequently, I was minded to review my earlier interpretation of that tantalising error in Fräulein Löwenstein's death-note. The meaning of He will take us to Hell became wholly transparent.'

  'This also explains something else,' said Rheinhardt. 'Something I thought inconsequential at the first autopsy. Fräulein Löwenstein was not wearing a corset.'

  'Indeed, to do so would have involved considerable discomfort.'

  Representatives from each section of the orchestra had now made their way onto the stage, and the horn players had begun to warm their instruments with a few muted scales.

  'Well,' said Rheinhardt, 'once again, I am indebted to you, Herr Doctor.'

  'That remains to be seen,' said Liebermann. 'Fräulein Löwenstein's pregnancy certainly introduces a new element into our mystery. But as to its significance, who can say?'

  'True. But we've made some progress. And I have a hunch that Fräulein Löwenstein's pregnancy will play some part in the unravelling of a motive for her murder.'

  'Possibly,' said Liebermann. But before he could elaborate, he was distracted by a group of finely dressed men who were processing in a halting fashion up the furthest aisle of the stalls. Several were dressed in a kind of uniform – green tailcoat, black velvet cuffs, and yellow buttons. Their slow advance created a swell of agitation in the audience: the familiar impassive drone became an excited susurration. Heads turned, and some people even pointed. Every few rows, a distinguished Viennese burgher or lady would rise to greet the company.

  'Oskar?' Liebermann nodded towards the back of the Grosser Saal. 'What's going on down there? Do you recognise any of those men?'

  Rheinhardt rested his hands on the balcony and shifted forward.

  At the centre of the group a well-groomed gentleman wearing a dark grey suit was kissing the hand of an aristocratic-looking dowager.

  'Good heavens – it's the Mayor.'

  'What's he doing here?' exclaimed Liebermann. 'Damned hypocrite.'

  A few years earlier the Mayor had affronted Mahler by inviting a different conductor to perform at a special Philharmonic charity concert. Knowing the Mayor's politics, Liebermann realised that his motive had been quite clear. The Mayor's supporters in the anti-Semitic Reform Union would have been delighted. The orchestra's members, however, had been furious and had complained bitterly.

  'Not so loud, Max.'

  Liebermann snorted and folded his arms.

  'And . . .' Rheinhardt's eyes narrowed. 'I don't believe it – there's Bruckmüller.'

  'Who?'

  'Hans Bruckmüller – remember? He attended Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings. You see that man there?' Rheinhardt pointed discreetly. 'The big chap – with the red carnation in his buttonhole.'

  'Ah yes.'

  'I didn't know he was one of Lueger's cronies . . .'

  'Well, you do now.'

  As soon as the orchestra was assembled, the first violin made a brisk entry – accompanied by much appreciative clapping. He sat down, played an 'A' for his colleagues, and a chaos of different pitches gradually coalesced and unified around his lead. Lueger and his companions were still ambling up the aisle when Gustav Mahler appeared.

  The audience unleashed a storm of applause.

  Mahler leaped on to the podium and made a low bow. Liebermann thought that he saw the conductor's neutral expression shadow with irritation when he caught sight of Lueger's party – who had disturbed a row of settled patrons in order to get to their centrally placed seats.

  The applause gradually subsided and the house lights dimmed. Mahler turned on his heels and faced the orchestra. He did not need to consult a score because he had memorised the entire programme. Raising his baton, he paused for a moment before lunging forward, liberating the majesty of Beethoven's genius.

  Slender, nervous, and agile, the conductor clutched at the cellos and basses with his right hand. Drawing out a crescendo, his clenched fist rose up and shook at the sky – like a challenge to the gods. Here was the leaping, thrashing, strangling and jerking routinely vilified by critics who abhorred the director's flamboyant style. Here were all the 'ugly excesses' that had been ridiculed by cartoonists and commentators – 'St Vitus' Dance', 'delirium tremens', 'demonic possession'. All true. Yet
the Philharmonic had never sounded more powerful, or a Beethoven overture more vital. The music burst out, virile with rage and passion.

  Liebermann closed his eyes and plunged into a sound-world of turmoil, torment – and incommunicable bliss.

  30

  THE LIVER PTÉ WAS studded with truffles and presented on a tray of ice crystals. Round loaves of brown bread were arranged in a rustic basket, and the pheasant – glazed with honey and fragrant with mixed herbs – sat in a large white dish, accompanied by green and yellow vegetables.

  'You remember Cosima von Rath?'

  Juno Hölderlin squinted at her husband.

