by Frank Tallis
'Thank you,' she said, without looking up. Her fingers closed around the key, which she immediately placed under the microscope.
'Yes,' she said. 'Just as I thought.'
Then, raising her head, she beckoned Liebermann closer.
'If you would care to look at this key first.'
Liebermann looked into the eyepiece and saw a slightly flecked metal surface.
'It is the key to my bedroom. And now, the key from Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. What do you see?'
Liebermann adjusted his glasses and squinted.
'It looks like . . . it looks like the metal is marked. With a pattern?'
'Indeed.'
The key was ridged with minute parallel lines.
'The pattern appears on both sides,' continued Miss Lydgate.
She was standing very close and her proximity was somewhat distracting. Her dress material rustled loudly when she moved.
'And now – the small key from the Japanese box.'
Amelia Lydgate placed the smaller key under the objective.
'Another pattern,' said Liebermann.
'No,' said the young woman, rather petulantly. 'The same pattern, Herr Doctor. Only smaller. It does not appear on any of the other keys – and I suspect that we should not find anything similar even if we had a much larger assortment to examine.'
Liebermann stood up straight and looked into Miss Lydgate's eyes. Her expression was still calm and unemotional. She did not appear self-satisfied and there was nothing in her bearing that suggested she was in need of a compliment.
'What does this mean?' asked Liebermann.
'I think,' replied Amelia Lydgate, 'that it means we can confidently reject a supernatural explanation.'
79
THE LETTER FROM England had been placed among his other correspondence. She had wanted to ask about it – and had even dropped some hints – but her husband had not been forthcoming. He dismissed her enquiries and assumed a somewhat patronizing air.
'My dear, how tired you look. Perhaps you should leave the children with Marie again. Go out and buy yourself something – a new pair of gloves, perhaps.'
Before leaving, he had said, almost in passing, that he was interviewing another governess: a fine, virtuous young woman – recommended to him by Schmidt, one of the Mayor's colleagues. Nothing like poor Amelia. A hardy German. Healthy, stolid, someone who would set a good example for the children.
The door closed and Beatrice Schelling was left standing in the hallway, feeling dizzy and confused. It was as though she had become lost in her own home, and did not know where to go or which way to turn. A clock struck the hour. The day would proceed, with her or without her.
The children were delighted to see their aunt again. They threw their arms around Marie's neck and kissed her plump, pink face.
'Children, children! How lovely to see you again.'
Beatrice felt something unpleasant stirring in her belly. The swelling of a dark emotion – a corrosive mixture of envy and hurt. When the bile had drained from her stomach, she felt dry and empty.
As she and Marie chatted, Beatrice felt entirely dissociated. She listened to her own voice as though it belonged to someone else. It was like eavesdropping.
'I need to go to the lingerie shop on Dingelstedstrasse and, if I have time, to Taubenrauch's. We have to attend a function in a few weeks and I can't wear the same dress again. The navy-blue taffeta – you've seen it, I'm sure. Frau Förster never wears the same dress twice.'
Beatrice piped on like a church organist improvising around an inauspicious theme. When she felt that the performance had lasted long enough, she simply stopped and excused herself. It had been her custom to raise the contentious subject of Demel's just before her departure, but on this occasion, she said nothing. Today, Edward and Adele could eat as much chocolate as they liked.
'Say goodbye to your mother!' Marie called out to the children, who were already playing noisily on the stairs.
'No, it's all right – let them play,' Beatrice said distractedly, affecting a tepid smile.
She did not go to Dingelstedstrasse or to the ladies' outfitters. Instead, she wandered the streets, drifting, by degrees, in a southerly direction. Eventually she found herself standing by one of the new station entrances on Karlsplatz. Her husband had said that they were a disgrace and that the architect should be shot. Beatrice had agreed, but looking at them now she could not understand why some people found them so offensive. The green wrought-iron framework of the two pavilions reminded her of a conservatory.
