Fatal Lies (35 page)

‘Then might I suggest,' Rheinhardt returned, ‘that you start looking.'

At this point, a section of the ledge – directly beneath Rheinhardt's left foot – gave way. His arms flailed around as he desperately sought to recover his balance. The rotations became more frantic – but he was unable to achieve the necessary redistribution of weight. Slowly, he began to lean into the void. Liebermann – reacting with reflexive speed – grabbed Rheinhardt's coat and pulled him back, steadying his wild movements in a tight embrace.

‘It's all right, Oskar. I have you.'

Rheinhardt took a deep breath and emptied his lungs slowly, producing as he did so an attenuated whistle.

‘Dear God,' he expostulated. ‘That was close!'

Liebermann looked down, and saw Lieutenant Osterhagen contemplating the fallen masonry. It had landed perilously close to where he was standing.

‘The ledge won't hold for much longer,' Liebermann cried. ‘Please hurry.'

Osterhagen – roused from an impromptu meditation on the contingent nature of fate and his own mortality – issued various instructions to the boys, who then began to disperse in pairs. He looked up and said: ‘I'll be back shortly.'

The lieutenant vanished from sight, his asymmetric stride creating a hissing sound on the gravel as he dragged the weaker of his two legs behind him. Only the driver remained, his gaze oscillating between the shattered block of stone and the crumbling ledge.

‘Well, Max,' said Rheinhardt, ‘I am indebted. You might have gone over with me. You saved my life.'

‘But it remains to be seen how much of your life I have actually saved,' said Liebermann. ‘Unless we get down soon, your gratitude may prove excessive.'

‘Then perhaps we should get back inside?'

‘The gas
will
dissipate over time – but hydrocyanic gas is deadly. I think we had better take our chances out here.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

‘Max,' he said with great solemnity, ‘why did you ever let me eat so many cakes? If I were a more lissom fellow, then perhaps this ledge might hold a little longer.' Liebermann smiled at his comrade, who was penitently contemplating the curvature of his stomach. ‘If we survive this, I swear to you, I'm going on a diet.'

Another piece of stone – about the size of an apple – fell to the ground. The sound of its impact startled the driver. His worried face showed that he had already calculated the effect of such a drop on the human body.

Rheinhardt reached into his coat pocket and took out his notebook and pencil. Leaning back against the window, he began scribbling furiously.

‘Oskar?' asked Liebermann. ‘What
are
you doing?'

Rheinhardt held out the notebook so that Liebermann could read what he had written:

‘Do you think it's enough?' asked Rheinhardt.

‘If you had time enough to write a whole book,' Liebermann replied, ‘you could not say more.'

‘Perhaps you would like to . . .'

Rheinhardt offered Liebermann the notebook – but the young doctor did not take it. What could he write, and to whom? There was no obvious recipient. Trezska was his lover – but were they really
in love
? His relationship with his father had never been very good. His mother adored him, but he always experienced her presence as vaguely suffocating. He was very fond of his youngest sister . . . but he could hardly write to her alone.

The imminence of death exposed an uncomfortable truth: there was no one
special
in his life. In his firmament, there were no stars that constellated true happiness, no bright lights to compare with Rheinhardt's wife and daughters. For a brief moment, he found himself thinking of Miss Lydgate, of the times they had spent in her rooms discussing medicine and philosophy, of the companionate closeness they had shared.

Another piece of masonry fell.

‘Hurry, Max,' Rheinhardt urged.

Attempting to conceal his embarrassment, Liebermann said, somewhat presumptuously: ‘Put the notebook away, Oskar – we're not going to die!'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Oh, just a
feeling
!'

‘Max, you are an exceptionally contrary fellow.' Rheinhardt put the notebook and pencil back in his pocket, adding softly: ‘But I hope you are right.'

‘Look!' said Liebermann, pointing down.

Osterhagen had reappeared, followed by a column of boys who were bearing the weight of a long flagpole on their shoulders. They
came to a halt by the statue and, guided by the lieutenant's stentorian directions, raised the pole up. Then, releasing it from the vertical, they allowed it to lean towards the ledge.

