by Frank Tallis
Suddenly Beatice reached out and caught her husband's arm. It was an unexpected movement and Schelling's practised composure was momentarily disturbed. A nervous tic appeared under his right eye – the heavy rubicund flesh suddenly galvanised into life. Even though his wife's hand was shaking, her grip was surprisingly firm.
'No more now,' she said, grasping his sleeve tighter and speaking with a breathless intensity. 'This must be the last time. I cannot . . . it is . . . we must—'
Slowly, Schelling pulled his arm away. His wife's hand lingered but finally released the smoking jacket's sleeve.
'Do carry on with your embroidery,' he said softly. 'It looks very pretty. How clever you are.'
He continued on his way.
Beatrice heard the doors to the hallway opening and closing. Biting her lower lip, she returned to her needlework, her fingers working with furious dexterity.
69
THE SHOP WINDOW contained a terraced display of family portraits: husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Newly wedded lovers stared into each other's eyes, and children – in lederhosen and rustic aprons – posed against a painted canvas of rolling hills and distant mountains. The upper terrace, however, was bedecked with famous singers, a Valhalla of warrior princes and Valkyries, spear-shaking tenors and busty sopranos, who gazed beyond the limits of the picture frame at feasting gods and apocalyptic fire. And amid this heroic company was a large picture of the mayor, a dapper man wearing a white Homburg and leaning on a cane, surrounded by a coterie of admirers.
Von Bulow read the poster pinned on the door. The Camera Club was exhibiting the landscapes of Herr Heinrich Kühn (under whose name ran the informative legend 'Inventor of multiple rubber-plate printing').
'An exhibition of photographs,' said von Bulow. 'Whatever next?'
Haussmann thought it best not to express an opinion.
Von Bulow pushed the door and a bell rang.
The shop was a forest of tripods. Most were empty, but several supported cameras: large wooden boxes with extended leather concertinas. A low glass case was packed with cylindrical lenses, each labelled with mathematical figures and a price tag. The air was filled with an unpleasant odour that von Bulow found impossible to identify. It was like a blend of floor polish and cheese.
A curtain behind the counter parted and a small man in shirtsleeves emerged, drying his hands on a towel. His hair had been plastered down and his well-trimmed beard and moustache made him look like a Parisian.
'Good morning, gentlemen.' He waved the towel in the air to clear the dense cloud of smoke that had followed him. 'I do apologise – I've been experimenting with a new recipe for flash powder.'
'Herr Joly?' von Bulow asked.
'Yes.'
'Fritz Joly?'
'Yes.'
'My name is von Bulow – Inspector von Bulow – and this is my colleague, Haussmann.'
Herr Joly looked from one policeman to the other and the gap between his eyebrows narrowed.
'How can I help?'
Von Bulow placed the parcel on the counter and unfolded the paper wrapping.
'Do you recognise these?'
Joly opened the box and on seeing the first image started. Then, raising his head, he looked quizzically at his questioner. He found no comfort in von Bulow's expressionless, colourless eyes.
'Yes,' he replied tentatively.
'Your card was inside,' continued von Bulow. 'Do you know who she is – this woman?'
'Yes. Her name is Löwenstein . . .' Joly lifted the photographs out of the box and flicked through the images. A wistful smile softened his anxious expression. 'Not a face you'd forget, Inspector.'
'You took them?'
'A month ago – maybe more. Is there a problem? Has she done something wrong?'
Herr Joly placed the photographs back in the box and searched von Bulow's eyes again for a clue. The Inspector said nothing. Disconcerted by the silence, Joly added: 'She paid me in advance but never came back to collect them. My assistant cycled them over to her apartment: a Leopoldstadt address, I think.'
'They are somewhat unusual,' said von Bulow. 'Unlike the portraits in the window.'
'Indeed. I believe the gentleman is Fräulein Löwenstein's fiancé. Apparently he hates having his photograph taken. She wanted a portrait – of both of them, together – but insisted that the photograph should be taken without his knowledge. Candid, as it were.'