Beyond the pavilions was the massive Karlskirche. Its huge Italianate dome was flanked by giant columns. Scenes from the life of St Borromeo, in relief, spiralled to the top of each, where gilded Habsburg eagles had made their eyries.
What was in that letter? What had the girl said?
Would there be a scandal? Would they accuse her, too?
A tram bell sounded and a gentleman grabbed her arm, pulling her back on to the pavement.
A flash of red and white.
'I beg your pardon, madam – but the tram . . .'
'Yes, of course, how silly of me.'
'You must be more careful.'
'Indeed. Thank you.'
Stepping backwards, Beatrice hurried off into the crowd.
At the tram stop passengers were climbing aboard. She joined the queue and, without thinking, mounted the vehicle's platform and found herself a seat. She was oblivious to the journey, and eventually found herself delivered outside the mock Renaissance edifice of the Süd-bahnhoff.
The booking hall was like a palace. A glorious stone staircase ascended and diverged, leading to two high arches: the banisters were festooned with artificial candelabra, as tall as apple trees, and an austere white light streamed through high windows.
Beatrice stood under the clear glass globes of the cast-iron lampposts, and watched the people coming and going, the busy throng of the concourse. After composing herself, she visited the post office and deposited the letter she had written in the early hours of Tuesday morning. She then returned to the booking hall, where she examined the destination board.
There were so many places.
Baden, Wiener-Neustadt, Semmering . . .
Bruck an der Mur (Klangfurt, Meran, Udine, Venice).
Graz (Marburg, Agram Trieste).
Beatrice glided towards one of the ticket booths where she purchased a single to Trieste.
The clerk looked at her.
'Single, madam?'
'Yes, single.'
Clutching her ticket, she walked to the platform area.
Two servant girls passed, giggling into their hands; a soldier in a long coat stood with a large pack on his back; three middle-aged men, looking remarkably similar, with turned-up moustaches and bowler hats, were discussing business. Beatrice continued her journey, and was no longer sure whether the Süd-bahnhoff was real or a dream.
A stationmaster caught her attention.
'No need to go any further, madam.'
She paused. But when the man had gone she continued placing one foot in front of the other.
The platform began to tremble. In the distance, she saw the approaching engine. A whistle sounded.
She stared at the sleepers, which were covered in sand and coal dust.
Shame pressed down on her.
It would not be difficult – and, if she landed in the right place, it would be painless.
80
THEY HAD DINED on caviar, sardines, goose liver, and pheasant's eggs in aspic, washed down with two bottles of Asti and followed by the sweetest pineapple. Coffee was served with cognac pastilles, each delicately wrapped in silver foil. They had intended to leave an hour earlier, but somehow satiety, slivovitz and cigars kept them seated. None of the other tables were occupied, and a hovering waiter suggested that they had overstayed their welcome.
'We had a splendid time,' said Kanner. 'The play was excellent, and afterwards we walked the length of th
e Naschmarkt . . . I couldn't take my eyes off her. You know, Max, I have to admit that I haven't felt this way in a long time.'
'But Stefan, you said much the same thing of that shop girl – what was her name?'
'Gabrielle.'
'And the singer?'
'Cora.'
'And, if I'm not mistaken, the actress?'
'Emilie.'
'So how is Nurse Rupius different?'
'She just is . . .' said Kanner, making a circle in the air with his cigar. A flake of ash traced a figure of eight as it floated down to the table. 'I can't explain it. Which makes me more inclined to trust the authenticity of my affection.'
'You are a romantic, Stefan.'
'There are some things in our nature that defy analysis, Max – and love is one of them.'
'Ahh . . .' said Liebermann, leaning forward and clutching the edge of the table with both hands. 'So you are in love with Nurse Rupius.'
'Well, put it this way – Cupid might not have landed an arrow yet but he's certainly emptied a quiverful in my direction.'
The waiter coughed.
