Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  Rheinhardt still looked troubled.

  'That voice, though – Morax. It was unnerving.'

  'Oskar, I've seen similar phenomena in the clinic. Morax was a kind of sub-personality, something created and cultivated by repeated use of self-hypnosis.' The waiter arrived with the coffee and Rheinhardt's cake. 'Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'Quite sure.'

  Liebermann scooped the froth off his coffee with a teaspoon, while Rheinhardt plunged his fork through several layers of sponge and chocolate cream.

  'Mmm . . .' Rheinhardt closed his eyes. 'Delicious.'

  Liebermann reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled letter and a pen.

  'Here . . .' he said.

  'What? You want me to read it?'

  'No, I want you to draw something on it. Something simple. But don't let me see.'

  Liebermann looked away, while Rheinhardt, puzzled, produced a small sketch.

  'Have you finished?'

  'Yes.'

  'Turn the paper over so that your drawing is underneath.'

  'I've done that.'

  'Good.'

  Liebermann then turned around and said: 'Hand me the letter.'

  Rheinhardt handed the letter back to his friend, who promptly popped it into his pocket without attempting to look at the underside.

  'You drew the Habsburg coat of arms – the double-headed eagle,' said Liebermann.

  'God in heaven!' exclaimed Rheinhardt. 'How on Earth did you do that?'

  'I read your mind, of course,' said Liebermann coldly.

  Rheinhardt burst out laughing.

  'All right, all right . . . you've made your point. Now tell me how you did it.'

  'I glanced into my coffee cup as I took the letter. I could see your drawing reflected on the surface of my schwarzer.'

  'Very good,' said Rheinhardt, impressed. 'I'll try that one on Else – she'll be mystified.' He picked up his fork again and continued to attack the Dobostorte. 'So what did you make of Hölderlin's outburst?'

  'He was clearly very uncomfortable—'

  Rheinhardt leaned forward, raising a hand to his ear.

  'Speak up, Max, I can't hear you.'

  The clattering cups, the babble of conversation and the sound of laughter had combined to create a sudden swell of sound.

  'He was clearly very uncomfortable,' Liebermann repeated, 'and wanted to bring the seance to a swift end. He was obviously concerned – worried that something incriminating was about to be revealed. And did you notice how he looked at his wife?'

  'No.'

  'He seemed excessively attentive.'

  'Which makes you think what?'

  Liebermann gazed into his coffee: 'Löwenstein was pregnant. And I must admit, I'm inclined to believe Braun when he says he wasn't the father.'

  'But Hölderlin! Really, Max . . .'

  'He's middle-aged, respectable, a man with responsibilities. Trusted. Just the kind of man I'd expect to become embroiled with a young woman.' Rheinhardt shook his head and laughed. 'His sanctimonious speech had precious little to do with genuine spiritual conviction. I found it very unconvincing.'

  'And what about that . . . that woman!' said Rheinhardt. 'What a character! It is not for me to speculate on medical matters, Herr Doctor, but surely . . .' Rheinhardt rotated a finger close to his temple.

  'Indeed,' said Liebermann, picking up his coffee and taking a small sip. 'The rumours about Bruckmüller's political ambitions must be true: why else would he want to marry Cosima von Rath? And there was something about his behaviour, too . . .' Liebermann sank into a silent reverie.

  'What?'

  'He was so controlled. He didn't startle or jump at any point – just stared at the candle. He was overcompensating. People who have something to hide often present a conspicuously opaque exterior to the world.'

  'Could he have done it, do you think?'

  'The murder?' Liebermann shrugged.

  Through wreaths of cigarette smoke they both watched a man removing the piano cover and propping up its lid.

  'You've never identified the Count as a suspect,' said Liebermann bluntly. 'Why's that?'

  'Well,' Rheinhardt replied, 'on the night of Charlotte Löwenstein's murder he was playing backgammon in his club. He stayed there until morning.'

  'And you have witnesses?'

  'Yes.'

