Vienna Blood lp-2

by Frank Tallis

  “Emperor Franz Stephan and Empress Maria Theresa?”

  “Ah yes. That refers to the occupants of the casket closest to where the sample was taken from.”

  “I see.”

  “As it happens, that is also the most important sample. The Capuchin's body was discovered next to that very casket-so we know that the murderer stood close by. I would be most grateful if you would give that particular sample your most thorough attention.”

  “Herr Inspector, I will give all of them my most thorough attention-without exception.”

  There was something almost defiant about the Englishwoman's tone: the coolness of her delivery, and the preternatural intensity of her expression.

  “Thank you,” said Rheinhardt, a little worried that he might have offended her.

  “Inspector, why don't you return to your office? This exercise will take some time and your presence here serves no purpose. You will, I suspect, have many other things of importance to attend to.”

  “Oh, but you cannot be left here alone.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “It would be discourteous.”

  “Inspector, it is my preference.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, Inspector.”

  Amelia turned toward the microscope. Rheinhardt thanked her again but she did not hear him. Her mind was entirely absorbed by the task in hand. Rheinhardt tiptoed to the door and departed like a shadow. Peering through the corridor window, he could see Miss Lydgate organizing the laboratory equipment with ruthless efficiency. She was, Rheinhardt thought, a very peculiar woman. But he was delighted to have made her acquaintance.

  62

  THE LIBRARIAN ENTERED THE small room that had been designated for use as the chamber of reflection. Its walls were covered in roughcast plaster, giving it the appearance of a hermit's cave. An iron table and a wooden stool were the only pieces of furniture. He lit the single candle on the table, which projected its feeble light on a crude mural, painted white upon a black background. It depicted a cockerel and the word vitriol-an acronym of an ancient command to self-knowledge: visita interiora terrae, rectificando invenies occultam lapidem (visit the center of the earth, and by rectification you shall find the hidden stone). Resting against the table was a large rusting scythe.

  Opening his sack, the librarian carefully removed several objects. The first of these was a human skull and several long bones. He arranged them carefully on the table, and next to them placed a lump of dry bread, an hourglass, and two metal dishes. From his pocket he removed two vials, the contents of which he emptied onto the dishes, creating two powdery mounds of white and yellow. The first substance was salt and the second sulfur. He made a mental note that he must return with a glass of water.

  Before leaving, he paused and turned the hourglass. He watched the grains of sand pouring into the lower chamber. In just over two weeks, he would be there-sitting at this very table, writing his philosophical will. The librarian reached out and gripped the scythe. Anyone approaching him from behind might well have mistaken him for the Grim Reaper.

  63

  HERR BEIBER WAS LYING on the divan, describing a dream he had experienced in his childhood.

  “It's strange, but I can remember it quite clearly.”

  “How old were you at the time?” asked Liebermann.

  “Very young.”

  “How young?”

  “Ooh… about four or five, perhaps. I was still sleeping on a cot in my parents’ bedroom.”

  After his traumatic interview with Herr Weiss, Liebermann had immersed himself in his work at the hospital. It had been a therapeutic exercise from which the doctor had benefited more than his patients. Four walls, a supine body, speech, and meaningful silences: this was Liebermann's world. An intimate, protected space-a still center. There was something extraordinarily soothing about the therapeutic situation, its emollient familiarity: the careful listening, which if sustained resulted in a complete loss of self-awareness. The gas lamp flickered and the day receded.

  “Four or five? That is quite old-to be sleeping in one's parents’ bedroom, I mean.”

  “Yes. I could be wrong,” said Herr Beiber. “Maybe I was younger. On the other hand, I was a very sickly child. I suffered from terrible fevers. My mother told me that once or twice she and my father thought I was going to die. I suspect that they were worried about my health-they didn't let me sleep on my own until much later.”

  Herr Beiber tapped a finger on his stomach.

  “And the dream?”