Liebermann looked at his wristwatch and noticed that he was having some difficulty focusing. The hands blurred, making it difficult for him to establish the exact hour. He should have refused the slivovitz.
'It's not time to go yet, is it?' asked Kanner.
Liebermann shrugged and lifted his glass. He swilled the contents around and took a sip. As the warmth spread through his body, he felt his purchase on reality slip a little more.
'I wonder what really draws two people together?'
The question he posed was involuntary, finding expression as soon as the thought formed in his mind.
'Fate,' said Kanner, with mock solemnity.
'We need fate to bring us together, undoubtedly. If two people never meet, it's unlikely that they'll fall in love. But assuming that fate works in their favour . . .'
'I don't know why you're asking me, Max – you're the one who's engaged to be married!'
'Seriously, Stefan . . .'
Kanner drew on his cigar and grimaced: 'It has to be said, it isn't easy to fall in love with an ugly woman.'
'We fall in love with beauty, then?'
'Beauty certainly sharpens desire.'
'Then why don't we fall in love with every attractive woman?'
Kanner paused for a moment and, looking somewhat perplexed, exclaimed: 'Perhaps I do!' A beat of silence was followed by a quick burst of laughter. 'What does your friend Professor Freud have to say about love?'
'Not much,' Liebermann replied. 'He is more taxed by sexuality. But I gather he takes a rather dim view of romance. He believes that love is a kind of symptom that arises through the repression of libido.'
'Mmmm . . . which implies that once one has become intimate with a woman, passion cools?'
'Bluntly, yes.'
'He has a point . . . don't you think?'
Perhaps that was all it was, then: this dull ache, this longing to be with her – an urge, and nothing more. Something that he could master, like any other basic drive. If only he tried harder, it might be like skipping a meal or putting off sleep. But in truth Liebermann knew that this wasn't so. His attachment, for that was what it had become, was more complex.
'I don't agree with everything Freud says. I can't help feeling that the pleasure we derive from the company of a woman – a woman with whom one has formed an attachment – is more than just a frustrated animal instinct.'
'Now who is being romantic?'
'You misunderstand me, Stefan,' Liebermann continued. 'I am not referring to anything mystical or magical. What I mean is that there are more factors than just libido to consider. We are prone to desire, of course, but don't we also seek companionship, conversation? The comforting proximity of a kindred spirit?'
'Yes, but not all of us are lucky enough to have found her.' Kanner raised his glass. 'To the future bride!'
Liebermann could hardly bear the irony of their conversation, the cruel cross-purposes. The fug of his alcoholic stupor suddenly closed around him, making him feel cut off from Kanner, the restaurant, and, indeed, the whole of Vienna.
'Stefan . . .'
A note of desperation had entered Liebermann's voice.
'Yes?' his companion replied.
'I'm not always sure that . . . You know, sometimes I think . . .' He looked at Kanner, who was smiling foolishly.
What wise counsel could he expect from his friend now? If he had meant to take Kanner into his confidence he should have done so at the beginning of the evening. 'Oh, it doesn't matter.'
Kanner's hand dropped to the table, splashing the starched white tablecloth with slivovitz.
Liebermann beckoned the waiter and snapped: 'The bill, please. We're ready to leave.'
Part Six
The Riesenrad
81
AMELIA LYDGATE CLIMBED the steps of the university like a pilgrim, at once awed and giddy with excitement. The atmosphere of scholarship affected her being like a cleansing balm, emollient and soothing. In such a place she might leave the world behind, forgetting its vain preoccupations, empty chatter and tiresome emotional complexities, and seek solace in a universe of absolute values – the unquestionable certainties of science. Her destiny, she determined, was connected with these stones.
She paused and glanced upwards. The university was a beautiful construction, built in the style of a Renaissance palace. Its dimensions would have made a merchant prince envious. Along the rooftop, figures looked down on her like a detachment of guardian angels. Amelia took a deep, tremulous breath, and stepped beneath the shelter of three massive arches. If there were such things as benign protective agencies, they had been considerate of her fate.