  'Reliable witnesses?'

  'I think so,' said Rheinhardt, heaping sugar into his türkische coffee.

  'Could he have bribed them?'

  'Some of them, I suppose, but not all. There were simply too many people there.'

  'As far as you know . . .'

  The man at the piano sat down in readiness to play. But before he could begin, another man leaped up from a nearby card table and engaged him in conversation. A few people started to cheer and clap.

  The pianist stood and took a volume of music out of the piano stool. One of the card-players brought a chair over to the piano, and the two men – evidently both musicians – sat down and cracked their knuckles.

  'I think that's Epstein, the concert pianist,' said Liebermann.

  A moment later the air was alive with sound – a musical detonation like the starburst of a firework. The hubbub subsided as the pianists ripped through a very fast four-hand arrangement of a gypsy dance tune.

  'That's rather wonderful,' said Rheinhardt, leaning towards his friend and raising his voice. 'What is it?'

  A ravishing melody in the lower register was immediately answered by a shower of descending notes – a crystalline flurry.

  'Brahms,' replied Liebermann. 'One of his Hungarian dances.'

  Before long Liebermann was leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, totally absorbed by Epstein's virtuosity. When the first piece ended and the applause began, he turned to face Rheinhardt. He could barely believe what he saw – and jumped as though in the presence of an apparition. There, standing next to his friend, was Madame de Rougemont.

  'Max,' said Rheinhardt, grinning broadly. 'May I introduce Isolde Sedlmair? A very talented actress, I'm sure you'll agree.'

  'I can see you are a great admirer of Brahms, Doctor Liebermann,' said the woman in black, her German perfect and unaccented.

  56

  HEINRICH HÖLDERLIN, wrapped in a large Turkish dressing gown, had been sitting in his study, smoking, for the entire evening. It was a medium-sized room, soberly decorated and illuminated by two electric lamps. On his desk a pile of papers, letters and forms awaited his attention.

  Hölderlin stubbed out his fourth cigar and stared vacantly at the green-striped wallpaper. Resting his elbows on the ink blotter, he supported his chin on clenched fists.

  What a fool!

  The self-accusation reverberated in his head like a Russian bell. Its relentless tolling had given him a pulsing headache.

  Hölderlin picked up a bundle of correspondence. He should have replied earlier in the day, while at work, but he had been unable to concentrate.

  Dear Herr Hölderlin – further to my recent enquiry . . .

  The first few lines made sense, but then each sentence became increasingly incomprehensible, eventually fragmenting into a string of meaningless words and phrases.

  She was genuine, Madame de Rougemont. Her spirit guide was undoubtedly conversing with Charlotte Löwenstein. Those messages – particularly the one given to the seamstress . . .

  Hölderlin tried to focus his attention on the letter.

  . . . Business account . . . intend to arrive in Pest next week . . . securing interests . . . Herr Balázs . . . at your earliest convenience.

  Hölderlin groaned, pushed the letter away, and rubbed his chin. It was rough with stubble. He usually shaved before the evening meal, but as he'd had no intention of joining his wife for dinner his toilette had been neglected.

  What else could I have done? She had to be stopped . . . there was no other way – the risk was too great . . .

  A faint knock rouse
d him from his malaise. A timid, muted double heartbeat.

  Hölderlin did not respond.

  'Heinrich?'

  It was his wife.

  'Heinrich?'

  The door opened, and she entered.

  'Why didn't you answer? What are you doing, Heinrich?'

  'My correspondence.'

  He could see that his wife was not fooled.

  'Heinrich, I want to talk to you about what happened last night.'

  'I have nothing more to say, Juno.'

  'But . . .' She closed the door and walked up to the desk. 'I still don't understand why.'

  'Juno,' Hölderlin cut in. 'I acted on principle.'

  'I'm sure you did, dear. But what principle?'

  'That is quite enough. Please leave . . . there is much to do here.' He gestured towards his pile of papers.