Von Bulow turned the box and stared at the first image. 'How could you have taken these without his knowledge? Surely he would have seen you erecting the tripod?'
Herr Joly smiled.
'Oh no, I didn't use one of those.' He pointed to one of the large wooden boxes. 'I used one of these.'
He opened a drawer under the counter and produced a small rectangular object covered in black leather.
'What is it?'
'A camera,' said Joly, his voice brightening with amusement.
Von Bulow and Haussmann were obviously not convinced.
'It's called a Pocket Kozy.'
'English?'
'No. American. They're getting remarkably good at making things – the Americans. It opens like a book – see?'
Herr Joly pulled the covers apart and, where von Bulow might have expected to see pages, red leather bellows appeared.
'Here's the meniscus lens, and the single-speed shutter is located here on the spine.' Herr Joly pointed to a small aperture. 'It's very fast, though, more or less instantaneous. This one's a few years old now, but I think they're developing even smaller models. The Kozy can take eighteen exposures on roll film, which produce three-and-a-half-inch photographs. It performs better under conditions where—'
'Yes, yes,' von Bulow interrupted loudly. 'That's all very interesting, Herr Joly. Where were they taken?'
'Outside a small café on the Prater,' Joly said, his voice now neutral. 'I forget which one. Fräulein Löwenstein told me when she and her fiancé were meeting – and I sat down at the next table after he'd arrived. You see, it looks like I'm simply reading a book . . .'
Herr Joly lifted the camera and looked into the open bellows. Then, raising his eyes, he peered over the leather covers.
'Can you remember how they greeted each other?' asked von Bulow.
Joly closed the camera and placed it on the counter with great care.
'How do you mean?'
'Did they kiss?'
'Umm – no, I don't think they did. But I can't be sure as it was some time ago now. Why is this important? Why are the police involved?'
Von Bulow fixed the birdlike photographer with a contemptuous stare.
'Do you read the papers, Herr Joly?'
'Yes. The Tagblatt, the Zeitung. . . Why?'
'Then perhaps you don't read them very thoroughly.'
The little man shrugged.
'Herr Joly, Fräulein Löwenstein did not collect these photographs in person for the simple reason that she is dead. Murdered, I imagine, by our friend here.'
Von Bulow allowed his finger to drop on the small stack of photographs. Pressing down on the gentleman's image, his lips parted to form a wide, predatory smile.
70
ALTHOUGH AMELIA LYDGATE'S rooms were still rather cheerless, signs of occupation had begun to appear. A modest fire sputtered in the grate, fresh flowers had been placed in an old blue vase, and some mezzotint prints were now hanging on the wall. The first showed the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, the second St Paul's Cathedral in the City of London, and the third cattle grazing by a circle of trees in a place called Hampstead.
Above the fire, a fortress-wall of encyclopaedias dominated the mantelpiece and miscellaneous volumes were piled and scattered across the floor. On the landing, an open trunk showed that Miss Lydgate had still not finished unpacking her library. Clearly, before embarking for Vienna she had already resolved to sacrifice her wardrobe in exchange for the companionship of several Greek and Latin authors.
While inspecting Ame
lia Lydgate's possessions Liebermann felt distinctly uneasy. There was nothing irregular about his presence, nothing improper. It was customary, expected even, for doctors to visit their patients once treatment had been successfully completed. However, Liebermann had chosen to make his house call not through duty but from curiosity. He wanted to know more about the erstwhile governess and was aware of his suspect motivation. She was, by conventional standards, an extremely unusual woman. Minister Schelling had been correct: Amelia Lydgate was abnormal, but her abnormality aroused in Liebermann fascination rather than repulsion.
Outside, the stairs creaked as she made her ascent, the tea things rattling on the tray. Having made a surreptitious study of the mezzotints, Liebermann guiltily returned to his seat at the table.
Miss Lydgate appeared at the door and Liebermann rose at once, intending to assist. But she demurred. He was her guest, she insisted.