  How could I forget her,

  he thought.

  'Herr Bruckmüller's fiancée', Juno continued. 'She came to some of Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings.'

  'Yes,' said Hölderlin. 'A very striking woman, as I recall.'

  Hölderlin untied his serviette, flapped it in the air, and placed it carefully on his lap.

  'She telephoned today.'

  'Really? What did she want?'

  'She's arranging a circle.'

  'My dear, another one?' Hölderlin's expression indicated extreme discomfort. 'Hasn't your appetite for the supernatural been tempered by recent events?'

  'She wasn't suggesting we form a new circle to replace Fräulein Löwenstein's. No, Heinrich. She was suggesting an investigative sitting . . . a seance, the purpose of which would be to find out what really happened that night.'

  'She means to contact Fräulein Löwenstein?'

  Juno Hölderlin sliced the pâté and scraped a moist wedge onto the side of her plate.

  'I imagine so. She also wishes to discover the whereabouts of Herr Braun.'

  Juno's rate of blinking accelerated, until finally she squeezed her eyelids together in an effort to rid herself of the tic.

  'Who else has she invited?'

  'Herr Uberhorst, Fräulein Heck – all of them.'

  'And they've agreed to attend?'

  'As far as I know. Although Fräulein von Rath had still not been able to contact Count Záborszky when we spoke.'

  'Do you . . . do you want to go?'

  Juno looked down at her plate and was momentarily distracted by the beauty of the blue and gold surround. The china had been a wedding gift from Sieglinde.

  'If it will help – then of course.'

  Hölderlin sipped his wine.

  'Very well,' he said. 'We shall go.'

  31

  'IT WASN'T A particularly warm day – quite cold, in fact – but Herr Schelling insisted that we should go. I asked Frau Schelling if she wanted her coat; however, she said that wouldn't be necessary – she wouldn't be joining us.'

  Miss Lydgate's eyes shifted rapidly beneath closed lids and her words slurred under the influence of hypnotic sleep.

  'Something passed between them,' she continued. 'Herr Schelling and Frau Schelling: a look, an odd look. Then Frau Schelling said: I must go now – enjoy the woods, Miss Lydgate. They are very beautiful at this time of year. And then she left the room. Very quickly, as though . . . as though she was running away.'

  'From what?' asked Liebermann.

  'I don't know.' Miss Lydgate coughed. 'The carriage took us through the city and out past Unterdöbling and Oberdöbling. Herr Schelling told me that Beethoven had once lived there – it was where he had written his third symphony. Beethoven had originally dedicated the work to Napoleon, but on receiving news that the First Consul had crowned himself Emperor the great composer became enraged and tore up the dedication. I knew this story already as my father had told me something very similar, but I thought it rude to interrupt. Herr Schelling asked me if I enjoyed music. I said that I did, but confessed to not being very knowledgeable. Herr Schelling then said that I must permit him to take me to a concert. I thanked him, feeling that I did not deserve such kindness. He said that it was his pleasure, and placed a hand on my arm . . .' Miss Lydgate's head rocked from side to side in its nest of flaming hair.

  In the distance a church bell started to toll, slow and funereal.

  'Herr Schelling did not remove his hand and moved a little closer. I didn't know what to do. It seemed improper. Yet Herr Schelling was not a stranger. He was a relative – my mother's cousin. Perhaps it was permissible for him to rest his hand on my arm. So I did nothing . . . and I fear . . . I fear I was mistaken. I fear that I may have been responsible for a misunderstanding.'

  Liebermann studied his supine patient. She looked relatively calm. After a long pause, she spontaneously resumed her narrative.

  'Even though the day was somewhat overcast, the woods were no less beautiful. I was fascinated by the flora – but Herr Schelling urged me not to stray from the path.

  There are still bears in this wood, he said. But I did not believe him. He was smiling, and showing no concern for his own safety. We climbed up a narrow, steep incline until we reached a viewing point. There we paused to admire the vista. Herr Schelling pointed out some villages on the lower slopes, and a vineyard. He was standing directly behind me. He traced an arc in the air with his forefinger – up and over the mountains.

  They're the Alps, he said. I took a step forward – and he followed. I could feel his body pressing up against me – and then – and then . . .'

  Miss Lydgate's chest heaved and her breathing accelerated. Yet she continued to tell her story calmly and slowly.