  “Oh yes, the dream. I dreamed that it was the dead of night. The curtains had not been drawn and there was a full moon-so the room was well lit. I could see my mother and father's bed, my mother's dresser, and the wash table with its jug and bowl. Everything was silvery-white. What I remember most vividly, though, was the wardrobe. I never liked that wardrobe. It was a large plain box. It reminded me of a casket. I'd seen caskets on the backs of hearses, and in my childish mind I am sure that I had made some form of association. It was my fancy, I suppose, to imagine that the wardrobe concealed something macabre.” Herr Beiber smiled and tilted his head back. “Ahh, I seem to have inadvertently accepted your psychoanalytic ideas, Herr Doctor-was that not an interpretation?”

  Liebermann shook his head. “Please continue. Your dream is of considerable interest to me.”

  “Is that so? Well, I suppose dreams are a fascinating phenomenon.

  … I hadn't given them very much thought before coming here.” Beiber's voice became eager. “I hope that when the Archduchess and I are united we shall spend many happy hours sharing each other's dreams. I have often wondered what fantastical dramas must unravel behind those beautiful eyes when they are closed by sleep.”

  “Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann. “Your dream?”

  “Oh yes-where was I?”

  “The wardrobe. It reminded you of a casket.”

  “Indeed. Well, there I was, staring at this tall, plain box, which I had childishly imagined was the repository of all manner of horrors, when what should happen next? The realization of my worst fear. The doors began to creak open, and as they did, I became conscious of a heavy-breathing sound-a kind of hungry panting. Slowly, slowly, the doors opened-seemingly of their own accord-to reveal an impenetrable darkness, impervious to moonlight. I could see nothing inside. No coats, jackets, or hatboxes-no possessions-none of the expected items that had come to represent the day-to-day presence of my mother and father. I was transfixed and, needless to say, consumed by terror. I wondered what manner of creature might make that horrible panting sound, and whether it would attempt to escape its lair. Two red eyes appeared. They glinted in the moonlight. Then another pair appeared above them… I wanted to scream, but I was struck dumb. Not so much as a squeak escaped from my lips. Then something extraordinary happened. A great shaggy black creature jumped out of the wardrobe. It was a massive, salivating thing-as a wolf might be depicted in a children's picture book. Then out jumped its companion-a beast of the same lupine breed and almost equal in size. The two of them were staring at me, their tongues hanging from their slack open jaws. And all of the time that horrible, horrible panting… They began to advance. They were coming toward me.” Herr Beiber's voice was now strained. The mocking, superior tone had completely vanished. “Their great paws on the floorboards, the scratching of their claws, long tails wagging, merciless feral eyes…” Herr Beiber's chest rose and fell with increasing speed and his breathing grew ragged. “They were going to eat me up. I imagined those sharp teeth sinking into my flesh, ripping, tearing, shaking… I screamed and screamed. And suddenly I found that I really was screaming! I was sitting up on my cot-wide awake-clutching my eiderdown with both hands.”

  Herr Beiber gripped his hospital gown as the haptic memory made his fingers spasm. He remained silent for a few moments.

  “And what happened then?”

  “My mother came to my assistance. She petted and kissed me-told me that it had
all been a bad dream and that I had nothing to fear. But I did not believe her. And… and…”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “I was right to disbelieve her. This will no doubt sound odd to you, Herr Doctor-but you have asked me to be candid. On subsequent nights I listened very carefully, and I swear that I could hear that horrible breathing emanating from the wardrobe.”

  “Perhaps you were asleep again-and it was another dream.”

  “No, Herr Doctor, I was awake. Wide awake-as awake as you or I right now.”

  “What was it, do you think?”

  “You will concede-I hope-that there are many things in this world for which we have no ready explanation.”

  The young doctor did not reply.

  64

  LIEBERMANN ARRIVED HOME LATE to find his serving man hovering anxiously in the hallway.

  “Ernst, what is it?”