While pouring the tea, Miss Lydgate talked freely about her domestic plans. She asked where she might purchase a sturdy bookcase, and pondered the feasibility of getting a laboratory bench up the stairs without causing damage to the banisters. Finally, she hoped that Frau Rubenstein would not object to her modifying the gas taps in order to fuel a Bunsen burner.
As usual, Amelia Lydgate maintained a certain English reserve. But as the evening progressed Liebermann found her formality, her upright posture, precise speech and impeccable attention to good manners less like coldness and more like the embodiment of a unique charm.
Liebermann's attention was captured by several unmarked volumes on the table. The spines were blank and the yellowing paper marked with brown maculae.
'Are these—?'
Before he could finish the question Miss Lydgate confirmed his suspicion.
'Yes, they are my grandfather's journals. Or at least some of them. Please, you are welcome to examine them.'
Liebermann felt privileged. He gestured towards the tea things.
'I couldn't possibly – I might . . .'
'Doctor Liebermann, my grandfather's journals have survived two fires, the flood waters of the Thames and abandonment in a bat-infested attic for nearly thirty years. I can assure you that they are robust enough to endure a spot of tea – should you accidentally upset your cup.'
Liebermann smiled and picked up the first volume. It was bound in what he presumed had once been pristine black leather but which was now much faded, cracked and scuffed. In spite of Miss Lydgate's confidence in the volume's robust constitution, Liebermann felt obliged to treat the journal with the utmost care. As he opened the first page, he was aware of a subtle fragrance – an odd combination of scent and mould, as through corruption had imbued the paper with a certain sweetness. The first page was blank, but the second was inscribed with the author's name in large Gothic capitals: Buchbinder.
Each subsequent page was dense with script, and occasionally illustrated with very fine pen-and-ink line drawings. Most were illustrations of microscopic slides. The overall effect suggested the operation of a fastidious mind and a close attention to detail.
'That volume,' said Amelia Lydgate, 'contains my grandfather's writings on the transfusion experiments of the Royal Society. It also contains records of his own research into the nature of blood. It is the sixth volume of my grandfather's journal, although I think of it more simply as the "blood book".'
Liebermann asked the young governess some questions concerning the purpose of the transfusion experiments: what diseases, for example, were the transfusions supposed to cure?
'The principal interest of the virtuosi,' replied Miss Lydgate, 'was therapy for the mind rather than treatment of the body.'
'How very interesting.'
Miss Lydgate hesitated and seemed unsure whether or not to continue.
'Please, do go on,' said Liebermann, closing the journal.
'They believed that there was a relationship between blood and character – an idea, of course, that dates back to classical times. Thus, they speculated that a change of blood might cure madness.'
'And they tested this hypothesis?'
'Indeed, my grandfather details the circumstances and method of the very first experiment. The subject was a madman called Coga. Employing an apparatus constructed of pipes and quills, the physicians of the Royal Society were able to transfuse some ten ounces of sheep's blood into Coga's body.'
'Sheep's blood?'
Liebermann wanted to laugh but suppressed the urge. Amelia Lydgate's expression was entirely serious.
'Indeed. The sheep is an animal famed for its docile and timid nature. I can only assume that the virtuosi believed this would pacify the deranged Coga.'
'And was the operation successful?'
'Yes. Coga's madness was cured and thereafter he was said to be a more sober and quiet man. He also received an honorarium of one guinea. Would you care for another cup of tea, Herr Doctor?'
'No, thank you,' Liebermann replied. 'That's extraordinary. I wonder why Coga didn't suffer any ill consequences?'
'Perhaps the transfusion was not as successful as the virtuosi believed. Perhaps the quantity of sheep's blood was too small to cause any significant harm.'
'In which case the benefit was probably psychological.'
'Indeed.'
'Did the virtuosi continue these experiments?'
'Yes, with both animal and human subjects. However, my grandfather writes that they eventually stopped because of fatalities.'
'I'm not surprised.'
