Deadly Communion (8 page)

‘Fräulein Sykora, are you implying that Herr Rainmayr was intimate with Adele Zeiler?’

‘He had his way with her, yes. When she was younger. And she told him she’d go to the police if he didn’t give her more work.’

‘Do you have any proof of this?’

‘It’s what she said to me.’

‘When?’

‘She was always saying it — I can’t remember when.’

Fräulein Sykora leaned forward and picked up the coins. She examined them in her open palm.

‘This isn’t very much, inspector.’

‘When did you last see Adele?’

‘Friday night.’

‘Where?’

‘We bumped into each other on Lange Gasse.’

‘Had she been to see — or was she going to see — Rainmayr?’

‘She was going to see someone else. A gentleman friend.’

‘Where?’

‘A private dining room.’

‘Which one?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she mention the name of this gentleman friend — or say anything about him?’

‘No. She just said she was meeting him and that he’d promised to give her a gift.’

‘What kind of gift?’

Pryska Sykora shrugged.

Rheinhardt picked up his pen and made some notes.

‘I know other things … about Adele.’

The girl rattled the coins in her clenched fist.

‘Where do you live, Fräulein Sykora?’

‘Above Kirchmann’s Coffee House.’

‘With your family?’

‘No.’

‘May I ask … how do you pay for your lodgings?’

‘I don’t. Herr Kirchmann said I could stay in the attic room if I …’ she paused and diverted her gaze before adding ‘… helped out in the kitchen.’

Rheinhardt doubted that the arrangement between landlord and lodger consisted of such an uncomplicated exchange of alms for labour.

‘Tell me,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘How long had you been acquainted with Adele Zeiler?’

‘About a year.’

‘And how did you get to know her?’

‘She used to come into Kirchmann’s with some of the other Rainmayr girls. When it wasn’t busy I’d join them.’ Fräulein Sykora put the coins in her dress pocket and said: ‘I really thought I’d get more than this.’

Rheinhardt scrutinised his guest.

‘How old were you when Herr Kirchmann first offered you somewhere to live?’

Fräulein Sykora frowned.

‘Look, I came here to tell you about Adele and Rainmayr.’

‘If you’ve been living at Kirchmann’s for at least a year you must have been rather young when you moved in.’

‘Not that young.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty.’

Rheinhardt smiled.

‘Well, Fräulein,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you must be a favourite of the gods of youthfulness. Twenty, indeed. Where do your family live?’

‘I came here to talk about Adele and Rainmayr!’ Pryska Sykora shouted, stamping her foot on the floor. ‘Not about me! But if you’re not interested …’ She got up abruptly and turned to leave.

‘Fräulein Sykora?’

Rheinhardt placed another coin on the desk. Pryska Sykora snatched it up and went to get her coat from the stand. Then she opened the door and barked at Haussmann: ‘Take me down, I’m leaving.’

Haussmann craned his head around the door jamb and sought permission from his superior.

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The interview is over.’ Then he called out, ‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Sykora. You have been most helpful.’

M
ISS
A
MELIA
L
YDGATE HAD
come to recognise that her knowledge of music was deficient. In most cities this would not have mattered; however, in Vienna the inability to engage in intelligent conversation about music was a significant social handicap. She was determined to rectify this deficiency and had asked Liebermann to recommend some concerts. He responded by offering to take her to a piano recital at the Bösendorfer Saal. On going to the venue to buy tickets he discovered a programme that seemed peculiarly apposite, given Amelia’s temperament and nationality. It consisted largely of the
English Suites
by Johann Sebastian Bach. Liebermann was sure that Bach’s ‘logic’ would appeal to the cerebral Englishwoman and hoped that the nominal reference to her homeland would create an illusion of comforting familiarity (an
illusion,
because there was nothing particularly English about these suites at all — other than the fact that they were supposed to have been commissioned by an English nobleman).

Liebermann and Amelia Lydgate had already heard the first and second suites, and were now listening to an energetic account of the third in G minor. The prelude and preliminary dances were vigorous and exciting; however, the mood established by the fourth movement — a saraband — was quite different: sad, reflective, and searching. The melody was ornamented and resembled a vocal improvisation over a strummed accompaniment. Occasionally, a chord change would
affect Liebermann deeply. It felt like something inside him was being unlocked or undone. Bach — for all his ruthless proficiency — still had the power to move the young doctor. And yet, the music was never mawkish or sentimental. The venerable composer had dispensed with manipulative clichés, replacing them with something far more potent: ravishing ingenuity.