  'I felt his lips. They touched the back of my neck. I shivered with disgust and turned around. He was looking at me with a strange, fiery look in his eyes. He grabbed my arms and pulled me towards him. I thought he had gone mad. He said my name – twice – and buried his face in my shoulder. Again I felt his lips – moistness on the side of my neck. I wrested myself free of his embrace and took a few steps backwards. I was close to the edge of a precipice. The drop was sudden and for one terrible moment I thought Herr Schelling meant to push me over. But the fire in his eyes suddenly went out. He straightened his necktie and combed his hair back with his hands. He assumed a solicitous expression, Whatever is the matter? he said. I was angry and confused.

  Herr Schelling, you must not do that again, I said.

  Do what again? he replied. Such was his apparent sincerity that I began to question the evidence of my own senses. Had I misinterpreted his behaviour? He extended his hand.

  Come, Amelia, he said, let us walk back to the carriage. I didn't take his hand. Herr Schelling raised his eyebrows, and said, Very well, if you feel that you can manage the downward path without my assistance. He let his hand fall and he turned, at once setting off down the path. I paused for a moment and was not sure what to do. In the absence of any alternative, I reluctantly followed. We completed most of the return journey in silence. Occasionally he would urge me to watch my step where he thought the path might be dangerous – it was uneven in places and pitted with potholes. On the way down we passed some walkers coming up in the opposite direction. They greeted us, and Herr Schelling bid them a hearty good afternoon. It was all so . . . ordinary. I whispered good day, and straggled along behind Herr Schelling. I felt . . . I felt like a child in disgrace. As we descended, it seemed to me less and less likely that Herr Schelling had actually behaved improperly, and more and more likely that I had – I don't know.'

  'More and more likely that you had what?' asked Liebermann.

  'Overreacted. Behaved . . .' She paused before adding, 'Hysterically.'

  Amelia Lydgate's body remained completely still, although her breathing was still slightly agitated.

  'We managed a stilted conversation in the carriage back to Rennweg. But it felt deeply uncomfortable. We were greeted by Frau Schelling, who claimed that the walk had brought colour to my cheeks. I mumbled a polite answer, but said that I was in fact feeling unwell.

  The air, replied Frau Schelling.

  Perhaps it was too damp. You may have caught a chill.

  I ran upstairs to my room and sat at my dressing table. I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed that
I was trembling. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. It was Frau Schelling. She asked me if I wanted some tea. I said that I didn't want any. I said that I needed to rest for a while and that I was already feeling a little better.

  Very well, she said, and left me alone.

  'Over the next few weeks, as I went about my daily business, I frequently discovered myself the object of Herr Schelling's unwelcome attention. I would catch him looking at me in that way. One evening, I was sitting with the Schellings in the sitting room, reading my book. Frau Schelling excused herself, and I became conscious of an oppressive atmosphere. It was as though the room had filled with a cloying, heavy scent – like that of some overripe fruit.' Miss Lydgate's shoulders shook as she coughed. 'I looked up to see Herr Schelling smiling at me. It was an extremely disagreeable smile. I felt like . . . I felt . . . it is difficult to express.' Suddenly, articulating her words with greater certainty, she said: 'I felt exposed.

  'Herr Schelling made some trivial remarks, and then came and sat next to me on the settee. He sat very close. His leg was pressed against mine. I tried to move away, but I was trapped between Herr Schelling and the arm of the chair. He took my hand – I tried to pull it away but he squeezed it more tightly.

  Amelia, he said, you know I am very fond of you. Again, I didn't know what to do. I simply stared at him – aghast. His face came towards me and I got up. Twisting my hand from his grip, I rushed to the door.

  Amelia? he called. Are you all right?

  I opened the door and shut it firmly behind me. Looking up, I noticed that Frau Schelling was on the landing. I formed the impression that she had just been standing there since excusing herself. She looked down at me, saying nothing. I cannot describe the look in her eyes. But she seemed (is this possible?) triumphant. Eventually, she spoke:

  I am retiring for the evening. Good night, my dear. Then she turned and stepped into the shadows.

  'I became very unhappy, even frightened. So much so that I contemplated returning to England – but then I baulked at the thought of what this would ultimately entail. What could I say to my parents? My mother had spoken so warmly of the Schellings. Indeed, she had corresponded with Herr Schelling since they were both children. He was a kind, generous man . . . I knew, I suppose, in my heart, that he had behaved improperly, but I still felt that I might be – in some way – mistaken. I still felt that if I accused him, or spoke to Frau Schelling, or to anyone, I would find myself looking foolish. It was unbelievable, that a man like Herr Schelling would find someone like me . . . would desire . . .' Her sentences fragmented and were finally smothered by a deep, melancholy sigh.