'Even so, Doctor Liebermann, they succeeded in their efforts as frequently as any contemporary physician. Transfusion is still extremely dangerous and only attempted by the most enterprising – some would say foolhardy – surgeons. The procedure kills as many as it saves. For many years, specialists have speculated about the inconsistency of results, and many theories have been proposed by way of an explanation. But the most convincing of these theories concern differences in blood type and their varying degree of compatibility. In the past, the greatest obstacle to progress has been identification. How does one go about identifying different blood types? The great surgeon Theodore Billroth posed this question right here in Vienna some twenty years ago.' Miss Lydgate paused and sipped her tea. 'My grandfather discovered that blood cells taken from different individuals will either mix freely, or clump together. He concluded that clotting – or its absence – might be the reason why some of the early transfusion experiments failed while others succeeded.' The young woman reached over and picked up the "blood book", opening it at exactly the right page. 'Here are examples of his microscopy.'
She turned the journal towards Liebermann. It looked at first like a work of astronomy – sketches of a planet at different times in its rotation cycle. But each 'world' was, in fact, a view of blood cells in different states of agglomeration.
'Of course, Doctor Landsteiner has progressed far beyond my grandfather's work,' continued Amelia Lydgate. 'He has found that clumping depends on the presence of two other substances that can be found on the surface of blood cells, the antigens A and B—' She suddenly stopped, blushing a little, and closed the book. 'Forgive me, Doctor Liebermann: you are already familiar with Doctor Landsteiner's publications.'
'No – not at all. Please continue.'
'I fear you are merely being courteous, Doctor Liebermann.'
'No, I'm very interested.'
But in spite of these and subsequent protestations by Liebermann, Miss Lydgate refused to be drawn any further.
Liebermann chose to walk home. He set off in a southerly direction and found himself on Währingerstrasse. When he reached the Josephinum – the old military college of surgery and medicine – he paused and looked through the high railings at an imposing representation of womanhood: a large cast of Hygieia, the goddess of healing. It was one of the few classical figures in Vienna that he actually recognised.
The goddess towered over Liebermann, her powerful hand gripping the neck of a huge snake which coiled around her arm and dropped over he
r shoulder in a series of diminishing involutions. She was feeding the great serpent, thus embodying the dual virtues of strength and compassion. As sunlight filtered through some low cloud, her eyes became mirrors of pewter.
71
RHEINHARDT OPENED THE door of Commissioner Brügel's room.
'Ah, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel. 'Do come in.'
Von Bulow was sitting by the Commissioner's desk. He stood and performed a perfunctory bow.
Rheinhardt did not reciprocate. He was too angry.
'Von Bulow. Where were you this morning?'
'Waiting in my office with Haussmann – as arranged,' said von Bulow.
'I arrived at five minutes to eight and you weren't there.'
'That's because we were supposed to be meeting at seven. You were late, Rheinhardt.'
'I was not. We had arranged to meet at eight!'
'Then there must have been some misunderstanding,' said von Bulow, smiling with perfidious confidence.
'Gentlemen!' Brügel said loudly. 'Please sit down.'
Rheinhardt was quite certain that there had been no misunderstanding.
'Well,' said Brügel, looking at Rheinhardt. 'I have some splendid news. It would seem that after only one day on the Löwenstein case, Inspector von Bulow has been able to make an arrest.'
'I'm sorry, sir?' Rheinhardt was flabbergasted. He shot a glance at von Bulow, whose rigid features betrayed no emotion.
'Take a look at these.'
Brügel passed his hand over a small stack of photographs and spread them out across the desktop like a card-sharp. Rheinhardt leaned forward. There was Fräulein Löwenstein, dressed in a turban-style hat and an elegant white dress – her monochrome image reiterated, with minute variations, on every one of Brügel's arc of 'cards', occupying every suit and every value. In almost all the photographs, Fräulein Löwenstein was smiling – a broad, radiant smile that occasionally became laughter. But her eyes, wide with interest and glittering with early spring sunshine, were always fixed on the same object: her companion – Heinrich Hölderlin.