Liebermann stole a quick glance at his companion, curious to see if she had been affected by the music.

Pale skin, russet tresses, and eyes of an indeterminate blue-grey …

Her expression was typically intense and her brow was lined with concentration.

Amelia Lydgate confused him.

There had been moments when he had felt so close to declaring his love for her that he could barely resist the urge. And other times when her intellectualism and cool manner made him grateful that he had never succumbed to such impulses. Their relationship was complicated; Amelia Lydgate had once been Liebermann’s patient and if this sobering consideration wasn’t enough to make him question the propriety of making an amorous overture, he could always reflect on what he had discovered to be the cause of her hysterical paralysis: a repressed memory of a sexual assault. Liebermann had treated Amelia Lydgate and over time they had become friends. At first he had justified his continued presence in her life on medical grounds; then he persuaded himself that he was being altruistic, providing assistance and advice to a stranger who was alone in a foreign country; then he had recognised how her remarkable intellectual gifts and scientific skills (she was an expert on human blood and a talented microscopist) might be utilised by the security office. Rheinhardt had consulted her on several occasions. And so the justifications had accumulated, each one binding them closer together.

Earlier in the year Liebermann had stood on the Charles Bridge in
Prague with his uncle Alexander and had confessed his attachment. Alexander had suggested that — apart from his mother — there were three women in every man’s life: his wife, his mistress, and an unattainable object of desire. Clearly — Uncle Alexander maintained — Amelia Lydgate was Liebermann’s unattainable object: a fantasy innamorata, best enjoyed not in the flesh but in the imagination — an ageless reminder of the youthful propensity for infatuation and desire. Actual consummation would be a great disappointment.

Another exquisite change of harmony …

Liebermann studied Amelia’s hands, folded together on the green velvet of her skirt. His uncle might well be right, but he still wanted to reach out and cover her slim fingers with his own.

The subsequent dances of the G minor suite jolted Liebermann out of his reverie, and the final movement — a lively gigue — brought the concert to a close. Insistent applause persuaded the pianist to give an encore — a delightful arrangement of ‘Sheep May Safely Graze’. At its conclusion the pianist signalled his fatigue by shutting the piano lid, and the house lights came up as he was leaving the stage.

‘Well,’ said Liebermann to his companion. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Yes,’ said Amelia. ‘Very much.’

They collected their coats from the cloakroom and walked to Café Central where Liebermann suggested that they should stop for coffee and cake. At an earlier point in their acquaintance he would have considered such an invitation impertinent, but their friendship was sufficiently established to render such scruples redundant. They entered the coffee house and found a table in the Arkadenhof, a courtyard decorated with small trees and covered by a glass roof. A curved balcony hung out over three arches and the seating area was enclosed between high fenestrated walls. Spherical gas lights seemed to hover in the shadows; however, closer inspection revealed the secret of their suspension — wrought-iron stands, painted black. A waiter emerged
from the arches and escorted the couple to a circular table discreetly positioned behind a miniature orange tree. Liebermann ordered a schwarzer for himself and an Earl Grey tea for Amelia.

‘And would you like a pastry?’ Liebermann asked Amelia.

The waiter interrupted: ‘Could I recommend the
Scheiterhaufen?
It really is quite exceptional.’

‘Well,’ said Amelia. ‘I defer to your expert opinion.
Scheiterhaufen.’

Her German was perfect, with the merest trace of an English accent.

And for you, sir?’

Liebermann shrugged and smiled.

‘The same …’

‘A very wise decision, sir.’

They spoke a little about the concert, and Amelia remarked that music — being the most abstract of the arts — presented the uninitiated with a unique conversational challenge.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Liebermann. ‘Music can befelt as well as understood. It is always possible to discuss its effects, even if one has little or no technical knowledge.’

