Mortal Mischief

master and mistress of the household were clearly not very hungry. A slab of gleaming yellow butter had been scraped no more than a few times and the breadbasket was still piled high with freshly baked rolls. The bacon and boiled eggs had hardly been touched.

Holderlin rang the table bell to summon the steward, who swiftly materialised with the coffee. He was immaculately turned out in white gloves and a brick-red coat with a black velvet collar.

'Thank you, Klaus,' said Juno, as the decorous manservant deposited a large silver pot and tray on the table.

'Cook will be preparing suckling pig and artichokes for supper – and wanted to know whether sir would like pineapple mousse or ice cream to follow.'

Holderlin looked briefly at his wife.

'The mousse?'

'Yes,' said Juno. 'The mousse.'

The steward bowed, clicked his heels, and marched out of the room, pursued by the heavily burdened housemaids. Holderlin picked up his copy of the Wiener Zeitung and turned to the financial pages.

'What does it say?' asked Juno nervously.

The polished dome of her husband's pate rose above the newspaper's horizon like the dawn sun.

'About Fraulein Lowenstein?'

Juno nodded, eyelids flickering rapidly.

'Nothing, of course. It's too early.'

Juno poured a cup of coffee for her husband, and then for herself.

'Who would do such a thing? It's such a terrible business,' she said quietly.

'No one would disagree with you there,' said Holderlin, turning a page.

'I couldn't sleep.'

'Nor me.'

Juno looked around the room and made an impromptu inspection of her house plants. She thought that the aspidistra was looking a little withered, and made a mental note that it should be given extra water. Next to the aspidistra was a framed picture of her beloved sister, Sieglinde.

Sieglinde had died (or, as Juno preferred to say, had 'departed') in the autumn of the previous year after a long and painful illness. The doctors had done little to ease her suffering, and it had been with mixed feelings that Juno had buried her sister in the Zentralfriedhof. Juno had known that she would feel her sister's absence like the loss of a limb – but watching Sieglinde coughing up dark clots of blood and writhing in agony had been intolerable.

Throughout the winter months, even when it had been snowing, Juno had journeyed from Hietzing to the Zentralfriedhof to lay flowers on her sister's grave. Then, one bleak December morning while leaving the cemetery, she had fallen into conversation with another mourner, a handsome young man by the name of Otto Braun. He had explained how, after the loss of his own dear mother, the desolation of his grief had been relieved by a talented medium in Leopoldstadt. Juno begged Heinrich to accompany her. The woman, Fraulein Lowenstein, held meetings every Thursday evening and Juno did not want to venture into Leopoldstadt on her own. After only one sitting, Juno was convinced that the woman was no charlatan. Heinrich had been sceptical at first – but even he was forced to change his mind when his father 'came through'.

Yes, Fraulein Lowenstein had been special.

'Do you think the Inspector will call today?'

'I have no idea.'

'What was his name? I've forgotten it.'

'Rheinhardt – Inspector Rheinhardt.'

'He said that he would, didn't he?'

Holderlin looked at his wife. The rate of her blinking had increased.

'He said that he would like to interview us again, yes,' said Holderlin, 'But I don't think he said that it would be today, specifically.' He raised the newspaper. 'Well, that wasn't my impression, anyway.'

'Why does he want to ask us more questions?'

'I don't know.'

'Surely . . . surely he doesn't suspect us. Surely he doesn't think that we—'

'Of course not!' said Holderlin, raising his voice. 'Don't be so ridiculous! Of course he knows it's got nothing to do with us!' He turned the page angrily.

Juno lifted the coffee cup to her lips but did not drink. 'I do hope so,' she said more calmly. 'He seemed a sensible man.'

'Yes,' Holderlin replied gruffly. 'Very sensible.'

Juno took a minute sip of coffee. 'The little locksmith,' she said. 'He was so upset. Devastated.'

From behind the paper Holderlin replied: 'Herr Uberhorst is a very sensitive fellow.'

'Yes, he is,' said Juno. 'I believe he still has one of my books. I lent him my Madame Blavatsky. Perhaps you could get it back from him, my dear – if you're passing?'

'Yes . . . yes.'

'He is a sensitive fellow. But there was more to it, don't you think?'

Holderlin did not reply.

'The way he used to look at her . . .'

Holderlin lowered his paper with evident impatience.

'What?'

'Didn't you ever notice?'

'Notice what?' Holderlin asked irritably.

Juno blinked at her husband.

'The way Herr Uberhorst used to look at Fraulein Lowenstein. The way he would hang on her every word.'

Holderlin shook his shiny head and continued reading.

'He was like a schoolboy,' Juno continued. 'Mind, he wasn't the only one, of course. She seemed to have, how can one put it, an influence over men. Wouldn't you say? If you ask me, the Count was besotted too – as was that young fellow Braun. There's no denying her gift, of course. She was very talented. Blessed, one might say. Strange, isn't it? That such a – would it be fair to say this, I don't know – that such a vain woman who was so very particular in matters of appearance should possess such a gift. Still, who am I to question the Lord's will? Such a gift is God- given – of that I'm sure.'

When she had finished speaking, the silence was crushing.

'Heinrich?'

Her husband said nothing.

Juno allowed her coffee cup to drop loudly into its saucer.

'Heinrich?' she said again, somewhat louder. 'You're not listening, are you?'

Behind the protective cover of his newspaper, Heinrich Holderlin was sitting with eyes wide, staring blankly at an advert for Kalodont toothpaste: Indispensable. He had heard every word, and his mouth had gone wholly dry – as though packed with sawdust. Holderlin swallowed to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but to no effect.

9

HER HAIR WAS pulled back tightly from her face and the cast of her features, set in a permanent half-frown, suggested habitual seriousness. Although young, there was nothing about her that suggested naivety or insouciance.

Beyond the confines of the examination room, Liebermann could hear a man screaming. He was accustomed to such sounds in the hospital; however, he was concerned that these anguished cries – suggesting the practice of some medieval torture – would upset his new patient.

The woman raised her left hand to stifle a repetitive cough. Her right hand remained conspicuously still – the