Mortal Mischief (43 page)

70

A
LTHOUGH
A
MELIA
L
YDGATE'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 Amelia 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 her 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

R
HEINHARDT 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.

Rheinhardt slid one of the photographs out of the splayed stack and examined it closely. The couple were seated in a restaurant. Although the horizon was smudgy and out of focus, it appeared to be parkland. Hölderlin was kissing Fräulein Löwenstein's fingers. The expression on his face was eager and lascivious.

'Where did you get these?' said Rheinhardt, stunned and feeling slightly light-headed.

'Perhaps you had better explain, Inspector,' said Brügel to von Bulow.

'Of course, sir,' said von Bulow, tugging at his jacket sleeve to expose a diamond cuff link. 'I found these photographs at Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment this morning. They had been delivered by a photographer's assistant a few days earlier. The photographer's card was in the package. His name is Fritz Joly – he has a shop on Bauermarkt.'

Rheinhardt was still staring at the images of Fräulein Löwenstein and Hölderlin.

'I went to the shop immediately,' von Bulow continued, 'and discovered that Fräulein Löwenstein had paid Herr Joly to take these photographs. She had claimed that Herr Hölderlin was her fiancé, and that he would not usually permit his photograph to be taken – thus, Herr Joly would have to perform his task secretly. This was easily accomplished using a new miniature camera from America, something called a Pocket Kozy. Fräulein Löwenstein did not go back to Joly's shop, and Herr Joly was unaware of her murder. When she failed to return to his premises Herr Joly instructed his assistant to deliver the photographs to Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. It is clear,' continued von Bulow authoritatively, 'that Hölderlin and Löwenstein were lovers. I suspect that, once she became pregnant, she planned to extort money from the banker using these photographs.'

'But they weren't in her possession when she was killed,' Rheinhardt objected. 'How could she have shown them to Hölderlin?'