‘Indeed,’ said Amelia. ‘But I find conversations of that kind rather unsatisfying. A discussion of subjective impressions cannot progress very far: there can be no meaningful argument or resolution because the
sine qua non
of dialogue is a framework of agreed reference points.’

Amelia’s eyes caught the lamplight and transformed it into something vital and mysterious. Her companion was momentarily arrested by the flecks of electric blue that appeared in her irises.

‘Then perhaps you had better take up an instrument?’

‘Oh … I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I am far too absorbed by my medical and scientific studies. And without adequate time to practise I would play very badly.’

They talked a little about Amelia’s courses, her continuing interest
in diseases of the blood, and her growing enthusiasm for pathology. The latter was not so very surprising, as the medical faculty was famously obsessed with obtaining accurate post-mortem diagnoses.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann.’ Pathology is a fascinating area of study; however, when I was a student I could not help feeling that some of the professors believed that the job of healing patients was quite incidental to the practice of medicine, and that only autopsies mattered. A different generation, of course, but it is a sobering thought that in
their
student days treatment was actively discouraged because it might influence the natural progression of symptoms and mislead the pathologist. I was told — and I fear that this might not be apocryphal — that on some wards, the only medicament prescribed was cherry brandy.’

Amelia Lydgate tilted her head.

‘That might be so, yet I cannot help but admire their singularity of purpose. The advances we enjoy today would not have been possible without their work. I believe that Carl von Rokitansky performed more than eighty-five thousand autopsies.’

The waiter returned with their coffee, tea and
scheiterhaufen,
which was served hot and exuded a potent fragrance of vanilla, cinnamon and rum. The thick slices of bread were sprinkled with raisins and icing sugar and were dripping with molten apple purée.

‘I have heard,’ Amelia continued, ‘that there is a rather interesting pathologist favoured by the police. Professor Mathias?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Does Inspector Rheinhardt consult him?’

‘Yes, although Professor Mathias is a rather unorthodox and intuitive pathologist. His critics describe him as eccentric. His enemies say he is mad.’

‘I would very much like to see him at work.’

‘Inspector Rheinhardt would not object to your presence at a police
autopsy; however, I have no idea what the professor will say. He is somewhat unpredictable. Do you want me to ask Rheinhardt?’ I can do that for you at least.’

‘If it isn’t too much trouble,’ said Amelia. ‘Thank you.’

Liebermann tasted the
Scheiterhaufen
and was glad that he had accepted the waiter’s recommendation.

‘I read the report concerning the murder of Adele Zeiler in the Zeitung.’ said Amelia.

‘Yes,’ Liebermann replied. ‘A dreadful business.’

‘Is it one of Inspector Rheinhardt’s cases?’

Liebermann nodded, his mouth still full.

‘The article said that the perpetrator is expected to claim more victims.’ Amelia hesitated before adding: ‘I was permitted last year to help with a security office investigation. Would you consider allowing me to do so again?’

Liebermann felt uneasy. He instinctively wanted to protect her from anything associated with sexual violence. She seemed to read his thoughts: ‘Doctor Liebermann, this crime represents a terrible abuse of my sex. As long as this fiend is free, no woman can walk the streets of Vienna without fear. I feel obliged to offer assistance, not only out of recognition of my civil duty but also from a deep sense of sororal sympathy. You will be so kind — I trust — as to inform Inspector Rheinhardt of my readiness?’

The young doctor smiled, touched by Amelia’s courage but also slightly discomfited by the militancy of her language. She had obviously been immersing herself in the literature of the women’s reform movement.

‘Of course,’ he replied.

Liebermann took another mouthful of
scheiterhaufen,
his enjoyment of which found a corresponding quintessence in Amelia Lydgate’s satisfied expression.

K
RISTINA
V
OGL SAT AT
her dressing table, looking through the day’s post. The letters were mostly expressions of gratitude from friends and associates whom she had invited to the grand opening of her salon. Halfway through the pile she came across an envelope made of cheap, thin paper which she set aside. After reading her correspondence, she tied it all together with a red ribbon and placed the bundle in the lowest of her dressing-table drawers. Picking up the envelope she had set aside, she studied the handwriting and after a lengthy pause began to tear the paper into thin strips. She then tore each strip into little pieces, and sprinkled the resulting confetti into a wicker basket.