Only a few months earlier, it had seemed that her ambition to study medicine in this Mecca of learning would never be realised. Yet now everything had become possible again. Doctor Liebermann had come by chance into her life, transforming her circumstances. Fear and shame had been replaced by hope and quiet optimism. Amelia suspected that she would never be able to repay Doctor Liebermann for his kind ministrations; however, she had resolved to show her gratitude by assisting him with his police work.
She pressed her palm against the heavy door of iron and glass.
The foyer was shrouded in perpetual twilight, an amber gloaming never relieved by sunlight or the sulphurous inadequacy of the artificial lighting. A forest of columns, like prehistoric tree trunks, ascended to a vaulted ceiling of bas-relief concavities. Although it was early evening the university was still buzzing with activity and conversation (lectures began before dawn and continued until eight o'clock in the evening). Knots of students gathered in the shadows, while others trailed behind frock-coated sages. One of the professors sported a long white beard that dropped well below his waistband. Amelia was amused by his retinue, all of whom had followed his example and had grown beards of similar length.
Among these masculine crowds Amelia caught sight of only one other woman, marching briskly through the sea of waistcoats, wing collars and pinstriped trousers. As the lone female passed they acknowledged each other, as two countrymen might in a foreign land. There was a flash of recognition, the registration of surprise, followed by a smile of solidarity. Encouraged by this encounter, Amelia approached the porter.
'Good evening, sir.'
The man looked up and examined her with a look on his face that could only be described as sceptical.
'I have an appointment to see Professor Holz,' Amelia continued. 'Could you please direct me to the department of physical sciences?'
The porter issued some peremptory directions but seemed disinclined to be anything more than minimally helpful.
The corridor that intersected the foyer led to a grand double staircase, the stone balustrades of which supported cast-iron gas-lamps. At the summit of each post a trio of opaque globes emitted a weak light. The walls of the enormous stairwell were high and, although decorated in
baroque relief, had a pleasing simplicity. Black marble columns supported what looked like a gallery, and the remote curved ceiling captured the last remnants of the day's afterglow through high arched windows.
Amelia reached the top of the stairs, after which the porter's miserly directions became impossible to follow. Excusing herself, she asked a young man in a short cape for directions. He laughed and said that he had only just finished attending Professor's Holz's interminable class. He insisted on escorting Amelia to a small lecture theatre where the professor was still examining some equations on the blackboard.
'Herr Professor,' called the young man. The professor did not turn, merely pushing his hand back as if repelling an assailant. The young man grinned inanely. He tried again: 'Herr Professor, a young lady to see you.'
This time the professor pulled himself away from his work and looked up the aisle.
'You will excuse me,' whispered the young man to Amelia. 'The pleasure is now undoubtedly all yours.' He winked impertinently and scurried off.
'Yes!' demanded Professor Holz.
'My name is Miss Amelia Lydgate. You kindly agreed to see me this evening.'
'Ahh . . .' said the professor. 'Did I? Very well, come in, and sit there for a moment, will you?' He motioned towards a seat and added: 'I won't be long.' Amelia lifted her skirts slightly, and made her way down the precipitous wooden stairs. The professor returned his attention to the blackboard, which he attacked – violently – with a stub of chalk. A stream of Greek letters and relational symbols appeared, spreading across the dusty surface like a skin disease. Amelia sat on a bench in the front row and immediately applied herself to the professor's problem; however, she found it almost impossible to understand his purpose. Eventually the professor stopped, groaned and tossed the chalk on to the lectern. Amelia wanted to say something consoling but thought it better to remain silent.
'So, Miss Lydgate,' said the professor – still with his back to her and gazing at his fluxions – 'what can I do for you?'
'I have a question pertaining to your area of study.'
'You have a question concerning ballistics?'