  Juno did not move. Although small-boned, her intransigence endowed her with a certain resolute quality. Her husband noticed that she was no longer squinting.

  'Surely, Heinrich, you must appreciate how your behaviour appeared to everybody else?'

  'Juno, I do not care what the others thought. I acted in good faith – according to principle. Now, if you would be so kind as to let me attend to these pressing—'

  'Heinrich!' Juno's voice was shockingly shrill and loud, lifting Hölderlin's headache to a much higher register of throbbing pain. It was the first time that he had heard his wife raise her voice in nearly thirty years.

  'You may not care what the others thought – but I do. I care very much indeed. And I am particularly mindful of what that police inspector thought. Dear God, I have been expecting him to arrive at the door with a squad of constables all day!'

  'Dearest, please.' Hölderlin raised a finger to his lips. 'The neighbours, the servants . . .'

  Juno Hölderlin became even more incensed.

  'Why did you do it, Heinrich? Do you think I am an idiot?'

  Hölderlin looked down at his papers.

  'I . . .' He lifted the pen out of the inkwell. 'I must attend to my correspondence.'

  He did not look up again. But when he did his wife had gone – and the sound of the slammed door was still inflaming his raw nerves.

  57

  LIEBERMANN'S FINGERS HESITATED over the keys. Instead of playing the opening bars of Brahms's Nachtigall, he closed the lid of the Bösendorfer and looked up at his friend.

  'You know, I still can't believe that you didn't tell me.'

  'How could I, Max? It would have biased your perception of the evening. I wanted an objective opinion.'

  Liebermann picked some lint from his sleeve.

  'How did you know I would accompany you?'

  'I didn't. But I knew that, as a student of human nature, you would be curious to observe the suspects on such an occasion.'

  'Ha!' said Liebermann, opening the piano lid again. He played a four-octave ascending scale of C sharp minor.

  'Perhaps I am mistaken,' said Rheinhardt tentatively. 'But it is my feeling that the happiness you felt on discovering that your old comrade hadn't succumbed to superstition exceeded the irritation you felt at being duped!'

  Liebermann smiled: 'Yes – that is true. Insofar as you did not sink so low as to employ the real Madame de Rougemont, you have retained my respect and high esteem . . .' Liebermann's intonation suggested an interrupted train of speech.

  'But?'

  'I still cannot believe that you didn't tell me!'

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  'Come now, Max, shall we see if we can do some justice to this Brahms song?' The Inspector tapped the score like a music master.

  Liebermann let his fingers find the mysterious opening notes, but before he had completed the introduction he stopped abruptly.

  'Though I have to admit, Oskar – it was a magnificent idea.' Liebermann began to laugh softly and, still chuckling, started Nachtigal for the second time.

  Rheinhardt, delighted that his friend had finally forgiven him, rested a companionable hand on the young doctor's shoulder and filled the room with his mellifluous baritone.

  58

  'THERE WAS A flash of lightning, and the impression of his presence was confirmed. I saw him standing close – very close.'

  In her hypnotised sleep, the English governess was reliving her trauma.

  'The mattress tilted as he crawled onto the bed. Amelia, Amelia. I was unable to move. I felt the weight of his body on mine, and his lips on my face. I could not breathe – I could not breathe . . . I was choking, and started to—'

  As she began to cough, Liebermann cried, 'Stop, don't go on.' Then, more gently, he whispered: 'I want you to hold that moment in your memory.'

  Miss Lydgate nodded.

  'Tell me, how do you feel?'

  'Distressed.'

  'Do you not feel any anger?'

  Amelia Lydgate's face was expressionless, but the forefinger of her right hand began to twitch – signalling the approach of Katherine.

  'I feel distressed,' said Miss Lydgate again – denying the more primitive emotional forces in her psyche.

  Liebermann wanted the traumatic narrative to move forward, like frames of film being passed slowly through a cinematic projector.

  'Herr Schelling's face is rough,' he said, confining the young woman's awareness to the focal point of a single sensory memory.