  “Your mother is here.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the music room.”

  Ernst took Liebermann's astrakhan coat.

  “When did she arrive?”

  “At eight-thirty, sir.”

  Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch. It was ten-fifteen.

  “She's been here all evening! Thank you so much for waiting.”

  “It was my pleasure, sir.”

  Liebermann took a deep breath and entered the music room, where his mother was seated on the sofa. For a moment she did not react. She looked small, hunched, and worried. Then, with remarkable alacrity, she was standing and looking vaguely combative.

  “Maxim!”

  “Mother…”

  Liebermann walked over to her and hesitated before kissing her. She pulled a curious face (which somehow managed to combine condescension with compassion and resignation) and offered him her powdery cheek.

  “I suppose you've heard,” said Liebermann.

  “Yes, I've heard. And when did you intend to tell us, exactly?”

  “Tomorrow. I'm sorry. I had to get back to the hospital.”

  “The hospital, the hospital, always the hospital. You know, sometimes I think your father's right. You would have been better off managing one of the factories. Sit down, Max.”

  He did as he was told and his mother sat back down on the sofa beside him.

  “I'm sorry, Mother-really I am.” Rebecca Liebermann shrugged, made an ambiguous gesture with her hand, and picked a speck of fluff from her son's trousers. “How did you hear?”

  “Jacob spoke to your father.”

  “Ah…”

  “He's furious. When I left Concordiaplatz, he was threatening to disown you.”

  Liebermann swallowed. “Did Herr Weiss mention Clara?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she?”

  “They're sending her away with her Aunt Trudi for a while.”

  “Where?”

  “I don't know-just away.”

  “I wanted to see her, but Herr Weiss forbade it.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  Liebermann shook his head. “All I wanted was to behave honorably-that's all.” Liebermann fingered a loose button on his jacket. “Months ago, you asked me whether she was really the onewhether I really loved her. I thought I did, but I was wrong. I don't love Clara-well, at least, not like I should. I didn't know that then, but I know it now. And if we had gone ahead with the marriage, it would have been a bad marriage. A marriage based on a lie. What possible good could have come of that? I wasn't only thinking of myself-I was thinking of Clara too.”

  Rebecca stopped her son from worrying the button on his jacket. “Leave it alone-it'll come off.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed his long, elegant fingers. “I had my suspicions.”

  “You did?”

  “Mother's intuition. I know you think I'm a silly old fool when I say such things, but it exists, whether you like it or not.”

  Liebermann looked into his mother's eyes. They were glinting, but there were no tears.

  “What shall I do about Father?”

  “Stay away from him-for a while. He's writing you a letter. Ignore it-he's upset, that's all. You know what he's like. And if you do respond, remember that he's your father. I'll do what I can.”

  Rebecca tucked a stray strand of her son's hair behind his ear-one of her tics that Liebermann found most irritating (but which he was now content to forgive)-and stood up abruptly.

  “I've got to go,” said Rebecca. “It's late. Your father didn't want me to come in the first place.”

  “But we've hardly spoken-and you've been waiting here all evening.”

  “It doesn't matter… I've seen you. That's enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “All that education, and sometimes you still don't understand anything.” On her way to the door she paused by the Bosendorfer. “I never get to hear you play these days. I used to love listening to you play.”

  65

  STEFAN KANNER AND PROFESSOR Pallenberg were standing in an attic room of the General Hospital. A rope, one end of which disappeared into an elaborate winching device, had been thrown over a central support beam. The exposed mechanism of the winch consisted of several large wooden cogs, a central drum, and a low crank handle. The other end of the rope formed a noose that had been pulled tightly around the feet of a middle-aged man who was now suspended upside down approximately five feet from the floor. He was wearing a restraining jacket of brown canvas. The flesh on his face had been redistributed by gravity, creating a unique expression that married the inscrutability of a Japanese Buddha with the comedic painted lineaments of a clown, and his hair hung straight down. The scene was lit by a thin pasty light that seeped apologetically through a narrow window.