‘Don't let it fall,' Osterhagen barked. ‘Gently . . . gently . . .'

Rheinhardt and Liebermann reached out and, grabbing the shaft, lodged the tip firmly against the central mullion.

‘We're saved,' said the Inspector, smiling.

Liebermann watched as Rheinhardt slid down. His landing was accompanied by cheers and boyish laughter. The young doctor followed, making an equally swift descent. Within seconds of his feet touching the ground, Liebermann was startled by a loud crash. The ledge had finally worked itself loose, and lay in pieces on the ground.

THE WOODMAN RELEASED
the catch and pulled the carcass from the metal trap. He was about to add the animal to his carrying strap when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Its low rumbling rapidly increased in volume, until the air reverberated with the skipping beat of galloping horses. Through the trees, he could see the vehicle hurtling down the road at breakneck speed. The driver was half standing, lashing his geldings, a black cloak flying out horizontally from his shoulders. The incline was steep, and the carriage veered from side to side. It was a reckless, uncontrolled descent. The din diminished as the carriage passed behind the hillside; however, within seconds there was a sickening crash – augmented by an unholy chorus of terrified equine voices. This dreadful cacophony was suddenly extinguished, leaving in its wake an eerie, hollow silence.

Attaching the carcass to his strap, the woodman reset his trap and set off down the hill. He walked to the muddy road and followed the deep ruts that widened where the carriage had skidded. The ground was pitted with hoof marks and littered with ripped-up clods of black earth. The woodman trudged around the bend and saw that the parallel furrows terminated abruptly at the edge of the road.

At the bottom of a ravine was the carriage, its rear wheel still turning slowly. The horses were lying on top of each other, their heads projecting from their bodies at an unnatural angle. Some distance away was the crumpled body of the driver.

The woodman continued along the road until he found a point where he could make a scrambling descent. Once he was on the floor of the ravine he walked back and inspected the driver's body. The man wasn't breathing and blood was oozing out of a gash at the back of his head. Working quickly, the woodman removed the gown and slung it over his shoulder. He then paused, contemplating the corpse. He tested the man's weight with one enormous hand.

Yes, he could manage it, of course he could. But it was not quite dark and
they
would soon be out looking for this man – the people from the village, the people from the school.

It was unwise – an unnecessary risk.

Even so
, he thought.
Zhenechka will still be pleased with the black cloak.

He set off into the undergrowth, clutching his booty, and feeling somewhat regretful.

It was a shame to leave all that horse meat . . .

FRAU BECKER WAS
seated on her
chaise longue,
a handkerchief clutched in her left hand. She was wearing a black blouse decorated with printed roses – each blossoming from a green stem with two leaves. The collar was fastened with a large oval brooch, on which raised ivory figures promenaded against a terracotta background. Her dress was made of satin and ended a little short of her soft doeskin boots, revealing a sliver of her maroon stockings.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were seated opposite, while Haussmann stood by the door.

‘As he poured the vinegar,' said Liebermann, ‘Zelenka thought that he would be observing the effect of a weak acid on a range of innocuous compounds – sugars and salts. He did not know that your husband had replaced one of the test substances with cyanide, probably potassium cyanide. When vinegar and cyanide react, they produce hydrocyanic gas – one of the most poisonous gases known to man. Zelenka would have been killed instantly – and afterwards the gas would have dissipated in the atmosphere.'

Frau Becker held the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed.

‘Zelenka's body was discovered by Professor Gärtner, who immediately rushed to inform the headmaster. Professor Eichmann was at that moment engaged in a meeting with your husband. Some attempts to revive Zelenka were made – but these proved unsuccessful. Professor Gärtner was very distressed, and the headmaster
subsequently went to summon the school doctor. Your husband would have had ample opportunity to remove the cyanide – which he then disposed of on his way to Nurse Funke's lodge. Hydrocyanic gas was an inspired choice of poison. It is virtually undetectable at autopsy – apart from a little congestion in the lungs, perhaps, but nothing more. Doctor Becker had assumed that in the absence of any alternative explanation, the pathologist would conclude that Zelenka had died from an unspecified
natural
cause. And this – of course – is exactly what happened. However . . . your husband is clearly a very fastidious gentleman. Even though his plan was exceedingly clever, it was not perfect. He detected one minor flaw. Hydrocyanic gas leaves a smell in the air – a faint bitter almond-like odour – that might serve as a clue.'