  'Yes – it hurts.'

  'His moustache scratches,' Liebermann continued.

  'Yes . . . it does.'

  Amelia Lydgate's anger was rising and simultaneously displacing into the surfacing sub-personality. Liebermann imagined it, rising from the unconscious, becoming more powerful, gradually taking control of her right arm – gradually flexing its fingers into the corporeal glove of Miss Lydgate's hand. Taking over.

  'Amelia . . .' whispered Liebermann. 'Look into yourself. What do you see?'

  'Nothing . . .'

  'There is someone coming out of the darkness.'

  Miss Lydgate's eyelids tightened.

  'What do you see, Amelia?'

  'A young girl.'

  'What does she look like?'

  'She has long red hair – like mine . . . and a white dress – like a nightgown.'

  'Do you know who she is?'

  'Her name is . . . I think her name is Katherine.'

  'How do you know her name?'

  'I read about her in a story book – when I was very young. It was a book about a naughty girl with red hair. The picture in the book looked just like me. She did things that I would never do – she was disobedient, and had tantrums.'

  'She spoke to you, that night . . . when Herr Schelling came into your room. Do you remember?'

  'No – I can't remember hearing anything.'

  Liebermann rested his fingers on Amelia Lydgate's temples and began to press.

  'Feel the pressure. Feel it increasing – as the pressure increases, your recollection becomes clearer . . .'

  'I can't remember.'

  'Katherine's voice – in your head. What did she say?'

  Suddenly Miss Lydgate gasped, as though experiencing a sharp pain.

  'Kill him – that's what she said. She wanted me to kill him. It was a terrible thing to suggest.'

  Liebermann released the pressure.

  'And what did Katherine do?'

  'She picked up the scissors – she picked up the scissors and stabbed him.'

  'And if Katherine had not done this, what would Herr Schelling have done to you?'

  'He would have – he would have . . .' The young governess's head rocked from side to side. 'I don't know.'

  'But you do, Amelia. What would Herr Schelling have done to you?'

  Miss Lydgate's breathing began to quicken.

  'He would have overpowered me – he would have –' her voice rose '– violated me.'

  'An unconscionable, heinous crime.'

  'He betrayed me.'

  'And the trust of your mother and father. What do you feel towards Herr Schelling �
�� at this moment?'

  'Anger.'

  'Yes, Amelia – your anger. Not Katherine's anger. Your anger.'

  A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and her chest heaved as she began to sob.

  'It is wrong – to want to kill someone. Barbaric.'

  'But you were being abused. His hands were on your body – you could smell his cologne. Remember the roughness of his face – the grabbing, grabbing, grabbing . . .'

  Miss Lydgate's face became contorted and a pulse appeared on the side of her neck.

  'I hate him, hate him.'

  'The roughness, like pumice stone.'

  'Hate him.'

  'The grabbing.'

  The young woman's right arm suddenly reached for the invisible scissors. Fully aware now of her murderous wishes, she screamed and lunged forward. When the movement was complete, she remained perfectly still. She seemed frozen in time, her arm fully extended. The room was silent but for her rasping breath.

  Amelia Lydgate's eyes opened – and blinked.

  She turned to look at Liebermann.

  'It's all right, Miss Lydgate,' he said softly. 'It's over now.'

  She lowered her right arm, and a ripple of movement animated each finger in turn. The faintest of smiles crept across her hitherto tearful face.

  59

  COMMISSIONER BRÜGEL sat behind his desk, looking through the notes and papers that had spilled out of four stationery boxes

  'It seems to me that you haven't got very far, Rheinhardt.'

  His voice was grave.

  Rheinhardt began what promised to be a weaselly sentence: 'Well . . .'

  'And you've neglected some of the paperwork,' the Commissioner butted in.

  'Have I?'

  'You know you have, Rheinhardt.'

  'So many forms . . .'

  'All essential, I think you'll find.'