  “Well?” said Professor Pallenberg.

  “I must confess that I am not familiar with this particular”Kanner hesitated, bit his lower lip, and finally forced out the word“treatment.”

  “No,” said Pallenberg. “It is largely unknown to students of your generation.”

  The patient rotated clockwise, slowing by degrees to a perfect standstill. After a moment of stillness, the rope began to unwind and the hanging man turned in the opposite direction. The restraining jacket gave him the appearance of a giant pupa.

  “As you know,” Pallenberg went on, “Herr Auger has not responded to conservative treatments-particularly morphia and veronal-and I thought it time to try a different approach… something that I remembered from my student days in Paris.”

  “Suspension is a French treatment?”

  “Indeed. I am one of a select company of Viennese doctors who had the pleasure of studying under Charcot at the Salpetriere. Do you know Professor Freud?”

  “Not personally.”

  “He was another. A great man, Charcot. The Napoleon of the neuroses.”

  “I have read some of Professor Freud's translations. But I have never come across this specific”-he found himself hesitating again“therapy.”

  “Well, that isn't surprising. Charcot's pioneering work using hypnosis as a treatment for la grande hysterie has somewhat eclipsed his other contributions. In my estimation, iron-filing ingestion and suspension in harness are two original interventions that have been sadly neglected.”

  “Might I ask,” said Kanner tentatively, “how suspension works?”

  “Well,” Pallenberg replied, “Charcot proposed certain theories that-to be frank-are not compelling. But I always suspected that his work in this domain merited further consideration. I remember the case of an engineer who suffered from delusions of persecution and who benefited greatly from suspension. Then there was a sailor who believed that one of his legs had been amputated while he slept somewhere off the coast of Portugal… I have long since wondered whether certain forms of delusion-among which we must include the Cotard-are caused by an abnormality of circulation. Perhaps Charcot achieved these successes because suspension had some subtle effect on the cour
se of arterial blood flow in the brain. It is my earnest hope that Herr Auger will be the beneficiary of such a process.”

  “Could a similar effect not be achieved by encouraging Herr Auger to lie in bed with his feet raised on some pillows?”

  Professor Pallenberg shook his head. “No, I doubt that very much.”

  Kanner, accepting his role as the junior party in the exchange, stood corrected.

  Professor Pallenberg approached his inverted patient. A dull creaking sound accompanied the periodic clockwise and anticlockwise rotations.

  “Herr Auger,” said Pallenberg, addressing the reverse-horripilated head. “How are you feeling?”

  “I do not exist,” came the gentle, resigned reply.

  “That is self-evidently not true, Herr Auger,” Pallenberg responded somewhat tetchily. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell me how you feel?”

  “I am not here.”

  Kanner was relieved to hear Herr Auger's usual response. If the poor man did not believe in his own existence, then it seemed unlikely that he could be suffering very much.

  Pallenberg shrugged and caught Kanner's eye. “One cannot expect very much progress at this very early stage. I would be most grateful, Doctor Kanner, if you could ensure that Herr Auger receives fifteen to twenty minutes of suspension daily. The winch is simple to operate but you will obviously need some assistance from the porters.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Pallenberg nodded curtly. “Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”

  Recognizing that he had been dismissed, Kanner bowed, and left the room. He descended the stairs in an oddly detached state, somewhat overwhelmed by his encounter with Professor Pallenberg and the unfortunate Herr Auger.

  By the time Kanner had reached his office, his mind was occupied by other matters. Before entering the room he looked down the corridor both ways and then quickly slipped inside. He went immediately to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and took out a heavily embroidered sash and apron. The apron bore the image of a temple between two columns that were marked J and B respectively. Kanner quickly stuffed the items into his doctor's bag and closed the hasp. Then, sighing with relief, he looked at his watch.