Liebermann paused, and allowed the fingers of both hands to touch, each digit finding its twin in a serial sequence.

‘Unfortunately, perfectionism – when taken to its extreme – is always self-defeating. You may recall that just before Zelenka's death, your husband asked you to buy him an almond tart.'

Frau Becker looked puzzled.

‘Which you purchased,' Liebermann continued undeterred, ‘from Demel's.'

The young woman's eyes suddenly opened wide.

‘How did you . . .' she whispered.

‘The smell of almonds in the laboratory,' Liebermann went on, ‘might have aroused suspicion; however, your husband reasoned that if there was an obvious source of such a smell it would seem less conspicuous. He kept the almond tart concealed in his desk and, while he was removing the cyanide, he deposited the pastry next to Zelenka's body.'

‘But Max,' said Rheinhardt, ‘Professor Eichmann didn't smell anything . . .'

‘Not everyone can, Oskar,' said Liebermann, turning to his friend and adopting a more confidential tone. ‘An inherited factor determines whether an individual can detect the residual odour of hydrocyanic gas. If that constitutional factor is absent, the individual cannot smell it.'

The young doctor crossed his legs and returned his attention to Frau Becker.

‘Your husband was aware that Zelenka intended to leave St Florian's in the summer. Doctor Becker did not want to lose you . . .'

The woman's expression suddenly changed. Her features hardened and the blood drained from her face. She was no longer crying. Indeed, she seemed to have been overcome by a strange, almost sinister calm. When she finally spoke, her words shattered the silence like stones falling through panes of glass.

‘
I
killed Zelenka.'

‘What?' Rheinhardt cried.

Liebermann gestured to his friend to remain silent. The young doctor put on his spectacles, leaned forward, and observed Frau Becker very closely.

‘
I
killed Zelenka,' she said again.

Psychoanalysis had taught Liebermann to respect silences. They were never merely the absence of speech. They could be many things: a tool, a consequence, a protest. Liebermann allowed the silence to consolidate. Undisturbed, Frau Becker's thoughts would clarify. When she was ready to speak, she
would
.

Outside, in the hallway, a grandfather clock was ticking loudly.

Frau Becker twisted a coil of blonde hair around her finger. Her stare remained fixed on the floor.

‘I have done a terrible thing . . . or should I say we – yes,
we
have done a terrible thing . . . but you must understand,
we
never meant this to happen. If I . . . if
we
had known . . .'

She stopped, released her hair, and lowered her hand. Its descent was slow, and mannered, like an object sinking in water. Her breast heaved – but no more tears came.

‘
We
?' said Liebermann softly.

Frau Becker looked up, and her gaze met Liebermann's.

‘Myself and Herr Lang.'

‘The art master,' interjected Rheinhardt, discreetly reminding his friend of Herr Lang's identity.

‘Since September last year, Herr Lang and I, we have . . .' Frau Becker's resolve faltered. ‘We have been . . .'

‘Lovers?'

She nodded.

Liebermann was unable to maintain his clinical reserve. He craned forward, his eyebrows ascending above the rim of his spectacles.

‘My husband was not the man that I believed him to be . . . and this is an awful place, Herr Doctor. A place where someone like me can never fit in. The masters' wives are narrow-minded, and thought bad things about me from the start. I knew what they were thinking of course . . . they regarded me as a stupid girl from the country, a gold-digger . . . and a lot worse. I tried to get to know them, but it was useless. They didn't want to know me – they didn't accept me. And when I talked to them about the plight of some of the boys – the bullying, the persecution – they weren't interested . . . it made things worse. They thought I was being ridiculous. One of them called me . . . hys- hystorical?'